Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  “Does anyone in there?” asked Bepi.

  “Yes, I know, I know,” said Giacomo, “only you gondoliers understand anything about boats. If it weren’t for the gondoliers the city would come to a halt.” He gave his brother a playful slap on the back, which Bepi accepted with a resigned wince. I gathered this was a running joke in the family. “But the Arsenale used to be the power-house of the city.” He paused, evidently feeling this was a little feeble. “Of the Mediterranean.”

  “Go on, say the world,” said Bepi.

  “Yes, well, why not? But the point is that under Garzoni and Sartori all that counted was the spectacle. And loyalty to them. Or rather to him. No worker was ever supposed to question any order. Now that wasn’t the real spirit of the Arsenale, was it?”

  “No,” I agreed. “Nor of Venice.”

  “Exactly. You’re a foresto, yet you can see that.”

  “Well, as I said, I’m also a Venetian.”

  “Yes, of course you are,” said Giacomo, as if indulging me in a personal whim.

  “So people were glad when he was forced out?”

  “Most people. There was always that group.”

  “The secret society.”

  “Well, if you want to call it that.”

  “That was your description.”

  “Oh, you’re a sharp one!” he said, with another loud laugh. This time he slapped me on the back, almost knocking me over. Bepi gave me a wry smile, as if to say, “Didn’t I warn you?” I gave him an answering nod. We boarded the gondola, Bepi quietly but firmly refusing his brother’s exuberant offer to help with the rowing.

  Giacomo and I passed through the cabin to the far end, so that Bepi could continue to hear our conversation. We remained on our feet, steadying ourselves by resting our hands on the roof of the felze.

  “So how many would there be in this … this group?” I asked.

  “Oh, probably about twenty or so. And as I said, there have been stories about them recently.”

  “What sort of stories?” I said.

  “They’ve been meeting up with Sartori after hours.”

  “Where?” I said.

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing important. Just keeping in touch with him. Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, of course. Perfectly normal. But do you know where they’ve been meeting?”

  “Well, there’s the floating stage.”

  “The what?”

  “There, look,” he said, pointing eastwards.

  “Oh, that thing,” I said. It was a floating platform about the size of half a tennis court, moored to two huge poles about twenty metres from the boat yards and fishermen’s houses that straggled down to the lagoon in the area around the churches of Sant’Isepo, Sant’Antonio and San Nicola di Bari. It held a wooden theatrical stage, and a number of covered booths. “It belongs to the Arsenale, doesn’t it?” I remembered having seen arsenalotti perform acrobatic feats on it during the celebrations for the arrival of a foreign dignitary some months earlier.

  “Yes. Sartori had it built a couple of years ago. But since he left it hasn’t been used officially. The new master of ceremonies seems to have forgotten about it.”

  “So what’s the story about these people meeting him there?”

  “Oh, I heard it the other day. Apparently people saw torches there some nights ago. And somebody said Sartori wants to put on a last show for the Sensa, even though he no longer works for the Arsenale.”

  “And there were definitely arsenalotti involved in this?”

  “Oh, nothing’s definite. You know what it’s like. Tizio says it to Caio, and Caio says it to Sempronio…” he said, using the Italian equivalents of Tom, Dick and Harry.

  “And Sempronio said it to you,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he said, and laughed uproariously at the sheer comedy of this sequence.

  “Bepi,” I said, “can we go and have a look at the platform?”

  “Why not?” he said.

  When we approached, the platform appeared to be empty. The stage contained no ornaments or properties; the area beneath it was completely closed off.

  “There’s a sandolo,” said Bepi, nodding towards a slim boat moored to the back of the platform, on the landward side.

  “So maybe there’s someone there,” I said.

  At that moment a door underneath the stage opened a few inches and in the dark crack a figure could be seen looking towards us. I ducked and entered the felze. I had only caught a glimpse but I was sure I had recognised Gaetano’s red hair.

  “What’s the matter?” said Giacomo, bending down to peer in after me.

  “Take a good look,” I said. “Is it Gaetano?”

  He straightened up and I heard him say, “The door’s closed again.”

  “Bepi,” I said, “we’d better move away. Don’t let him think we’re spying.”

  Bepi rowed us out to the open lagoon.

  “I have to find out what’s going on there,” I said. “If we can manage to distract Gaetano’s attention…”

  “Just tell him to carry something somewhere,” said Giacomo, and laughed.

  “Maybe,” I said. I addressed Bepi: “This evening, do you think you could drop me there? After we’ve got rid of Gaetano?”

  “Got rid of him?” he said.

  “Oh, I’m not planning to kill him,” I said. “As Giacomo suggests, we’ll just give him a task to perform.”

  “Well,” he said, “the evening before the Sensa is usually fairly busy…”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Forget about it.”

  “Perhaps at the end of the day,” he said. “When I’m going home.”

  25

  We arranged a time and a meeting place and then Bepi took us to his usual mooring-post near the church of Sant’Isepo and I set off back to the centre of the city. From the Arsenale onwards the crowds grew thicker. In addition to the usual Venetian, I could hear the accents of the islands of the lagoon, Murano and Burano and Pellestrina, as well as those of the mainland, the harsher consonants of Padua, the rolling vowels of Treviso, the sing-song accents of Feltre … The Feast of the Sensa brings in people from all around, to sell their goods in the great fair in and around Saint Mark’s Square, to find bargains, enjoy the spectacle or take advantage of the crowds for less commendable purposes. I checked that my wallet was safely lodged in my inner pocket.

  There were many people already wearing masks, even though mask-wearing did not officially begin till the day of the Sensa itself; for many Venetians being unmasked is an unnatural state of being and they cannot wait for the opportunity to return to the freedom bestowed by stiff pieces of pasteboard tied to their faces.

  Wherever space permitted it, jugglers and singers and pipers and strummers and assorted mountebanks had set up their miniature stages and were doing their best to attract the fickle attention of the ever-jostling crowd. I wondered briefly whether I should simply forget all about Garzoni and his machinations and set up my own booth as Umbriel the Rosicrucian fortune-teller. But a moment’s reflection told me that without the assistance of the Missier Grande’s archives my skills in that direction were fairly limited, and Venetian crowds are not kind to those whose performances do not match their promises, as a Trevigiano juggler who had dropped two coloured balls was discovering at that very moment.

  It took me quite a while to make my way back to Fabrizio’s shop, even though I had taken what I thought were the less frequented back streets. His shop had a few customers, people from the mainland who probably did not get many opportunities to see new books in their villages. Lucia was persuading a young couple with Preganziol accents of the virtues of Richardson’s Pamela. Maybe she might even convince them they should read it in English.

  Fabrizio greeted me. “How is it out there now?”

  “Crowded,” I said.

  “I think I’ll miss the celebrations this year,” he said. “After fifty odd years the novelty begins to wear off.”

 
; I remembered that he had said the same thing the previous year. Possibly he had been saying it, with slight variations, for the last thirty years.

  “I’ve found out something about this Drebbel,” he said. “I knew I had heard the name.”

  “Ah,” I said, “I was sure I could rely on you.”

  “Cornelis Drebbel,” he said. “He was born in the Netherlands and was an inventor and scientist. He was invited to the court of King James of England and lived there for some years, becoming friendly with Prince Henry, the King’s eldest son. But he was also summoned to the court of Emperor Rudolph II in Prague. And, as you suggested, he designed telescopes and a clock. But probably what will most interest you is that he designed a boat that could travel underwater.”

  “Underwater?” I said in surprise. “The whole boat?”

  “The whole boat.”

  “And what would the purpose of that be?” I said. “How would the passengers breathe?”

  “Well, now you’re asking me things that my sources do not tell me. But I imagine the purpose could well be military. Think of the advantage of being able to approach an enemy ship unseen.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of this possibility. “And did Drebbel actually create such a craft, or just design it?”

  “It’s said he actually built one and that King James himself travelled along the River Thames in it.”

  Well, this was a piece of English history I had missed out on. “Where did you find this information?” I asked.

  “Travel books,” said Fabrizio. “A Dutch traveller who knew Drebbel in England wrote an account of his meeting with him.” He made a vague gesture heavenwards, which I had come to recognise as an indication that he had been reading in his own private library, conserved in the apartment upstairs, rather than in any of the books on sale in the shop. I had come to suspect that the books above our heads greatly outnumbered those that surrounded us.

  “I must inform the Missier Grande,” I said.

  “You think he will listen?” said Lucia, who had succeeded in selling the lachrymose volume to the visitors from the mainland (as far as I had been able to gather, she had succeeded in convincing the young lady, who had then instructed her husband to make the purchase; I imagined that Richardson would have little to teach her about marital relations).

  “I can only do my best,” I said, my voice already faltering as I imagined the cold eyes of the Missier Grande on me.

  “Is such a thing possible?” said Lucia. “A boat that goes underwater?”

  Fabrizio spread his arms. “I’m only telling you what I learned from an account by a Dutch traveller who heard of such a thing in England over a century ago. I know no more than that.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll pass on the information and if they don’t listen I’ll see if I can get more solid evidence.”

  “How will you do that?” asked Lucia.

  I told them about the floating platform and said that I had agreed with Bepi to investigate it that night. “But maybe I’ll have to anticipate things,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Little point in my telling you to be careful,” she said.

  “I count on your telling me so,” I said, keeping my voice light.

  Fabrizio spoke up at this point. “Sior Alvise,” he said, “let me join my voice to my daughter’s. Do nothing foolish.”

  “Thank you, both of you,” I said, quite seriously now. “I do appreciate your concern. I really am going to do nothing dangerous; I’m just going to see what is happening on that platform – in the full light of day, what’s more.”

  I left the shop feeling absurdly heartened by their words of concern. It was good to know they cared. And I had to acknowledge it: it was especially good to know that Lucia cared. There was so often that touch of irony in her voice; I could never tell how seriously she took me. All I knew for sure was that she did not greatly approve of my line of business. It was not likely that she would consider my having become an unofficial sbirro as much of an improvement. But at least it seemed that she cared enough about me not to wish to read of my body having been fished up from a canal the following morning.

  I should propose marriage to her at once, I said to myself. Ironically, of course. And then, less ironically, I found myself wondering whether it was likely that Sior Fabrizio would consider a semi-sbirro a suitable match for his daughter.

  Once I had started this line of speculation I realised that I was not going to be able to stop it. Lucia was on my mind. And if I heard a sentimental enough song I would probably have to admit she was in my heart too.

  Very helpful thoughts, I told myself. Just what I needed to be doing at this point in Venice’s history.

  I walked to Saint Mark’s Square, scarcely noticing the jostling crowds this time. They had simply become the element through which I had to make my way, just as a fish has to move through water.

  I found the door to the Missier Grande’s offices locked, however, and there was, of course, no indication of any alternative address to which informants and confidential agents could apply. I thought of trying my luck at the Doge’s palace, but realised that on a day like this it would be very difficult to gain an audience with anyone of any importance. When Venice gives itself up to pleasure it does so thoroughly and wholeheartedly.

  So I made my way pensively towards the Riva, possibly the only person in the whole crowd not enjoying the music and the spectacle. Perhaps I should have equipped myself with a plague mask and a bell to mark myself off all the more clearly.

  I called in at home, half thinking that I might tidy up the mess there. It might be one way of calming myself. However, the sight of the damaged books and scattered clothes was so dispiriting that I decided it would be easier to go out and save the city from destruction. I put a few possibly useful objects in a satchel and set off again. Down in the magazen I took a glass of wine from Giovanna, who was too busy with the mainland visitors to be her usual motherly self (which was a relief), and a slice of sausage from the luganegher, and then set off eastwards.

  It was with some relief that I reached the eastern portions of the Riva, where the crowds began to thin out and the extra breathing space seemed to allow my brain room to develop more consequential lines of reasoning. I could not wait until the evening, when Bepi would be free. I would have to find another way of approaching the platform. I jingled the coins in my pockets. They did not play such a rich and varied medley as they had some days ago but there were still enough of them to have an effect in this less prosperous area of the city, I thought.

  I made my way down to the boatyards that looked out on to the lagoon. As I expected, activity had ceased for the Sensa, but amid the overturned boats and the stacked piles of wood there were three boys aged around ten or eleven in ragged clothes playing some elaborate game, which seemed to involve pebbles and mud – mainly the latter. They looked up at me with wary suspicion, clearly expecting me, as a member of the adult world, to tell them to stop whatever they were doing.

  “Bondì, fioi,” I said casually.

  They muttered a few surly words of greeting, and then returned to their slimy activities. Apparently the aim of the game was to see how deeply one could thrust a pebble into the mud. This explained the fact that the right arms of all three of them were caked in the stuff up to their elbows.

  “Listen,” I said, “have any of you visited that platform?” I gestured towards the object moored some twenty metres away.

  “They won’t let you,” said the sharpest-looking of the three, a boy with a red Castello cap and a liberal application of mud around his mouth and eyes, as well as his arms.

  “Who won’t?”

  “Arsenalotti,” he said. The other two nodded agreement.

  “We tried it once,” said the smallest boy, in a very high-pitched eager voice. “And they really thrashed us. We were only going there to dive off it. Half killed us, they did.”

  “Anyone want to earn a half lira?” I said.

  They
did not immediately clamour for it, as I had expected them to do. They narrowed their eyes and the sharp-looking boy said: “What do you want?” Castello boys were cautious, it seemed. I should probably learn from them.

  “I’d just like one of you to take a message to the man on the platform.”

  “A message?”

  “Yes. Have you got a boat?”

  “We can get one, Sior.”

  “Good. So just row out and tell him that they’ve found Umbriel and the count on the Giudecca.”

  “They’ve found what?”

  “Umbriel and the count.” I said it very carefully and then got him to repeat it. Then I said: “He must go to the Redentore at once. And show him this.” I showed him a scrap of paper on which I had drawn Santa Giustina. I was sure that Gaetano could not read, but he would certainly recognise the saint that Garzoni had elected as a symbol of personal loyalty. The boy stretched out his mud-caked hand and I told him to clean it first. He accepted this as reasonable and dipped his hand into the lagoon water and then shook it dry.

  “The lira?” he said.

  “First deliver the message,” I said.

  And that too was clearly considered reasonable. They had good business sense in this part of Castello.

  The other two boys clamoured to be part of the expedition. The sharp boy accepted their proposal but said firmly: “I choose what we spend the money on.” They nodded. Garzoni himself couldn’t have hoped for more loyal henchmen. On the other hand, presumably the sharp one had earned the trust through merit, not fear.

  “And what if he asks who gave us the message?” said the leader.

  “You tell him another boy brought it to you and he had been given it by someone in town.”

  He considered this for a few seconds and eventually nodded. “All right, that’ll do.”

  They scampered over to an ancient-looking boat propped up against the wall of the boatyard and proceeded to drag it down to the water. Half a minute later they were heading towards the platform, with the tallest boy standing up and handling the oar in truly professional fashion. I watched until they bumped up against the side and Gaetano emerged to engage in conversation with them. I saw how skilfully the children handled his foreseeable initial reaction of angry and gesticulatory dismissal, remaining just out of reach, while one of them stood up and waved the piece of paper; I could not hear any words but saw Gaetano gradually calm down, listen to what they had to say, accept the piece of paper, scratch his red hair over it and then dismiss them. Even as the boys headed back towards me, Gaetano was unmooring his sandolo.