The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  The priest frowned. “So I hear.” He cast a nervous glance at MacDonald, then said, “My mother will have lunch ready. We will go upstairs.”

  Single file they climbed to the upper floor, entered a central hall—“the portego,” Jordan explained, “found in almost all Venetian homes”—and moved into a dining room, which had a balcony looking over the small square. The old oblong table was set, and Don Pietro directed them to their places. Almost immediately, a plump elderly lady, with gray hair and warts on her face, came in carrying a large platter heaped with spaghetti and tomato sauce.

  Respectfully, Don Pietro introduced her as his mother, Lucia, to Alison and to MacDonald. To her son, she intoned, “Sia lodato Gesù Cristo.” Don Pietro answered, “Sempre sia lodato.” Jordan translated this for Alison beside him. “She offered the formal religious greeting, ‘Let Jesus Christ be praised,’ and her son replied, ‘Always praised.’ She is a wonderful lady. She keeps house here for Don Pietro.”

  The mother had gone and was already returning with another platter filled with fegato alla veneziana—liver fried with onions. After she had left the dining room, and as the platters were being passed around, Don Pietro said to all of them, “Yes, I am fortunate to have her here to help me. The situation is difficult for parish priests in Italy. If a priest has a widowed mother, as I have, or an unmarried sister, he usually has her live with him, to cook, to clean, and in return he is able to take care of her. But my colleagues who are not so fortunate as to have a mother or sister must find an unemployed woman to be a perpetua, which is what we call such a housekeeper. It is not a simple matter. Such a woman, as we say, must be ready to marry the priest’s job without marrying the priest. Usually, she must be over forty-five years old, and preferably ugly, to—uh—let us say, to avoid being a temptation.”

  Professor MacDonald seemed fascinated. “Is it expensive to hire such a woman, Father?”

  “Everything, everything is expensive here,” Don Pietro grumbled. “Most perpetue work by the hour and live out. They must be paid 2,000 lire an hour, to which must be added contributions toward their health insurance, their pension, their taxes. Yes, that is expensive when you realize that a priest like me is paid only 49,000 lire a month—translated into American dollars, that is fifty-seven dollars a month. Of course, to be honest, I have other sources of income. I celebrate Mass every day, and offerings are made—altogether maybe 3,000 lire a day. Also, I receive payment for teaching religion. In every school, each class must have one hour of religious instruction a week. The other money I receive, such as for officiating at weddings and funerals, this money goes to support the expenses of my church, such as heating, electricity, candles, repair work. So you see, it is not easy.”

  With that, Don Pietro devoted himself to his liver and spaghetti.

  Jordan cleared his throat and spoke to the priest. “Don Pietro, this reminds me of something I meant to bring up with you last night. You are doing us a tremendous favor. Any expenses you incur, by keeping Professor MacDonald and Dr. Edwards here, will be reimbursed by us. It is only fair—”

  “It is nonsense,” Don Pietro, his mouth full of food, declared. “You are my friend. What I do, I do out of our friendship. I would expect the same from you. We will not speak of such a matter again.”

  As the lunch proceeded, and drew to a finish, Don Pietro continued to talk about himself and his daily life. To Jordan it was as if the priest were deliberately avoiding any mention of Professor MacDonald’s presence, either because he did not want to know the truth or because he did not wish to embarrass his guests.

  The coffee had been served, and Don Pietro had already discussed his upbringing by his religious father, an organist, his education at a scuola media until he was fourteen, at a liceo classico until he was nineteen, and finally at the Seminario Patriarcale where he studied theology and where he had prepared for the priesthood. Now he was giving MacDonald a rundown on his daily activity, from his eight o’clock morning Mass to his teaching at the Instituto Turismo across the Grand Canal to his after-dinner evening meetings with parishioners who were about to get married or who had just had children.

  Don Pietro stopped his autobiographical monologue. “Enough. I will drive you from here with my ceaseless reminiscences.”

  Jordan smiled. “You couldn’t drive us from here, Don Pietro. You have a captive audience.”

  “How long will you be with me? I only inquire because I must take leave of you tomorrow, for a few days. In fact, I will be gone five days. Of course, you can stay. My mother will watch after you, but—”

  “Thank you,” interrupted Jordan, “but we won’t need five days. Maybe only a day or two more. You are very kind.”

  MacDonald had pushed his chair back. “I’ve eaten too much. The meal has made me sleepy. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to my room for a nap.”

  Don Pietro watched him leave the room in silence. Once the three of them were alone, the priest turned in his chair, set his arms on the table, and looked directly at Jordan. His expression was intent, his voice businesslike.

  “Now we must be more practical, Tim,” he said. “I told you the professor can stay on here, and he can, but now that I can speak more freely, I must inform you that there is one important qualification to my hospitality. Last night you asked my help. I gave it, not only in the name of the church, but as your personal friend. Last night you said you would explain why you must hide this man. However, like everyone in Venice, I am perfectly aware that there is a spy, an American, a man who has stolen military secrets, who has been trapped by the police in this city. It is only natural for me to suspect, since the professor is an American and wanted by the police, that he may be the much-sought spy. If this is true, then I must tell you, I am not in a position to harbor a criminal. You can understand.”

  “I do understand,” said Jordan. Throughout the morning, he had been preparing for this confrontation. His mind had entertained many explanations, but just before crossing the bridge to the Church of San Vincenzo, he had decided that the best explanation was the truth. “Believe me, my friend, if the professor were a criminal, I would not ask you to give him sanctuary. Don Pietro, he is not a criminal.”

  “Why does he hide from the police?”

  “Another story completely. One you will find hard to believe. But you shall have the whole truth, I promise you. Professor Davis MacDonald is one of the foremost gerontologists in the world. Dr. Edwards is his research associate in New York. While visiting and working in the Soviet Union, Professor MacDonald made a discovery unparalleled in human history.” Jordan paused dramatically. “I hope you are ready for this. Professor MacDonald discovered a formula that will allow human beings to live to the age of 150.”

  Don Pietro’s face showed no comprehension. “To 150?”

  “With his formula we can double the human lifespan, both yours and mine.”

  “But—but is that possible?”

  “It is done. He did it.”

  “It is difficult to—”

  “He did it for the world. But the Russians want it for themselves. Let me tell you exactly what happened…”

  Omitting no detail he could remember, Jordan recounted MacDonald’s adventures from his escape to his arrival in Venice to his imprisonment on San Lazzaro to his rescue to the police manhunt and the flight from the Hotel Danieli.

  “So there it is, my friend,” Jordan concluded. “That is why I brought him to you for safety—until I find a means of getting him out of the city.”

  The priest was shaking his head. “If I did not know you better, I would think you are having sport with me.

  “Every word is the truth,” said Jordan solemnly.

  Don Pietro was awed. “To have lived to see such a miracle.”

  Alison joined the conversation. “It is a miracle, don’t you agree, Father?”

  “A miracle from above,” said the priest. “If the Lord did not wish his children to live longer, he would not have permitted
it.” His eyes went from Alison to Jordan. “And now the forces of Satan want it for themselves.”

  Jordan nodded vigorously. “The Communists are doing everything possible to get their hands on Professor MacDonald.”

  “Godless Communists,” Don Pietro muttered. Then, raising his voice, he said, “They shall not have what they are after—neither Professor MacDonald nor his discovery. You will have the little I can offer—the protection of my church—but surely that is not enough. How long can the professor be safe here? Sooner or later, those heathens will come to search. Do you have some plan to get the professor out of Venice?”

  “One plan,” said Jordan. “I have no idea if it will work. I’ll try to find out today if any progress has been made.”

  “How long would it take to execute your plan?”

  “I don’t know. I suspect it may take several days.”

  Too dangerous,” said the priest “Something should be done immediately.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, paced the room, coming to a standstill before the balcony. For a silent interval, he seemed to be contemplating the cloudless blue sky above. At last, his right hand hit his right thigh in some kind of resolve. He came around in front of Jordan, who had risen.

  “One miracle,” he said, “deserves another. It may be another is in the offing.”

  Puzzled, Jordan said, “What do you mean?”

  “We shall see,” said Don Pietro briskly. “I am busy now. I have much to do. You go about your day. Meet me here at eight o’clock tonight. We will have dinner. Then we will talk.”

  * * *

  Jordan and Alison Edwards, after crossing the Rial-to Bridge—its marketplace nearly empty, since the vegetable boats could not make deliveries from the mainland—had been walking side by side down San Salvador, which led to the main street, the Mercerie, where Alison wanted to shop.

  Except for the sights that Jordan had pointed out, and Alison had remarked upon, there had been little discussion. Once, Alison had speculated upon Don Pietro’s mention of another miracle.

  “What do you suppose he meant, Tim?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “He did say there was an urgency to get the professor out of Venice immediately—he used the word Immediately.’ He said it wouldn’t be wise to wait for your plan to happen. He must have some escape plan of his own in mind.”

  “It would seem so. But I’m not depending on it. I’m going to Il Gazzettino right now, and hope Bruno is there. I want to know if he’s done anything yet.”

  “Now maybe we have two chances.”

  “Maybe… There’s the newspaper building, up ahead. I’ll tell you what. Instead of hanging around waiting for me, I’d suggest you continue on to the Piazza San Marco. When you enter it, turn right and go to the second outdoor café—the farthest one, Quadri’s—and sit down at a front table and have some ice cream or a drink and wait for me. I won’t be more than a few minutes behind. Then I’ll take you shopping. I know the best places.”

  After giving her these exact directions, he watched her leave. She was wearing a clinging shirred chiffon skirt, and he loved seeing it move so gracefully and provocatively against her long legs. When she was out of sight, he reluctantly put his mind on the business at hand. He headed for the 15th-century Gothic facade of the land entrance—there was also a canal entrance to the rear—of the newspaper building in the Calle delle Acque.

  Inside, he greeted the portiere, or doorman, who was seated behind a counter on which lay a card with the numbers of all the telephone extensions inside the building.

  “I’d like to see Bruno Girardi, if he’s in. Tell him Tim Jordan is downstairs.”

  The portiere made several calls, then on the last one spoke at greater length in Italian, and hung up.

  “Mr. Girardi says he will meet you in the portego of the second floor.”

  Jordan took the small elevator to the second floor and went to the central hall. Bruno was not there yet. Circling the hall, Jordan could hear the typewriters clacking behind the metal partition. It always surprised him that this local edition of the Venice newspaper had a staff of fifty, but then there were twelve provincial editions providing news for readers in towns as distant as Trieste and Verona. Indeed, Bruno, one of the four photographers, was always overworked.

  “Hi, Tim.” It was Bruno, a Hasselblad camera hanging from one shoulder.

  “I just thought I’d pop by,” Jordan said, “and find out if you’ve contacted the party of the third part.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, I have spoken to him about a meeting, and we will have a drink tomorrow. No, I have not broached your proposition to him yet. I must wait for the meeting. Then I will judge what to say. I must proceed cautiously.”

  “I understand.”

  “He may be eager for this opportunity. Or he may be afraid of it. I cannot predict.”

  “Assuming all goes well, how long do you think it can be before—well, before my friend can leave?”

  “I would guess two days, three at the most.”

  “You’ll let me know. Just call the Danieli. If I’m out, leave a message where I can reach you.”

  “You will hear from me, Tim.”

  They parted, and Jordan rode the elevator down to the ground floor and made his way to the Mercerie.

  As ever, the Piazza San Marco was breathtaking in the sun. He stood enjoying it a moment, then entered the crowded arcade, balancing himself between the pushing tourists until he reached the rear of the bandstand. He turned left, going down the aisle, waving at his friend the first violinist and composer, Oreste Memo, and searching the tables for the sight of Alison.

  He saw her in the front row, tossing food to the pigeons. He took a seat beside her. “Having fun?”

  “I guess it is fun. I’ve been so worried I’m not sure what’s fun anymore.”

  He watched her break off part of her roll again and fling it to the gathering pigeons. He said, “That’s how I got to meet you. Doing that. Feeding the pigeons.”

  “Aren’t you sorry you fed the pigeons that day?”

  “I’m glad. It got me involved in a challenge. I was pretty low. Now I’m fairly high. Alive, I mean. Also, it got me involved with you.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “Is that a plus? Getting involved with me, I mean.”

  “Very much so.”

  “I guess it is for me too. Being involved with you. I haven’t had much time to think about it. But I like your company.” She shifted in her chair toward him. “Tim, this is unreal. Here we are, right in the middle of the most romantic place in the world, flirting with each other—and at the same time we’re fugitives, the Most Wanted people in Venice.”

  “Nobody wants us. Nobody knows we are involved, except the glass-shop owner and Don Pietro.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I suppose you’re right. It is unreal. But then the tension gets so great, you have to divert yourself with other things. I mean you can’t worry, and be apprehensive, and rack your brain about an escape route every minute. You’ve just got to let go sometime in the day. We were onto a good subject. How we enjoy each other.”

  Her almond eyes held on him from behind her oversized lavender glasses. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Not today. Let’s change the subject. What’s that tall tower across from us?”

  Good-naturedly, Jordan accepted her determination to be impersonal. He tried to see the bell tower through her eyes. It was, indeed, awesome, set in the corner of the Piazza, its rust brick sides rising toward the sky. “II Campanile,” he said, “the tallest building In Venice. Completed by Doge Pier Tribun in the year 912. At night, a bonfire was built in the belfry and the tower was used as a beacon. It once had a spiral ramp running from the ground to the top)—323 feet to the top—so that horsemen could ride up to the belfry. Emperor Frederick III of Germany rode a horse to the top. In 1609, Galileo was up in the belfry presenting the city councillors with his latest invention—th
e telescope. I’ll give you another interesting fact, Alison. Do you know the Campanile once fell down?”

  “Fell down? But there it is.”

  “The original just collapsed one morning—July 14, 1902, to be exact. There had been warnings this might happen, so no one was killed or even injured. Except a cat called Mélampyge, named after Casanova’s dog. All that was left was the base. The city council decided to rebuild it on the same spot and in its old shape. Nine years later, it was completed. And there it is.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I was an engineer. I am a public relations man. I continue to be a Venice lover.” He called to a nearby waiter and ordered a chocolate ice cream soda. Then, for Alison, his hand swept the Piazza San Marco. “Want to know about the Piazza San Marco?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Long ago, it was a swamp)—canals and marshes. Nuns used part of it as a garden. Then a series of Doges began converting it into a huge city square. Doge Ziani—he reigned until 1178—began to fill in the canals and throw up the buildings. Between 1500 and 1600, the Piazza took its present form.” He pointed off toward the Mercerie. “See the clock tower. It was constructed in that period. Look on the upper terrace, at the big bell. The two bronze Moors on either side of it mechanically strike the bell on the hour. It’s quite a sight. Across from it, filling in the end of the Piazza, is the Basilica of San Marco, all golden and glittering in the sun. There are over 43,000 square feet of mosaics covering the inside and outside of the Basilica. See those four magnificent horses on top, at the front? They are Greek, third century. They’ve been everywhere, it seems. Whenever they were moved, an empire fell. They were in Rome, then in Constantinople, then brought here, where they stayed until Napoleon Bonaparte took them away for eighteen years. They were finally returned to Venice by the emperor of Austria. On the opposite end of the Basilica—”

  “Where?”

  Jordan pointed off to his right. “That’s the newest of the structures that enclose this square. Napoleon put up that wall in heavy traditional style. He also put up the statues of those Roman emperors, leaving one blank space for his own statue. The building across from us, stretching the length of the Piazza, has shops downstairs, an old library and museum upstairs. The one behind us, constructed in the 15th century, is the Procuratie Vecchie. It used to consist of offices and apartments for the nine councillors of Venice. Now it is an insurance company. My office is up there, right behind us.” He paused. “Have you had enough of places? Are you ready to talk about people?”