by Evie Blake
Santos Devine predicted it, for although he lives like a gypsy he is not penniless and has often speculated on the New York stock exchange himself. He first noticed trouble months ago, problems with stocks and shares in the spring and whisperings from business forecasters that others chose to ignore. He could see it all about to happen, the great crash. And so he made it part of his revenge. He has never forgotten the bruised body of his lover, and he swore he would avenge her suffering. He would find a way of taking from Signor Brzezinski whatever would hurt him the most. His money.
In fact Signor Brzezinski’s accusations against Santos Devine were not completely unwarranted. He had stolen something from him, if under a legitimate guise. For the past three weeks Santos Devine has posed as an American stockbroker looking for an elite group of European businessmen to invest in the thriving American stock market and make their fortunes. The truth is, there was no such group. Just Signor Brzezinski. And Santos Devine – or as Signor Brzezinski knew him, Mr Frederick Harvey of Brooklyn, New York-persuaded that greedy man to invest all of his money in American stocks and shares.
Thus at the precise moment Belle and Pina are reluctantly making their way back home, trailing along the tiny alleyways of Venice, tearful and forlorn, silent in dread, Signor Brzezinski is discovering the full extent of his ruin, thanks to the financial advice of said Frederick Harvey.
Does Signor Brzezinski have a heart? Once maybe. Yet consider the young man who watched his father, mother and sister bayoneted to death by invading Germans, while hiding under the staircase whimpering in fear. Either he died with his family that day, or he survived by hardening his heart to his shame and ensuring he was never weak again. And consider the young man in love with a woman, Magda Zielinska, who rejected him for the love of another. He had to have his revenge. And so he enslaved Magda’s husband to him through his debts. He hoped to buy her from him, yet his plan backfired. He did not expect his rival to give him his daughter rather than his wife. Alexsy Dudek was just as bad as he, and yet she loved him. Even after his death, Magda loved her husband still. It enflamed Signor Brzezinski with rage, so much so that he was determined to have her no matter what. That was why he brought Magda Dudek to Venice along with Louise. At his first opportunity he took her. Yet it was so unsatisfactory, such an anticlimax. Magda lay back without a fight and looked at him with dead eyes, whispering her husband’s name again and again.
Alexsy Alexsy Alexsy.
He kept trying to wake her up. Make her want him as much as he desired her. She was like a drug that never eased his pain. Again and again he made love to her, and yet Magda made no response to him, either in hatred or pleasure. In the end it became more satisfying to beat her daughter, force himself upon her, for at least she fought back, at least he got a reaction from her.
He told Louise that he had driven her mother mad. Yet now he sees clearly that it was not his fault. It was Magda’s own guilt that stripped her of her senses. She had let her husband sell their daughter to protect herself. She was worse than Alexsy Dudek. She deserved her exile. Signor Brzezinski offered her the whole world, and she thought herself too good for him.
Since he sent Magda away to that island asylum, all Signor Brzezinski has wanted is a child. To be a better man for. And even that has been denied him, for despite the fact that his wife, as sinful as her mother, is pregnant, the child is not his. He knows this child will become another reminder of his failing every day. So what tiny piece of heart Signor Brzezinski has left is torn in half on this day, just like his money as it crashes on the floor of the American stock exchange. Within an hour he is a pauper. He can no more face the mocking laughter of his hateful wife than the pity of his business associates. If he has no money, then he has no power, and therefore he is nothing. He may as well be dead.
Signor Brzezinski stands on his wife’s balcony. It seems fitting to end it here. He has no gun, but he has a large slab of Venetian brick, and some rope. He is glad for once that he cannot swim. He ties the brick around his foot, knotting the rope again and again, and drags himself over to the edge of the parapet. He thinks to cross himself first, for maybe there is mercy after death.
The last thing Signor Brzezinski sees as he plunges feet first into the canal is a blackbird circling above his head. He thinks how loudly it sings for such a small creature. It is like a fanfare for his entrance into death. Ludwika will be happy, he thinks, that I am gone. And as his lungs fill with water, Signor Brzezinski’s heart finally heals, for his final thought is: I am glad of that.
Valentina
HER HEART LIFTS AS SOON AS SHE EXITS SANTA LUCIA train station. She has hidden herself amongst the pack of American tourists, who are only too happy to take her with them, after her offer of showing them a good hotel. They walk down the steps towards the canal and the landing stages for the vaporetti. She looks around her. She cannot see Theo anywhere, and yet she feels safer than she did on the train. Her disturbing encounter with the blond man and the feeling of despair it gave her begins to fade away as Venice starts to work its magic. She feels a mixture of joy and excitement well up inside her as she queues to buy her vaporetto ticket. Always this happens to her in Venice. This overwhelming sense of belonging, and something more, as if she has lived here before and been so very happy in this place. Everything is familiar to her. The elegant yet decaying palazzos, the milky green canal, the smell of its age-old saltiness, the tiny alleyways, the jewellike bridges, and this sense of togetherness with other people, even if they are visitors just like her. Despite this city having been described as a floating museum, to Valentina it is anything but that. It helps her believe in another world beyond the physical, a place of spirit and passion.
In only a couple of hours, Valentina will see Theo again. Apart from finally finding out what is going on with the stolen painting, she is tingling with anticipation at the thought of their reunion in the Hotel Danieli. I will tell him that I can do it, she thinks. I will tell him I want to be his girlfriend. I will tell him I love him.
Valentina ushers her American companions on to Vaporetto 5.2 to Fondamenta Nuove. She is taking them to the hotel she and Theo stayed in last time they were here, on one of their erotic encounters before he moved in.
Locanda La Corte is tucked away down a tiny alley. Although it is so close to all the hustle and bustle of Venice, it feels like an oasis of calm in the middle of the city, with its intimate Venetian garden and the meditative lap of the canal backing on to it. Despite the chatter of her companions, who are a group of students from New York University taking in the sights of Europe, Valentina feels a sense of peace, a detachment as they walk across the square in front of the ornate marble façade of the hospital and the imposing gothic Santi Giovanni e Paolo. She feels as if she is another woman. Although she has only stayed in this hotel once, it is as if she knows her way by heart. Down the tiny Calle Bressana, the sunlight gradually squeezed out as she follows its path, to come out by the hotel, a bridge and the quiet backwaters of the canal.
She helps the Americans get booked in, and then says her goodbyes. They entreat her to come out for dinner with them later, but she explains that she is meeting someone. They part on the landing as she unlocks her bedroom door, slipping inside with relief. Her room is furnished simply with a large double bed, and French windows opening above the canal, while another window looks out over the alleyway. Valentina kicks off her shoes and lies down on the bed. She glances at her watch. She has a couple of hours before meeting Theo. She wonders where the blond man is now. She was careful when they were getting on the vaporetto and was sure he didn’t follow her group on board. Surely he has no idea where she is now? Yet Venice is small. It is only a matter of time before he finds her.
She sits in the bar of the opulent Hotel Danieli, sipping a glass of red wine. It is just eight o’clock. She has the black briefcase leaning against her armchair, the Metsu painting within it, and she is watching the entrance like a hawk. Where is her man? She is beside herself with an
ticipation. She is not a demonstrative person, and yet she believes she might very well throw herself into his arms when she sees him. Despite the fact that she prides herself on her independence, she has to admit that she has missed him so much her heart is sore. The few fleeting times she has been with him have just fuelled her passion, making her want him all the more.
It is now five minutes past eight, and there is still no sign of her lover. She watches an old lady walk into the bar and survey the room. She is tall and elegant, although obviously very frail. To her surprise, the old lady’s eyes come to rest upon her, and now she is walking over to her table.
‘Signorina Rosselli?’
Valentina frowns.
‘Yes.’
The old lady offers her a gloved hand.
‘My name is Gertrude Kinder. I believe you have something for me.’ And much to Valentina’s bemusement, the old lady lowers herself into the armchair next to her.
‘I am terribly sorry,’ Valentina tells her, ‘but I don’t know who you are, or what you are talking about.’
Gertrude Kinder gives her a piercing look behind her glasses.
‘The painting,’ she says, as if Valentina is an imbecile. ‘Signor Steen said you would have it with you.’
‘The painting . . .’ Valentina repeats, a little stunned.
‘Yes,’ the old lady says with the irritation of the wealthy and powerful. ‘My painting. The Love Letter by Gabriel Metsu. Don’t you have it with you? Signor Steen told me I could collect it from you tonight.’
Valentina stares at the old lady. She can almost feel the painting burning through the black briefcase next to her legs. What the hell is Theo playing at? Why didn’t he tell her about this woman? Should she give her the painting? Who is she?
‘Theo . . . I mean Signor Steen gave me no instructions to give you a painting. He just told me to meet him here. He didn’t mention you.’
‘I asked him not to mention me. I don’t want any trails . . .’
Valentina looks at Gertrude Kinder in puzzlement. Is this frail octogenarian a crooked art dealer? It seems highly unlikely.
‘And he is supposed to be here as well,’ says the old lady, looking around and wringing her hands. ‘I don’t want to stay long. I just want to collect the painting and go.’
A waiter comes over to their table, but Gertrude Kinder waves him away.
‘Is it in there?’ she says, pointing to Valentina’s briefcase. ‘Can you please give it to me so I can go?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Valentina says. ‘I can’t do that, not until I check with Theo.’
She takes out her phone, which she managed to charge in the hotel, and dials his number, all the while looking at Gertrude, who is staring hungrily at the briefcase. Of course Theo doesn’t answer.
‘Why don’t you have a drink while we wait for him?’ suggests Valentina.
Gertrude looks at her as if she is crazy.
‘No time,’ she croaks, adding, ‘you don’t know, do you?’
‘Don’t know what?’
‘Who I am? What the painting is?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Valentina holds Gertrude’s gaze.
‘It’s my painting,’ the old lady says passionately. ‘Well, it was my husband’s. It was taken from us. I thought we would never get it back, but your Signor Steen has helped me.’
‘But if it was taken from you, why didn’t you go to the police?’
Gertrude Kinder’s face twists into an expression of utter disdain.
‘I am talking about the Second World War, my dear. I am talking about the Nazi plundering of art belonging to Jewish families.’
At last Valentina is beginning to understand. A wave of relief floods her. She knew it, Theo is a good man. He is helping this old Jewish lady retrieve something stolen from her family during the Second World War. Yet it still doesn’t make sense.
‘I thought that all the Nazi plunder had been returned. Didn’t they find out who all the dealers were? Couldn’t you have gone through official procedures?’
Why go to the bother of stealing something when it can be reclaimed legally, Theo?
Gertrude Kinder is getting agitated.
‘I don’t have time to explain all of that now, dear. Please, I have to go before he comes.’
‘Before who comes? Theo?’
‘No, no, I wish he was here. I would feel a little safer. No, the other one. The one who wants the money . . .’
Valentina is becoming more confused by the minute. The old lady puts her hand on top of hers. It is as cold as stone, yet her eyes are bright and gleaming.
‘Please, dear, let me have it.’
There is something in the old lady’s expression that makes Valentina trust her. She can see the history in her face. The suffering and the loss. She unzips the case and hands over the picture, still wrapped in its scarf.
‘Oh, what’s this?’ says Gertrude Kinder, starting to unwind the lace. ‘Do you want it back?’
Valentina thinks about her great-grandmother and what she would want her to do with the scarf.
‘No, you keep it. To protect the painting,’ she offers.
Gertrude Kinder hugs the picture to her chest as if she is being reunited with a long-lost child.
‘Thank you, my dear. You have no idea how much this means to me. And please thank Signor Steen with all my heart. Tell him all is forgiven.’
The old lady gets shakily to her feet. Valentina wonders whether she should offer to accompany her. She really does seem frightened and frail. Yet she doesn’t want to miss Theo if he turns up.
‘Would you like me to take you home?’ she asks.
‘Oh no, it’s fine. My assistant is waiting for me outside in a water taxi. He will help me.’
It is only after Gertrude Kinder has disappeared that it dawns on Valentina what she has just done. I have given a priceless painting away to a total stranger on the strength of instinct. And what did the old lady mean when she told her to tell Theo that all was forgiven?
It is now nearly nine o’clock and her disappointment is beginning to turn to anger. She has had enough. If Theo doesn’t turn up in the next ten minutes, that’s it, she promises herself. She is sick of his games. In the Dark Room she thought she loved him, on the train she wanted to hold on to him for ever, and yet now she is beginning to hate him. He is controlling, manipulative and disrespectful of her feelings . . . She could go on. She orders another glass of red wine and kicks off her shoes. She doesn’t care that she is in the grandest hotel in Venice.
Just as she has almost given up hope, the last person she wants to see comes sauntering into the bar. Garelli. He has found her. His eyes roam the room and his face lights up in triumph when they settle on her.
‘Well good evening, Signorina Rosselli, fancy meeting you here,’ he says, approaching her.
‘Fancy,’ she replies sarcastically.
‘And would you be waiting for a certain Signor Theo Steen, by any chance?’
‘That is absolutely none of your business.’
‘Is it now?’
Garelli sits down in the wing-backed leather chair not long vacated by Gertrude Kinder. He waves a waiter over.
‘I wouldn’t bother to order a drink on my account,’ Valentina says, pushing her feet back into her shoes. ‘I was just leaving.’
‘Oh that is such a shame,’ Garelli says evenly. ‘Seeing as I came to thank you for helping me uncover the mystery behind all those stolen pictures.’ He looks at her with dancing eyes, knowing full well that she can’t resist.
‘Well I guess I can spare you a few minutes,’ she says gruffly, letting him order her another glass of wine. Really she needs to eat soon, otherwise all this drink will go to her head.
‘You see, Signorina Rosselli, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said when we met before.’ Garelli leans back in his seat and knots his fingers.
‘What did I say?’ Valentina frowns in confusion.
Garelli rests his chin on
the bridge of his fingers and sits forward, staring at her intently.
‘You suggested I investigate the victims of these false crimes rather than your Signor Steen. And you were quite right. The answer to why each of these people would change their mind and claim their painting wasn’t stolen when it most clearly was came down to the provenance of the art.’
Nazi plunder, Valentina thinks. Just like Gertrude Kinder’s lost painting.
‘I know what you are thinking, Signorina Rosselli,’ Garelli says. ‘However, when I did investigate the provenance of each of these paintings, I could not see any connection to known Nazi art dealers at any stage. This I have to admit had me puzzled.’
‘And if it was Nazi loot, the art would have been legitimately returned to the rightful owner in any case,’ Valentina tells him haughtily.
‘Yes, quite right,’ Garelli says, sitting back again. ‘However, in times of war, amid all the loss of life and suffering, there is much confusion. People can get mixed up over right and wrong. The fate of paintings, no matter how valuable, somehow fades in comparison to the fate of a whole country and its people.’
He says nothing for a moment, watching her reaction. Valentina frowns in puzzlement. What kind of riddle is this man presenting her with?
‘As you say, paintings that have been recorded as plundered by the Nazis are hunted down and returned through legal channels, but there were many paintings and other artworks that were lost, that slipped through the net so to speak,’ Garelli says, sweeping his arms dramatically. ‘Some were taken by Allied soldiers when they uncovered the Nazi plunder hidden in mine shafts and caves in the mountains; some were found by others and passed through dozen of hands. It would take a skilled and persistent art detective to trace these paintings and retrieve them. It would take a special kind of person.’
Like Theo, Valentina thinks. The first word she would use to describe him is tenacious. Look how he is with her. Even after months of her swearing that she could never fall in love with him, he still hasn’t given up.
