The Bellini Card (21 page)

The money, he noticed, to be drawn in Trieste rather than Venice, on two separate banks.

He raised an ironical eyebrow at that. Venice, where the very business of credit had been invented, could no longer furnish a traveler with funds. Alfredo was right: it was a city with capital, of a sort, and no income.

Selling off its heritage, bit by bit.

He undressed, climbed into bed, and reached for the Vasari he’d left on the table with his afternoon nap. His fingers closed on thin air, and he
looked around, surprised. It was as if the book had jumped from his grasp to lie a few inches farther off.

The mattress creaked as he leaned across.

Vasari! Again!

He changed his mind, blew out the candle, and in a few minutes he was asleep.

S
WARMS
of beggars were retreating from their pitches as night fell.

Some were carried away by charitable friends, but the famous legless beggar of San Marco, using nothing more than his fingertips, wheeled himself up a side alley where he was released from the wheeled board by a faithful servant and slowly and painfully stood up, cracking his joints.

A furious German soldier, reddened by false piety and wine, stumped off on a wooden leg to one of the more forlorn wineshops of the city. A wraithlike woman, preternaturally skinny, and clutching to her breast a tiny, malnourished baby in a shift, stuffed the baby headfirst into a bag. It was only made of wax and wood, and she scuttled away to prepare dinner for her husband and five children.

All over Venice, under cover of darkness, tiny miracles were being performed. All over the city people found tongues, limbs, parents, and appetites. The halt walked; the weak took up their beds; the idiots and the insane, with looks of innocent cunning, counted their takings and found their way to a mug of wine or a dish of polenta.

On Palewski’s bridge, the bundle of rags stirred, too. What emerged from its nest was, at least, a man; he had sores on his shaved skull and a dirty yellow beard. He pissed into the canal, then made his way painfully up the alley, clutching a few kreuzers in a grimy hand.

Nobody passed him. Across the next bridge, he spotted something pretty on the ground and stooped to pick it up.

It was a little pointed object made of hard red leather and for a few moments he held it to his eye as if assessing its value. But even in Venice, among the poorest of the poor, a heel is worth nothing without its shoe; the beggar spat and passed on.

Later, having eaten half a slab of polenta, with the other half tucked away, he returned to his bridge.

He snuggled deep into his bed of rags and pondered, dreamily, the comings and goings on the street.

I
T
was not until the evening that Alfredo called on Signor Brett.

“The viewing is arranged,” he said.

“Very well,” Palewski replied. “Tomorrow then. Eleven o’clock?”

Alfredo nodded slowly. “Signor Brett, one thing I must explain,” he said, with a wince. “It is very Venetian, I’m sorry about it. The owner would like us to look at the portrait tonight, if possible. If you want some time to dress, it is no problem. I can wait. Afterward, we can take a gondola.”

Palewski sucked his teeth. “To be frank, Alfredo, I’d like to see the painting by daylight. At eight it will be almost dark.”

“Of course, signore, I understand.” Alfredo had his hat in his hand, and he began to turn it by the brim. “I think it will still be a very good opportunity to see the painting tonight. I would say, you can spend more time with it—alone, also, if you would like. It would be no problem. If you prefer for now, signore, I can wait for you downstairs.”

He got to his feet and gave a little bow.

Palewski blinked a couple of times and said, “Is something wrong?”

“No, signore,” Alfredo said emphatically. He spread out his hands. “I shall wait for you outside?”

“Give me five minutes,” Palewski said thoughtfully. When Alfredo had gone he adjusted his stock carefully in the mirror.

Damn, but he was so close!

He’d all but scripted the sultan’s speech. Now he murmured his own modest reply to the reflection in the glass.
No credit for discovery … blah blah … painting of venerable ancestor … not from me … proud nation … day of deliverance … blah blah … your house among the greatest, and oldest, of friends … et cetera, et cetera …

Yashim had been right, as usual—tracking down the Bellini was the coup of the year. Abdülmecid would eat from his hand.

He sighed and pulled on his overcoat.

S
OMETIMES
Maria would wake up wondering where she was and, as the truth returned, try to fend it off for a few more moments, but her swollen lip and the cord around her wrists that chafed and bit into her skin made it impossible to resist the dread reality.

More than anything, perhaps, she hated to be alone.

She got gingerly to her feet. Her leg ached where she had cracked it on something. With her back to the wall she worked her way around her cell, groping with fingers stiff with cold across the smooth walls, searching for anything she could use. She found the door, and kicked on it and shouted until her feet were bruised. It was a thick, heavy wooden door but it had a handle, too, and after many attempts she succeeded in using the handle to inch the blindfold off her face.

The darkness remained absolute.

Something that felt like a low stone table stood in the middle of the room. For a while she worked at trying to rasp the cord against the edge of the table, but it was her wrists that suffered. Eventually she gave it up and shuffled back to her original position against the wall, knees drawn up to her face, whimpering with cold, and pain, and the terrible fear of knowing nothing and expecting anything.

She would not tell them anything about Signor Brett, come what may.

But by the time they came, she could scarcely remember her own name.

She had lost track of time; she felt no pain. She moved her thick tongue in her mouth and very quietly sounded out the only word she knew:
acqua!

A
LFREDO
was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m here, as you see,” Palewski said drily. “But explain to me, clearly and simply, why tonight?”

Alfredo took his arm. “Come,” he said. “I will tell you as we go.”

A gondola was waiting on the water stairs. Both men climbed in, and the gondolier pushed off.

“You see, Signor Brett, it is something you must understand about the people we deal with—the old nobility of Venice. In former times, when Venice was a great power, these people were very careful to do what was good for the state. Only the youngest son was allowed to marry, for a start. His brothers, they fought in wars or put their energies into trade. So the inheritance was undivided, to the advantage of the state.”

“I’ve read about that.”

“Of course, signore. But today, in these times, it is a little different.”

“So?”

“So maybe the older brother, he decides to have a share. He says—I have no wars, no trade, and the Republic is finished. Please, brother, share with me!”

Palewski nodded. “I understand. The youngest son, in practice, took the lot—but legally, he wasn’t entitled to it. Very shrewd.”

Alfredo gave a relieved smile and patted Palewski’s hand. “There—I am very glad you understand, Signor Brett. I like you. I think America is a good country. We have no problems together.”

Palewski was vaguely aware that Alfredo hadn’t really answered his question, but the air of bonhomie was hard to break. Alfredo looked happy and relieved.

“The owner has arranged a special viewing,” Alfredo was saying. “But I should say, he asks us to be very discreet. The palazzo is in very many hands.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “In former times, just the family—but today, when things are hard for these people, they must divide and divide. But you understand how it is for them,” he added, with an encouraging smile.

“We don’t want to disturb the neighbors, you mean?”

“If you like, signore. Because of—the friends.”

Gli amici
: the epithet was universal, and wholly ironic.

“I imagine that the friends do not approve of our undertaking?”

Alfredo gave his wince again in half agreement. “You never quite know with friends,” he said.

Palewski chuckled. If this thing came off, it wouldn’t be just Poland exalted. It would be the Austrians discomfited, too. He found himself half looking forward to the sultan’s ball, just for a sight of the imperial ambassador swelling up in impotent fury, like a nervous frog.

Lamps on the canal were being lit by barefoot men with long tapers, and a few windows shone feebly overhead. By day, when large swathes of the buildings were shuttered up, perhaps half abandoned, the canal had a forlorn and forgotten look, like a silted creek. By night, in spite of the lamps, it was almost sepulchral, and the shutters showed like dark caves in some ancient cliffside necropolis.

“En avant, légionnaires,”
Palewski muttered, and at the same moment the gondolier made a pass with the oar and brought the elegant dark prow swooping around in a tight quarter turn that made the water hiss against the frail hull. With another twist of the oar the gondola shot forward into a cavernous boathouse.

Palewski had seen these canalside openings, and heard about them, before, but he had never actually been into one, with the gondola sweeping beneath the low arch, the gondolier bowing, and shadows racing in the sudden gloom. It was more like the entrance to a prison than a palace, Palewski thought, as the gondolier unhitched his lamp and raised it overhead. Above, he saw only the curve of the damp stone vault. To one side of the ancient water gate was a narrow pavement, which led to a wooden door banded in iron. The pavement was slimy with algae, and the base of the door, also tinged with green, was ragged and in need of repair.

Alfredo was the first out, onto the ledge. He put out a hand.