The Rossetti Letter (v5) (32 page)

“I
T EXPLAINS HOW
she knew about letters between Ossuna and Bedmar,” Claire said. “We know that Utrillo-Navarre was one of their messengers—among other things. This could also explain why she waited until March to expose the conspiracy. The two-month discrepancy in the Rossetti Letter.”

“Yes, perhaps she delayed until she could arrange their escape from Venice,” Andrew agreed.

“Utrillo-Navarre must have been the fourth person in their party. She’s saying as much to her cousin—‘allegiance to UN’—as if to warn her in advance that she’s not giving aid to the enemy—”

“But to her lover. Except that we know their escape didn’t turn out as planned, did it?”

“No,” Claire said. “I’d hoped for a happier ending.”

“Falling in love with Ossuna’s swordsman may have precluded that. What if she didn’t know what Perez was? What if she never made it to Marghera?”

“I thought of that, too.”

“There is another possibility, although I know you won’t like it,” Andrew said. “This could have been an elaborate ruse of Alessandra’s. She feigns love, offers to help him escape—and all the while, she’s planning to betray him.”

“You’re right, I don’t like it. For one thing, it doesn’t add up. Why bother writing a message in code—‘allegiance to UN’—if she didn’t sincerely care about him?”

“I only say it because”—Andrew sifted through the documents on the table until he found the Rossetti Letter—“because this letter doesn’t seem as if it were written in haste. Certainly not like something written by someone who was planning to leave Venice the same day.”

Claire remembered thinking something similar, when she’d read it. Her thoughts whirled: Alessandra, Antonio Perez, Bedmar, Ossuna, Silvia, the letter. She reached for the large, morocco-bound
Great Council Minutes, March 1618
and turned to the entry for March 6:
Alessandra Rossetti, bocca di leone Palazzo Ducale.
Something clicked.

“Andrew, isn’t there another
bocca di leone
in the Doge’s Palace? Besides the one in the courtyard, I mean.”

“I think there’s one in the Sala della Bussola, the compass room.”

“Isn’t that right next to the Sala de Trei Capi?”

“Yes.”

Claire sat back in her chair, silent and thoughtful. She didn’t like what she suspected, or how this last piece of the puzzle changed the picture. As she told her version of events to Andrew Kent, she watched his expression become increasingly solemn.

“Yes, I see,” he said, when at last she was finished. “So you’re saying we were both wrong.”

“And both right, too,” she added.

Outside Caffè Quadri, a classical octet played American standards as Claire and Andrew slowly walked through the Piazza, heading for the Baldessaris’. Claire was going to pick up Gwen; Andrew hadn’t said precisely, but she suspected that he was meeting Gabriella there.

Along with the music, the air buzzed with the constant murmur of conversation from the crowded tables outside Caffè Quadri and Caffè Florian. The Basilica was ablaze with light, its jumble of spires and domes haloed against the night sky. Directly above them, small, sharp stars glittered.

This is my last night here, Claire thought. I can’t believe it’s almost over. “I’ve seen so little,” she said.

“Pardon?”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. She felt her face flush. “Just sorry that I have to leave tomorrow.”

“Me, too. It is amazing, isn’t it?” With a slight movement of his head he managed to indicate the Piazza and, by extension, all of Venice. “Although ‘amazing’ doesn’t really do it justice. Whenever I try to describe Venice, I always end up speaking in clichés.”

“Before I left Harriott, I’d read that Venice was ‘magical’ or ‘like a fairy tale’ so often that I had begun to believe that the Venetian Tourist Board had discovered a way to brainwash people on their way out. And then I arrived here and found myself thinking, ‘It’s magical—like a fairy tale.’”

“Perhaps they brainwash people on the way in.”

“So much for originality, anyway. But what strikes me most is how intense and alive it is—and how sad it would be if it were turned into a museum-city, as some people have suggested.”

“I agree, that would be a shame.”

They continued walking toward the west end of the square and soon left behind the light and sound of the Piazza for the small, shadowed streets of San Marco. They’d been walking along in companionable silence when Andrew suddenly said, “I believe I owe you an apology.”

Claire looked up at him, surprised. “For what?”

“The day we met at the airport. I think I may have been rather…ah…rude.”

“I hardly noticed,” she lied.

“Now you’re not only goading me, you’re lying. You were just as bad in return—all that blather about the Italian police. Hah.” Andrew sounded miffed, but he wore a crooked smile.

“Would I really have been taken away by the militia for trying to go through the EU line?” Claire asked.

“I haven’t any idea. I’ve never seen an American try to sneak through it before.”

“Oooh! And you said!”

“That’s why I’m apologizing. I know I behaved badly, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“I’d just spent two days in Amsterdam, where I was giving a seminar. When I arrived, I discovered that my luggage had gone to Athens instead, and later I found out that my hotel room was in the midst of an entire wing of vacationing Bulgarians, who apparently slept all day, since they spent the entire night crashing beer steins together and singing. Then, on the plane here, the fellow next to me broke my glasses.”

“On purpose?”

“I don’t know how it happened exactly. He must’ve got up, I fell asleep, took them off and put them on his seat without even knowing it, then he came back, and—”

“He sat on them?”

“I’m afraid so. By the time I arrived here, I’d had almost no sleep, I’d been wearing the same clothes for three days, I couldn’t see very well, and I was about to give a lecture based on a book I was writing except that I hadn’t written it because I couldn’t figure out how. So…I am sorry, but I hope you’ll understand.”

“I do understand. My trip here wasn’t all that pleasant, either.”

“I should have realized.”

“It’s okay. Your apology is accepted, as long as you’ll accept mine for that ‘horse’s ass’ remark.”

“Of course. But I must say, no one’s ever insulted me in Latin before. It was rather intriguing. Tell me, do you only curse in a dead language?”

“No, I can swear like a sailor in Greek, as well.”

“So you’re fluent in the classic languages?”

Claire shook her head. “I only know the expletives.”

“Really? How does one learn just that? Is there a book, or a CD or something?”

“No, there’s no book,” said Claire, laughing. “But it’s easy, really. Just marry a classics scholar and you can learn only those words and phrases you find truly indispensable.”

Andrew looked perplexed. “So, your…husband?…is a…?”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected him. “He’s an assistant professor of ancient history at Columbia.”
And his girlfriend has an office down the hall.

“That’s a rather marginal skill, though, isn’t it, knowing how to swear in Greek and Latin?” Andrew said. “Although I suppose it could be quite useful if you’re ever in Athens—”

“Or in ancient Rome,” Claire pointed out.

“Indeed.” He paused. “What are you planning to do once you get your degree?”

“I’d like to teach. Ideally—in my wildest fantasy, I suppose—I would be a professor at Harvard.”

“Any chance of an offer?”

“Oh, no. It’s almost impossible to get a job there. It’s just that my ex was hired at Columbia, and it’s a big deal, really, very prestigious…”

“And you wanted to show him up.”

“Yes. Silly, isn’t it? I’ll probably end up at some little college in the Midwest.”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent teacher. You certainly got through to your—is she your niece?—with that story about Casanova.”

“Thanks. Gwen isn’t my niece. I’m her chaperone.” Claire could see that a clarification was necessary. “Gwen’s parents needed someone to bring her to Europe for a week, and I wanted to attend this conference but couldn’t afford it, so we struck a deal.”

“Do you act as a chaperone often?”

“Isn’t it obvious that this is my first time?”

“On the contrary, you seem to be doing fine. Well, apart from allowing her to become inebriated on the plane.”

“I didn’t allow it! I fell asleep, and she wandered off.”

“Trouble, is she?”

“She’s a teenager. I think trouble is considered ‘age appropriate.’”

“I have a nine-year-old boy who’s already more than I can handle. Please don’t tell me it’s going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but things get pretty complicated when adolescence hits.”

“In my experience, they’re complicated right from the start.”

“So you wouldn’t describe your son as sweet, shy, and perfectly normal?”

“Stewart? I can honestly say that he’s completely and absolutely none of those things.”

“What do you do with Stewart when you travel?” As soon as she asked the question, she realized that Andrew would know she’d been talking to Hoddy about him. How else could she know that he was a widower?

Thankfully, Andrew simply gave her a brief, inscrutable look and ignored the slight faux pas. “He stays with my parents.”

“Do you worry about him?”

“I do worry…but not about Stewart so much as about everything within a five-mile radius of him. At the moment, I’m worried about my parents…their house…their car…their dog. To quote one of his tutors, Stewart has a great capacity for mayhem.”

“Mayhem?”

“The staff at Stewart’s former school voted him ‘Most Likely to Build a Nuclear Bomb in His Own Basement.’ Of course I told them that I was careful to keep the plutonium in a very high cupboard, well out of his reach, but they suggested that we find another situation for him.”

“Your son was kicked out of elementary school?”

“Not kicked out exactly, but it was agreed that it would be better for Stewart, and for everyone else, if he were in a different learning environment. And it’s true, he’s much happier now. He’s at the university.”

“Cambridge has a school for children?”

“No, actually, he’s attending the university—Trinity College, my alma mater.”

“I thought you said he was nine.”

“He is.”

“And he’s attending Cambridge?”

“With tutors, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Well, you see, he’s, ahh, well, he’s considered advanced for his age.”

“He’s a genius.”

“Apparently so.”

“You must be very proud.”

“Yes, although since he became passionately interested in rocket science, it’s difficult to distinguish between pride and fear for one’s life.” Andrew stopped at a wrought-iron gate. “Here we are.” He opened the gate to the Baldessaris’ courtyard; they walked through it to the front door and knocked.

Andrew turned to her. “You know, what you said that night in the restaurant meant a lot to me.”

“What did I say?”

“How even the smallest stories were important, if they provided some insight into humanity.”

“You mean I wasn’t making a fool of myself?”

“Not at all. I’d been so discouraged with this book, and with my work, and I’d begun to feel that it was meaningless. You were so passionate, you reminded me of how I felt when I first started.”

“I did?”

Andrew moved closer. “I was thinking…are you going to be at my lecture tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Just as Andrew opened his mouth to speak again, the door opened. Gabriella stood in the doorway. Her thousand-watt smile dimmed noticeably when she saw Claire. It gave her an odd feeling, as if Gabriella had interrupted an intimate moment, even though they’d been doing nothing more than standing there talking. Gabriella had that same sort of radar that Renata did, and at the moment it was set on full power and trying to detect any sign of closeness between the two of them. Of course there was nothing to detect, but Claire had a feeling that it wouldn’t matter. She knew at once that she’d managed to ensure Gabriella’s lifelong enmity, just by showing up on the doorstep with her boyfriend.

“Darling!” Gabriella said to Andrew, taking his arm as they stepped inside. “And, Carrie, what a surprise.”

“We were both at the library all day,” said Andrew, by way of explaining their combined presence at the Baldessaris’, “and Claire needed to come over to pick up her—charge—so…”

Good lord, Claire thought, he’s just making it worse. He actually sounds guilty. Maybe he could sense that radar, too, although in Claire’s experience men never seemed to notice when a woman was metaphorically hanging a big “Hands Off” sign around their necks.