The Venetian (13 page)

Cencio hunched over the barrier to gaze at the dark swirl below. He seemed close enough to nearly touch the façade of the building on the opposite side of the channel. He craned his neck to take in its entirety. It was a rather nice piece of property from what he could tell, which wasn’t all that much given the lack of light. The first floor, at water level, was rather plain, with three identical rectangular windows evenly spaced across the width of the building and the front door located at the far left. He had spent his entire life in Venice, and still he found it startling to see buildings simply rising up from the water without discernible support, as though weightlessly floating upon the surface. The second floor had tall shuddered windows that were slightly more ornate with a pair of doors in the middle flanked by columns that opened onto a narrow balcony. The third floor displayed immense windows on either side of the façade with gracefully curving Moorish arches cut from the stone above them and a long balcony in the middle showcasing a row of stout columns.

It was interesting da Riva thought how the building grew in ornament the higher it rose, so like a man who had started with nothing but grew prosperous over the years. Cencio smiled to himself, certain in the way of those who have had too much to drink that he had just touched on some deeply profound insight. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his monastic manner. A home such as this would be far more comfortable than the one he had now, and it was of a significant enough distance from the Grand Canal to be affordable. While it was an easy thing to mention a proper address in conversation (and thus make a fine first impression), it was far more difficult to insert a description of one’s growing stockpile of ducats. And at this stage, it was an expanding web of contacts that he needed. One could not achieve such a network without a proper home.

It was settled then, da Riva having concluded this negotiation with himself, that he would seek out a residence in this fine neighborhood the very next day. Actually, later this same day. He laughed, a quiet little bark, rather pleased with this new plan. Things were indeed looking up. And as if to mark the occasion, he heard the small chirp of a bird. Perhaps dawn was not as far off as he had imagined.

The attack was shocking in its speed, da Riva’s neck grasped from behind as if in a vice. The thumb and forefinger of the assailant pressed into either side of his neck like iron pincers, da Riva crying out as the fingers dug into the tender muscles. The pain was excruciating. He tried to free himself but was pulled from the wall with alarming ease, clawing at the stone, trying to find purchase. The skin of his fingertips shredded on the coarse rock. Three of his fingernails were torn off. He realized with a horrible burst of clarity that this was no robbery, that he was being pushed toward the stairs. He threw both arms over his head, flailing at his faceless attacker, but they thrashed about impotently, unable to find their target. The man was impossibly strong. He held da Riva’s thrashing body at arm’s length like one might a small child, avoiding a tantrum. He was losing feeling now. His neck was going numb, his vision blurring. He tried to plant his feet, to somehow slow his progress toward the stairs, but instead only skidded along the damp stones of the path, propelled by the malevolent force behind him.

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came. Dragged to the bottom of the steps, his body, sensing the proximity of the water, suddenly jerked in a stream of convulsive eruptions. It was not so much a conscious defense now as it was a primitive frenzy dispatched from the depths of the animal brain—a life desperately trying not to be snuffed out.

The man thrust the upper half of da Riva’s body beneath the surface. The shock of the water prompted renewed spasms from da Riva but there was no way for him to gain any leverage. He was bent at the waist on the bottom step, his hands frantically opening and closing beneath the water. His legs kicked out spastically, scraping the stairs as the man calmly held him under.

Holding his breath, da Riva wildly scanned the murky water for something to grab, but his body was thrust forward toward the center of the canal and open water. His lungs were on fire. Now he was fighting both his attacker and his own body. The urge to breathe was overwhelming. He kicked out again and again, each thrust causing the man to crush his abdomen harder against the stone step.

Finally his body could endure no more. His mouth violently jerked open and he breathed in. His mind, independent of his body as if it were a separate entity entirely, screamed in protest. He coughed violently, causing even more water to flow in. As the brackish water surged into da Riva’s airway, his larynx constricted, sealing off the passage. His eyes bulged, straining at his skull. Unbearable pain coursed through his body, and then he was still.

His killer held him beneath the surface a moment longer to be certain he was indeed dead before giving him a gentle push into the canal. The body would be discovered later that morning, floating face down in the water. It would be identified as that of a middling trader who had had too much to drink the evening before, and paid the cruelest of prices for his excess.

The trader’s lifeless form floated quietly into the center of the channel toward the handsome residence he had been admiring only moments before. A bird chirped again, perhaps the same one that had stirred earlier, and began to sing in earnest, greeting the day on which Cencio da Riva had planned to begin his new life.

Sixteen

“
C
anever!”

By Satan’s warty prick, not now.
The wine merchant’s booming voice rumbled down the narrow street, sounding all the more powerful for being confined between the tall buildings on either side. Paolo turned to greet Francesco, affixing a smile to his face.

“Buongiorno Francesco.”

Francesco bypassed the pleasantries, playfully assuming a stern manner. “Canever. I have not seen you lately.” His beefy arms were outstretched, threatening an unwelcome embrace, his most practiced pose. “If I did not know that you were a true friend to Francesco, I might think you were avoiding me.” He tapped his temple, emphasizing the act of thinking.

“Francesco,” replied Paolo, “why would I avoid the only man in all of Venice who so fills me with cheer day after day?” Paolo winced. The merchant’s ridiculous manner was rubbing off on him. Francesco was delighted.

“Ha! Yes, that is the very same question I have been asking myself. I am happy to see that we are aligned in our thinking. This is why I hired you Canever. I like the way you think, because you think like Francesco!” He convulsed, finding himself wildly amusing for a moment, before becoming somber. “But, let us be serious now.”

Paolo waited. “Francesco,” he began, guessing they were still speaking of the fact that they hadn’t seen one another in two days, “you yourself said that I could go about the business of putting my family’s affairs in order as long as I did as you asked, as your employee, which I believe I have done. With efficiency,” he added. He did not appreciate the reminder that he was beholden to the merchant.

“Yes, yes, it is true,” Francesco said with a frown. “I am sorry Canever. You are right. That is what I said and that is what I meant. Francesco never goes back on his word. What kind of businessman would I be if I would do such a thing? I will tell you,” he said, pausing dramatically. “I would be a very bad businessman.”

“Or a very good politician,” said Paolo, smiling weakly. Francesco convulsed again. “I do so enjoy your company Canever, such that I feel less happy, less…” his gaze drifted upward, searching the skies for the proper phrase, “…less Francesco when you are not there, yes?”

Whatever did he do before a week ago?
“I am honored that my presence is so meaningful,” Paolo said with an overly formal bow.

Francesco waved away the comment, a gesture that said a response was not required nor, in this case, believed. He had already moved on to the next thought. “But this is very odd Canever.” Francesco looked puzzled now. “Here I am on the Calle dell’Ovo, and I see my good friend, the Canever. It is always nice to see friends unexpectedly out on the street, no? And two days ago, Francesco is very near this same spot when who do I see walking toward the Campo San Bartolomeo? The Canever! I wanted to call out to you, but unfortunately I was rushing to a most pressing appointment.” He sighed in the way important men do when trying to convince those less powerful that they envied their simple existence. “And then I thought to myself, ‘why is the Canever going to the campo? Did I send him? Is Francesco losing his head?’ Please say no Canever.”

Paolo rubbed his temples, cursed his stupidity. It made perfect sense that Francesco would spend time at or near the campo. While he was primarily a wine merchant, a man as ambitious as Francesco was sure to have other interests. As spice was the most lucrative of all other interests, it stood to reason he would have his fat finger in that grandest of all pies. But what did it matter? It was not Francesco’s business where Paolo spent his time when he wasn’t working. The man was his employer, not his minder. And yet, Paolo sensed it would not be wise to tell Francesco the truth.

“You are not losing your head I assure you. You gave me no such errand.”

“Ah, thank the heavens,” Francesco sighed with mock relief. He looked expectantly at Paolo, waiting to hear the reason he had been near the
campo
on two separate occasions. Paolo pretended not to notice.

“I promise you Francesco that I will see you at first light tomorrow so we can get an early start on the important business of the day.” Paolo smiled warmly before Francesco could respond, heading off at a brisk pace away from the campo. He dared not turn around. He could feel the merchant’s eyes on him.

Francesco watched Paolo leave. He looked back toward the campo, returned to Paolo’s retreating back, trying to connect the two with his eyes as well as his mind.

***

PAOLO WALKED WITH
purpose but not too quickly. He knew Francesco was still watching, and didn’t want to arouse his suspicions. He crossed back over the Rio di San Salvador, turned right onto Calle Bembo and out of Francesco’s line of sight. He pretended to inspect the cheap wares of a merchant’s stall, and returned to peer around the corner. Francesco was gone. Paolo waited a few moments more to be safe.

He headed back toward the campo. It certainly wasn’t the cleverest method of eluding Francesco, but Paolo was anxious to get back to the square. Besides, Francesco seemed the sort to resent having to physically spy on someone. If anything, he would contract out the task. If he encountered his employer again, he would simply lie. While it all seemed innocent, this crossing of paths, there was something he didn’t like about the chance meeting.

The street outside the campo was a buzz of activity. Silver-tongued vendors did a brisk business attempting to separate spice traders flush with ducats from their money. Trinkets glittered in the sunlight, sellers called out to passersby, hawking soap, woolens, fruit, and intricately cut metal in the Moorish style. Paolo hurried past.

Inside the square the clamor caught him by surprise. Always a steady din during business hours, what Paolo saw now was altogether different. There were many more groups of men clustered about than when he had been there before, and all significantly more animated. Paolo scanned the crowd, looking for de Mezzo and his companions, and spotted them in the northeast corner, huddled tightly together as though plotting some intrigue. He approached them, weaving through the dense crowd. The one on the far side of the group—the rotund Piero Volpe—saw him first, met de Mezzo’s eyes, and nodded in Paolo’s direction.

“Buongiorgno signori. I hope I am not interrupting,” smiled Paolo. Flavio Moro eyed him suspiciously from his great height. Alfonso Mare, his features still contorted, looked either pleased or hostile. It was de Mezzo that spoke. He tried to smile but couldn’t complete the effort, the gesture looking more like a grimace of discomfort.

“Buongiorgno signore.”

“It seems quite the busy day,” said Paolo, taking in the scene. “I suspect there is much money being made even as I stand here, although I do not pretend to understand how.”

Matteo de Mezzo looked about nervously, Paolo getting the sense he wasn’t seeing anything. “Forgive us signore. We have just received the most terrible news.” He was wringing his hands distractedly. The other men exchanged glances, looking faintly alarmed at their colleague’s admission. “A fellow trader has been found dead only this morning I am afraid.”

Paolo was taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting to hear that. “I am very sorry. That is indeed terrible news. Did any of you gentlemen know him very well?” He didn’t know what else to say, suddenly wishing that he were away from there. He was having much difficulty avoiding the subject of death these days.

“Signore Mare knew him best,” said de Mezzo, nodding in his friend’s direction.

“How did he die?” Paolo asked. He couldn’t help it. As much as people want to avoid thinking on it, death holds a gruesome fascination, pulling even the most reluctant to its breast. “I am sorry,” he quickly added, bowing his head. “That was terribly callous of me. Please accept my apology.”

The men seemed too distracted to notice the infraction, although Alfonso Mare fixed him with a hard stare. “He drowned in a canal,” de Mezzo said absently. “Sometime late last night.”

“Again, please accept my sympathies gentlemen. I am very sorry. I will leave you to your grief.” Paolo turned to go.

“Signore,” de Mezzo called after him. “You did not mention your business, what with the…news.”

“Oh, it is quite all right signore, thank you. Perhaps a more appropriate time.”

“Nonsense. What happened was tragic it is true, but we all must continue. Please, what can we do for you?”

Mare’s stare, if anything, was increasing in intensity, focused on Paolo like a sharpened piece of stone. “I was hoping to ask you about Signore Lanzi and my brother,” said Paolo, concentrating on de Mezzo’s face, “and perhaps if you knew of any ventures in which they had been jointly involved.”