The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  There was only one person I knew who could read Greek and could be relied upon to be discreet: my friend the bookseller, Fabrizio Busetto. Lucia’s father.

  Lucia, of course, would not be keen on their becoming involved in my “other job”. So perhaps the best course would be to visit the shop when she was out.

  This was clearly the most sensible solution; it was foolish of me to wish otherwise. But then I always was a fool.

  7

  I knew that Lucia as a rule went to the Rialto market late in the morning, in order to benefit from the bargains on offer when the stall-holders often halved their prices prior to closing for the day. As it was now getting on for midday, I made my way from the point of disembarkation directly to Calle dei Fabbri, where the shop was situated.

  Fabrizio looked up at me from his desk opposite the door, where he usually sat reading unless bothered by some importunate person who wanted to buy something from him. His mild face broke into a smile as I entered: “Alvise, very good to see you.”

  “And you too, Sior Fabrizio,” I said warmly. I meant it too. I looked around the shop.

  “Lucia is at the market,” he said. “She will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “And I her,” I said, only half mendaciously. I wasn’t sure how mendacious Fabrizio was being; I hoped not at all. “I’m sorry to have stayed away for so long, but you know how it is . . .”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “And now, what can I interest you in? I myself am re-reading Suetonius. Wonderful gossipy stuff.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. I continued to look around the shop. It was the same as ever: the same enticing smell of leather and old paper; the same dark bookcases with curious carvings, their shelves curving under the weight of thickly crammed, darkly gleaming, leather-bound volumes. Although I had spent much of the morning amid books, it was good to be back here.

  “Do you just wish to browse?” he asked, already glancing back at his enticing volume of Suetonius. That was one of the reasons why the shop was so welcoming: Fabrizio put the customer under no pressure to buy, or even to chat; he perhaps preferred his gossip to be at least a thousand years old. Lucia, I knew, occasionally became exasperated when a customer left the shop without having exchanged a word – or, more to the point, a lira – and she would let her father know it.

  “Well, I’d like to do that too, but I’d also like to ask for your help, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, delighted if I can be of assistance.”

  “I had better warn you that this is for my – my other job, so to speak.”

  “I see,” he said, in as neutral a fashion as possible. We had never talked about this “other job” at any length, although he knew what it consisted of.

  “I don’t want to put you in an embarrassing position,” I said. “All I’m asking for is some linguistic assistance.”

  “I see,” he said again. “What language are we talking about?”

  “Greek,” I said. “I learned Latin as a child but never any Greek.”

  “Oh, a great pity,” he said. “Of course, it’s never too late to start.”

  “No, of course not, but this is rather urgent.” I pulled the notebook from my pocket and handed it to him.

  “Cospetto,” he said, his usual expression when mildly – or indeed violently – surprised. “And where does this come from?” He started leafing through it.

  “This belonged to a man called Paolo Padoan, who was a schoolteacher and occasionally filed reports for the Missier Grande. He was very interested in the classics, and it struck me that you might have come across him.”

  “Paolo Padoan . . . Padoan . . . Let me see. Was he a small man, about sixty? Didn’t I hear that he had an accident recently?”

  Sior Fabrizio rarely left his shop and didn’t seem to gossip much, but none the less most of the city’s news seemed to reach him; I sometimes thought of him as a benign spider, alert to every minor shock in the outreaching threads of the city’s web.

  “That’s right. He was killed falling from the roof of his house. Did you know him, then?”

  “He did occasionally visit the shop. In fact, now that you mention it . . .” Clearly he had suddenly thought of something. He sat pondering for a while and then said, “Yes, of course, of course.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, you know that some of my stock is second-hand?”

  “Yes, of course.” The second-hand books were the only ones I could ever afford.

  “Well, I always take especial care to ascertain the provenance of everything that is offered to me. And occasionally I just have to refuse to buy some books, even though the price being asked would be clearly advantageous to me.”

  “You mean they’re stolen goods?”

  “I never know for certain, but I would rather not run the risk. Well, just a few days ago I was offered a set of volumes which were vaguely familiar. And now that you’ve mentioned his name I realise that they were probably all books that I had sold to Sior Padoan over the years.”

  “Who was selling them?”

  “Well, let’s say he clearly was not a bibliophile.”

  “Could he have been a friend of Padoan? Or a relative?”

  “I’m fairly sure he was a sbirro, who had removed the books from the dead man’s home. Oh, and that reminds me –” But he interrupted himself. “I’ll come back to that. As I say, I think he was a sbirro.“

  “Very likely,” I said. “Do you remember what the books were?”

  “Oh, some standard Greek and Latin classics, but also some works on the history of Constantinople . . .”

  “Yes!” I said involuntarily.

  Fabrizio looked at me with mild curiosity. “Does your reaction indicate a shared interest in the history of the Eastern Roman Empire or does this just confirm something you had suspected?”

  “The latter,” I said. “The suspicion is that Padoan was killed and I’ve been asked to look into the circumstances of his death – discreetly. This is not an official investigation.”

  “No,” said Fabrizio, “I imagine not.” Then, as if realising that the implications of his assent might seem invidious, he added, “That is, I presume an official investigation would be up to the magistrates.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “It’s just that they don’t seem very interested in investigating any further. As far as they’re concerned it was simply an accident.”

  “But you think there’s more to it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but there are certainly some oddities about it all.” I gave him a brief explanation of how Padoan had died and the fact that a mysterious Neapolitan had visited the altana a few days before the tragic incident. “So really I’m trying to build up a picture of who Padoan was and why someone might have wanted him dead. And part of the mystery seems to be his interest in a strange secret society called the Four Horsemen.”

  Fabrizio raised his eyebrows. “A name designed to unsettle, I would say.”

  “Yes, quite. Mind you, I haven’t found anything apocalyptic as yet. What I have found is this diary which he had concealed in the chapel of Saint Helena. Everything seems to go back to his interest in Constantinople.”

  “Saint Helena, mother of Constantine,” said Fabrizio.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Although she never visited the city her son founded, as far as I know.”

  “No, perhaps not, but there’s a link.”

  “The painter Cima da Conegliano seemed fond of her,” he mused.

  I thought about that. “You’re right. There’s a painting in San Giovanni in Bragora of her together with Constantine . . .”

  “And she is represented in his nativity scene in the church of the Carmini,” he said. “I’ve always thought it wasn’t perhaps the height of tact for her to appear with that cross just when the child was being born. But I’m being irreverent. My apologies.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “this is the diary Padoan was keeping �
� and he clearly wanted to be discreet about it. He had hidden it in the chapel, as I say, and it’s written in Greek.”

  “Well, that is not exactly an impenetrable language,” he said, as he gazed at a page of the notebook.

  “Let’s say it would keep it safe from most people’s eyes,” I said. “Including mine. And that’s why I’m here.”

  “Yes, I see. So what do you want me to do? Translate the whole thing?”

  “If you could just look through it and give me an idea of what he’s talking about . . .”

  He continued to peruse the page. “His Greek is not exactly perfect . . . And he seems to have some recurring topics.”

  “Can you give me an idea? It would be extremely helpful.”

  “Well, let’s take the first page, shall we? Why don’t you take a seat?”

  I took the other chair from against the wall and sat down and listened to him. He skimmed through the page, humming as he did so (a constant habit of his). Then he started again from the top, speaking aloud.

  “Date, April 30th. ‘I will keep this diary in Greek both out of my respect for the language and its culture and in order to preserve my thoughts from – from’, well, I suppose, ‘prying eyes’ would be what he means, even if he’s got the adjective wrong. ‘It will also serve to raise my thoughts above the common level and to strengthen that bond I feel with the Holy City founded by Saint Constantine . . .’ Oh, I see he’s canonised him, or he’s just borrowing the appellation from the Orthodox Church.’ . . . founded by Saint Constantine, son of Saint Helena, who discovered the True Cross.’”

  Fabrizio raised his eyes and looked across at me. “I suppose Constantine knew Greek, but as I understand it Latin continued to be the official language of the empire until the Emperor Heraclius, in the seventh century.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I suspect that Padoan is primarily interested in the ties between Venice and Constantinople. And by the time Venice was thriving, a trading partner of Constantinople rather than just its vassal, Constantinople was definitely a Greek-speaking city.”

  Fabrizio returned to the notebook. “Yes, I think you’re right. In fact he goes on to say: ‘The splendour of my own city is greatly due to the eternal links with the Holy City. It is to Constantinople that we owe so many of our artistic splendours, our golden mosaics, the treasures of Saint Mark’s . . .’”

  “Only because we looted them,” I said.

  Fabrizio looked up reproachfully. “I think he would consider it tactless to mention that.”

  At that moment a customer entered the shop. I stood up and said, “Perhaps I could come back later.”

  “Yes, of course.” Fabrizio greeted the customer, an elderly stooping man. He was clearly an old acquaintance and needed no assistance; he went straight to the nearest bookcase and started browsing. It was enough, however, to interrupt our translation session. Fabrizio said, gesturing to the notebook, “Shall I keep hold of this?”

  “That would be helpful; perhaps you could see if you find anything particularly unusual.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  I glanced at the customer, who was paying no attention to us. “Well, what I mentioned about the, um, society. Anything that might suggest he had discovered something new. Something that might explain what, well, what happened.”

  “I see,” he said. “Come back when Lucia is here. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  Clearly he could tell I was not convinced. “She really will be,” he said gently.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said, and realised my voice was slightly husky.

  He gave a sigh. “Of course, I won’t pretend that she is happy about – about –”

  “About my other job,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “You realise that’s why I chose to come at this time.”

  He nodded. “I did suspect as much.”

  “Perhaps it would be better not to mention . . .” I gestured towards the notebook.

  “No,” he said. He put it into a drawer. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “So if I want to talk to you about it, perhaps it will be better to come back again when she isn’t here.”

  He gave another sigh. “I suppose so. But do come back some other time as well and see her.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you.” I meant it. I had never been sure what Fabrizio thought of my acquaintance with his daughter. In the past I had tended to suppose that he had never thought of me as a suitor, perhaps because if I began to think of his considering me in that light, I would be forced to realise just how unsuitable he would find a cicerone with links to the sbirri. But these remarks suggested that he realised that Lucia and I did have a bond, and that he did not resent it.

  “Oh, and there’s something else,” he said suddenly. “Something for you, I think.” He reached into the drawer again. “Another sbirro this time. Just yesterday afternoon. That was what I suddenly remembered earlier.”

  I realised he was holding my edition of Pope’s translation of Homer. “Oh, goodness me,” I said, just managing to restrain myself from making a wild snatch at it.

  “Again I suspected that the man selling it might not have had a perfect right to ownership, but this time I took the risk of concluding a deal based on a hunch – which appears to have been correct.” He handed it to me with a smile.

  “Yes, it’s mine, it’s mine. I thought I’d lost it for ever.”

  “Actually the hunch wasn’t mine,” he said with a faint smile.

  “Oh?”

  “No, it was Lucia who had the idea. She nudged me while the man was in the shop trying to sell me the book, and she whispered your name.”

  “That was – that was clever of her.”

  “She knows your reading tastes. Of course, I don’t suppose there are a great many people in this city who are likely to be reading Homer in English.”

  “Nor who are likely to have got into trouble with the sbirri,” I added wryly, as I examined the book for damage. “Perhaps that was what suggested it to her.”

  “Well, she didn’t say that,” he said a little awkwardly.

  “I was set upon by bravi,” I said, “and the arsenalotti came to the rescue.”

  “Cospetto,” he said with an air of good-humoured tolerance for the high spirits of the young. “Anyway, look after it. It is a beautiful edition.”

  “And it’s a beautiful translation,” I said.

  “I hope you’ll be able to enjoy the original one day. Beautiful language – as our friend here clearly agrees.” He gestured to the drawer where he had placed the notebook.

  On this note of general appreciation of the beautiful I left him. He was clearly happy to return to his Suetonius, and his customer did not look as if he was going to disturb him.

  8

  I spent a pleasant afternoon and evening renewing my acquaintance with Achilles’ wrath; I imbibed with restraint over dinner, allowing myself to become intoxicated only with the music of Pope’s couplets. When I returned home that evening I think Siora Giovanna, standing at the doorway of her tavern as so often, was surprised to see me approaching with a steady gait; she even omitted to make a remark on my persistent lack of hat and wig.

  In the morning, enjoying the unusual sensation of a bare head that was as clear as the weather was not, I strolled through the mist-damp streets to San Moisè and got a report from Bepi on the young English nobleman to whom we had been showing the city earlier in the week. It turned out that he had independently discovered the amenities offered by Sior Molin’s gambling establishment and had spent the last few evenings there, happily squandering a goodly part of his family’s fortune, to the dismay of his well-meaning but ineffectual tutor. Bepi had now heard about my affray with Molin’s bravi and the slimy Marco Boldrin. He told me I was a fool to set these people against me, but I detected a hint of slightly surprised approval in his tone. We made arrangements for our next meeting at Fusina
on Monday morning to pick up new clients.

  “Be careful,” were his last words to me. “I’ve heard that Boldrin doesn’t forget a grudge.”

  “I will,” I said, trying for a tone of nonchalant breeziness to match the new image that I hoped Bepi had of me but failing miserably.

  Around midday I arrived at Fabrizio’s shop. He put down his Suetonius as I entered and shook his head.

  “Something wrong?” I asked. I looked around to check that Lucia was not in the shop.

  “Your friend,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “This Padoan person. Mad.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “I mean, completely mad. As mad as a horse.”

  From a Venetian who only knew bronze horses I presumed that was extremely mad. “How did this madness manifest itself?”

  “Well, you heard that little fragment I read out yesterday.”

  “Yes. An eccentric reading of history, I would say.”

  “No, it was more than that. He was living in a completely imaginary world.”

  “I see.”

  Fabrizio pulled out the notebook from the drawer and opened it. “I’ve been thinking about the man as he presents himself here, and as I knew him.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “As I said yesterday, he had been a customer. And we exchanged a few words over the years.”

  That sounded likely. Five or ten words every few months, over twenty or thirty years: they would all add up. And the extraordinary thing, I had come to realise, was that Fabrizio had an almost perfect recollection of every little scrap of conversation he had ever had, just as he did of almost every page he had ever read. This was partly why, despite his sedentary lifestyle, he had such a keen awareness of what was going on in the city – and in the world beyond.

  “You see,” he went on, “when he was younger I remember that he had definite academic aspirations. He very much wanted to become a member of the faculty of the university at Padua. He studied the classics assiduously, and he bought most of his editions from me. Like you, he had a great love for Homer. But unfortunately he did not succeed in this endeavour.”

  “No. I believe it made him quite bitter.”