by Carl Sargent
“What?” he asked, stepping forward himself to see what she was talking about.
“Look. There. Someone is holding a knife at that man’s stomach, but you can only see the arm. Whoever the arm belongs to you can’t see. And he isn’t pointing it at Jesus,” she added, a little confused. “And why are they all accusing him? Look at their hands.”
He squinted, unsure, but with a strange sense of disquiet and anxiety. Something was terribly wrong with this painting.
“Look, they’re making daggers with their hands. Look, he is,” she said urgently, pointing to the left of the painting. “His hand is a flat dagger across that woman’s throat. That’s it! Those two on the left hate her, not him,” she said, urgently now. “Serrin, what is this? Look at his face, that man with the pointy gray beard, his hand is cutting her throat, and she is so sad, look at her. Who is she? Is that Mary?”
“I think so,” he said uncertainly.
“But she’s too young.” Kristen protested. “That can’t be his mother And look, it’s her again. The Mona Lisa. I’m sure it is. It’s her eyes, even though they’re closed.”
Senin was struck by half a dozen insights in the same instant, and he felt horribly cold and even a little sick.
“It isn’t his mother, it’s Mary Magdalene,” he told her, remembering what he’d read in the book he’d bought. “And I hadn’t seen it, but I think you’re right. The book only says that Leonardo painted himself as one of the disciples. Here,” and he pointed to the other side of the painting, one from the right. “That’s him. Talking to the bald man, there at the end.”
“And why is the young man at his side turned completely away from Jesus?”
“That I don’t know,” Serrin muttered, but his eyes returned involuntarily to the woman in the picture. For a moment he realized that the apparently central figure of the painting, the open-handed Christ staring slightly vacantly at the viewer, almost as if he was shrugging his shoulders, was not what this painting was really about. His eyes were drawn to the Magdalene and the accusing hands of hatred directed at her by the disciples around her.
It is she who suffers, he realized. This man painted a blasphemy.
“I want to read your book,” she said suddenly.
“Hmmmm? What? What book?”
“The book on the man who painted this. And the Mona Lisa, and the other things you look at,” she said simply.
“That might not be a bad idea,” he said. If not for Kristen, he surely wouldn’t have noticed any of the strange things about the painting, He made a mental note to come back after they’d toured the square a bit so he could scrutinize every last detail of every painting and etching.
“But now I want to go on one of the boats,” she announced brightly.
“Gondolas” he corrected her.
“I know,” she said testily. “I want to go on one. Now. Come on!”
He laughed and hugged her, then let himself be pulled along. In some people, such a demand would have been childish petulance, but with her it was a genuinely childlike enthusiasm and desire to learn and experience what seventeen years on the streets of Cape Town had given her no inkling of.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” he said, and they walked through the piazzetta to the Molo San Marco and down to the Giardinetti, where they found a host of men only too ready to take their money and promise to sing into the bargain.
It’s a tourist thing, he grinned to himself, but what the hell? There actually are stars in the sky tonight, we can drink wine, and the canals really don’t seem to stink as Michael said they would. The guy propelling this thing has seen untold lovers clamber aboard his boat and he’s probably given them all pretty much the same patter about how beautiful the lady is and how her face shines in the light of his lantern-after all, he’s an Italian-and I still don’t care.
Leaving the disquiet of the painting behind him, Serrin grinned broadly, paid the man a good tip, whispered in his ear and got a broad smile in return, then settled down among the cushions of the narrow boat for the ride.
“What did you say to him?” she asked, suspicious.
“That you were an African princess and I bad eloped with you,” he whispered into her ear. She was about to hit him when he put up a hand in self-defending protest.
“It’s true! We did elope-after a fashion. We had to smuggle you out of the country,” he pointed out, She drew back from her playful slap.
“And you are a princess to me,” he said with an absolutely straight face.
Then she slapped him anyway.
24
Kristen was so full of the delights of it all at breakfast the next morning that even Streak didn’t have the heart to puncture her mood with something sarcastic, The lanterns and cafes of the night had enchanted her, and the eerie, smooth passage of the gondola across the waters had seemed like gliding across silk. Appraising Serrin at the breakfast table, Streak decided that the origin of the slight shadows under his eyes was fairly obvious. He resisted commenting about men with younger wives especially since, after all, Serrin was an elf like himself and there was some fraternity involved on that count.
“Our friends will be with us shortly after lunch,” Streak told Geraint, “Earlier than they’d originally planned, which is all right, innit?”
“Just as well,” Gerairn fretted. He was fretting a lot, and fretting all the more because he really wasn’t sure why. “I have to leave you for a while, I’m afraid. I promised to take breakfast with some ghastly little secretary at the consulate, It’s necessary if we’re to have backup for our enquiries at the Doge’s offices. It will look odd if they check and find I haven’t actually been in touch with the consulate. Plus I really should get some hints on who to avoid among the paper-pushers.”
Getting up, having drunk only some much-needed coffee, Geraint made an excusing gesture of farewell and bolted for the door.
“He isn’t well in himself,” Kristen observed.
Michael nodded agreement. “It may be what happened yesterday.”
“That woman? That Countess? It might be that, but I don’t think so,” she said.
“You’re an expert on that now, are you?” Streak enquired, not passing up some chance for a bit of mischief.
“I can tell when a man’s got a woman on his mind,” she snorted derisively.
“And it’s not that?”
“It’s more than that, trust me.”
Claudio approached from the door to the kitchens, beaming happily.
“Yes, our breakfast is great, thank you,” Michael said, heading off the enquiry.
The man waved his hands in a slightly dismissive manner. “Oh I know that. You English always say that. I could serve you the cloths we use for washing the plates in a sauce made from the scrapings from our trash bins and you English would say it was fine, thank you very much please may I have some more? Have you heard the news today?”
“News?”
“The Doge’s wife,” Claudio said with much satisfaction.
“Um, what about the Doge’s wife?” Michael asked, wishing he’d checked the news, unhappy that someone else had information before him.
“The Doge has wanted a son for the six years they have been married,” Claudio said with a slight trace of disapproval. Clearly, the Doge’s wife had not been all she should have. The image of the silver replica axe crossed Michael’s mind. “And now he is not without a male heir!”
“Oh, they’ve had a son? Well, um, excellent,” Michael mumbled, not entirely sure what he was supposed to say.
“Better than that, she has given him two fine sons.” Claudio stood beaming with his arms crossed, as proudly as if he had fathered the pair himself. “They would have known, of course, the doctors, but it was kept quiet during the pregnancy. But now she has given birth, and all Venice will be so proud.”
“I’m sure,” Michael said. “Well, that’s splendid.”
“So I wondered if you would want me to arrange your costumes? My cousin F
ranco, he has a very fine collection. You can choose from the catalog. I bring you a copy.” He turned to go.
“Excuse me, Claudio, just a minute. What do you mean, costumes?”
“There will be a carnival, of course, for today and tonight. Everyone must wear one of the costumes. You will not be able to go out without one, not after noon. It will be very bad manners.”
“Rakk off!” Streak hissed under his breath.
“They are splendid,” Claudio said, either not hearing him-or ignoring him. “It is usual to wear only an eye mask and light costume for the day, but for the night the full costume will be required, of course. There will be wine and song and feasts everywhere, but you eat with me, yes? You will look fine. For the signora, white silk for that wonderful skin, yes? And the gilded masks for the men. You ask Lucrezia to pick the costumes for you.” He waved a finger at the males.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Michael said. If Lucrezia was to be unleashed on them, they had better take it in a fully compliant spirit.
“Just don’t argue with her,” he said to Streak, who was bristling a little. “I don’t care that you have all that chrome. She could flatten you. I’ve seen her in action. You could be decapitated with a dinner plate.”
“What is this drek? Carnival? We’re not here for a fragging carnival,” Streak replied. “That’s what you’re paying me for? To dress up and prance about like some ponce?”
“Look, if we get what we need from the Doge’s offices we may be out of here after lunch,” Michael said. “so don’t grumble. Maybe we won’t have to worry about it at all.”
“Well, then, let’s bloody hope that his lordship gets some joy out of the pen-pushers,” the elf said flatly.
“Yes, let’s hope indeed,” Michael agreed fervently.
Geraint was back by ten, his stock of forced good humor exhausted by an extraordinarily tiresome underling who’d spent most of breakfast whining about his low salary and complaining that London never paid any attention to anything he did or reported. Geraint had had to utter scores of emollient sentences and gotten little help in reply, since the disgruntled secretary clearly loathed everyone on the Doge’s staff fairly indiscriminately.
“When I get back home I’ll make sure the little sod gets transferred to a ghastly posting somewhere hot and humid and riddled with malaria and that nice endorphin-destroying virus that’s been sprouting in southeast Asia” he growled to Michael. The Englishman smiled, brushed away the last crumbs of an ample breakfast from his lap, and padded toward the exit.
They headed through the piazza and decided to make their way to the palatial offices via the basilica itself. Though they’d allowed plenty of time to make the appointment Geraint had fixed for ten-thirty, they were nearly late. The basilica simply offered too much for them to look at, whether it was the treasury built to hold the spoils of pillage from Constantinople or the mosaics of the atrium, the Pentecost dome or simply the opulent decorations of the aisles themselves. They found themselves on Rizzo’s Giants’ Staircase, the broad, vast steps leading to the landing where the Doges were crowned, with barely a minute to spare. They didn’t even have time to stop and gaze upon all the wonders of the palace itself.
Flourishing the insignia of His Majesty’s Government and announcing himself as Lord Llanfrechfa got Geraint past the clerks and paper-pushers faster than he’d hoped. He found himself, with Michael, seated across a desk from someone who gave every appearance of being quite a senior functionary in the Doge’s Office of Works. The office was, after all, barely ten meters from the sala dei tre capi, the chamber of the Doge’s Council heads, and proximity to such exalted men was a reasonable sign of seniority and influence.
“So what can I do for Your Lordship on this happy day?” the man asked with the unforced good humor of someone who’s been told he’s getting the afternoon off as public holiday.
“I represent His Majesty’s Government,” Geraint said with due ceremony. “We are most interested in the reports dealing with pollution of the canals and lagoon of the city. If I may say so, judging from this and my past visits, Venice is more beautiful and cleaner than I have ever seen it.”
The man was obviously pleased to see that Geraint was, apparently, a regular visitor, and he seemed to bristle with a certain pride.
“Well, we like to think so,” he said cheerfully.
“His Majesty’s Government is most interested because we have similar problems with rising pollution levels in the Thames, which flows past our own seat of government just as waters flow around the palace here,” Geraint continued.
“Well, this is a global problem,” the clerk said, his brow furrowing a little. “I have had calls from as far away as San Francisco about this matter.”
“Indeed,” Geraint replied evenly. “Well, His Majesty would be most delighted to learn of any help you could provide regarding this remarkable and fascinating success. Naturally, my government would be only too ready to remunerate the Doge for such expert consultation and assistance.”
“That would be in the normal course of events,” the clerk said, smiling slightly.
“We had heard,” Geraint said, his voice dropping a little, that remarkable developments in magical techniques were involved, Naturally, we would not pry into such matters.”
“Naturally.”
“However, we have heard of work with water elementals.”
“You have?” the man said innocently.
“We have indeed,” Geraint said a little more strongly.
“Well,” the man said slowly, “I would like to help you. I myself read history at your university of Oxford, you know.”
Gotcha, Geraint realized with utter joy. The Oxford-Cambridge university cabal and old-boy network had a potency all but unequaled in the history of European civilization.
“Ah! Your college?”
“Balliol,” the man said with some pride.
“My private secretary is a Balliol man,” Geraint said authoritatively, “and so is my boss. I’ve dined there many times. Well, well.”
“I must ask you to respect confidences,” the man said, his manner more businesslike but still cheery.
“I can absolutely assure you that-”
“Very well” the man cut in. “It’s going to be obvious before very long so I think I can trust you, Lord Llanfrechfa.” He then looked at Michael rather pointedly.
“Ah. my friend. He is my traveling personal secretary,” Geraint lied. “And, of course, the very soul of discretion.”
Michael did a splendid job of looking blank but alert. “Unfortunately, Lord Llanfrechfa, I cannot help you because I do not know how the work was done,” the man said apologeticaily.
“Is there someone-”
Again he was anticipated. “I regret not. You see, no one really knows. This man came to us and said he could help with the problem of pollution. Of course, we thought he was just a, em, a time-waster. We have paid magicians for many years to deal with it, and the pollution simply returns time and time again. So we took no notice of him.”
“And then?”
“The following day, this was only last Wednesday, the man brought us a tray of bottles that he claimed were samples of water from the lagoon, the Grand Canal, and half a dozen tributaries. At first we ignored him, but then we had them tested. We were astounded by the results, so we sent our own people to conduct some tests. They confirmed that the pollution levels had fallen by an average of sixty-two percent. By Friday, the pollution levels were down to ten per cent of what they had been only three days before. The Doge’s magicians confirmed that there was intense elemental activity throughout the canal system of our city. A small group of our magicians attempted to conduct a ritual to investigate the exact nature of this activity and its source.” The man paused.
“And?”
“They are expected to be in the hospital for some time.”
“Good heavens!”
“We are astounded,” the man said simply
. “Our fellow did not even give a name.”
“You must have a picture of him, surely?” Geraint insisted, as gently as he was able.
“Incredibly not. Of course, when we came here he was filmed by the security cameras.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Unfortunately, the films did not, ah, turn out correctly.”
He decked into their system and deleted everything, Michael thought. Obviously, this man doesn’t want to tell us that. It’s tantamount to saying that the Doge’s Matrix system was taken to bits. Not something a city functionary will want to admit.
“But you saw him,” Geraint said. “What did he look like?”
“That is the extraordinary thing. Everyone’s description is subtly different. It is as if, somehow, everyone saw a different refraction of light from one facet of a prism. Everyone saw something slightly different.”
The metaphor struck Michael at once. How apt, he thought: an optical metaphor for our Leonardo-freak.
“There is a general picture that emerges, though. He is tall, with long gray hair, balding at the front, and he is fairly lean. It is very strange, though, that no one can agree on his age. Some think he was old, others that he seemed fairly young.
“And he was seen with someone else in his company and the witnesses do at least agree on that… with a young man, with long fair hair tied in a pony-tail. This is not an unusual fashion in certain Italian states,” he said with faint disapproval.
Blondie, Michael thought. It sounds like the man who saved Serrin back in Florence.
“And the man is still here?”
“Friday was the last day anyone saw him.”
“He was not tracked or traced?”
“I can assure you, Your Lordship, we had him followed. Unfortunately,” the man coughed with embarrassment-“it was somehow not possible to track him for any distance. Observers seem to have become confused and disoriented. And after the unfortunate business with the magicians, ritual magic was not deemed a wise approach.”
“I can certainly appreciate that.” Geraint smiled sympathetically. “Well, I hardly think you are at fault. This extraordinary fellow sounds as if he would have eluded the best efforts of His Majesty’s finest.