For the first time she looked wary.
“Eletro owned the building. That’s why he was there.”
“Eletro?” Yashim sounded incredulous.
She shrugged lightly. “The fondaco is a ruin. And Venice is cheap.”
Yashim said nothing, studying her face.
She returned his gaze. “Whatever you see, Yashim Pasha, it is not fear.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Boschini and Barbieri were the other players. And when Eletro was murdered, then I knew.”
“But why have a party in that ruin?”
She shrugged. “Com’era, dov’era.”
As it was, where it was. Yashim had heard that phrase before.
“I-we-wanted to pretend, for a moment, that nothing had really changed.”
“We?”
“The duke and I.”
“The duke?”
“The Duke of Naxos. Our guest, in Venice.”
Yashim’s head was spinning. “But the Duke of Naxos-” he began.
“Died three hundred years ago, yes. Joseph Nasi, a Jewish financier. Sultan Selim the Sot made him Duke of Naxos, for his assistance in the seizure of Cyprus.”
“So this duke-your guest-was an impostor? And you knew it?”
She gazed at him appraisingly. She held out her hands. “Perhaps you really have come to save me,” she said.
89
An old woman complained to the police that a beggar had taken up residence on her steps and wouldn’t move.
He was sitting on the steps with his head on his knees. By the time Scorlotti reached him he was locked into place; only his arms had risen weirdly, like the arms of a devotee, as the rigor set in.
There wasn’t a mark on him except for a dull purple flush on the back of his neck and a faint bruise over his Adam’s apple. His papers, and a small amount of change, were still in his pockets.
The old woman slammed the door and turned the lock; Scorlotti heard the bolts shoot home.
He took the corpse to the mortuary in a gondola.
90
“Naxos belonged to the Venetians, until the reign of Suleyman,” Yashim said slowly. “Only the Venetians appointed a Duke of Naxos, until it fell to the Ottomans. After that, there was only one. Joseph Nasi. But when Nasi died, the title would have, I don’t know, lapsed.”
“I suppose so.” She seemed amused. “Or else-it was added to the many titles already possessed by the man who bestowed it on Nasi.”
“Sultan Selim?”
“Sultan,” she intoned, closing her eyes, “padishah, lord of the two seas and the two continents, ruler of Mingrelia and Hungary, in the Crimea, Khan, and Voivode in the Danubian principalities. He was the Duke of Naxos.”
“So now-” Yashim was struggling to comprehend. “The Duke of Naxos
…?”
She gave an equivocal shrug. “Would be the sultan. Or his son, perhaps.”
“I don’t believe it,” Yashim said.
“Are you playing with me, Yashim Pasha?”
But Yashim could only stare.
“Fourteen times since the conquest of Istanbul, the Aspi family has provided Venice with a bailo in the city,” Carla continued. “Istanbul has been our second home. One of my ancestors, Alvise d’Aspi, was the richest merchant prince in Pera-Suleyman the Magnificent went to visit him, Yashim Pasha. They were friends. My father, also Alvise, was the last bailo of the Republic. He knew Selim III well; they played music together. Can you believe that? Or have times so far changed that men do not remember?”
“I believe it,” Yashim said. His mouth was dry.
She gestured to the arms on the wall behind him. “The Aspis have not been afraid to fight, either. We were not all merchants and ambassadors, Yashim Pasha. We supplied the Republic with admirals and generals, and when Venice was pressed too hard, we have helped make wars to win peace.”
She turned to face him. “I am the last of the Aspis. That is-my pride, if you will. But you must believe me when I tell you that I knew the Duke of Naxos. I knew him by instinct, as if he were my own son.”
Yashim’s eyes traveled over the swags of weaponry, the golden cornices, the fantastical trompe l’oeil-and saw nothing.
Abdulmecid! The Duke of Naxos, Crown Prince of the throne of Osman?
The shy, retiring boy-that pale youth who had been afraid to watch his own father die-had come to Venice, in disguise!
It was impossible. No one of the Ottoman line had ever stepped beyond the borders of the empire-unless to conquer. The idea was mad!
And yet… and yet.
Sultans disguised themselves. It had happened: incognito, they had moved through the markets and the mosques, gauging what the people said.
Incognito! In Venice at Carnevale everyone was incognito-why, incognito was a Venetian word!
And Abdulmecid enjoyed a freedom his father had never known, a freedom that would disappear on his elevation to the throne. As sultan, he would be watched every minute of the day.
Abdulmecid spoke French.
“The duke. Did he win-or lose?”
“At cards?” She looked surprised. “He played well.”
“He won? Money?” Yashim had never gambled.
“I said he played well, Yashim Pasha. But Barbieri is very good-and the stakes were high.”
“The party, Contessa, was arranged by you?”
“You could say I inspired it. The duke had a cicerone-I suggested it to him. He made the arrangements with Eletro.”
“But why did Eletro come? He wasn’t an aristocrat, as you said. He was a sort of criminal.”
“He plays cards. And it was Carnevale. A period of misrule. It used to be glamorous-and very long. A long season of parties, gambling, drinking. Everyone goes masked-that’s part of the fun, I suppose.”
“You don’t think so.”
Carla shrugged. “It’s tradition. As for Eletro, he merely wears a mask.” She paused, remembering. “We took a gondola to the water gate. He was there already-Eletro, I mean-like a host, really. It was night, of course, and you couldn’t see the state of the place beyond the candlelight. Hundreds of tiny candles, in glass jars. And the doors-they were flung back-opened onto a great stone staircase, with the candles flickering on every step. Eletro led us up-Barbieri recognized him, I think, or guessed-with a great candelabra in his hand. And it was exciting because I have been in every palazzo in Venice, I suppose, at one time or another. But I’d never been there before. So it was Venice, but not quite like Venice.
“Halfway up the stairs we all stopped. The fondaco, you know, was a Byzantine palace. Once, even the Emperor of Byzantium stayed there-and he brought six hundred and fifty priests of his Orthodox faith, too. So we stopped to look down into the courtyard. It was lit, with flambeaux. And anyway, the doors above were shut-at least, there was a great curtain across the doorway. There was a lot of incense in the air-I suppose the place didn’t smell very good, after all those years of collapse-and Eletro in a grotesque mask, holding the candles in one hand over his head, and putting his fingers to his lips. So we stopped and listened.
“You couldn’t hear anything at first-just the people on the stairs, and I had the duke on my arm and he-he gave it a squeeze. Then some of us heard a very faint, eerie sound-it was the scrape of a violin but very quiet-but as we listened it got gradually louder, and then other instruments fell in, and all of a sudden Eletro whisked back the curtain and there we were! The piano nobile-it’s a huge room-lit by a great candelabra in the middle, and all the walls hung with muslin, and the orchestra playing in the gloom somewhere-I think from overhead.”
“How many of you?”
“About a dozen, if I remember. We sat at table, and there was champagne and supper. And afterward we played cards.”
“At other tables?”
“Little card tables. All set up. That’s when-that’s when the four men got together.”
“You didn’t play?”
“Not that n
ight. The stakes were too high, Yashim Pasha. I helped the duke, a little. He was very young.”
“Yes,” Yashim said, thoughtfully. “Yes. I suppose he was.” He paused. “And the cicerone?”
“Oh, he moved about, seeing that everything was all right.”
“Who was the cicerone, Contessa?”
“One of the Barnabotti. A professional. His name is Ruggerio.”
91
Vosper caught up with the pasha’s servant at the entrance to Palewski’s apartment.
“Begging your pardon, signore, but the stadtmeister wants to know when it would be convenient to hold an audience with your master.”
“An audience?” Yashim cocked his head. “I don’t think an audience is really appropriate, Sergeant. The pasha is making a private visit.”
Vosper’s face lengthened. “A private visit, signore? It’s-it’s irregular, I should tell you. I think the stadtmeister is expecting some sort of, some kind of, ah, visit.”
“I will mention it to the pasha, signore.”
“You wouldn’t care to come to the Procuratie yourself and explain what you’ve told me to the stadtmeister?”
“I’m afraid not, Sergeant. I am not at liberty to make calls. But as I told you, I will inform my master-as you may yours. Good day.”
With Vosper gone, Yashim packed a small bag with Palewski’s clothes and made his way back to the Dorsoduro.
“Our friend sat up and ate a bowl of soup,” Paleswki said. “Like a wolf.”
“Has he said anything?”
Palewski and Maria exchanged glances. “He makes-noises. I don’t think it’s talking,” Maria said.
They found the man sitting up with a blanket wrapped around his knees. He made no effort to turn his head when they came in, but sat still and silent, staring at the fire.
Yashim came and squatted down beside him.
“It’s good you’ve eaten,” he said. “My name’s Yashim.”
The man did not react. Yashim took his hand and guided it to his chest. “I am Yashim,” he repeated. He patted the man’s hand against his chest. “Yashim. Do you understand?”
He glanced up at Palewski, who pulled a face and shrugged.
Very slowly the man’s head moved around, although his eyes remained fixed for longer on the fire. Finally he looked at Yashim.
But when he opened his mouth to speak, only a sound came out-a sort of moan, from his throat. His lips hardly moved.
Yashim blinked. He smiled. He leaned toward the fire and pulled out a burning twig. With the charred end he wrote his name on the hearth. YASHIM.
He pointed to the name, and to himself.
The man hardly looked at the name. He stared for a while at the twig in Yashim’s hand, then looked into his face.
Slowly, almost fearfully, he put out his hand and took the twig, glancing between it and Yashim.
His head turned toward the hearth. He leaned forward, his tongue protruding between his compressed lips.
Palewski gave a low whistle. “It’s you, Yash. He’s drawing a portrait of you.”
Yashim knelt up and cocked his head. The man sank back on his hams and almost shyly handed him the twig again.
On the hearthstone, in a few rough strokes of charcoal, was Yashim himself, turban and mustache and-most extraordinarily-the very look of him, right down to his expression of concern.
“You’re the painter!” Yashim exclaimed involuntarily. “The Canaletto painter.”
The man’s eyes clouded over.
Yashim smiled and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and patted the man on his scrawny arm.
He stood up slowly and led Palewski to the door.
“What do you make of it?”
“Pff. I’ve never seen anything like it. He must have forged the Canalettos.”
“Yes. Did you see how he concentrated, too? Like a child.”
“That’s not a child’s drawing,” Palewski pointed out.
“No. I think we should give him some better materials. Paper. Charcoal. Maria?”
Maria was gone for more than an hour, but when she returned the man took the paper and charcoal with whimpers of pleasure. He laid the paper on the floor and began immediately to draw, filling each sheet with sketches of the room, the window, the people, with the same lively concentration he had shown when he sketched Yashim on the hearthstone.
He drew for over an hour, but more and more slowly. And then he rolled back into his bed and went to sleep.
Yashim studied his drawings, awestruck.
“At home,” he said at last, feeling the hairs prickling on the back of his neck, “we would say this man is touched by God.”
“You think he can’t speak-or won’t?”
“I suspect that speaking is not his way. Perhaps he sees and understands things differently from us.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Feed him. Give him strength. And we will wait and see.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the Palazzo d’Aspi. It’s not every day the contessa receives a pasha, and she’s expecting me to stay. I think I will.”
“I see.” Palewski sounded cool. “Much as I enjoy a hearty lentil soup, Yashim, I’m beginning to chafe under the social arrangements. Can’t I go back to my own apartment yet?”
He looked so cross that Yashim laughed. “I thought you got to sleep with the daughter of the house?”
“Yashim!” Palewski looked shocked. “Anyway, Maria sleeps with half her family as it is.”
“I’m sorry, it won’t be for long.” Yashim looked serious. “Tell me, if someone loses at cards, and owes money, what does he do?”
“Shoots himself, if he’s a gentleman,” Palewski said. “Unless he can pay, of course.”
“He can pay-but he wouldn’t have the money on him. What then?”
“Then, if he’s trusted enough, he’ll give his creditor a note of hand.”
“A note of hand? A promise to pay later, you mean?”
“Depending how often they cash up, the whole game can be notes of hand. I lose, I write you one. You stake it next time. Lots of paper, back and forth. I gave it up, years ago. Too many fellows gamble and drink at the same time. Awfully dangerous, gambling.”
“Signed paper?”
“Signed, of course. Next day, when he’s feeling like Marat in his bath, the unlucky gambler gets presented with all his notes for immediate payment.”
“I suppose, in some cases, the signature might be worth more than the note.”
“Threaten to show it to the wife, sort of thing? Happens. Depends on the company you chose.”
“Or on who you are,” Yashim murmured.
“You’re being mysterious, Yashim.”
Yashim nodded slowly. “It is still a mystery, my friend.”
92
The contessa received Yashim in the salon where, only that morning, she had tried to kill him. Yashim wasn’t sure when she had looked more beautiful: now, in the shadowy salon, or before, with murder in her eyes. Her dress was beaded with seed pearls that shimmered mysteriously as she moved, and her hair was pinned up, revealing her slender neck.
Candles were lit on a table laid for two.
“I have thought about you all day,” she said simply. “Wondering what you know.”
Yashim bowed his head. “I know too little, Contessa.”
“So.” Her eyes sparkled. “What do you know of the pattern-our pattern?”
Yashim frowned. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. Today, I would have said that it is a system-the key, if you like-to a discipline of combat. Both of us used it.”
“And is that all?”
“It might be-except that I have seen it elsewhere, without really seeing it at all. Yamaluk the calligrapher used it, on the binding of the Koran your people gave to the Armenian monastery. His daughter told me that it was a symbol of the infinite richness of God’s creation.”
“Very
good. That’s one meaning-the essential one, I suppose.” Carla traced the line of the diagram with her foot. “Did you speak to Yamaluk efendi, in Istanbul?”
“I spoke to his daughter. Yamaluk efendi has-passed away.”
“I am sorry to hear it. My father always loved his work.”
“His daughter continues the tradition,” Yashim said.
She looked at him again: he felt raked by those eyes.
Then she laughed quietly. “Istanbul has changed, Yashim Pasha.”
He acknowledged it with a gesture. “But you, Contessa, cannot know Istanbul.”
“I was born there,” she retorted. “I lived there until I was three years old. Istanbul is in my blood. But Venice has changed, too.” She took a breath. “This morning you mentioned Bellini.”
Yashim started. “Yes.”
Carla sighed. “Gentile Bellini went to Istanbul in 1479, at the sultan’s invitation.”
“To paint the sultan’s portrait.”
“The portrait was an afterthought,” the contessa said, shaking her head. “The sultan commissioned it only after he’d seen what Bellini could do.”
“But if Bellini wasn’t sent to paint the sultan’s portrait, why did he go?”
The contessa gestured to the table and took a seat.
“One of my Aspi ancestors took Bellini to Istanbul, as an unofficial ambassador. Mehmet considered himself to be a universal ruler. As the conqueror of Istanbul, he became the most powerful ruler in the Byzantine world, a world that informally included Venice.” She touched her glass. “The diagram was a symbol of sovereignty that Mehmet wanted to understand. The Byzantines had woven it into their church ritual. To them it represented the union of the finite and the infinite. The worlds of God and men. For us, it also symbolized the endless round of commerce-a reminder, if you like, that everyone could share in the infinite bounty of the world. Mehmet, I suspect, saw it as a symbol of dominion: one world, one ruler, under God.”
“But why Bellini? Why couldn’t your ancestor have explained the diagram?”
“It’s a good question. I think Gentile knew the city. He and his family had almost certainly been there under the Byzantines. The father, Jacopo, did portraits of the imperial family before the fall of Constantinople.”
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