by David Hewson
“You did tell me, my friend,” I agreed. “And I listened to you. But he is still my uncle, and I his apprentice. It is his right to treat me so, and if this were simply a matter of his attitude to me, I would not trouble you with my worries. I cannot, though, sit by while he wrongs another, and one whose talents are so great.”
Delapole was puzzled. Rightly so, for I had left out the crucial element in my tale, and without it nothing made sense. “I don’t see it, Scacchi. It’s very odd, I’ll admit, for a young girl to produce such stuff as this. Raises a few issues, I’m sure, particularly with the older generation. But what’s to stop her standing up and riding the storm? She wrote it. Presumably there’s more where that came from. There’ll be a few catcalls, naturally. Vivaldi gets his share of them these days. Why doesn’t she just take a deep breath and get on with it?”
He gazed at me across the ancient, polished table, and I knew I hadn’t judged him wrong. Delapole could cut to the heart of matters when required. The English foppishness was a façade behind which lurked a canny brain.
“Because it is impossible. She is a Jew, though none outside her circle know it, save for me and Leo.”
The long, sallow face regarded me with puzzlement. “A Jew? Good God. Are you sure, lad? Being English, I’m not so good at these things. If they don’t wear a badge or that thing on their head, I’m damned if I can spot them. Why, I swear I could strike up conversation with a Negro in the dark and never know and—”
“I am sure, sir. Every night when she has played for Vivaldi, under the name Rebecca Guillaume, I have secreted her out of the ghetto on false pretences.”
Gobbo groaned. “Oh, Scacchi. You are in it now, up to your neck.”
Delapole seemed mystified. “But is this such a problem? So, she’s a woman. So, she’s a Jew. Damn fine player as well, and quite a beauty too. We’re not living in the Dark Ages. What difference does it make?”
“Maybe none in London, Master,” Gobbo groaned. “But this is Venice, and the Doge has his rules. They live where they’re told. They stay behind their walls after nightfall. They keep out of our churches lest their presence defile the place. To break those rules is to defy the Doge, and we all know where that leads.”
“I still don’t understand,” Delapole persisted. “It’s such a little thing in the face of such talent. Why, it might add a little colour to the tale. A touch of melodrama never did any artist harm.”
We said nothing. He looked at our faces, and it was our grim silence that finally convinced him. “Very well,” he admitted. “I accept your interpretation of these facts. There are times, Gobbo, when I miss my native soil. A spot of English practicality would do you folk no end of good. I deem it somewhat amazing that Venice should find itself possessor of, apparently, the first great woman musician the world has known, and thinks the best way to deal with this news is to throw her in prison, then start spouting mumbo-jumbo and throwing incense in the air. If I’d wanted Spanish habits, I’d have gone to Spain.”
Gobbo looked sideways at me. Delapole did not appreciate the gravity of the position. The Doge was impartial in his interpretation of the law. He’d throw a loose-tongued Englishman in jail as quickly as a Hebrew impostor if it suited him.
“I think, sir,” Gobbo said carefully, “it would be best if we keep this matter to ourselves and not make light of the Republic’s justice outside these walls. You are a celebrity in this city, and that makes you an easy target for the gossips.”
At that the Englishman grew very cross. “Oh, so that will be their gratitude, will it? To scrawl my name on some false charge and drop it in one of those stupid leonine pisspots, eh? By God, they should not do down this poor girl so cruelly. You blame your uncle, Scacchi, but let me tell you, without the city on his side, he’d never dream of acting thus. This place is rotten as a pear, and that’s what leads him on.”
“I agree, sir,” I answered, nodding. “But what is to be done?”
“Tell me,” he replied. “What’s old Leo’s game?”
“To claim he is the composer when the moment arises.”
“A week today is when we’re set for the revelation,” Gobbo interjected. “It was supposed to be sooner, but Vivaldi’s playing up about the dates. I believe he sees it as his nemesis. Can’t put it off forever, though. Three o’clock at La Pietà. Quite a commotion that will be.”
“Before that,” I continued, “I fear Leo will offer Rebecca some arrangement. He will take the credit—and the money. In return, her secret remains safe with him and she gets a little income, perhaps. I don’t know. The cards are all in his hand.”
“That they are,” Gobbo agreed glumly.
“And what of the girl?” Delapole asked. “What does she think?”
“I am not sure what she thinks, sir.”
“It is her decision, Scacchi. If Leo comes up with some compromise she finds satisfactory—she continues to compose in freedom while he picks up the plaudits—there’s nothing we could or should do.”
“I agree, sir. But knowing Rebecca as I do . . .”
Those pale-blue English eyes never left me.
“. . . I do not doubt for a moment that Miss Levi will have all the glory or none. She has risked everything to smuggle her art out of the ghetto. Even if she were to sign such a covenant, I fully believe it would of itself stifle her such that she might never write nor play again.”
“Hmmm.” He stood up and walked over to the window. We watched him. Delapole was the master here. Both of us depended on his guidance. Gobbo fetched me a playful punch upon the arm as if to say It will be all right.
We waited for his decision. After a full five minutes, he returned to the table, sat purposefully in his chair, and regarded me.
“A wise man should think twice before crying ‘injustice’ in a society which is itself unjust. I am a foreigner here, and one who has already paid his dues, as it were.”
My heart sank, though I could not argue with his logic. “I only seek your counsel, sir, nothing else. It is your foreignness that draws me here. If you were a Venetian, then my name would be heading for the Doge’s clerks the moment I left this room, and Rebecca Levi abandoned to her fate alone.”
He smiled. “You’ve got a fair turn of phrase on you, lad, I’ll say that. Even saw off that twittering peacock Rousseau once or twice, and he was no fool.”
“I thank you, sir. I shall not think one iota the less of you if we never speak of this again.”
“Oh, come.” His hand reached across the table and patted mine in a gesture which was almost paternal. “You are a serious fellow, Scacchi. Do smile a little now and then.”
My heart was pounding. “You’ll help me, then?”
He glanced at Gobbo. “Between the two of you, make an appointment with the girl. In daytime, please. No more subterfuge on my part. Until I know her thoughts, it’s impossible to proceed. But yes, Scacchi, I’ll do what I can, pathetic and misguided as it may be.”
The Englishman clapped his hands. “There! Another smile! We’ll cure this melancholy yet, young Scacchi. Gobbo, buy him a drink around the corner. I need some solitude. There’s many a solution to this puzzle. It requires only some thought and prescience on our part.”
He stood up. We did likewise. “Sir,” I said, bowing. “I will always be in your debt. As will Miss Levi.”
“If debt is friendship in another form, I think I must be both the most loved and loving man in all the world. Now, be off with you. And cheer him up, Gobbo.”
Which he tried to do, after his own fashion, by leading me into one of the low taverns by the rio and introducing a couple of his lady friends. They were both pretty, with large eyes and straight black hair, scarlet dresses, and a ready manner.
Gobbo took me aside for a moment and said, “Come on, Scacchi. I think we’ll get this ride for free. Both find you comely.”
“I don’t wish to offend,” I replied. “My mood isn’t up for it, Gobbo.”
“Your mood. Y
our mood. Well, there goes my sport.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Huh.” He stared at me. “I hope she’s worth it, my friend. Your little Jewish mistress could kill us all if Delapole steps too far out of line.”
I finished my wine and went outside. It had been a satisfactory morning. I had no intention of spoiling it by feeding Gobbo’s curiosity. Soon there were more immediate matters to occupy my mind. When I returned to Ca’ Scacchi, Leo was at his desk, waiting for me. I would not, I vowed then, allow him to beat me again. But he had a more subtle form of punishment.
“Lorenzo,” he said mock pleasantly. “I despair of you, I really do. All I ask is a simple task, that you remain at your office, and it goes undone. And now, being the generous soul I am, I intend to reward you with an adventure.”
The look of triumph on his face depressed me greatly. If he had found the time to speak to Rebecca, he had no intention of revealing the outcome to me.
“An adventure, Uncle?”
“There’s a magistrate, Marchese, in Rome. He thinks his memoirs may make a little light reading for the masses. You shall fetch the manuscript for me and I’ll consider it at my leisure.”
“Rome? Uncle, that is a good two days away by coach. There is much to do here.”
“There is indeed, but given your showing this morning, I doubt you’ll do it. So, Rome it is. Two days out, two days back. One day to discuss my pricing structure and editorial requirements with Signor Marchese. If you get a move on, you’ll be home for the big day. When all will be revealed. You wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would you?”
I couldn’t speak. He had me trapped. If I refused, I would be ejected from his household as a faithless apprentice and lose what little standing I had to aid Rebecca.
“Come along, boy. You must take the boat to Mestre and get the evening coach. Miss that, and God knows when you’ll return.”
I dashed to my room, filled my bag, then took the papers and the pitiful pile of coins Leo gave me. And so my body departed for Rome, leaving my mind and heart in Venice. In the Ghetto Nuovo, to be precise.
45
Shapes in the mirror
THE APARTMENT SEEMED TO BE MADE FROM GLASS. AMY Hartston swayed gently, half-drunk. They had eaten at Da Fiore: fried soft-shell crabs with polenta, turbot, and lobster, and an excess of flinty white wine. She stared at her reflection in the huge window overlooking the canal. Vaporetti crisscrossed the water with only a handful of late-night passengers on board. A lone gondola carrying a handful of tourists made its way to the Accademia bridge, an accordionist crooning from the prow. Something about the sight disturbed her. She was becoming too familiar with Venice, too entangled in the city. Her head swam. She felt concerned, for herself, and for Daniel too. The last, strange interview outside the church made her fear for him. There was a darkness in his eyes which betokened more than simple grief.
She turned and looked at Hugo Massiter. He was pouring two glasses of cognac from a decanter that sat on a stark, modernist cabinet, all smoked glass and satin metal. Her boast about Hugo’s interest in her now seemed remote, childish. Yet some determination remained inside her: she did not wish to leave Venice as she had arrived.
He walked towards her with the drinks. In the mirrors that ran around the walls, his shape was multiplied over and over again. She felt she was surrounded by Hugo Massiter, swallowed by his powerful presence.
She took the glass and gulped the contents. Her head felt heavy. He grasped her arm, and they walked back to the window. For some reason she could not comprehend, she was disinclined to look out at the canal again.
“What is it, Amy?” he asked pleasantly.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah,” he replied, as if her answer said everything. “I understand.”
“You understand what, Hugo?”
“You regret accepting my invitation to come here. You think it was the wrong decision. Beautiful young girl. Decrepit old man.”
“No!” He was teasing. He had to be. Hugo was well-preserved for his age.
“Then what?”
She sat on the pale leather sofa, feeling it gasp beneath her. “I don’t know precisely.”
Hugo laughed lightly. “But of course you do, my dear. You simply don’t want to talk about it. Or do you?”
That was a sign of age, she thought: Hugo’s perception, and his refusal to hide it for fear of offence.
“I’m concerned about this music, Hugo. The concerto.”
He blinked, bemused. “You think there’s something wrong with it? You don’t like the way Fabozzi is doing his job?”
“No! It’s wonderful. We all know that.”
“Then what?”
She took a long drink of the brandy, relishing the way that for a brief moment it appeared to clarify her thoughts. “I don’t believe Daniel wrote it. It’s impossible. He’s a fraud. And it’s eating into him more and more. He’s falling to pieces, Hugo. Right in front of our eyes. Surely you can see that?”
Hugo shook his head and sat down next to her. “What are you talking about? Daniel’s upset by Scacchi’s death, as one would expect. It doesn’t mean he’s a fraud.”
“This is more than Scacchi’s death.” She liked the certainty she detected in her own voice. “I knew before that happened, though I didn’t want to face it. In a way I even knew that night we went out to Torcello and he first pulled out those sheets. Daniel couldn’t have written that piece. It’s not inside him. He wants to run away every time he hears it.”
Hugo peered at her. “You really believe that?”
“I know it.”
“Then who did write it, Amy?”
“Search me. Perhaps someone stole it. Perhaps that’s why Scacchi was killed.”
“The housekeeper...” he objected.
“I met the housekeeper, Hugo. She didn’t kill anyone. She just went crazy after it happened.”
He refilled their glasses. “This is most upsetting. Whether there’s any truth in it or not, we must not allow it to interfere with the concert or your own future.”
“To hell with that! It’s Daniel I’m worried about. You heard him.”
Hugo was lost. Sometimes, she thought, he was too trusting. “I don’t understand.”
“This thing is eating him up. Dan’s not that kind of person, and with Scacchi gone, there’s no one to pull in his reins.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
“He’s going to spill the beans, Hugo. He said as much. A revelation. If you want my opinion, he’s going to let this thing run its course—he wouldn’t want to harm any of us—then, when the concert’s over and done with, he’ll get it off his chest.”
Hugo Massiter fell back on the sofa with a sigh and said, “Well . . .”
She watched him, wondering for a moment if his open disbelief could begin to raise doubts within her. Yet she knew that Daniel was lying. His deceit explained everything she had come to understand about him, including, ironically, his innate honesty.
“Hugo,” she said. “You must help him. He’s in hell over this. You have to get him out of it.”
He grimaced. “If you’re right, he’s committed fraud. He’s signed legal contracts for the work on the basis that he is the composer. Some of those people won’t take kindly to being told otherwise. They’ve paid out money already. The police will be involved. He could be looking at jail.”
“And if he doesn’t let it out, it will kill him. Please, Hugo. I hate seeing him like this. Talk to him. He can let us all down gently after the concert, talk to the cops, clear it all up. But he has to share that secret with someone. It’s tearing him to pieces.”
“Very well.” He nodded. “I’ll speak to him. After Scacchi’s funeral. You think that would be an appropriate time?”
“Great!” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, tasting the scent of some expensive aftershave. Hugo Massiter stared at her with an expression she was unable to decode.
“I never env
y the young, you know,” he said. “You fill the most precious part of your lives with such pain and anguish over nothing at all.”
“I don’t think this is nothing at all. Claiming ownership of a work like that. And Scacchi’s dead, remember.”
“True. But what are these things to you?”
“I like Dan,” she said, astonished by the question. “He’s special in some way. He’s got . . . integrity.”
“But you just said he was a fraud.”
“He is. It’s the fact he has integrity that makes him so bad at it.”
Hugo shook his head. “So many complications. The young . . .”
“Right,” she replied, half-laughing. “And you never went through this. You were grown-up the moment you entered the world. And you never fell in love? Got your heart broken? Stayed awake all night with that guilty thought that wouldn’t leave your head?”
A curious expression crossed his face. “Not when I was your age. I just travelled. And lived, dear girl. Living is everything, you know. Nothing else matters.”
There was an invitation to probe here. She hesitated before taking it. “But . . .”
Hugo looked warily at her. “Do you really want me to tell you?”
“It’s your choice. I’m not forcing anything.”
He sighed, then said, “I was nearly married once. I was about to become engaged. I believed everything would be perfect in my world. Then it fell apart, and every day I wonder why.”
A film of moisture appeared briefly over his grey eyes. Some other Hugo Massiter had appeared before her: vulnerable, pathetic almost.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. But having asked, you should listen. Perhaps I’m like Daniel. I keep these secrets too long, though this is ours, Amy. You must tell no one, please.”
“Of course.”
He took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils, and looked deeply sad. “I was due to become engaged to Susanna Gianni. The girl who was killed ten years ago. You spoke of her when we went to Torcello.”