by Mark Mills
The laundry filled one side of a tiny run-down square centered with a fountain so large and elaborate that it looked as if it had been placed there by mistake. They arrived as a woman was turning the sign in the laundry door from aperto to chiuso. Closed. Luke hung back by the fountain and watched Pippi talk her way inside the shop. She reappeared a few minutes later.
“We just missed her. She has gone home for lunch.”
“Did you get the address?”
“No, because she’s not going to be there. She’s going to be here.”
She showed him the map, her fingertip coming to rest on a building marked with a crucifix.
Although considerably larger than any of the other churches they had seen, the Basilica dei Frari was a defiantly modest building, constructed of brick. Its plain, unadorned exterior made the opulence within all the more striking. Both aisles were trimmed with a profusion of marble statues and religious paintings, not that they stopped to look as they strode down the nave. They knew exactly where they were headed, and they were eager to get there.
The Cappella dei Santi Francescani was one of several tall, narrow chapels in the transept. It stood just left of the presbytery and had an altar of its own, where a woman was kneeling. Her face was raised to the large gilt-framed painting that backed the altar. It showed the Virgin Mary seated with the infant Jesus on a tall throne surrounded by a group of men, the two most prominent of whom, filling the foreground, were clad in drab, hooded habits. Franciscan friars, presumably, like the statue set in a niche in the left-hand wall.
“Do you think it’s her?”
“Yes,” said Pippi. “Go.”
“Not yet.”
They withdrew to a row of wooden chairs directly across from the chapel, and from here they watched for a good five minutes before the woman finally moved, rising stiffly to her feet with her handbag. She crossed herself, then turned and left the chapel. She had a kind face, soft and dimpled, although there was something careworn about the two lines that bracketed her mouth.
She stopped to light a candle on the iron stand beside the chapel entrance. Fishing a coin from her purse, she dropped it in the offertory box and made off toward the main altar.
“Bianca,” said Luke, on his feet now.
She turned toward him, then froze.
“Bianca?”
Her eyes widened, and her hand went to her mouth, stifling a sharp gasp. When he took a step toward her, she retreated in fear. He held up his hands in what he hoped was a placatory gesture.
She swayed like a reed in a breeze, and her eyes rolled heavenward. Luke darted forward and just managed to catch her before she hit the stone floor.
Pippi came hurrying over. She wasn’t the only one to have witnessed the incident. A priest was also bearing down on Luke and the limp bundle in his arms.
It was a robing room of some kind, probably for the choir, given the number of cassocks and surplices hanging from hooks. On the priest’s instructions, Luke carried Bianca to a high-backed wooden chair and placed her in it as gently as he could. She was still unconscious. Another priest, a younger man, had joined them, and he held her head to keep it from slumping forward.
They watched from a discreet distance while Bianca’s pulse was checked and her cheeks patted and a cloth flapped in front of her face. She finally came to, her eyes searching the faces in front of her before coming to rest on Luke. She seized the arm of the elder priest and whispered urgently into his ear. He glanced at Luke, then patted Bianca’s hand, soothing her with a few words before extricating himself from her grip.
Approaching them, he said, “Thank you. Please, you go now.” He tried to usher them toward the door, but they stood their ground. “Please, go.” There was a touch of anger in his voice now. “She has problems. It is not good you are here. She thinks you are someone.”
“Who?” asked Luke.
“Someone from long ago, someone who is dead. Please …”
“Vincenzo Albrizzi?”
The priest loosened his hold on Luke’s arm. “Yes. How…?”
“Because I am Vincenzo Albrizzi.”
The priest looked for the lie in Luke’s eyes. “Caro Dio,” he mumbled, crossing himself. “Non è possibile.”
“It’s true,” said Pippi. “He is.”
Luke tilted his head at Bianca. “May I?”
The priest stepped silently aside. There was a clouding of doubt and fear and hope in Bianca’s expression as Luke approached her.
“Vincenzo?”
He took the hands she offered him, and knelt before her. “Sì, Bianca.”
“Ma quanto sei grande … e così bello … bello come un principe.”
And now she was laughing, and crying, and taking his face in her hands and showering it with kisses. The dampness of her tears against his cheek did it for him, and he sobbed like a child. She pressed her lips to his ear and filled it with words he didn’t understand. When she realized this, she asked, “Non parli Italiano?”
The question fell just within the limits of his phrasebook Italian. “Non parlo Italiano. Sono Inglese.”
“Inglese? Poverino. Quest’é un vero peccato.”
Luke looked to Pippi for a translation.
“She is not happy that you are English. No, not happy at all.” He caught the ring of amused relish in her voice.
“E un miracolo … un miracolo!”
The priest was hurrying away, flapping his arms like a bird.
“No, you can’t tell anyone,” called Luke.
The priest turned at the door. “But I must. It is a miracolo.”
“You can’t. Please, I’m serious.”
“The people who took him long ago are trying to kill him,” said Pippi.
“We need your help.”
The priest’s eyes flicked between them. Then he locked the door and wandered over.
“My name is Father Panzini.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Am I really turning into such an old curmudgeon?”
Unsurprisingly, the tomato plant that Vittorio was watering didn’t reply.
It was Benedetto who had leveled the charge earlier, when Vittorio changed his mind and ducked out of the evening screening of Jean Renoir’s new film. The words had been spoken in jest, with no real malice on his son’s part, but both men knew that they contained a touch of truth.
There was still time to change his mind. Benedetto, Giovanna, and Salvatore would be leaving for the Lido at six o’clock. Half an hour to spruce up and make himself presentable. It could be done.
The phone trilled in the drawing room. Vittorio placed the watering can on the table and wandered inside.
“It’s me, Fredo.”
“I hoped it might be. I’m looking for a reason not to waste an evening out on the Lido.”
“Is that all I am to you?”
“Pretty much,” said Vittorio.
“Then you’re in luck. I’m inviting you to dinner—my treat.”
He would at least have company tonight, very fine company indeed, but it would come at a hefty price. It always did when Fredo offered to pay.
“I’ll be sure to bring my checkbook,” he joked.
“There’s really no need.”
“You always say that, my old friend.”
“Well, of course, if you happen to have it with you …”
It was a trattoria where they had eaten many times over the years—a large and lively place in one of the poorer corners of Dorsoduro. Vittorio arrived to find Fredo—dressed, as ever, in a simple dark robe done up with silver buttons—already installed with a bottle of white wine at a large booth table.
“Monsignor Ruspoli,” he said with faux formality.
Fredo smiled up at him and offered his hand.
“I never know whether to sha
ke it or kiss it.”
“Whatever takes your fancy,” Fredo replied. “The Church can be very accommodating.”
“Evidently, or they’d have thrown you out long ago.”
“Some have tried.”
“And where are they now?”
“Oh, food for the fishes at the bottom of the lagoon.”
Vittorio laughed and gripped his friend’s hand. “I wouldn’t put it past you, Fredo.”
It was said by many that Fredo might well have become the patriarch of Venice had he only been less worldly in his tastes and more discreet about his appreciation of the finer things in life, such as his beloved opera and theater. Then there were his sermons, noted for their humanity and their humor—qualities that some deemed too frivolous for a man whose sights were set on the highest office.
Vittorio knew differently. Fredo had never wished to become patriarch, and he had played his hand to perfection. Passed over for the top job, he had been allowed by way of a consolation prize to carve out a far more appealing role for himself, one unencumbered by onerous duties and tedious Church politics. For some twenty years now he had served as a sort of elder statesman, a roving ambassador, the patriarch’s man-about-town, free to indulge his love of the arts and the high life, because those were the circles in which the real money moved.
Even Fredo’s detractors grudgingly admitted that he had a rare gift when it came to extracting large donations and bequests from the wealthy. The sheer quantity of cash he brought into the Church’s coffers counted for a lot. He was provided with a large ground-floor apartment on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, as well as a budget for entertaining potential benefactors in the style they were accustomed to.
Vittorio knew how their dinner would unfold. They would discuss a wide range of subjects: everything from football (Fredo rarely missed an AC Venezia home game) to the prospects of another European war. And later, when the coffee and liqueurs hit the table, Fredo would turn the conversation to some matter or other that was troubling him, and Vittorio would ask if there was anything he could do to help. The last time he’d had dinner on Fredo, he had ended up paying for thirty orphans to go hiking in the Dolomites. The time before that, he had covered the cost of replacing the gutters on the roof of the episcopal library.
Vittorio was still on his first glass of wine, and Fredo was telling him about a woeful performance of Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia he’d recently attended in Milan, when an attractive young couple settled down at the table nearest theirs. Foreigners, most likely. Too tall to be Italian. Maybe even actors, given their looks, in Venice for the film festival. Yes, there was definitely something familiar in the man’s face. He seemed nervous. Maybe it was a secret tryst. They had certainly picked a restaurant well off the beaten track.
“She’s young enough to be your granddaughter,” said Fredo.
“Was I staring?”
“Almost drooling. May I finish my story now?”
“I’m sorry, go on.”
Vittorio kept his eyes on Fredo, but one ear on the couple. They were English, although the light guttural note to the woman’s accent suggested it might not be her mother tongue. There was something halting, even awkward, in their conversation that didn’t bode well for their future relationship. Fredo, meanwhile, had moved on from Donizetti and was now waxing lyrical about Bruno Vale’s merits as a midfielder.
Had he met the man before, or simply seen him somewhere? Asolo, possibly, at one of the rowdy parties thrown by their neighbor Vera, the eccentric English painter whose villa seemed to be permanently packed with beautiful young things during the summer months. He tried to put the matter from his mind, but it continued to niggle away, and soon after their pasta course had arrived, he apologized to Fredo and leaned toward the couple.
“Excuse me. Hello.” He had their attention now. “I’m sorry, I know your face,” he said to the young man. “Have we met in Asolo?”
“Asolo?”
“In the hills near Treviso.”
“I’ve never been there. But we have met before.”
“I knew it. Where?”
“Here,” said the young man. “Venice.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Neither do I. It was twenty-five years ago.”
“Were you even born twenty-five years ago?”
“Just. I left soon after, on the eighth of January, 1912.”
It was a date Vittorio had done his best to expunge from his mind. Hearing it spoken by a stranger sucked the air from his lungs. He looked to Fredo for help and saw immediately, by the steady gaze, that his friend was in on it.
“What is this?” he heard himself growl in Italian.
“You should hear what he has to say,” Fredo replied. “It’s quite a story.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He turned to the young man, searching for the words in English. “You think you are the first to try this? You aren’t. I am a rich man.”
“I don’t want your money, but I do need your help.”
He had to get out, leave, go far away, or he was liable to do something he regretted, even throw a punch, such was the white flame of rage rising inside him. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
“Please, Vittorio, sit down,” said Fredo.
Vittorio pulled some notes from his wallet and scattered them on the table. “I hope one day I find it within myself to forgive you for this.”
As he turned to leave, he cast a cold glance at the young man. “Vincenzo is dead.”
“Tell that to the Karaman brothers, because I’m not sure they’d agree with you.”
Vittorio stopped, turned back slowly. “What do you know about the Karaman brothers?”
“Only what I’ve been told by a man called Borodin. He works for them.”
“And where is this Borodin?”
“Switzerland, probably dead by now.”
“How convenient.”
“Not for him,” came the defiant reply.
Vittorio was aware that people were starting to stare, and he dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “A Croatian conspiracy?”
“Yes.”
“We paid a ransom for Vincenzo to two men who then disappeared. They were Sicilians, not Croatians.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“No, you don’t, nor does Monsignor Ruspoli here, because my son and I did not tell anyone. What we did do was go to Sicily, twice. The second time, they said we would be killed if we returned.” He let his words sink in. “It was the Sicilians.”
Luke watched helplessly as his grandfather stalked out of the restaurant. This was not what he had envisaged. From the moment Father Panzini introduced them to Monsignor Ruspoli, he had allowed himself to believe that nothing now could stand in the way of a happy reunion. Monsignor Ruspoli had intimated as much, but it seemed that even he had misjudged the situation.
The monsignor was first to break the awkward silence. “If you have lied to me—”
“We’ll leave now if that’s what you really think,” said Luke.
The monsignor’s long look was followed by a shake of the head. “Of course not. Forgive me. Please …” He gestured for them to join him. A waiter pounced and wordlessly moved the plates and glasses from their table to the booth.
As soon as he had retired, Pippi said, “There must be an explanation for the Sicilians. Borodin would have an answer.”
Monsignor Ruspoli dropped his gaze. “I’m afraid you were right. Borodin is dead.”
“How do you know?” The words caught in Luke’s throat.
“The Catholic Church is everywhere. I made a telephone call after I left you at Bianca’s apartment this afternoon.”
The details were patchy, but it seemed Borodin had somehow found the strength to walk off the mountain. He had checked into a small hotel in S
plügen, where he had made a phone call and then asked for supper to be sent to his room. The serving girl had found him dead on his bed when she went upstairs with the tray.
Luke saw from the set of Pippi’s jaw that she was close to tears. He took her hand and held it.
“I am sorry for you both,” said Monsignor Ruspoli.
“What do we do now?” asked Luke.
“We give your grandfather time.”
“That’s one thing we don’t have,” said Pippi.
The monsignor took a sip of wine. “Do you realize what we have just done to him? I do. He is the only man in Venice I can call a true friend. I knew him as a boy when he was sent here to study, and I have known him ever since, before and after you were taken. I have seen him go to some dark places, and I have seen him come back from them. I know that every morning he goes to the Rialto fish market, and although I don’t know why, I suspect it is not to think of you, but to talk and laugh with other men in that place and tell himself he can live with what happened.” He paused briefly. “You cannot ask a man who has been wearing armor for twenty-five years to take it off in two minutes.” He looked at Pippi. “So yes, we have no time, but we also have no choice.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Vittorio tilted the bottle of whiskey against the candlelight. There was enough to chase away the demons the way he used to, to silence their lies, their taunting promises that if he could only hold out a little while longer, Vincenzo would be returned and the pain would go away.
Not all of it, for Alessandro had also been taken by then: a hero’s death near Gorizia in the early days of the war, with a posthumous medal to prove it. Vittorio had suspected he might not see his son again, but he had never imagined that Alessandro would throw his life away so cheaply, in a futile assault on an Austrian gun emplacement. As for Marta, she had duped them all for months with her courage and resolve, before choosing to follow her husband.
Vittorio lit a cigarette and strolled to the edge of the terrace. He took a long gulp of whiskey, savoring its fire, and turned his face toward the heavens. There was no hint of a haze, and the domed firmament was almost dirty with stars. It was good to look at the world from the viewpoint of eternity. It helped set one’s private miseries in perspective, to shrink them back to proportions altogether more manageable.