Chapter 32
The phone rang at about 6.30. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and stared at the screen, waiting for my vision to clear so I could make out the number.
‘Dario?’
‘ Ciao, vecio . How are you doing? Did you take my advice?’
‘Yes I did. Still, it’s a bit early.’
‘Well, we’ve got a lot to do.’
‘I know, I know. But beyond making coffee and feeding the cat, I don’t know where to start.’
‘You’ll think of something, Nat. I know you will.’
‘And what about you?’
‘Working from home.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got a project going live next week. I’ve got test plans and all sorts of crap to review and sign off. I’ll sort out your love life and save you from prison in my lunchbreak. I’ll see you later, okay?’ He hung up.
It was tempting to turn over and go straight back to sleep but Dario, I knew, had called specifically to make sure I was up and about. Besides, I had to admit, I actually felt pretty good after taking his advice of the previous night.
I showered and shaved, wincing a little as the water hit the wounds in my fingertips and shoulder. And the little shock of pain seemed to spark an idea. Glass arrows. A glass scythe. Like the ones in Considine’s exhibition. Were they actually the same ones? I had no idea if it would lead to anything, but it might be worth investigating.
The only problem was, how to get access to the exhibition space. The police, I was pretty sure, would have finished with it, but it was technically a crime scene and so would remain under lock and key for months. How was I going to get in there?
There was one way. I didn’t like the idea, but I couldn’t think of a better one. I pulled my jacket on, and gave Gramsci a little scratch under the chin as I headed for the door. He snatched at my hand. The one certain thing in an uncertain universe. It made me feel a lot better.
I hopped on the next boat to Giardini. There were seats outside, but I preferred to sit alone on the inside, and think. I had a plan, but it wasn’t much of one. And it could jeopardise a friendship.
I still had time to kill before the pavilions officially opened, so I took a quick coffee at Paradiso and ran through my plan one more time. Then I made my way through the gardens to the French pavilion. It struck me that I had no idea if Gheorghe would even be working that morning. Still, he was smart and he was local, so the odds were he’d have tried to bag the cooler early-morning shifts for himself.
There were a few early-morning visitors milling around the space between the German, British and French pavilions. The police tape, I noticed, had been removed from outside the British exhibition. I ran up the steps just in case, against all my expectations, the doors were unlocked. No such luck. They were securely padlocked. I made my way back down again, and tagged on to a tour group as they made their way into the French pavilion.
Four men, in white tie, stood in the four corners of the room. Four women, in evening dresses, stood facing the centre of each of the four walls. We appeared to be the first visitors of the day. Then, from somewhere, a band struck up the strains of Chet Baker’s ‘Let’s Get Lost’ and the four men and four women turned to face us, smiling. A statuesque blonde lady walked towards me, arms outstretched but, before she could reach me, Gheorghe had grabbed my hands and whirled me into the centre of the room. He had a broad smile on his face.
‘Nathan! Thanks for coming.’
‘A pleasure. You might have let me dance with the blonde lady, though.’
‘Oh, her. She’s nice, but she’s not much of a dancer. Trust me, you’re better off with me. Social foxtrot okay for you?’
‘Oh yes. I just about remember how to do it. Listen, Gheorghe, I need to speak to you.’
‘You mean you’re not just here for the art?’
‘Not exactly. Can you take a break for a few minutes? I mean, right now?’
We reached a corner, rock turned, and promenaded across the central space. ‘It’s a little tricky. But we always have a few spare dancers just in case. Let me go and ask. I’ll just pass you over to Analiese.’ Almost without breaking stride, he handed me over to the statuesque blonde.
‘Analiese.’
‘Nathan.’
‘It’s a pleasure.’ She twirled me around. ‘Do you come here often?’
‘Well, to be honest, only every two years.’
‘A shame. You dance quite well. You should come more often.’
‘I think perhaps I should.’ And then Gheorghe had seamlessly interposed himself between us, and danced us off towards the door. ‘Oh. I was enjoying that.’
‘Too much, Nathan. Your girlfriend will be jealous.’ I felt a stab of guilt. It must have shown on my face. ‘Have I said something wrong?’
‘No. Not at all. Come on, let me buy you a coffee.’ We walked back to Paradiso. I grabbed a table outside, overlooking the bacino , making sure we were a proper distance from other customers. ‘What are you having?’
‘ Marocchino , please.’
‘ Marocchino ?’
‘Sure. If you’re buying.’
‘You know what, I’d like a marocchino too.’ Bar staff, I’d noticed, were not always thrilled at having to make marocchini . Painstakingly building layers of coffee, chocolate and foam took time, and ordering one always made me feel like the man at the bar who waits until the very end of his order to ask for a Guinness. Still, it wasn’t busy yet, and hopefully the barista wouldn’t be too put out.
‘You look happy, Gheorghe. I mean, properly happy.’
He grinned. ‘Yeah. It’s going well, Nat. I’m bringing some proper money in from this job. Then I’m picking up work from elsewhere. There’s always people needing help with translation work. If it carries on like this I won’t need to worry about carrying dogs over bridges any more.’
‘That’s brilliant.’
‘It’s taken a long time. I’ve been here, what, nearly three years now. But things are coming together.’
‘I’m pleased for you. Really,’ I said, and felt like a shit. Our overly complex coffees arrived. We stared at them for a moment, admiring the sheer precision and beauty of the stratigraphy, and then, as one, stirred in our sugar, turning them into a nondescript brown.
‘So what’s this about?’ asked Gheorghe.
‘I need a favour, Gheorghe. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know who else I can ask.’
He sipped his coffee. ‘Ask away, Nathan.’
‘Okay. It’s like this. And I know it sounds stupid. But in the British pavilion there are three walls with different weapons made of glass. Seven daggers. Seven arrows. Seven scythes. That’s what there should be. I need someone to get in there and check for me.’
He put his coffee down. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. I’m not crazy. It’s important.’
‘Okay.’ He fell silent. Something was troubling him. I knew what it was. ‘Nathan, why are you asking me?’
‘Gheorghe, you work next door to the British pavilion. You’re the obvious person to ask.’
He nodded. ‘Is that all?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right. But just one thing. Why can’t you do this yourself?’
‘Gheorghe, if I get caught doing something like this I’ll be in trouble. Big, big trouble.’
‘And I won’t be?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ My voice trailed off.
‘So ask the East European guy to break the law, he’s probably used to it. Is that what you were thinking?’
‘No.’ I could hear the edge of desperation in my voice. Because I knew he was right. ‘I’m in trouble, okay. Maybe big trouble. But there have been two murders in the city in the past ten days, and maybe one attempted murder. All using glass as a weapon. It’s long and difficult to explain, and I will tell you, I promise. When it’s all over. But believe me, I really need to know what’s in that building. And I don’t know who else to ask.’
He swirled the dregs of his coffee. ‘Okay. I’ll do it.’
‘You will?’
‘Sure. You’re a friend, after all.’ Gheorghe Miricioiu had been in Italy for three years. He had done an endless series of crappy jobs trying to make ends meet and send money home. And now, when things were looking up for him, I was asking him to break the law.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ I reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.’
He snatched his hand back, as if burnt. ‘You won’t.’
‘Sorry?’
He got to his feet, shaking his head. ‘I’ll do this for you, Nathan. But not for the money. I’ll do this because you’re a friend. You understand?’ He walked off, without looking back.
I waved to the barista , and fumbled in my pocket for some change. ‘I understand,’ I whispered.
Chapter 33
There was little more to be done until Gheorghe got back to me and I had no idea how long that might be. I walked through the gardens, as far away from the British pavilion as I could find. Perhaps some mad art would clear my head. Austerity art from the Greeks, physical theatre from the Romanians, something scary with razor blades from the Serbs and something unintelligible from the Austrians. The Poles, at least, had a sixty-minute film and comfortable seats. It was getting hotter now, and I took my jacket off. The temptation was to grab a little snooze but that would be wasting the day and I knew I’d have to explain it to Dario.
I went to the café and treated myself to a small beer and a sad little sandwich. Fitzgerald – Nicolodi – Considine. The answer was to be found there somewhere.
Nicolodi was an alleged journalist, albeit one who never seemed to have published anything and who probably didn’t even have an Italian journalist’s card. I had no idea how easy it was to get accreditation as a journalist for the Biennale, but I was pretty sure you needed more than an empty website.
It was a place to start. There was, I knew, a press centre in the Padiglione Centrale. I made my way back through the gardens. The sun was high in the sky now, but the choice was to walk along the dusty gravel paths in direct sunlight, or to stick to the shadows where the mosquitoes lay in wait. The temporary discomfort seemed like the better option. The skies had been clear for days and Gwenant Pryce’s grisly image of Lewis Fitzgerald would soon be materialising in its full gory glory.
The temperature dropped slightly inside the pavilion, and the air-conditioned interior of the press office was positively blissful. A young woman was seated behind a desk. Gothic-looking, with slightly too much eye-liner and black-painted fingernails, she reminded me of Lucia Popp’s Queen of the Night. She inclined her head to one side. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes. I hope so. Well maybe?’
She gave me a closer look. ‘I’m sorry. Have we met? I can’t remember your name.’
‘We might have. During vernissage . I’m Nathan Sutherland, the British honorary consul.’ Or at least I am for the moment.
She nodded. ‘Perhaps we did. How can I help?’
‘Well I’d like to know how someone might get press accreditation for the Biennale.’
‘I see. Is this for yourself?’
‘It’s, er, for a friend. In the UK.’
‘For the film festival, next year’s architecture Biennale or the art Biennale in two years?’ She riffled through a sheaf of papers, and looked at me expectantly.
‘No. For this one.’
She put the papers down, and looked at me as if I were simple-minded. ‘It’s too late for this one. Your friend should have submitted three months ago.’
‘Oh. Oh dear.’
‘Anyway, why does your friend need to come now? The openings have almost finished. He should have been here a week ago.’
‘Well, he’s just starting out. I think he thought it would be good experience. Or something.’ I forced out a laugh. ‘I’m just trying to help him out. As a friend. Is there no chance?’
She sighed, and passed over an application form. ‘You need the name and address of the publication. A covering letter from the editor. You – your friend – needs to attach three published articles for review. And you also need to attach a copy of your press card.’
‘Wow. That’s quite difficult.’
‘It needs to be. Otherwise every dilettante would be swarming over the gardens for months. For free.’
‘Must be easier for online journalists, though.’
‘No. It’s the same thing.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Covering letter from the editor. Three articles. Press card.’
‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘That’s strange.’ I shook my head, then folded the application form away within my jacket and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Ms . . . ?’
‘Wait a moment. What do you mean “that’s strange”?’
‘It’s just that I met a guy on the opening day. At the British pavilion. He said something about, well . . .’ I trailed off and did my best to look embarrassed.
‘No, go on, please. What exactly did he say?’
‘Well, it’s probably nonsense. I think he might have had a glass or two of prosecco. But he told me how easy it was to blag a press pass for the whole Biennale. Just pretend to be from an online publication, he said, nobody ever checks. And bingo, you get into all the parties, all the events for fr—’
She waved her hands at me. ‘Yes, yes. Sit down, please. Just a moment. Do you remember this man’s name?’
‘Erm, it’ll come to me in a minute. Is it important?’
She tapped away furiously at a keyboard. ‘Yes it is. If somebody’s issued a press pass without properly checking, I’ll make sure they’re fired for it. Security implications, if nothing else.’ She looked up at me. ‘Well?’
‘Let me think.’ I was milking it now, but for the first time in days I was actually enjoying myself. ‘Nicolini . . . Nicolucci . . . Nicoletto . . . Nicolodi. Yes, that’s it. Nicolodi.’
She hammered away at the keyboard. ‘First name?’
‘Let me see. Filippo . . . Fiorenzo . . . Fortunato.’
She flapped her hands at me again. ‘Never mind. I’ve found him. Francesco Nicolodi, is that right?’
‘Ah yes, that’s it.’
‘The name’s familiar.’ I fervently hoped the stresses of her day job didn’t leave her time to read the newspapers. She clicked away with her mouse, and then leaned back in her chair, looking visibly relieved. ‘It seems signor Nicolodi was, as you might say in English, pulling your leg, Mr Sutherland.’
‘He was?’
‘He was. He didn’t have a press pass. Simply an invitation to the opening of the British pavilion as a guest of the artist.’
‘Oh, right. So he was just trying to look important.’
She shrugged. ‘It happens. There are a lot of famous people around. Some people like a little bit of reflected glory.’
‘Well, I do feel silly.’
‘Yes.’
I smiled, and got to my feet. ‘Well, I’m very grateful for your help. On behalf of my friend. Thank you so much for your time.’
I walked back through the pavilion and stopped at the central arena to sit down and collect my thoughts. A pile of suitcases was arranged on stage, whilst atonal electronic music blared out. Stockhausen. I quite liked Stockhausen. In small doses. I looked at the title projected behind the stage. Ten minutes in length. That was small enough.
I’d proven Nicolodi was a chancer, but I’d known that anyway. But what did ‘guest of the artist’ actually mean? A guest of Considine, or a guest of Fitzgerald? What was the connection between them?
I had the arena to myself by the time Stockhausen’s miniepic had weebled its way to its conclusion. Then a few visitors came in and took their seats as two people appeared on stage, positioned two hefty scripts on music stands, and started to read. The first reader was a pretty young woman who read with a light South Welsh accent. I looked at the title card again. A live reading of Friedrich
Engel’s The Condition of the Working Class in England . She handed over to her companion, an older, more bohemian-looking figure with curly hair and a moustache. American, this time. I felt a twinge of annoyance. It was beginning to look as if every foreign resident in Venice was working at the Biennale, with the exception of myself.
It was tempting to stay and watch the whole performance, but time was getting on. I’d head back home and try and get all my thoughts in order before meeting up with Dario. I made my way outside, into the afternoon sun, and made my way back to the exits.
‘Nathan!’ It was Gheorghe. ‘Over here.’ He waved me over.
‘What is it?’
‘That thing you asked me about. This morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now’s a good time. Come on.’ He grabbed my arm and steered me away from the exit, and back up towards the British pavilion. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’
‘I didn’t know you smoked?’
‘I don’t. But you do. Come on, straight round the back, we’ll make it look as if we’re on a crafty cigarette break.’
‘Why would we be doing that?’
‘Management don’t like us smoking in front of the pavilions. Think it looks a bit rough. So all the smokers go round the back of the British pavilion. The public don’t come round here because it’s all closed off.’
‘Brilliant.’
He gave a half-smile but still appeared tense, and looked around. ‘There’s a fire door at the back. Doesn’t fit properly. Remember, this whole space was remodelled after the last Biennale. It isn’t difficult to open, come on.’
He gave it a firm thump with his shoulder, there was the faintest of clicks, and we made our way inside.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ The space was much as I remembered it, although in semi-darkness now. The only light shone in from the door of the fire exit, itself shielded by trees. Still, it was enough to see by. The area around the shard of glass that had separated Gordon Blake-Hoyt from his head was stained a deep, rusty brown.
I put my foot on the stairs leading up to the gallery and then stopped. At least one panel, I knew, had been loosened. How many more might have been tampered with? I turned away from the steps, and moved around the outside of the field of glass, craning my head upwards. It wasn’t easy to see in the half-light, but it was good enough.
Vengeance in Venice Page 20