Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  “A place for tourists perhaps.”

  “No, there are Venetians who go there. My parents in fact.”

  “So what news did they have?”

  “They didn’t have news. They—oh, it’s very complicated. You know who is Osgood, I suppose.”

  “Yes. He’s the art dealer your brother is trying to sell the Cima to.”

  “And not only,” she said, looking down sadly at the floor.

  “And the Vivarini, I suppose.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But not only them.”

  “Sorry?”

  She looked back up at me. “No, of course you don’t know this.”

  “What?”

  She looked around the bar. There was nobody else in earshot. She said, “Well, I suppose you understood what is my mother’s attitude to Toni.”

  “More or less,” I said, in an effort to be tactful.

  “And I said that you had to try to comprehend her. You remember.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I wasn’t telling you the whole truth then. But now, tanto vale, I might as well tell all. It wasn’t Toni’s co-involvement with the terrorists and his jail sentence that really alienated my mother. She’d even found a way to pardon him for all that.” After a pause she added, “Also my father,” almost as an afterthought.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, remembering what that university colleague of Toni’s had said about all being forgiven and forgotten in the Sambon family.

  “No, it wasn’t that. It was—well, first I must explain how important is the family to my mo—my parents. And how important is family pride, if I can put it like that. You might find it ridiculous”—and she looked so hard at me that I could only mumble something incoherent along the lines of “nonono” and feel a new twinge of guilt at my complete lack of family pride, and then she went on—“and maybe it is. But you must realize it is one of the few things left to them. It is one of the few things to which they can still attach importance; I mean the whole thing, our history, the palazzo, our possessions, et cetera. You maybe noticed this when you came to see the frescoes.”

  “Yes. Lovely frescoes of course,” I said fatuously.

  She gave me a quick and rather ironic smile and went on: “You see, it helps my mother in particular to feel she has some kind of—well, of identity. You do understand me?”

  “Yes,” I said, though wondering where all this was leading.

  “So the worst thing any of us could do would be something against the Sambon name, something treacherous to the family. Is all that clear?”

  Again I said, “Yes.”

  “Well, you may know that our family possesses two small paintings by Guardi.”

  “Yes.” I suddenly remembered the icicles that had formed on the chandelier when I’d asked the contessa about these paintings.

  “They’re two small pictures of the lagoon, called simply Morning and Evening. They’re very very beautiful. Well, when Toni came out of—out of prison—he came back to stay in the palazzo for a short period. My parents were as kind as they could be, but there was tension all the same. Or friction, if there is the word.” She looked at me questioningly and I nodded. She continued, “I can understand why Toni felt he had to get away—well, not only from the family, from Venice too. And I think the police advised it too. But unfortunately, before leaving he had a big argument with my mother—a silly thing—in which he said they’d never tried to understand and she said she’d almost broken her heart trying to. Oh, it was terrible. And all so silly. But—well, when he finally left we found the painting of Morning had gone too.” And suddenly her eyes were quivering.

  I said, “Ah, I see. So he—”

  She nodded. “Yes. I suppose it was an impulse. Maybe trying to—to react to my mother. Una ritorsione. Or maybe he just said to himself that at least the family could do one thing for him. Toni was always good at—at finding excuses for what he did. And I’m sure he believed in them too. As I said, he isn’t really bad—he’s just made some bad choices.”

  Like choosing to be bad, I thought but didn’t say. Instead I said, “So that presumably was the unforgivable crime for your parents.”

  “Yes. My mother won’t even allow his name to be mentioned now. I really don’t think there’s any way he could excuse himself—make it up.”

  “If he brought the painting back?”

  She pondered this over another sip of cappuccino. She delicately licked her upper lip and then said, “I don’t know. He probably can’t now anyway. And even if he could … Well, it would be difficult. My parents had pardoned him so much, to be rewarded like that was … I also can’t understand it, in fact.”

  “Well, presumably he needed money,” I said, a little crassly.

  “Oh, I can see why, but not how—I don’t mean physically how, because nothing could have been easier, the painting would have fitted into his smallest document case. No, I mean how he can have made himself to—to…”

  I thought it better not to offer any answer myself. I said, “But why should Osgood and Busetto want to talk to you about this?”

  She stirred the froth at the bottom of her cup with the spoon and stared into it. She said in a just controlled voice, “They want the other Guardi painting.”

  “What? They want you to give them it?”

  “Well, the fat man wants this.”

  “And why does he think you would?”

  “Because he says if I don’t he can make Toni be arrested.”

  “What? For the first Guardi? But presumably your parents wouldn’t press charges.”

  “No, of course not. But it was still a crime to take it out of the country. But that is not the real crime for which this fat man says he can make Toni be arrested. No, he says that Toni brought him here to buy some other paintings: the Cima and the Vivarini, I suppose, though he didn’t want to say, and he could denounce him for those.”

  “I see. I suppose he came all this way in the interests of justice. So why shouldn’t you denounce him?”

  “That’s what I said and he—he just smiled—a horrible benevolent smile—and said for what? I got so angry, and he just kept smiling. So I had to say I’d think about it. He said to ring him at the Danieli when I’d finished thinking.”

  “And what about Toni? Where is he?”

  “He says he doesn’t know at the moment. He’s expecting a message from him too. I told him to tell Toni he must leave because it’s not safe for him here now. And again he smiled.”

  “A jolly chap, I know.”

  “He’s disgusting.” This was in Italian, the last word (“schifoso”) being said with a sudden curled lip and wrinkled nose as if she’d discovered canal sludge below her cappuccino froth. “He said all this as if it was a simple business transaction between reasonable people.”

  “Well, this is the kind of business he does most of the time. And, er, Busetto, did he say anything?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

  “He just sat and tried to look apologetic, as if it was nothing to do with him. But he is the one who must have told the fat man about the other Guardi, and about—well, about me. And our whole family. He knows my mother. And he knows Toni, and he must have heard that I have always been close to Toni.”

  “I see. Mind you, Osgood could have heard about the Guardi from some book on the subject. As I did. But when you say Busetto knew Toni, how did he know him?”

  “I don’t know. Toni had some friends he was—he was quiet about.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I don’t mean Busetto was like this—not necessarily.”

  “Like what?”

  She looked up at me. “I think you understand.”

  “Ah.” Well, now I did. Then I remembered something. “But when I asked you yesterday if he had any friends, you said—”

  “I know. I wasn’t lying. He had friends once. But I think you call them fair-weather friends. When he was in jail, not one of them went to visit him. Can you imagine?”


  I could—only too well. But I didn’t say so. “I see.”

  “So those two colleagues I told you about, the ones who live in Rome, they were the only friends who showed some—some sympathy.”

  I said, “You mustn’t be too hard on people. It’s kind of difficult for most people to—to enter a prison willingly. And anyway, aren’t there usually limits to the number of visitors allowed?”

  “What do you know about it?” she said with sudden bitterness—savagery almost.

  I shrugged, turning my remarks into mere fatuity.

  She went on: “These people didn’t even ask if they could visit him. They didn’t even write.”

  “I see. Sorry. But just because they didn’t visit him in prison doesn’t mean he can’t be staying with them now.”

  “But if they wouldn’t offer any help when he was lonely, do you think that they would look after him now? Now that he is perhaps a target for the terrorists?”

  “Perhaps not, but you never know. Could you give me any names?”

  “But truly I didn’t know them. It was a whole aspect of Toni that we knew very little about. I think you understand.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t pursue the subject. I could see no particular point in trying to establish how Toni had first met Busetto. It would probably have been through a friend of a friend of a friend, or something equally unhelpful.

  “Why is all this so important to you?” she said, those dark eyes fixed on mine. “Why do you disturb yourself so much?”

  “I like Cima da Conegliano, I suppose.”

  “What do you do? I mean, what is your work?”

  “Well, I’m an artist.”

  “I see. Are you successful?”

  I wondered whether to say, “I was,” but then thought that this might sound rather whining. And I felt she wasn’t the sort of person who would fall for whining. I said, “I get by.”

  “You what?”

  “I make a living. Not a very secure one. But then it’s not a very secure profession.”

  “Does one exist?” she said, smiling.

  “Isn’t yours?” I said. “People always want good clothes.”

  “And do you know how many people are making them?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to be successful.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “You’re obviously determined. And you seem a real businesswoman.”

  “That isn’t always said as a compliment. Do you mean it to be one?”

  “Shrewd question.” I wasn’t sure I could answer it.

  She picked up her shoulder bag from the bar and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Yes. I suppose you ought to be getting back to your shop.”

  “Not immediately. I think I would like a walk. Shall we go to San Stefano?”

  “Yes, sure.” I felt pleased that she should want just to stroll with me. We left the bar and started walking down the side of the Fenice. We were both silent for a moment. We could hear a soprano trilling up and down a scale inside the theater. Then Francesca said, “Are you going to tell me if you were flattering me?”

  I said slowly and rather ponderously, “I admit the world of business is a closed book to me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t respect or admire a determined person in that world in the same way I admire, well, a singer, even though I know I’m never going to sing.”

  The soprano trilled again and Francesca said, “No, but you like music, I suppose.” She shook her head. “I think it’s silly to talk about ‘business people’ in the abstract. That’s not how I think of myself. I’m a fashion designer—and of course I want to be a successful one. As you must want to be a successful artist.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. I’d be happy if I could just pay the bills. Well, and afford a holiday now and again—a real holiday.

  “And to be successful means that one must know something about business—it means to be serious about what you do. And I’m serious about my work. I know that most men think that the world of fashion is something trivial—”

  I was about to protest politely but she went on: “Well, I won’t say it is so important as—as to save Venice from the floods or—or to find a cure for AIDS, but it does bring a little more beauty into the world and give much pleasure to many people—”

  “And make an enormous amount of money,” I couldn’t resist putting in.

  “Okay, and help the general economy.” She smiled. “I know I couldn’t have chosen anything more alien to Toni’s ideals, but I believe in it as much as he believed in his—his manifestos. I believe in beauty. It’s one of the things we’ve always done well in Italy; I know we aren’t on the same level as Titian or Bellini, but we do still make things that people admire all over the world, so why shouldn’t I be proud of what I do?”

  We came out of a sottoportico and up a bridge. She stopped at the top with me one step below her and looked at me, still smiling, her eyes on my level. “But you probably think me very silly, you as a real artist.”

  “No, not a bit.” I could be quite sincere here. “Who’s to say who’s a real artist—just because I work on a canvas and you with a—well, whatever you work with.” I wanted to say that I wished I had her certainty in what I did, but was stopped in time by that feeling that she was not a person to whine to. Instead I said, “But how serious is it to be out strolling with someone in shop hours?”

  “Marina and the other girls work shop hours, as you say.” She started down the bridge. “I work shop hours and more. But for something important I can take a break. And for me this walk is important.”

  “Thank you.” She was looking straight ahead, deliberately I felt.

  “But I want to know what is important to you.”

  “That’s a big question,” I began.

  She broke in. “These paintings—they are important, no?”

  “Yes.” I felt a bit let down. I’d been ready to talk about quite other things.

  “And you are angry with Toni then? Do you want that he gets punished for what he has done?”

  “No.” Then I added, “Well, I don’t want to be hypocritical; I can’t say I’ll be heartbroken if he gets caught.”

  “No. You won’t be.”

  “So will you be?”

  “Toni has suffered enough now. All I ask you is that you don’t involve the police.”

  “Nothing is further from my mind,” I said quite sincerely.

  Again she stopped at the top of the bridge we were climbing and turned and looked at me on the step below her. “Thank you. I trust you.”

  Her head was on my level, and her eyes were gazing fixedly into mine. I placed my left hand on her right, which was on the parapet, and she didn’t draw it away. But she didn’t give me her other one. She just said, “Martin…”

  “Francesca.” At this point I could have leaned forward to kiss her, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have withdrawn. At least I felt sure of it at that moment. But something stopped me. I think it was the memories of the morning. I just had an instinctive and quite illogical gut feeling that you can’t run from a corpse and then kiss a girl. I turned my tender hand touching into a mere reassuring squeeze. “I promise,” I said, and withdrew my hand. The moment passed completely and, I thought with sudden regret, perhaps irrevocably.

  “Thank you,” she repeated with the same artificial sudden breeziness. She led the way down a dark side alley, and we walked in silence. Suddenly to our right we saw the almost frighteningly leaning tower of Santo Stefano. She said, “Impressionante, no? The most—come si dice, pendente?”

  “Leaning,” I said.

  “The most leaning in Venice.”

  “Ah.”

  We came out into the busy brightness of Campo Santo Stefano. I felt suddenly nervous about being in such an exposed place—and then thought that if I gave way to such feelings I’d end up a gibbering wreck. I returned to business. “Don’t get in touch with Osgood just yet,” I said.

  “No? And if he does what h
e promises?”

  “He won’t. Not yet. And I think there will be developments.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I said, “Give it a day or two. He’ll wait.” I wished I could tell her that he would be too terrified of getting mixed up in the murder to persecute her anymore. But I couldn’t casually drop my knowledge of it now—and besides, it might not even be so. Osgood might feel perfectly safe. “If you want to get in touch with me, you could leave a message at the Britannia School.”

  “Why? Are you there?”

  “I’m giving some talks there. One in about an hour in fact, if you want to come along. Mainly on Bellini.”

  “I’d love it, but I can’t leave the shop the whole afternoon. That would be unserious. Give my best wishes to Mr. Crews. He was my teacher there when I was a child.”

  I vaguely knew George Crews, the oldest of the teachers in the language part of the Britannia School; always dressed in patched corduroy trousers and old pullovers, usually with red-wine stains. “So you learned your English there, did you?” I wasn’t surprised. Mr. Robin didn’t let any of the aristocratic families’ children slip by him if he could help it. His class registers often read like a guide to the palazzi on the Grand Canal.

  “Yes. And Toni too. Mr. Crews, he was funny. Well, I must go back.” We had sauntered up toward the statue in the middle of the square. She now turned around.

  “Thanks for the stroll,” I said. “I’d never been round the back of the theater like that.”

  “I’m not a good guide, I think. I haven’t told you anything about where we walked.”

  “Well, it wasn’t supposed to be a guided tour.” But I felt that whatever it had been supposed to be it had failed as. Something had been missed. And probably through my fault.

  She said with a forcibly bright change of subject, “Do you know what we call this statue in Venice?”

  “No.” A pretty boring nineteenth-century one of someone called Tommaseo, a scholar whose studious habits are represented by a pile of books that rises behind his back to the level of his frock coat.

  “Cagalibri.” The book-shitter.