Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  “Yes. I’ll try and fit you in.”

  Lucy looked at the woman who was standing there, expressionless, with the tray in her hands, and she obviously decided she couldn’t face giving me another kiss under that gaze, so merely flicked her right hand in a wave and left.

  * * *

  After lunch I lay back and kept thinking. Then at around two-fifteen I got out of bed and, with a preliminary glance at the door, took the pillowcase off the pillow. I folded it and tucked it carefully into the loop of my sling. I put on the slippers and the dressing gown and took one of the spare sheets from the drawer; it wouldn’t fit inside the sling, so I stuffed it inside the dressing gown, letting the latter hang a little loose. I opened the door and gave a nod to the policeman (who was far more interested at that moment in the retreating rear view of two nurses) and set off down the corridor to the loo.

  I closed and locked the door and then took out my hidden booty. I draped the pillowcase over the sink and then shook the sheet open and draped that on top of the pillowcase. Then, with a touch of forethought, I had a pee. I closed the loo seat and pulled the chain. That morning I had scratched my hand on the broken link at the end of the rather old-fashioned chain, and it was that fact that had given me the idea for this little Carnival caper.

  I reached up with my free hand and managed to work the top link of the chain free. Then with the jagged end of the broken link at the other end I tore a hole in the center of the sheet. With both hands (my left hand, though not very mobile, was perfectly usable) I enlarged this hole until it was wide enough for my head to fit through. I used the chain to make two small holes in the pillowcase, a couple of inches apart: I tried to enlarge these with my fingers but merely succeeded in creating one long gash; well, it didn’t really matter.

  I folded the sheet again, though in the cramped space and with only one hand probably not quite as Florence Nightingale would have done, and stuffed it inside my dressing gown; I did the same with the pillowcase, and on a sudden thought, with the loo chain too.

  I opened the window. The fog had cleared a little and in the milky sunshine I could see the great proud bulk of SS Giovanni e Paolo rising up in front of me: I remembered that there was a Cima da Conegliano in the right transept of the church (a rather feeble one, to tell the truth), and I said, “I’m doing this for you.” I was probably getting just a touch cracked.

  The loo looked out onto the flat roof of what seemed to be a small ground-floor extension to the building. Just a few yards away, at the end of the roof, was a simple metal fire escape coming down the side of the main building. Nothing could be easier.

  Before clambering out, I unlocked the loo door: there would thus be no proof that I’d actually made a surreptitious exit. I was sure the policeman would not be able to swear that his eyes hadn’t moved from the door—not if there were nurses around. I wasn’t intending to be away for very long, so on my return I would stroll brazenly along the corridor: “Why,” I’d say, if questioned, “nobody told me I was under arrest. I just thought I’d go for a walk.”

  I stepped onto the loo seat and then, with a one-handed hoist, got myself to a sitting position on the windowsill. I swung my legs up and over and I was on the roof. I walked briskly but unsurreptitiously to the fire escape. The important thing was to look completely casual.

  Despite the sunshine, a cotton nightgown, dressing gown, and slippers were pretty inadequate outdoor clothes: luckily I didn’t have far to go—and at that moment I was thinking too hard of what I was doing to pay much attention to the temperature.

  I went down the fire escape to the ground. I then walked briskly to my left, in the direction of the Fondamente Nuove. I remembered there was a simple gate in the wall there, near a vaporetto stop. I was less likely to be noticed leaving there than by the great monumental entrance next to SS Giovanni e Paolo. I passed a couple of doctors in white coats who did no more than glance at me. I could see the gate in the wall now; next to it was a little wooden booth with a concierge behind a window. He was reading a paper, but would doubtless notice me as I left. Maybe now was the time to don my Carnival finery. I stepped into a doorway and pulled out the sheet, pillowcase, and chain. When I’d put the sheet over my head, I discovered it hung right down to the ground, so I tucked it into the cord of my dressing gown as best as I could. Then I slipped the pillowcase over my head and adjusted it so that my eyes peered out of the gash. I draped the chain around my neck: there I was—a traditional house ghost.

  I went toward the gate, and as I passed the concierge I flapped my sheet and rattled the chain and let out a ghostly groan. His eyes looked up from the paper, rolled heavenward, and dropped straight back down.

  There was no better way of escaping notice today than by making myself noticeable.

  I walked down the Fondamente Nuove: said like that it sounds easy, but it was far from being so. I had only one hand free, and it had to do triple business in plucking up the sheet from under my feet, in pulling back the pillowcase, which kept slipping down and blinding me, and in occasionally rattling my chain as the occasion demanded. There weren’t many people around until I reached the boat stops to the islands; here there were clusters of people, many of them in costume. Six cardinals and an unshaven pope were studying the timetable and arguing about it in French, and a couple of nuns with fishnet stockings under their miniskirts were swinging provocative handbags. A rather weedy Superman was standing outside a bar talking to a much tougher-looking winged fairy. Nobody paid any attention to me, apart from a couple of teenagers in painted faces who feigned extreme terror. I gave them a few of my best groans and then turned left down the Calle del Fumo, which led toward the Britannia School.

  The calle was busy with people; Walt Disney characters, clowns, pirates, and cloaked devils jostled with aged Venetians making venomous comments about bloody Carnival turning the city into a funfair. Halfway down the alley all traffic was held up by a woman in hooped skirts so wide that no more than one person could pass at a time. She seemed supremely content with this result and even posed for photographs.

  I made my way through the Corti and Campielli at the alley’s end. There was a steady pulsing noise that got louder and louder as I approached the square where the Britannia School stood. Most people seemed to be making in the same direction as me, which surprised me: the square is usually a quiet little backwater.

  It was, however, transformed today. A small bandstand had been set up opposite the Britannia School and a heavy-rock group, wearing denims that had been through a gas explosion and Dennis the Menace hairstyles were bashing out a version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog,” arranged for drums, drums, drums, out-of-tune electric guitars, nails-on-blackboard voice, and drums. People in costume were jumping up and down to the beat, as if determined to bring about Venice’s final collapse. A banner above the bandstand read PREGANZIOL’S SATANIC VERSERS. I watched a couple in eighteenth-century costume who were taking such care not to ruffle their clothes as they danced that the music might have been Vivaldi. A tourist photographed them and they stopped and moved away: they’d achieved what they wanted there.

  I crossed the square to the Britannia School door and rang the top bell: Mr. Robin’s flat.

  After a while his voice came through the little grille: “Chi è?”

  “Guardia di Finanza,” I shouted. I drew in closer to the door so that he wouldn’t be able to see me from the window.

  “Is this a joke?” he said at once.

  “No,” I said, as categorically as possible.

  “But today’s Sunday,” he protested.

  “It doesn’t matter. We must speak to you immediately.” I felt sure that the intercom and the Satanic Versers would serve to cover up my English accent.

  “It’s not very convenient.”

  “Do you want us to come back with a warrant to search the entire premises?”

  “All right.” The door clicked open. I entered, closed the door, and ran up the stairs as quickly as possibl
e, hoisting my sheet up high around my legs. I ran on up, past the piano nobile, past the second-floor schoolrooms, and met him on the staircase to his own flat.

  “Oh, my God,” he said.

  I adjusted my pillowcase so that I could see him. He was standing with one hand at his tie, his mouth slightly open. I imagined it was surprise rather than terror: despite my slippers and the noise outside, my ascent had been solid enough to dispel any idea that I might be a creature of mere ectoplasm.

  He adjusted his tie and straightened up. I had counted on the fact that he would probably pause before a mirror before leaving the flat, so I’d be able to meet him so near his private premises. “Ma chi è lei?” he said. “Che scherzo è questo? What joke is this?”

  “No joke,” I said in English, removing the pillow.

  “Martin. What on earth—”

  “I want to come into your flat,” I said.

  “You what?” It really was a pretty unheard-of suggestion.

  I repeated my words. “I want to come into your flat. I know you’re hiding Antonio Sambon in there.”

  “Who?”

  “There’s no point in pretending anymore. I know he’s there.”

  “This is quite ridiculous. You oblige me to express myself in terms—” He had moved to the cozy realms of bureaucratic language, where he obviously felt securer.

  I cut in, with the simplest, briefest of words: “Let me in or I’ll call the police.”

  “No!”

  This was not Mr. Robin—he had never used an exclamation mark in his life. The voice came from the top of the stairs. At the doorway stood Antonio Sambon, in jeans and pullover. In his hand he was holding a small gun. It was pointed at me.

  “Put it down,” I said.

  “Er, yes,” Mr. Robin said, nervously. “There’s no point—”

  “Silence,” he said.

  “Toni,” I said, “what do you think you’re going to do with that? Suppose you kill me—then what do you do? Kill him as well as a witness?”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “But I don’t want the police.”

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s all go up and talk this through like sensible people. It’s obvious that if I’d wanted, I could have sent the police round myself, and I didn’t. So—”

  “All right,” he said after a few seconds’ thought. “Come up.”

  We went up, Mr. Robin first so as to make it quite clear that I wasn’t being ushered in as a welcome guest.

  Like most top floors in Venice, the flat was full of curious angles, sloping ceilings, brain-bashing beams, and inaccessible corners, all of which had obviously presented Mr. Robin with a major challenge in his attempt to give the place a look of rationality and seriousness; but at first glance he seemed to have succeeded: the sitting room he led us into had all the coziness and domesticity of a filing cabinet. Gray office chairs were arranged around a rectangular white table. The irregularities of the room’s angles were masked by metal bookcases; the books, of course, were uniform editions in rows of military precision: if he ever took one out, I’m sure, he had a dummy copy to place in the gap. The white walls had no pictures, merely a calendar (with no picture) and a copy of the school timetable. The two windows had thick lace curtains that prevented any clear view of the crazy skyline outside, with its tottering chimney pots and television aerials and jumbled rooftops.

  But nonetheless, after a minute or two in the room I could feel that Venice was having the last word: the room’s dark corners and beckoning crannies could be masked but not hidden. One knew they were there. Rather like the secret nooks of Mr. Robin’s own character, behind the geometrical neatness of his facade.

  Now he motioned us to sit around the table, as if we were going to have a business meeting: the school director, the terrorist-in-hiding, and the artist-dressed-as-ghost. I sat down at one end and Toni Sambon took the other end. We were both, I suppose, trying to be head of the table. Mr. Robin sat carefully in the middle of one side; not just for the sake of symmetry this time, I thought: he was hedging his bets.

  The music pulsed away outside: no tune could be heard, just a regular throb-throb-throbbing.

  Toni Sambon spoke. “Why have you come here?” He laid the gun on the table, in front of himself.

  “Because I want those paintings.”

  “You want them?” His tone was contemptuous.

  “I want them to go back where they came from.”

  “There is no need for that.”

  “There’s what?” I said.

  “No need. They don’t need those paintings.”

  “What a nice easy way to decide things,”. I said. “I suppose you do need them, right?”

  “You know my situation. I’m in danger of my life—because I decided to help the cause of justice. I need money to protect myself. Just to keep living.” His voice was quick and urgent and even pleading, but there was an undercurrent of self-assurance that really irritated me: he’d long ago thought these things out and thus justified himself.

  “So you don’t want the paintings, but the money. Which is the major reason why those churches should have them back. They want the paintings.” I looked at Mr. Robin. “What the hell do you organize art courses for, if you don’t give a damn about what happens to real paintings?”

  He put his fingers together. “One has to consider individual cases on their merits,” he began.

  “Balls. This is simple money-grubbing theft, and there’s no other excuse for it.”

  “Martin, I don’t like to cast slurs, but you hardly seem to me to be—”

  “So I went to jail for forgery. So I seem a hypocrite. Well, maybe. I’m not going to argue the case, but I’m not going to let your friend slip off with those paintings either.”

  Toni spoke up, quietly, fiercely. “So it’s all right for you when you wanted some money, but not for me, when I need it. Do you know what it means to be all on your own, frightened, against the world, do you know what—”

  “I know that the first thing you terrorists learn is how to justify any action you take, however mean.”

  “I am not a terrorist.”

  “Well, what was that attack you made on me supposed to do, if not terrify me? You know—assaulting me in the dark, with a knife.”

  He shrugged; he had the grace to look a little ashamed. “That was only—only a means. I didn’t intend to hurt you. Only frighten you so you would go away.”

  “I knew nothing about it,” Mr. Robin said quickly. “I had no idea he was planning to do anything of the sort. Indeed, I spoke severely to him afterward.”

  “Yes, but you used it happily enough to get rid of me, didn’t you?” I imitated his tone: “‘Martin, I think perhaps we’ll make that a natural break.’”

  “Yes, but as you know I’d already taken the decision to—to break off your temporary contract. I’d already told you we didn’t require your lectures any further.”

  “What I can’t understand is why you let me lecture at all. You can’t have been pleased to see me.”

  “Well, in the circumstances, your presence was a little, em, embarrassing, it’s true. But I felt, in all fairness to Antonio, that I had to find out why you had come to Venice, and the best thing seemed to be to let you give a lecture or two so I could make discreet inquiries. So do I now understand that you knew all along where Antonio was?”

  “No,” I said. “It was that stupid attack of his that gave it away.”

  Mr. Robin shook his head. “Antonio, I told you—”

  “But you refused to do anything,” Toni said, “and all the time he was here, asking questions, speaking to Busetto and to other people—getting into the newspapers. I had to protect myself.”

  “Well,” I said, “you gave yourself away. I imagine I was supposed to think that your—your ex-compagni were onto me. Well, they didn’t know I had anything to do with the Britannia School. Why should they? I mean, the papers hadn’t said anything about the school, and the po
lice didn’t know I was there. And then, what a place to choose for an attack like that: I mean, the risk with all those people—someone might have had a torch, someone might have blocked your exit route, you could have run into someone on the stairs.… No, the only person who would have run all those risks was someone who had no choice—who had to attack me there or nowhere.”

  Toni muttered, “It was an impulse. I was scared of you and your questions. I had to do something.”

  I went on with my own thoughts. “And that only made sense if there was someone hiding in the building: which meant someone being hidden by you.” I nodded to Mr. Robin.

  “It was merely an act of compassion on my part,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah? And was that what it was ten years back when Toni was hiding out in Palazzo Sambon?”

  “How do you know about that?” Mr. Robin said.

  “I don’t know. I’m working things out—trying to clear up some of the coincidences. I’ve heard that the Britannia School used to be somewhere the other end of Cannaregio, and now I’ve found out that you get special rates for your students at that hotel next to Palazzo Sambon—the other end of Cannaregio. So it struck me—”

  “It was a businesslike arrangement,” he said. “When I moved the school, I had some contact with the new proprietors of the building who told me they were opening a hotel, so I—”

  “I’m not accusing you of any sharp practice there,” I said. “I’m sure it was all aboveboard. No. The only interesting fact I’m pointing to is that when Toni was hiding out in that palazzo, the next-door neighbor was you. And probably you heard noises at night. The woman in the hotel told me she heard noises herself through the walls, when Toni’s ex-compagni went through the building a few days back. I suppose that there, like here, you had a top-floor flat over the school, so you’d hear things at night.”

  “It was quite by chance,” he said. “I had heard noises and wondered, and then one evening as I was closing my shutters before going to bed I saw Antonio leaning out of the window.”

  “And you recognized him, right?”

  “Well, yes. He had studied at the school for some years.”