“I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t been harboring the paintings.” But even so, he seemed to have a point. My little Carnival escapade didn’t seem to be turning out very happily. “Listen,” I said, “he won’t imagine that we’ve guessed he’s there. If I can take him by surprise from the back, we might have a chance.”
“How?” He seemed to have lost all the poise and self-satisfaction that his perfect clothes usually gave him: the clothes were still faultless but he was definitely rumpled inside them.
“If I can get down to the floor below without him seeing. Climb down—using sheets or something.” It would be quite a spectacle: a sheeted ghost, shinning down its own ectoplasm.
“You only have one functional arm.”
“True.” I noticed that he didn’t make the obvious offer. Well, he wouldn’t want his suit rumpled as well as his soul.
After a few seconds he said, “There is of course the lift hatch.”
“The what?”
“Didn’t you know about it?”
“No, I didn’t—tell me about it.”
“I don’t know when it was put in. It goes from this flat down to the storeroom on the second and first floors. We hardly ever use it, except for transporting books. I suppose it was used to go down to the kitchens in the old days.”
“So where is it?”
“But of course you realize it’s not intended to take people. That’s not its function.”
“Where is it?” I repeated, not bothering to point out that its function was to make life easier, and it wouldn’t be able to do that for him if he were dead.
He frowned but led me into a room that was furnished entirely in filing cabinets: I suppose it was to save him having to go all the way down to his office on the first floor when he wanted to hold secret communion with his soul. He opened what looked like a cupboard in one wall, revealing the hatch.
“It’s a bit small,” I said, “but I suppose we could take out that central tray.”
“Well, I—that is—”
I had already started examining the tray. “Yes,” I said. “If we unscrew here.” Then before he could start talking about intentions and functions I said, “Get a screwdriver.” And he went and got one.
Half a minute later I was inside the hatch, squashed-squatting like a fetus and wondering for the first time about the strength of the thing’s bottom—after all this wasn’t what it was intended to do; it wasn’t its function. I was now wearing just the dressing gown—rather more practical then the ghost outfit—and clutching a wooden rolling pin, which I suppose Mr. Robin used as a mangle: I couldn’t actually imagine him in an apron, covered with flour.
He pressed the button and I started to descend. The oblong view to my left slid away and I whirred down into blackness. I wondered if this was how it had been inside the womb, but decided it must have all been a bit softer. The position wasn’t doing any good at all to my injured shoulder, and I couldn’t wait to arrive.
I suddenly realized that for the first time the music outside sounded quite faint, and I had a moment’s despair in which I thought that the man down below couldn’t fail to hear the whirring of the machinery. I suddenly found I could wait to arrive: indeed I was now dreading the moment when the oblong of light would slide up on my left: the next sensation might be the impact of bullets.
But the aperture appeared, and the hatch juddered to a halt, and no gun was fired. I eased myself out onto the ground, resisting a propulsive force that threatened to shoot me across the room like a nut from a cracker. I straightened myself, nursed my arm and shoulder, and looked around the room. It was a small airless storeroom with sagging bookshelves all around. I listened hard, trying to block out the thunder of the music, and to pick up the footsteps or heartbeats of the enemy.
I could hear nothing (inside the building, that is). After a few seconds I opened the door, which gave onto a little corridor. At the end of the corridor was the main hall of that floor. There were the usual chairs, cupboards, and tables bearing copies of Country Life and Punch, but not a sign of a killer.
He was almost certainly waiting at the staircase, ready for the first noise from above.
I padded across to the door that gave onto the stairs and started inching it open. Before I’d seen anything I heard a noise of sudden movement—the nervous jerk and flurry as of someone swiveling around—and I slammed it shut, dropping the rolling pin. There was a sudden bang and a bit of the door leaped out at me. I threw myself to one side and slithered along the marble floor to the door of the nearest classroom.
Well, so much for taking him by surprise.
I pushed the door but didn’t pass through it, instead diving to cover behind a bookcase to one side of the door. An old, old trick—but I had no new ones. And no weapon now either.
I heard the door to the stairs open suddenly and the thump and run of his flying entrance. I imagined him crouching there, sweeping the room with outstretched gun and beak. Then he must have caught sight of the door I’d pushed, as it swung back shut, and he came running over. I blessed Mr. Robin for his forethought in providing the school with slow-closing doors.
I peeped around the corner of my bookcase and saw what I had hoped to see. He was gripping the gun with both hands and his right foot was rising slowly as he prepared for his Chuck Norris–style flying kick at the door. He had removed his mask: I saw a pale face with set mouth and eyes.
I gave him another three-quarters of a second, by which time his right foot was raised some two feet above the ground and was quivering like a pointing dog and his body was tilted backward like a taut catapult: and I leaped.
I was aware of his face and gun—both round and gaping—swinging around at me but then my hand smashed into his shoulder. He had time for just one grunt of surprise before I hit him, but the grunt was enough for me to recognize Piero. I had hoped with my one free hand to grab him by the neck from behind and pull him down, but he had turned too quickly; nonetheless my frontal smash served the same purpose. He fell straight back, his head cracking on the marble floor. There was an explosion in my ear, but a second later, as I found myself kneeling astride him, I realized I was still alive. My hand was tugging at the gun. I saw his face working in fury as he struggled to get his finger to the trigger again.
The blow to his head hadn’t actually knocked him out but it had obviously dulled him, since he made no attempt to smash at my injured shoulder, an action that would certainly have affected my grip on the gun. After that half second of swift violent action our struggle became quiet, intense, and almost motionless—a question of white-knuckled hands and fingers, clenched teeth and hissing breath. That invisible vampire had sunk his fangs into my shoulder again, as my body twisted and turned, and the music outside was rising to some sort of fatuous crescendo as if in mockery of our fight—and of my pain. And then the gun was in my hands.
Even without thinking, and in a continuation of the movement with which I had jerked it from his grasp, I lifted it by the barrel and brought it down on his head.
He ceased struggling.
There was an avalanche of applause outside and I felt suddenly sick. I knelt back on my haunches and his belly and waited for my shoulder to explode: but gradually the lacerating pains subsided, and I found myself repeating, “Bastards, bastards,” and I didn’t know whether I meant the terrorists, the applauding crowd, or the Preganziol Satanic Versers. All of them, probably.
Half a minute later Mr. Robin was standing by my side looking down at the stunned figure. I was removing the man’s greatcoat, as best I could with one hand.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Robin said.
“Help me. I want to put his clothes on.” I had got his right arm out of the sleeve and thus revealed the shoulder holster.
“His what?” Mr. Robin’s incredulity was plain as he stared down at the man’s faded jeans, old pullover, and shabby greatcoat.
“Help me,” I repeated, pulling at the other arm.
He b
ent down and with some distaste started undoing the trouser belt. The man groaned a little, which I didn’t allow to bother me. I merely talked over it: “I’m going out after them—just to try and hold them up if they’re still around. You call the police and explain everything. Put this bloke in a cupboard or something and then go straight to a phone. Clear?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Do it. These are killers.”
“Are you sure that what you’re intending to do is a good idea?” He pulled the trousers off and handed them to me.
“Of course I’m not. But I can’t think of anything else. They’re not going to get away with those pictures.”
I struggled into the clothes. The trousers were wide but the belt held them up, the shoes were just about right, and the pullover large. I had removed my arm from my sling to put on the pullover, and this action in itself, as my shoulder was now letting me know, had not been a good idea, so the pullover’s floppiness was fortunate. I thought if I could keep my left hand in the coat pocket, there was a good chance my shoulder wouldn’t actually disintegrate. I put the coat on and picked up the gun. I hadn’t put the holster on, so slipped it straight into my pocket, which was fortunately deep. Then, on a sudden thought, I took it out and checked if there was a safety catch; there was, of course, and it was off. I flipped it on.
“Do be careful,” Mr. Robin said as I did this. He presumably didn’t want his floors chipped.
I ran to the stairway and there found the Donald Duck mask. I strapped it on and started down the stairs with one last shout to Mr. Robin: “The police, remember.”
As I ran down, the beak flapping playfully in front of my eyes, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I had no strategy: all I wanted was to get as close to the other two bastards as possible—if they were still hanging around—in order to do something, anything, that might stop them getting away. An indication of my half-crazed state was that I was really hoping that they would still be there, waiting for their companion—for me.
Well, Carnival is a time of folly.
I left the building, without stopping to see how they had forced the lock. I paid no attention either to the Satanic Versers’ version of “All Right Now” and took the alley I’d seen the two terrorists go down. And at the end of the alley I saw a boat with one Donald Duck sitting by the tiller and holding on to a pole, and another one sitting toward the front. Their beaks swiveled around at me and one of them said, “Fatto?” Have you done it?
I gave a thumbs-up sign and let out a quick assenting grunt, which, I was fairly sure, was how Piero would have reported two successful killings to his companions. I looked at the two cases, leaning against either side of the boat.
“Get in then,” Padoan said from the front.
I had had one moment of fierce flaring exultation on seeing the boat and then suddenly reason had flooded back—ice-cold drenching reason—and as Padoan said this I felt—well, very silly. And very very scared.
I had no choice, however, but to go on with the masquerade, so I stepped into the boat. I tried to do it as casually as possible, so that my left hand’s fixity in its pocket would seem nonchalant self-assurance, but unfortunately I came down harder than I had hoped and set the boat rocking wildly. “Attento,” said the one behind me, and I grunted again and sat down with a thump on the middle bench just behind the two paintings, and in between the two terrorists. My back had to be turned to one of them. I was facing Padoan, at the front of the boat.
We chugged off down the canal. Padoan continued to face me, which seemed unnatural; any normal person would twist around to see where the boat was going. I could see those pale eyes on me. Inside the mask my face was running with sweat, and I would have given anything to remove it and wipe myself clean. Well, anything except my life.
“How many shots?” Padoan suddenly asked.
I grunted, “Due,” holding up two fingers—inoffensively. If I could stick to answers of that kind, I might be safe.
The boat turned into another canal. I realized that I was losing track of where we were. I knew my way around Venice’s alleys and streets; the canals were a completely new map to me, one that I had never learned. I caught glimpses down alleys of squares and buildings that I knew, I recognized bridges, but I could only make the wildest guess at what the next turn in the canal would reveal. Then I saw the bridge of Santi Apostoli ahead, crowded with people: we passed underneath, and a few people took photos of us.
We swung into the Grand Canal, turning right in the direction of the station and Piazzale Roma. With the kind of crazy irrelevance that my mind seemed capable of, I was struck by how beautiful it was in the hazy sunlight, which softened the scene, subduing the colors; the palazzi hovered over the water, seemingly insubstantial, like a pageant seen behind a theatrical gauze, and in the distance they faded into a misty monochrome. My eyes filled with tears, adding to the shimmering indistinctiveness of the picture—and to the mushy discomfort behind my mask.
Was this how I was destined to end—weeping behind a Donald Duck mask in the middle of the Grand Canal? What a mixture of the pathetic, the sublime, and the really bloody ridiculous.
As the view did its unreal water dance beyond my yellow beak I suddenly knew I wanted to paint it; I wanted to catch that golden-gray light, get that transitory effect of the sun and the mist onto canvas. And I felt sure I could do it—I could even imagine the exact mixtures of paint I’d need. I could imagine myself standing there in front of the easel, the brush firm and comforting in my hand.
I had to paint it. I had to.
But to do this it was pretty essential that I lived.
I slid my right hand into my pocket and eased the safety catch off the gun. I grasped it—firm and comforting in my hand. There now: I could shoot my foot off if I wanted.
Padoan spoke: “I don’t think we’d better stay on the Grand Canal. It’s too public.” His voice was, as ever, decisive, final.
“Sorry,” said the man behind me. “It just seemed the obvious route. We can go off right by San Felice and then go around by the lagoon to the Tronchetto.”
The Tronchetto is an artificial island beyond the station, with a huge car park. I couldn’t afford to postpone my action—whatever it was going to be—any longer. Once we left the Grand Canal—and Rio San Felice was only another twenty yards or so—I’d lose the advantage of witnesses.
But what was I going to do?
I shifted on my seat, glancing around at the man at the tiller. I grunted, “My legs,” making them understand that they were too cramped by the paintings. I swung them over to the other side so that I was facing backward, and in continuation of this movement rose, took one step forward, and sat down next to the driver. I pulled the gun out of my pocket and pressed it into his side.
I spoke to Padoan at the front. “Take your hands out of your pockets—empty.”
He had obviously grasped the situation at once. “Why?”
“Because I’ll blow a hole through your friend’s stomach if you don’t.” His friend was still driving us forward, but had gone rigid with shock.
Padoan brought out only his left hand and laid it on his knee; his right hand, instead, lifted inside his pocket until the pocket was pointing at me—in the shape of a gun. “He may be my friend,” he said, “but first and foremost he is a fighter for the revolution and he knows perfectly well that my first duty is to the cause.” His voice was steady and reasoning.
I found myself going cold with horror. “Ask him,” I said. The man at the tiller still said nothing.
“Even if he were to plead with me,” Padoan said, “which I feel sure he won’t, my duty would still be to the cause. Indeed, if he were to plead, it would be quite clear that he isn’t worth saving. Lucio, turn right down Rio San Felice as programmed.”
Lucio gave a trembling nod.
“And when we are away from general observation,” Padoan said, “we will see.…” The trail of menacing dots at the end of the sentence were
almost audible.
My hand gave a tiny preliminary shift, as if I were about to swivel my gun. Padoan said, “The merest millimeter in my direction and I shoot. My gun is aimed directly at your heart. My suggestion is that you drop your gun.”
I said, “No.”
“Very well. I am not going to fire here in the Grand Canal unless obliged to, so we will continue this tableau until we are a little more secluded.”
I said, trying not to let desperation sound in my voice, “You must know that you’re defeated—that your revolution isn’t going to happen. Two of you, stealing pictures—what’s the point?”
“We are only defeated when we admit we’re defeated.”
I recognized this as his central creed: presumably the moment he acknowledged failure, he’d cease to have any reason for existence. His funnel vision, to use Alvise’s term, had a mere pinhole for its final aperture, and everything in his being—his powers of reason, his emotions—had to be forced through that pinhole, and in the process got compressed into one laserlike ray of destruction. Despite the outward appearance of calm reasoning, he was in fact obsessed to the point of madness.
“That is why the admission of defeat,” he went on, “is the greatest crime a true revolutionary can commit. And why Sambon must suffer.”
There was a new note in his voice: something more than contempt. Toni’s escape had obviously hit him hard. The eyes were as unmoving as ever, but I suddenly felt I saw something frenzied in their fixity.
“Why the obsession with Sambon?” I said. “He’s only one of the many pentiti.” I was trying to keep him talking—hoping, rather feebly, to distract him.
“Sambon betrayed the cause, betrayed the proletariat movement, betrayed his compagni—”
“Betrayed you,” I said. There had to be something personal in this obsession: could Padoan and Sambon have had a relationship that went beyond mere “comradeship”? Or was this just the teacher enraged at the treachery of a former model pupil? Whatever it was, it made it clear that the recovery of the paintings had a significance for Padoan far beyond their mere commercial value.
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