“Thank you, Bepi. That’s very helpful.”
“Why? What are you going to do?” He stopped and turned to stare at me as he spoke. It wasn’t often that Bepi was so direct.
“Good question,” I said slowly. He didn’t say anything, he just kept his gaze fixed on me. “I just need to know if it was him. Then I can think of something. But I’m not going to take that kind of treatment without hitting back.” I paused. “Missier Grande or not.”
He made a curious whistling sound which I was unable to interpret.
I said, “But this is entirely up to me. I’m not going to involve you.”
He was staring across the canal at the façade of the church. It is not one of Venice’s most famous buildings but it has a charming bas-relief of the Adoration of the Magi over the doorway. “Let me show you something,” he said after a moment.
“Yes, of course,” I said, a little surprised.
“Of course, I don’t know about all the art in the city, like you,” he said. “But I do know this church.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. Well, it was his parish church.
He led me across the bridge and we entered the church. I had been there before and remembered vaguely a fine Veronese of the Adoration of the Shepherds behind the high altar and a monumental tomb to a doge on the left-hand wall. Bepi crossed himself, nodded to the sacristan and led me to the last altar on the left-hand side. The altarpiece consisted of another bas-relief, almost life-size, of the Nativity but he directed my attention to the altar front beneath this. Again in bas-relief was a curious stylised representation of a sea battle, with golden war-galleys arrayed in curved lines on a background of green waves.
“Lepanto,” said Bepi.
Venice’s greatest ever naval victory, and a turning point in the struggle against the Ottoman Empire. It is celebrated in huge pompous canvases in the Doge’s palace, but the graceful economy of this tribute was far more moving.
“And look above.” Bepi pointed to the predella beneath the altarpiece, which bore three delightful carvings of Venetian galleons, complete with sails, rigging and fluttering pennants.
“They made me want to become a sailor when I was a boy,” he said.
“I can imagine,” I said. I was still uncertain what point he was making.
“You see,” he said, “there are times when I wonder what we’re doing. You know.”
“Um,” I said uncertainly.
“Not you and me. Or not just you and me. This whole city. Is it all just about Carnival?”
“And gambling,” I said, remembering his ever-ready dice.
“And then I think of Lepanto and remember that we did count for something.”
“And so?”
“So yes. We can’t just let them walk all over us.”
“Nobleman Zanotto isn’t the Ottoman emperor,” I said.
He gave an impatient snort. “That’s not it.”
I realised my answer had been inappropriate, and tried to salvage things. “I think I know what you mean. But there’s still no reason why you should get involved.”
He was clearly already embarrassed at having revealed so much of himself. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the theatre. Check it out.”
“And your mother’s bed? Is that all done?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Don’t worry about that.”
“All right. I’ll try not to.” I realised it was a dangerous subject for jokes. “Let’s go then.” I changed the subject as we walked out of the church. “How many of you are there in the family?”
“Four brothers, two sisters. We’re all gondoliers except for my youngest brother Giacomo. And my sisters, of course.”
“What does Giacomo do?”
“He works in the Arsenale.” He said this with a sad shake of the head, as if it were a shameful family secret. “He’s a caulker.”
We went to Bepi’s gondola, which he kept moored on the canal close to his house. I suspected that when things got a little too difficult in the house he would invent maintenance jobs here, and spend happy hours polishing his brasses.
As ever he refused my offer to help with the rowing and we headed out to the lagoon. As we emerged into the great open space, with the city’s towers and domes glittering ahead of us and the dazzling water dotted with a host of coloured sails and gondolas and barges, my spirits lifted as always. “Not a bad way to go to work every day.”
I half expected him to make some laconic comment along the lines of “Try it on a foggy winter morning”, but instead he grunted: “It’s not bad.”
We made our way past the broad canal leading towards the Arsenale, past the Ca’ di Dio and past the church of the Pietà, where the orphan girls still performed the music written by the red-headed priest who had died some ten years earlier. Bepi swung the gondola into the next canal and we made our way northwards, passing the church of Sant’Antonin, the little School of St George of the Slavs and the adjoining hospital of the Knights of Malta. Just beyond this, on the opposite side of the canal from the baroque church of Santa Giustina, and at a corner formed by two canals, stood a tall, almost windowless building: the Teatro Santa Giustina.
Bepi brought the gondola to a halt beside the large water gate, whose heavy wooden door was closed.
“This must be where we entered,” I said. I looked around. There were a few people crossing the little square in front of the church, none of whom paid any attention to us, and three small boys playing with a dog. An old man paused on the bridge that led down to the theatre front and spat meditatively into the canal just ahead of us, but there was nothing personal in it.
“Let’s try the front entrance,” I said. Bepi swung the gondola around and we moored alongside the square. The three boys eagerly offered to help with the rope and Bepi allowed them the illusion of indispensability. I fished in my pockets and found a coin, which seemed to satisfy them. “We’ll keep an eye on it,” said the smallest boy, who had a surprisingly deep voice that clearly conferred authority.
“Keep an eye out for Turks or Nicolotti,” said Bepi indulgently.
We crossed the bridge and looked at the front of the theatre. It had a rather forlorn-looking marble façade, with classical pillars. A short flight of stairs led up to the large double doors, which were also closed. There was a peeling poster to one side of the door, advertising a “Commedia Nuovissima” by Abate Chiari; the emphatic adjective itself already hinted at the decrepitude of the product.
“I’ve had some good times here,” Bepi said, with a touch of nostalgia.
I pushed at the door without much conviction. “It’s locked,” I said.
“Well, only one thing to do.” He called across the canal to the boys. “Come over here!”
They came running over the bridge, without a backward glance at the gondola.
“How can we get in there?” said Bepi, jerking his thumb at the theatre.
“Round the side,” said the small boy without a moment’s hesitation. “It’ll be a squeeze for you, though.”
“Fat Piero managed it,” said one of the other boys.
The memory of Piero’s exploit convulsed them all in laughter.
“Did he get out again?” asked Bepi with a half-smile.
“Don’t know,” said the small boy. “Maybe you’ll find his body.”
And they all dissolved into giggles again.
“But there’s nothing left worth stealing,” said the small boy, clearly wishing to be helpful.
“We’re just checking it out,” Bepi said, with an air of vague authority.
They led us into an alley alongside the theatre and pointed at a window about five feet above the ground with a loose shutter. It turned out to be a scramble as well as a squeeze but we managed it, finding ourselves two minutes later inside a dusty store room.
“Always ask the local children,” said Bepi. “Especially with a big abandoned building.”
“I just hope we d
on’t find Fat Piero,” I said.
“Recognise this place?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “But let’s find the stage.”
The storeroom gave on to a corridor which led us out into the foyer.
The atmosphere of abandonment was pronounced here. Where the chandeliers should have hung glittering from the ceiling there dangled two despondent chains. Marks were visible on the walls where items of furniture had been removed. Only the stucco decorations remained on the walls and ceiling, together with a dimly visible fresco of gods and goddesses romping on robust clouds.
We walked through a colonnaded doorway to the vast gloom of the auditorium, our voices automatically descending to whispers.
“Is this it?” Bepi said.
“It has to be.” My senses had already picked up the familiar atmosphere of tangy mustiness. “I was under the stage.”
We picked our way carefully forward. The rows of chairs had gaps, but most of the furnishings were still present, too cumbersome to move. We climbed the short flight of wooden stairs leading up to the stage.
“I’ve never been up here before,” said Bepi in an awestruck voice. The lure of the stage seems to affect everyone, one way or another.
“I grew up in places like this,” I said.
“Really?” Bepi was clearly surprised. He had never asked me about my background. I always had the impression that he had decided early in life that most people were unfathomable and just had to be taken as they were. Maybe for the first time ever I had told him something about myself that impressed him.
There was a noise from the foyer. Someone was turning a key in the main entrance door.
Bepi and I immediately darted to the side of the stage. We held our breath and listened hard. There were two voices, talking animatedly.
“It’s them,” I whispered to Bepi. I recognised the elderly complaining tone of Zanotto and the sharper voice of the zany. They seemed to be arguing as they entered the auditorium.
“There’s no need to repeat yourself,” Zanotto said. “I understand your position. And that of your friend. And as soon as I manage to sell my share…”
“You know as well as I do, Excellency, that there’s no certainty of any sale.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“Excellency, your financial troubles are your troubles. You hired me and the others for a special job. We did what you asked.”
“Well, not entirely.”
“Only because the book wasn’t there. We can’t be blamed for that.”
“But I pay for results.”
“You pay for our time and our work. While we were actors you paid for our performances on the stage; now you pay for our performances off it. We’ve done the show we were hired for. And we’re not going to repeat it.”
“I’m not going to ask you to do anything again. I just need you to be a little patient.” Zanotto’s voice was growing agitated.
“Especially now there’s this murdered foreigner as well. We want nothing to do with that.”
“Well, of course not. My only concern was to get hold of the book so that nobody would make any connection … But let’s leave that. All I ask is a few days’ patience.”
“We’ve been very patient, Excellency. But patience has a limit.”
“Just a few days. And, of course, if you can help in clearing this place up, things will happen that much faster. We must make a good impression if the sale is going to go through.”
“You know that the problem isn’t what the theatre looks like, Excellency. There are just too many theatres.”
“Yes, but this is the only one in eastern Venice. There’s a whole area of the city that loves a good show…”
“… and doesn’t have any money.”
“Always so pessimistic.”
“Always so realistic, Excellency. Why else did the theatre close?”
“Temporary problems. It just needs fresh writers, perhaps better musicians…”
“And you think your impresario will really buy your share in a company with no writers, bad musicians and a potential audience of cheap gondoliers and arsenalotti?”
I could sense Bepi bridling at my side. I put a restraining hand on his arm.
“He expressed an interest,” said Zanotto, in a plaintive tone.
The zany gave an expressive snort. Then he said: “So what do you want me to do? We can’t polish the chandeliers if there aren’t any.”
“No, but you can bring some of the better-looking props on to the stage. Some classical pillars, a painting or two … there must be some such things left backstage. Appearances do count.”
“Good cue,” I whispered to Bepi, and strode out on to the stage. I heard Bepi heave a sigh behind me; Zanotto and the zany both gave a gratifying gasp. I could see their upturned faces just beneath the stage, mouths and eyes wide open.
Now I had to follow up with something equally dramatic. “Greetings again.” Hm.
“What … How…” stammered Zanotto. He was a small man, whose elaborately curled wig was in absurd contrast to his shabby nobleman’s cloak.
“Good to see your faces this time,” I said.
The zany suddenly leaped on to the stage and lunged towards me. I had forgotten his amazing agility and reared back in alarm. Not quite the effect I had intended.
The next instant Bepi was by my side. “Back off.”
The zany backed off. He stood a few feet away, glaring at us both.
“I can’t jump around like you,” said Bepi pleasantly, “but I can break your arm like a twig.” A pause. “Even if I am just a cheap gondolier.”
“And I would applaud,” I said. “I’m pretty angry, you know.”
“You have every right to be so,” said Zanotto, in a fawningly conciliatory tone.
“Excellency,” muttered the zany, “better not say anything.”
“I don’t care what you say,” I said. “I’ve already heard enough from both of you.”
“But you haven’t heard what was behind all this,” said Zanotto.
“Excellency,” muttered the zany again.
But there was no stopping Zanotto. “I assure you I would never have taken such drastic steps had it not been necessary.”
“Necessary for you,” I said. “To protect your reputation. But why should I care?”
“Why indeed?” he said. “I fully understand. It was unforgivable.”
“And rest assured I won’t forgive,” I said.
“Of course not. But you do see that my men went beyond their instructions…”
“Excellency,” said the zany. And this time his voice had a tone of menace.
“You told your bravi to break into my house in the middle of the night,” I said. “That’s already unforgivable.”
“We are not bravi,” muttered the zany.
“What could I do?” Zanotto said. “I heard of this terrible murder, that the murderer had made his way to your house. And that you were in custody. I felt it was important for me to be sure…” He paused. He was clearly wondering how much I knew.
“To be sure that I wasn’t hiding the seditious book you wrote on Marin Falier.”
He winced. That had gone home. “Hardly seditious. Injudicious. And of course I didn’t write it.”
“So you wrote the afterword. Or the poem.”
“Not that either. I see you don’t know the full story.” He shook his head. “My full shame.”
“Excellency…” said the zany for the fourth time.
“It all comes down to sordid financial gain,” he said. “But I was hard pressed – I still am – and I yielded to temptation.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“It seems you know about the absurd book that was written by three Venetian noblemen. One of them was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Now deceased. He lived in England twenty or thirty years ago. Recently I heard with some alarm from an acquaintance that a yo
ung Englishman was bringing out a copy of the Italian original, which would make it perfectly clear who the three Venetian noblemen were.”
“And you wanted to spare your brother’s reputation.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, that too. But I confess that was not my first thought.” In a kind of nervous twitch, he adjusted his wig. “I am not a rich man.”
“So I gathered from your earlier comments.”
“My family has lost much of its wealth. We had property in Greece, which was lost to the Turks. Then there were unfortunate speculations. Some, I will confess, I lost at the gambling tables…”
“Do we need to know all this?” I said impatiently.
“I am just explaining the temptation to which I was put. The last straw was the closure of this theatre, in which I had unwisely invested what little fortune I had left. So when I heard of this book it struck me that the possession of it could be a potential means…” He coughed.
“Of blackmail,” I concluded.
“That is an unfortunate word,” he said.
“And who were you going to blackmail?”
“There is no need to call it that. I thought of the book as a possible instrument to help to persuade two old acquaintances to … to…”
“To pay you hush-money.”
“To make me a loan that they might otherwise have been reluctant to offer.”
“And who were these old friends?”
“I see no reason why I should tell you. I have made my confession; there is no need for me also to play the … the informer.” He even managed to draw himself up with an air of rediscovered dignity as he spoke.
“Piero Garzoni,” I said.
He assumed a look of stony-faced stolidity. But I could tell I had hit home.
“Bepi?” I said.
“Yes?”
“What shall we do?”
“Leave the scum,” he said briefly.
Zanotto bristled. “Whatever my faults I would remind you that I am still a member of the Venetian nobility.”
“Noble by the cloak,” said Bepi ironically.
“I will not be insulted by a … by a…”
“Gondolier,” said Bepi. “The backbone of this city.” Then he added, with heavy irony: “Excellency.”
Zanotto decided to accept this last word as a sop to his ruffled dignity. “I think it best if we take leave of one another at this point.”
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