Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  I decided it was not a good moment to renew the invitation to dance. I whispered: “Let’s try to make our way out.”

  “All right. Don’t let go of me.”

  “Never,” I said, gripping her hand more firmly.

  I made for the central aisle, allowing my shins to tell me the way as they scraped against the seats. My other hand was still holding the extinguished lantern, which prevented me from groping my way forward manually.

  We were halfway down the aisle when Lucia suddenly screamed and her hand was jerked away from mine. I swivelled and I could just see her thrashing around. As I lunged towards her she suddenly went rigid and Zanotto’s voice spoke: “I have a knife to the young lady’s throat. Do not move another step.”

  “It’s true,” she said, her voice wavering just slightly.

  “What do you want, Excellency?” I said.

  There was a pause. The problem, I think, was that Zanotto really did not know what he wanted. His only chance had been to split us up and then kill each of us separately. We had thwarted that plan, and now he could kill Lucia but it was unlikely that he would then be able to kill me. Battered and bruised I might be, but I was at least thirty years younger than he was. On the other hand, he might be tempted to try, simply on the grounds that he had nothing to lose. Somehow I had to persuade him that it would not be in his interests.

  “Excellency, there is no point in any further bloodshed,” I said.

  “Why did you have to interfere?” he said. His voice had its usual petulant tone, as if he were complaining about nosy neighbours.

  “Excellency, if you give yourself up now you can ask for clemency, given that your victims were both dishonest foreigners.”

  “Despicable people. Blackmailers. Frappatori. The ruin of the state.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “No one will blame you.”

  “I had earned a respectable position. People looked up to me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to make a case for yourself,” I said. “The Inquisitors are reasonable people.” Then I added in English, praying that Lucia’s reading of Pamela would have familiarised her with these words: “Lucia, his left arm is injured.”

  “What did you say?” said Zanotto, immediately suspicious.

  “The left arm, just below the shoulder – ferito,” I said, pronouncing the English words as clearly as possible, and adding the Italian word for “injured”.

  There was a sudden high-pitched shriek from Zanotto, telling me that Lucia’s linguistic skills were up to the challenge, and at once I hurled myself forward. The next few seconds were a hectic confusion of tangled bodies, cloaks, thrashing limbs, a slashing knife, and some grunting and screaming. Zanotto and I both tumbled to the ground and at a certain point, with a sharp piercing pain to my palm, I managed to jerk the knife from his hand. I heard Zanotto’s head hit the floor with a crack and disentangled myself from him; he remained still.

  Lucia was sobbing. I put my arms round her and felt the throb of her convulsions against my chest. A few seconds later the spasms diminished in intensity and she detached herself from me. “Is he … is he…?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I certainly didn’t stab him. But he’s an old man. Being thrown to the ground like that might have been fatal.”

  “He could be performing again,” she said; there was an uncharacteristically bitter note in her voice.

  I bent towards the recumbent figure. “I can’t detect any breathing.”

  “Stay away,” she said, tugging at my arm. “I have no doubt he has another knife concealed. We are not playing his game any longer. Let’s get out of here.”

  It was good advice.

  * * *

  When we returned a few minutes later, with lighted lanterns and accompanied by three of the least drink-befuddled arsenalotti we had rousted out of a nearby tavern, we found Zanotto still lying on his back, his face contorted with pain and rage, and his right hand clutching a knife: Lucia had been right. He was now breathing stertorously and was unable to move anything but his eyes, which flickered malevolently from one to another of us. His arm and his upper body were liberally splashed with blood, though this turned out to be Shackleford’s rather than his own.

  It proved impossible to remove the knife from Zanotto’s clutch, and he was still holding it when the priest from Santa Giustina came to read the last rites over his body. Only when I was sure he was dead did I extract it delicately from his fingers, even then half expecting one last, rancorous lunge.

  30

  I awoke and found myself surrounded by books. I was lying between sheets of a crisper candour than anything my body had ever experienced, wearing a nightshirt of similar purity. My head had ceased to throb for the first time in centuries. Clean linen and all the reading matter one could ever want. Perhaps this was heaven.

  Lucia rose from a chair in the corner of the room. It was heaven.

  “How do you feel?” she said.

  “Perfect,” I said. Then I added: “And puzzled.”

  “You collapsed in the Doge’s palace. We got permission to bring you home with us. You’ve slept through a whole day.”

  Vague memories of the confused hours that had followed the death of Zanotto flickered before me. I remembered the lantern-lit faces of sbirri, the lean features of the Missier Grande, and endless nagging questions. At one point, if I remembered correctly, Signor Massaro had spoken up to suggest I should be allowed a respite. I hoped he still had a job.

  “How was I … how did you…”

  “The sbirri carried you here,” she said. “On a stretcher.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Well, the inconvenience … the … the…”

  “It seemed less inconvenient to have you recuperate here for a day or two than to have to arrange your funeral,” she said, with a quick flash of a smile. “And the Missier Grande seemed to appreciate that too.”

  “Does your father mind?”

  “He’s in the next bedroom.” She lowered her voice. “I think he’s hoping that having another invalid in the house will reduce the intensity of his sister’s solicitude.”

  I gazed at the walls of books on both sides of the room. “There are more books than in the shop,” I said.

  “And this is just one room.” Then she said: “There are some people here who want to thank you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The English family.”

  “Ah. All of them?”

  “Well, the three we’ve met. The young man is out of prison. He’s the most vociferous in his gratitude.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. Should I get dressed? Do I have any clothes?”

  “I see no immediate need for that.”

  If only she were Miss Boscombe, I thought; I would be able to read all sorts of suggestive possibilities into that remark.

  “I’ll call them,” she said after a pause, during which she gazed at me with a slightly wary expression. Perhaps my face had given away my thoughts. “They’re taking lunch nearby.”

  Some minutes later, during which I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard brash English voices on the staircase. I raised myself to a sitting position and wondered whether a pose of weary languor or Bourbonic hauteur would be more impressive. In the end I think I just looked harassed.

  I had probably done better not to dress; I certainly could not compete with the frilly frothiness of Mr Boscombe’s silk shirt. He did not appear to have suffered any great deprivations in prison; he was certainly no thinner or paler and his laugh was as explosive as ever. He released it immediately on seeing me, as if nothing could be more comic than finding me once more in bed.

  Miss Boscombe was dressed in a magnificent confection of blues and pinks, which provided a neat contrast with the drab greys of her father’s outfit. He stood by the door with the peevish expression of one who would far rather be studying an Etruscan tomb.

  “Just wanted to say how grateful we
all are, you know,” said young Mr Boscombe, and gave another bark of a laugh. I wondered whether the other prisoners were missing his cheeriness.

  “So grateful, so very grateful,” said Miss Boscombe. Even the elder Mr Boscombe let out a grunt of vague acknowledgement.

  “Good of you all to say so,” I began.

  Young Mr Boscombe cut me off. “And I’ve been thinking. I know my troubles have, um, caused you some troubles of your own.”

  “Well, one or two little problems,” I said.

  “So brave, so very brave,” murmured Miss Boscombe.

  There was the faintest sound of a sigh and I darted a glance at Lucia, whose face was expressionless but who none the less managed to communicate the suggestion that were she not bound by the rules of courtesy she would be rolling her eyes.

  Mr Boscombe continued: “So I have a proposal to make to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, after the tragic death, you know, of, well, of Mr Shackleford…”

  “And his brother,” I said.

  “Yes, of course, his poor brother as well.”

  “Scoundrels the pair of them,” put in the elder Mr Boscombe.

  “Oh, Father,” said Miss Boscombe. “De mortuis, you know.”

  “Neither of them was so very bad,” I said. “Certainly not so bad as to merit such appalling ends.” I had even come to feel some kind of sympathy for the younger brother. I have no doubt that Lucia would say it was because we were fellow performers.

  “Yes, well, be that as it may,” said young Mr Boscombe, “I was wondering whether … Well, the thing is, I’d like to continue my tour. At least as far as Rome.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Well, would you care to take Mr Shackleford’s place? Miss Busetto tells me you’re also a fine artist. You could make some kind of record of our travels…”

  I looked back at Lucia, who was looking encouragingly in my direction.

  “Mr Boscombe,” I said, “it is a very generous offer, but I’m afraid I can’t answer immediately.”

  “No, I see that,” he said. “Wouldn’t dream of pressing you.”

  “It would be marvellous,” said Miss Boscombe. “I was so impressed by your artistic knowledge, you know, in the little house we explored. Such an eye for detail.” And her own innocent blue eyes gazed straight into mine.

  I realised I could not meet them without a blush that would give to all present the impression that Miss Boscombe and I had done far more than just appreciate artistic treasures in the little house. I gave her a vague smile and nod and then pleaded general fatigue to cut short the meeting.

  The Boscombes left the room with further fulsome expressions of gratitude and another laconic grunt from the elder Mr Boscombe. Lucia remained in the doorway and gazed at me.

  “You’re not going to turn down this opportunity?” she said.

  “I seem to remember you referring to such young men as being in search of nothing but gambling houses and the stews,” I said, pretending to be a little puzzled.

  She made an impatient puffing sound and said: “It would be a chance to travel, to see the great cities of Italy, to develop your talents…”

  “I know,” I said, “I know.”

  “Well?”

  “You heard what the Missier Grande said last night.”

  She stared at me without saying a word.

  “He wants me to become a permanent confidente.”

  “A sbirro,” she said. She took care not to say it in too loaded a fashion, but the word already bore its own burden of derogatoriness.

  I could have prevaricated, pointing out that my role would be above that of the regular sbirri, who would have to defer to me. Instead I said: “If you like.”

  “Sior Alvise,” she said, “you have artistic gifts, you have intellectual curiosity…”

  “Siora Lucia,” I said, acknowledging with a pang of regret that we had returned to the formal relationship, “I will retain these things. The Missier Grande says I can continue as a cicerone…”

  This time the impatient noise was an out-and-out snort.

  “… but I must be prepared to be on hand for occasional operations, if they should be required to preserve the security of the state. It seems I also have a talent for that.”

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “So it seems.”

  “You do see,” I said, earnestly now, “that if I turn down the proposal of the Missier Grande, I might not be able to work in Venice again, as cicerone or artist or anything.”

  “That is how they blackmail you,” she said. There was a bitterness to her tone. She went on: “Sior Alvise, I won’t deny that I admired your bravery the other night. And your selflessness. But I was just slightly perturbed…” She paused.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, I was perturbed by the suspicion that you actually enjoyed what you were doing.” She fell silent, but her eyes remained fixed on mine.

  “Enjoyed it?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying you were getting some grotesque pleasure from the violence or from the terror. But you were … you were somehow in your element.”

  “And that element is…?”

  “I think I said it that night. Performance. You enjoy pretending to be what you are not. And, of course, that is a very useful skill in that line of work. But if I made one contribution that evening it was to warn you of the risk of entering too fully into a world solely of performance.”

  “You saved our lives,” I said.

  “Thank you. Possibly I did. And now I wish I could save you from returning to that world.”

  “Lucia,” I said, not even noticing that I had omitted the siora, “I appreciate what you say. But I think I belong to that world.”

  “Yes, I think perhaps you do.” She turned to the door. “Shall I inform them of your decision?”

  “You may as well,” I said. Was it worth telling her that it was partly the thought of being exiled from the city where she lived that had driven me to this choice? Ironic, since my choice now seemed to be driving us further apart. “Oh, and you could also tell them, if they ask, that their precious book has not been found.”

  “Is that true?” she asked.

  “It is what the Missier Grande has told me to tell them,” I said.

  “I see.” Here she could easily have given another snort – or, at least, a slow sad shake of the head. However, she did not. She probably considered it a waste of time. She left me to my thoughts.

  They were not comforting ones. I told myself that time might be on my side. After all, there was always the chance she might need my help if she ever started to read Clarissa.

  But tomorrow I would go back to my own apartment, with its torn books, filthy rags and grey sheets; these things, too, were my world. No point in my getting used to cleanliness.

  My last thought before I drifted off to sleep again was that I must not forget to reward those three boys at the water’s edge. Resourceful lads: playing with mud and getting well paid for it.

  End note

  I have done my best to convey the atmosphere of eighteenth-century Venice as accurately as possible. I have allowed myself one or two chronological liberties. John Murray’s term of office as British Resident in Venice actually began shortly after the Dogeship of Pietro Grimani. Reports of gnaghe are most common in the 1780s, although occasional references to them can be found earlier in the century.

  Most of the locations mentioned in the novel are real. The only major exception to this rule is the Teatro Santa Giustina. The square and the church of that name exist, just where I have placed them, but the theatre is purely imaginary.

  Glossary

  Words that are Venetian rather than standard Italian are indicated by V in brackets.

  altana (V) a wooden structure on the roof of buildings, used for various purposes (drying of clothes, taking of sun)

  arsenalotto (V) a worker at the Arsenale

  barnabotto (V) a Venetian nobleman fallen on har
d times and granted cheap rented accommodation in the parish of San Barnaba

  bauta (V) white face-mask

  Bondì (V) Venetian for Buongiorno (good morning)

  bravo a hired thug

  calle (V) a narrow street

  campo (V) a city square (in Italian the word indicates a field)

  canalazzo (V) alternative name for the Grand Canal

  capocomico director of a theatrical company

  casino (V) small room or set of rooms, used by Venetian aristocrats for various purposes, including gambling

  cicerone tourist-guide

  codega (V) “link-boy” (hired escorts holding lanterns)

  cospetto mild imprecation

  felze (V) the cabin of a gondola

  fioi (V) Venetian, corresponding roughly to “lads”

  fondamenta (V) road running alongside a canal

  forcola (V) the carved wooden structure on gondolas acting as a rowlock

  foresto (V) Venetian for foreigner

  fradeo (V) Venetian for fratello (brother)

  frappatore Tuscan word for a swindler; used as the title of a play by Goldoni

  furatola (V) a cheap tavern

  ganzer (V) literally “hookman”; the man who pulls gondolas to the shore; often retired gondoliers

  gnaga (V) male prostitutes, who dressed in female clothes with cat-masks

  illustrissimo most illustrious or eminent; a term of respect, generally used in Venice to address those not of noble rank.

  Liston (V) in Saint Mark’s Square, the area between the clock-tower and the pillars by the water-front, used as a fashionable parade-ground

  luganagher (V) sausage-maker

  magazen (V) cheap taverns, not allowed to serve cooked food

  malvasia (V) malmsey wine; also used as the name of taverns that served such wine

  Nicolotti (V) inhabitants of western Venice (around the parish of San Nicolò dei Mendicoli); traditional rivals of the Castellani, inhabitants of eastern Venice.

  piano nobile the first floor of a Venetian palace; containing the principal rooms.

  popolano member of the lowest order of Venetian society