Brotherhood of the Tomb

by Daniel Easterman

  He walked back to the shelf and replaced the volume. For a few moments, he stood facing the rows of ledgers, as though hesitating before taking yet another from the shelf. Then, abruptly, he turned to face Patrick. His face was hard and set, betraying a determined effort at self-control.

  ‘Signor Canavan, please forgive me. I am an old man. My sight is feeble, my hearing is growing dim. Soon, very soon, my name will join all the others in these ledgers. The ink will dry and before long another ledger will be added to the rest. Every day, several times, my successor will take the new ledger from its place and add more names. Sometimes the sun will shine. Sometimes, like today, there will be rain, or a heavy mist among the cypresses. The gondolas will come and go as they have done all these years. Nothing will change. San Michele will grow a little fatter with its dead, the bones will lie more heavily in the earth. Perhaps, in time, Venice will sink beneath the sea and no one will come here any more. But at heart things will be as they have always been.’

  The old man paused. He took a couple of steps towards Patrick, his back bent, his thin hands clasped painfully in front of him.

  ‘Let the dead rest in peace, Signor Canavan. Where they come from and where they go are no concern of yours. The mausoleum of the Contarinis is already falling to dust. There is grass on its stone, and moss. It does not matter who sleeps there and who does not. They are beyond your reach, all of them. Go home, signore. Pray for us. And we shall pray for you.’

  He paused a brief moment longer, then pulled his cowl about his wizened head and walked stiffly to the door.

  ‘Do not return, signore. There is nothing here. Nothing but grief.’

  Patrick watched as the old man opened the door and walked out into the glistening rain.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Makonnen was waiting for him at Florian’s as arranged. The priest seemed ill-at-ease among the gilded mirrors and red velvet banquettes of the cafe’s luxurious interior. He was in a corner, drinking an espresso ristretto from a tiny white cup. Between sips, he stared haplessly through a window painted with mermaids at the people passing down the long arcade beside the Piazza San Marco.

  Patrick sat down beside him and asked for a Fernet-Branca.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked Makonnen. The priest shook his head.

  Would you like some?’

  ‘Not really. I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Nor am I. But I suppose we’d better have something.’

  When the waiter arrived with Patrick’s drink, he ordered one plate each of prosciutto crudo and bresaola, with a bottle of Recoara. The waiter took the order with a flourish, gave an almost imperceptible glance of disapproval at Makonnen, and left. Opposite, in a corner, an elderly grande dame sat at a table alone, watching her rouged and prune-like features ripple in a rococo mirror as she lifted a cup of hot chocolate to pursed lips.

  Apart from them and the old lady, the cafe was almost empty. In Venice, no one much minds the acqua alta when a spring tide brings the sea sweeping in to the city and floods the Piazza. But on a cold day towards the end of winter, when rain rushes in from the Adriatic and there is no shelter to be found anywhere in the streets, those who can do so stay at home and warm themselves at their stoves.

  ‘Did you find your friend?’ asked Patrick.

  Makonnen nodded. He seemed a little distrait.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He still lives in his old house. His mother died last year, and he stays on there with his father. The old man’s eighty-five now, and Claudio has his hands full looking after him. He can’t afford a housekeeper or a nurse, so he has to do everything himself. He washes and dresses him, helps him to the toilet, feeds him.’ Assefa paused, staring at his empty cup.

  ‘It’s strange,’ he continued. ‘But it’s like a vocation for him. He seems to lead a celibate life. Never thinks of himself. Every moment, he’s there to help the old fellow. Like a saint. We were so ashamed for him when he left the seminary, as though the priesthood was the only thing that mattered in life. Some of us thought he was damned, that he had damned himself by turning his back on the Church. And now he wipes an old man’s backside and thinks nothing of it. Not as a penance or anything like that, but as a sort of love.’

  ‘He sounds like a good man, your friend.’

  ‘No, that’s just the point. He’s not a good man. He’d hate to hear you say that. Truly he would. He drinks a lot and swears, and I think he has terrible tempers. And he hates the Church. But you’ll see for yourself. He wants to meet you. This afternoon.’

  Patrick sipped his Fernet-Branca, grimacing as its bitterness reached his palate. The grande dame lifted a jewelled hand to her scrawny chin and glanced at them coldly. Pale steam rose in lazy spirals from her chocolate.

  “What did you tell him?’

  ‘Only what you told me to, that my life is in danger, that we need help.’

  ‘Is he able to help us? Did you tell him what we need to know?’

  Makonnen nodded.

  ‘Yes. He has contacts. Old friends from the days when he was an altar boy. And more recent friends. He’s a Communist now, or says he is. Before his mother died and he had to look after his father more, he belonged to some left-wing clubs in Cannaregio.’

  An English family came in, shivering, handing their Burberries and streaming umbrellas to a patient waiter. There were four of them, a husband, wife, and two blond-haired children aged about seven, a boy and a girl. They seemed self-conscious, almost timid, as the English always do in foreign parts. The dowager eyed them through gold pince-nez, as though irritated to be thus disturbed by tourists out of season.

  ‘What about you?’ Makonnen asked. What did you find at the cemetery this morning?’ he asked.

  Patrick described his fruitless visit to the island, his conversation with Brother Antonio. He heard himself speak, yet it seemed as though he stood somewhere apart, watching, listening. Detached from his surroundings, he watched the English family seat themselves, the contessa sip her chocolate, the waiters come and go like acolytes in a glazed and gilded temple.

  He had come here many times in the past with Francesca, to escape the crowds in the summer, to listen to the orchestra play old dance tunes, to watch the world reflected in the mirrors, everything back to front and yet somehow more real than life, more intense.

  He wondered if Ruth had ever come here. She would have fitted in, he thought, a figure out of Henry James or Fitzgerald. Americans like that were almost an extinct species now. Hollywood and Disneyland and Burger King had all but wiped them from the face of the earth. And now Ruth had joined them, a victim of a different kind of greed. It seemed crass, but he thought he loved her more now that she was dead. It had been that way with Francesca too. Would Assefa regard that as a sin, he wondered.

  ‘Are you all right, Patrick?’ The priest leaned over the table, a look of concern on his face. Patrick came out of his reverie.

  ‘I’m sorry. I must have drifted away. I was thinking about Ruth.’

  ‘That’s all right. You don’t have to explain.’

  The waiter brought their food. They ate in silence, washing the meat down with glasses of mineral water. They were almost finished when Patrick noticed the grande dame pay her bill and take her coat and umbrella from the waiter. Instead of going straight out, she came across to their table.

  “You an American?’ she asked Patrick. With a shock, he recognized the accent - Boston or maybe Cambridge. His contessa was a character out of The Aspern Papers after all.

  He nodded.

  ‘Take my advice,’ she hissed, bending over him and clutching his shoulder with a claw-like hand. Close up, her skin was taut and mottled with age. Her breath smelled of chocolate. ‘Next time you’re here, leave the nigger outside. He doesn’t belong.’

  Before Patrick could respond, she had turned and was stalking towards the door. At their table, the English family sat and talked about a thatched cottage they had just purchased somewhere in Surrey. The door closed and
their tinny voices filled the little room.

  They took a water-bus as far as Santa Marcuola and walked the rest of the way into Cannaregio. The rain had eased back to a drizzle. Here and there a handful of cats had ventured out to look for scraps. As they headed down towards the Ghetto, the streets became tighter and the houses taller, hemming them in. An old woman in a tattered overcoat passed, carrying shopping in a plastic bag. In a doorway, a blind man sat scraping lines in the ground with a white stick. They passed over narrow bridges, across side canals in which rotting vegetables and dog turds floated. Everywhere there a smell of poverty and neglect hovered in the air. And a deeper, more insidious smell, age mingled with despair.

  Claudio Surian and his father lived on the top floor of a six-storey tenement. On the street outside, scruffy children played with a battered football. From a broken gutter water trickled down the front wall, leaving a dark, rusted stain on the ancient brickwork. The house had never been very beautiful, but once it had possessed a certain dignity that was now almost wholly eroded. Assefa pushed open the huge wooden door that led into the courtyard.

  A stone staircase led up to the apartments. Assefa and Patrick climbed slowly, their feet slipping on worn steps made slick by the rain. A faint smell of urine greeted them on each of the little landings. On the wall opposite, a shutter was pulled back and a woman’s head looked out. She watched them climb, her eyes suspicious, her expression hostile.

  Someone had sprinkled disinfectant on the top landing. Assefa knocked on a heavy door from which all but a few scraps of red paint had worn away. After about a minute, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened several inches on a chain before being pulled back more widely to admit them.

  Patrick’s first impression of Claudio Surian was that he had tried to commit suicide and failed. There was a look of resignation in his face, especially marked around the eyes. It was the face of a man who knows that his despair is rational and therefore unavoidable, who has considered hope among other crutches and rejected it as useless. He seemed ill. His thin cheeks exaggerated what his eyes betrayed. But his clothes were neat and tidy, and he was clean-shaven.

  ‘Entrate, vi prego,’ he said.

  To Patrick’s surprise, the voice was pleasant, almost kindly, with not a trace of the sourness or bad temper he had expected. He shook hands with Surian and followed Assefa through the door.

  The room was dimly lit, except for one area over what appeared to be a workbench. The walls were covered in masks - some white, some painted, others half-and-half. There were masks in the shape of suns and moons, masks with tall hats, chequered masks with stars for eyes. There were several examples of the plain white bauta, some complete with tricorn and long black veil. The best examples were masks of the Commedia dell’ Arte - the black half-mask of Arlecchino, Pulcinella’s long nose and pointed hat. In the centre of the floor stood a steaming cauldron filled with papier mache. Small tins of paint, bottles of thinner, and brushes covered the workbench.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Surian said, finding chairs for his visitors. ‘I have very little space. This room has to serve as my workshop. My father is resting in his bedroom. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk in here.’

  The only source of heat was a small paraffin heater in one corner, but the room was warm, even stuffy. A haze of cigarette smoke hung over everything like a bluish mist on the lagoon.

  ‘So many masks,’ exclaimed Patrick.

  Surian snorted.

  ‘It’s our boom industry, didn’t you know? No tourist leaves Venice without at least one mask. About fifteen years ago, there were only a dozen or so mask shops in the whole of Venice. Now there are nearly three hundred.’ He sat down on a rough wooden stool. ‘I’m building up stock now for the summer season. I sell my masks to shops on the Strada Nuova mostly, and a few places near the Rialto.’

  ‘But these are much better than the average tourist masks.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘It isn’t what I wanted to do with my life - but I’m sure Assefa has told you that.’ He paused and drew his stool closer to his visitors. ‘I understand you want information about our good Cardinal Migliau.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘I’m willing to pay you for your time.’

  Surian laughed.

  ‘What makes you think you could afford me? I won’t be patronized, signore. If I help you, it’s on Assefa’s account. He says he’s in danger. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For something he did?’

  ‘For something he knows. Something we both know.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me what it is?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘It’s very complicated. There’s no need for you to know, and I think you could be in danger if you did. Please trust us.’

  Surian looked at Patrick keenly.

  ‘Vaffianculo!’ he swore, his manner changing abruptly. ‘I don’t trust anyone, least of all an American. You fuckers have air bases all over this country, all over Europe. You pull the strings and

  we dance. And if there’s a war, we’ll do the dying while you watch. So please don’t ask me to trust you.’

  ‘Claudio, please ... he’s trying to help me,’ Makonnen pleaded, trying to pacify his friend.

  ‘Sure he is. And from what you told me, he needs a little help himself. But before I start helping strangers - and I include you in that, Assefa - I want to know what’s going on.’ Pausing, he reached into his shirt pocket to draw out a tin of tobacco and some Rizla papers. He began to roll a cigarette, carefully teasing the strands of tobacco onto the thin sheet.

  What are you?’ he asked. ‘CIA?’

  ‘This is private,’ Patrick argued.

  ‘Nothing’s private to the CIA. Go and ask for my file, if you haven’t done so already. See how private life is here.’

  ‘This isn’t a CIA matter,’ Patrick insisted. ‘Except ...’

  There was a querulous shout from an adjoining room.

  ‘Claudio! Claudio! Corri qui, sbrigati!’

  Surian excused himself and went through a door on his left. Patrick heard the sound of a raised voice behind the thin partition.

  ‘Con chi stai parlando, Claudio? Che e questa gente? Ti ho detto che non voglio amici tuoi a casa mia!’

  Then Surian’s voice, abruptly gentle again, patience in every syllable, placating, pacifying.

  ‘Nessuno, papa. Solo vecchi amici - se ne vanno subito. It’s no one, father. Just some old friends. They’ll be gone soon.’

  A minute later, the door opened and Surian returned. He took his seat once more without a word and finished rolling his cigarette. He replaced the tin in his pocket and took out a box of matches.

  ‘Do you mean to harm Migliau?’ Surian asked. He lit the thin cigarette and raised it to his lips.

  Patrick hesitated.

  ‘It’s nothing to me if you do,’ Surian said, blowing a ribbon of acrid smoke into the air. ‘Perhaps you would be doing some people a favour if you ... put him out of the way.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill him. I just want him to answer some questions, that’s all.’

  ‘And you think he will answer you?’

  Patrick shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps I might have to be a little rough with him.’

  Surian smiled sardonically.

  ‘I’m sure. Well ...’ He pulled on his cigarette. ‘I wish you luck.’

  ‘You aren’t going to help?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Yes, I’ll help if I can. Migliau’s bad news. A lot of people would like to see him out of action. There’s just one problem.’

  What’s that?’

  Surian stubbed the last of his cigarette out on the edge of his stool.

  ‘I made some enquiries after Assefa left this morning. A friend of mine works in the local office of the party newspaper, l’Unita. He was a little surprised when I told him I wanted information on Cardinal Migliau. What do you think he told me?’

  Pat
rick said nothing.

  ‘Early this morning, his best contact in the Carabinieri was in touch. Nobody is supposed to know, but it seems that Cardinal Migliau has been missing for three days. He was last seen going to his bedroom in the Palazzo Patriarcale on Monday. On Tuesday morning, his servant found the room empty. The church authorities waited twenty-four hours for a ransom note, then contacted the Carabinieri yesterday. A GIS squad arrived in Venice yesterday evening from Lavarno. Now, signore, suppose you tell me just what’s going on?’

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was dark by the time they left. The rain had stopped, but the atmosphere still held a muggy dampness, through which a nagging chill crept like neuralgia through bone. Patrick walked with Makonnen and Surian as far as the Rio Terra San Leonardo, where they parted company. The priest and his friend continued along the main street to the Lista di Spagna, where Surian had arranged to meet the reporter from l’Unita in a cafe.

  Patrick headed down to Santa Marcuola, where he took the water-bus across to the opposite bank, disembarking at San Stae. From there he plunged into a maze of narrowing lanes and alleyways, losing himself in their bewildering complexity. Yet he was never really lost. Each time he took a wrong turning, it came right in the end. He was guided by a directional instinct he had picked up during the two summers and single winter he had spent in Venice with Francesca.

  Little had altered since then. Shops had changed hands, street lights stood where none had been before, a few buildings had received fresh coats of paint. But the configuration of passages and bridges was just as he remembered it.

  Deeper and deeper he sank into the skein of alleys and canals, twisting and turning, yet always heading in the general direction of the Frari. It was not late, but the streets were nearly deserted. He passed a small pasticceria, where a group of men stood drinking coffee and talking in low voices at the counter. A scrawny cat ran across his path, darting from one doorway to the next. Patrick paused on the next bridge to take his bearings.

  Surian’s news had rattled him. He had managed to convince the mask-maker that he knew nothing about Migliau’s disappearance. But he could not rid himself of the nagging thought that there was a connection between it and the recent events in which he himself had been involved. Had Migliau been kidnapped? Certainly, that seemed more probable than that the cardinal should have taken flight simply because Patrick had uncovered some photographs in Dublin.