“You and she must join us for dinner, be my guests, it would be a pleasure.”
“Oh no, really, we couldn’t impose...”
Sanborn dismissed the protestations with a flick of his hand. He was old and deliberate and yet Joly recognised this was a man accustomed to getting his own way. “Please. I insist. I know a little seafood restaurant, they serve food so wonderful you will never forget it. Am I right, Zuichini?”
The wizened man cackled and nodded. A gleam lit his small eyes.
“Well, I’m not sure...”
But within a couple of minutes it was agreed and Joly stumbled out into the glare of the sun with the American’s good wishes ringing in his ears. Zuichini’s small, plague-mask head merely nodded farewell; he’d uttered no more than two dozen words in the space of half an hour. Joly blinked, unaccustomed to wine that hit so hard; but the pleasure was worth the pain.
When he met up with Lucia, she made a fuss about the dinner. It was in her nature to complain, she regarded it as a duty not to agree to anything he suggested without making him struggle.
“With two old men? Why would we wish to do this? After tomorrow we will be apart, perhaps for ever. Are you tired with me already?”
Exaggeration was her stock-in-trade, but he supposed she was right and that they would not see each other again after he left the city. The plan was for him to travel to Rome and for her to join him there in a fortnight, after she’d been paid for the month by the restaurant. He’d arranged it like that so there was an opportunity for their relationship to die a natural death. He hated break-up scenes. It would be so easy for them not to get together again in the Eternal City. If he wanted to return to Venice, he would rather do so free from encumbrances. Plenty more fish in the sea. As for their argument, in truth she too found the prospect of a slap-up meal at a rich man’s expense appealing. After twenty minutes she stopped grumbling and started to deliberate about what she might wear.
They went back to her place and made love. By the time she’d dressed up for the evening, she was relishing the prospect of meeting someone new. She would love parading before the old men; admiration turned her on more than anything exotic he tried with her in bed. At first he’d found her delightful. He’d even persuaded himself that she might have hidden depths. But in truth Lucia was as shallow as the meanest canal in the city.
Against his expectations, the dinner was a success, early awkwardness and stilted conversation soon smoothed by a rich, full-blooded and frighteningly expensive red wine. Sanborn, in a fresh white suit, did most of the talking. Zuichini remained content to let his patron speak for him, occupying himself with a lascivious scrutiny of the ample stretches of flesh displayed by Lucia’s little black dress. Her ankle tattoo, a small blue heart, had caught the American’s eye.
“In honour of young Joly?” he asked, with an ostentatious twinkle.
Lucia tossed her head. “I had it done in Sicily, the day of my sixteenth birthday. The first time I fell in love.”
“It is as elegant and charming as the lady whom it adorns.” Sanborn had a habit of giving a little bow whenever he paid a compliment. “Take a look, Zuichini, do you not agree?”
The wizened man leaned over to study the tattoo. His beak twitched in approval, the gleam in his dark eyes was positively sly. Even Lucia blushed under his scrutiny.
Sanborn said smoothly, “I have long admired the tattooist’s skill. Your heart is a fine example.”
Lucia smiled prettily. “Thank you, Mr Sanborn.”
“Darius, please. I like to think we are friends.”
“Darius, of course.”
She basked in the glow of his genial scrutiny. Joly broke off a piece of bread and chewed hard. He was revising his opinion about their host’s sexual orientation. Perhaps the old goat fancied trying his luck once Joly had left town. Fair enough. He was welcome to her.
“Do you know, Zuichini, I rather think that young Lucia’s heart is as elegant as Sophia’s dove. What do you say?”
The bookbinder paused in the act of picking something from his teeth and treated Lucia to a satyr’s grin. “Uh-huh, I guess.”
He didn’t speak much English and his accent was a weird pastiche American. Perhaps he’d picked it up from watching old movies. His idea of a matinee idol was probably Peter Lorre. Why did Sanborn spend so much time with him, if they were not lovers, past or present? Joly asked if Sophia was Sanborn’s daughter.
“Good heavens, no. Alas, like you, I have no family. Sophia was a young lady whom Zuichini and I came to know — what? — two or three years ago. She worked behind a bar down the Via Garibaldi. We were both very fond of her. And she had this rather lovely neck tattoo, in the shape of a flying dove with broad, outstretched wings. As with Lucia’s lovely heart, I have no doubt that it was carved by a gifted artist.”
“You admire well-made creations?” Lucia asked, preening.
Sanborn patted her lightly on the hand. “Indeed I do, my dear. My tastes are not confined to fine books.”
Over the meal, he told them a little about his life. He’d inherited money — his grandfather had been president of an oil company — and he’d devoted years to travelling the world and indulging his taste for curios. Although he had never visited Venice until he was fifty years old, as he sailed into the lagoon and drank in the sights from the Bacino di San Marco, he resolved to make the city his home. By the sound of it, he lived in some grand palazzo overlooking the Canal Grande, and kept his income topped up with the rent from apartments that he’d been wise enough to buy up as the years passed. For all the talk of flooding, you could make good money on property in the city. Demand would always exceed supply.
“I always had a love of books, though it was not until I met Zuichini here that I started to collect in earnest. Are you a reader, Lucia, my dear?”
She shook her head. “No, I am too young. I tell this to Joly. He is of an age where there should be no time to read. He should live a bit.”
“Well, books are not simply a delight for desiccated old rascals like me or Zuichini here You must not be hard on your young man. Seems to me he does pretty well for himself, living the dolce vita on a budget while indulging in old books whenever he finds a moment to spare.”
Joly caught Zuichini peering down the front of Lucia’s dress. Their eyes met briefly and the little man gave his toothless smile. Perhaps even he would find time to break off from binding books if only he could spend a night with Lucia. It wouldn’t happen, though, unless Sanborn was in a mood to share. Joly savoured his swordfish. He didn’t care. If the American showered her with money and presents, there was little doubt that Lucia would be content to do his bidding until she got bored. She’d confided in Joly that she’d worked in a lap dancing club in Milan and finished up living with the man who owned the joint. He was something high up in the Mafia, but after a few weeks he’d tired of her complaining and she’d managed to escape him without a scratch. Joly reckoned there wasn’t much she wasn’t willing to do, provided the price was right.
He felt his eyelids drooping before Sanborn snapped knobbly, arthritic fingers and asked the waiter to bring coffee. Before he knew what was happening, Lucia had accepted Sanborn’s offer that they dine together again as his guests the following night. He didn’t object — it was a free meal, and who cared if Sanborn was a dirty old man with an ulterior motive? Already he had spent enough time in the American’s company to know that he was both persuasive and determined. If he wanted to spend his money, if Lucia wanted to sell her favours, who was Joly to stand in their way?