Sanborn insisted on paying a gondolier to take them back to a landing stage not far from Lucia’s apartment. On the way home, she prattled about how interesting the American was. Joly knew it was unwise to argue, but in the end he couldn’t resist pointing out that she was the one who had been unwilling to waste her evening in the company of two old men. Now she had committed them to a repeat, on his very last night in the city, when he would have preferred them to be alone.
“Could you have matched Darius’s hospitality? I do not think so, Joly.”
The next day was even hotter. Lucia went out to work early on and was intent on shopping during the afternoon. After lunching on a ham sandwich — no point in spoiling his appetite for the evening’s feast — Joly embarked on a last stroll around the gardens of Castello. Finding a seat beneath a leafy tree, he finished Death in Venice, then ambled back through the alleyways, absorbing the smells of the fish-sellers’ stalls and the chocolate shops, wondering how long it would be before he returned to La Serenissima. He understood what had kept Sanborn here. Once you became intoxicated with the beauties of Venice, the rest of the world must seem drab by comparison. But he was keen to sample Rome and after the previous night, he was more than ever convinced that this was the right time to break with Lucia.
When he arrived back at the flat, Lucia was short-tempered in the way that he now associated with her rare attacks of nervousness. She was bent upon impressing Sanborn, and she’d bought a slinky new red dress with a neckline so daring it bordered on indecent. It must have cost her a month’s wages. A carefully targeted investment — assuming she had footed the bill. Joly wondered if she’d met up with Sanborn during the day and managed to charm the cash out of him. He wouldn’t put it past either of them. So what? It was none of his business, soon he would be out of here.
The American and his sidekick were waiting for them at the appointed time, sitting at a table inside a restaurant close to Rialto. Sanborn’s suit tonight was a shade of pale cream. Zuichini was scruffy by comparison, his face more like a scary carnival mask than ever.
“Lucia, you look dazzling!”
Sanborn kissed her on both cheeks and Zuichini did likewise. Joly had never seen the bookbinder show such animation. The little dark eyes seemed to be measuring Lucia’s tanned flesh, no doubt wondering what she might look like when wearing no clothes. His attention pleased her. Perhaps she was hoping the two old men would fight over her. Even the waiter who took their order allowed his gaze to linger on her half-exposed breasts for longer than was seemly. The restaurant specialised in finest beef steak and Sanborn ordered four bottles of Bollinger.
“Tonight we celebrate!” he announced. “Over the past twenty-four hours, we have become firm friends. And although Joly is to move on tomorrow, with the lovely Lucia to follow, it is my firm conviction that all four of us will be reunited before too long.”
As their glasses clinked, Lucia’s eyes glowed. While they ate, the conversation turned to Joly’s plans. He made it clear that they remained fluid. It was his style, he said, to trust to luck. Sanborn challenged this, arguing that even a young man needed roots.
“Learn from my mistake, Joly. Until I discovered the wonders of this marvellous city, my life lacked direction. You need something to anchor your existence. A place, firm friends, perhaps a trade.”
Zuichini nodded with unaccustomed animation. “Right. That is right.”
“Listen to this good man. He knows the joys of a craft, the unique pleasure that comes with creation. This is where you can steal a march on me, Joly. I am proud of my collection of books, undeniably, but I have never experienced the delight of creating a masterpiece of my own. I cannot paint, or compose, or write to any level of acceptable competence. I lack skills of a practical nature. But you, my young friend, are different. If you were to put your talents to good purpose...”
“I have an idea!” Lucia clapped her hands. Champagne went to her head. After a single glass, already she was raising her voice and her skin was flushed. “Once you have seen Rome, you could come back here and train as Zuichini’s apprentice!”
The plague doctor’s face split in a horrid smile, while Sanborn exclaimed with delight.
“Perfect! There, Joly, you have your answer. How clever you are, Lucia. That way two birds could be killed with one stone. Joly would learn from a master at the height of his powers, and Zuichini would have a good man to whom he could pass on the tricks of his trade before it is too late.” Sanborn lowered his voice. “And there is something else that I have omitted to mention. Zuichini, may I? You see, Joly. This good fellow here, as you may have notice, is afflicted by a dreadful malady. Parkinson’s attacks the nervous system and he has been suffering stoically for some time. But it becomes increasingly difficult for him to work. An utter tragedy, sometimes I despair. Not only because Zuichini’s disability saddens me, but also from a selfish motive. For who will succeed him in business, who will practise his very special skills, so as to keep me supplied in fine books? In you, perhaps I have found the answer to my prayers.”
“I don’t think so,” Joly said slowly.
“Oh, but you must!” Lucia exclaimed. “Such an opportunity, to learn from a genius!”
Sanborn must have primed her with this idea and asked her to offer support. They’d met during the day, not only so that Sanborn could pay for the new dress. The American was, Joly thought, like the most demanding parent. He wanted to have the young folk beholden to him, at his beck and call and used his control of the purse strings to make sure they did not escape.
“I suppose I can mull it over, when I am in Rome.”
He’d expected Sanborn to suggest he abandoned his trip, but the old man surprised him, giving a broad smile and murmuring that he could not say fairer than that. Zuichini went so far as to give him a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Good apprentice, yes?”
While Joly tucked into the succulent beef, Sanborn talked about the art of binding books. He spoke of the pouch binding of Japanese books and the unique technique of nakatoji, of Jean Groller’s leather-bound tomes covered with intricate geometric paterns, inlaid with coloured enamels and books bound in the flayed skin of murderers and highwaymen. He told them about cheverell, a goatskin parchment transformed into a binding both supple and strong with a bold, grainy pattern, popular in Italy during the fourteenth century, he described methods of fatliquoring leather, he explained...
“Joly, wake up!”
He became aware of Lucia’s sharp elbow, digging into his side. Sanborn was beaming at him like a benevolent uncle, surveying a favourite nephew who has overdone the Christmas pudding. Zuichini was savouring his wine, still casting the occasional frank glance at Lucia’s ample cleavage.
“Sorry, must have dropped off.”
“Please do not apologise, I beg you,” Sanborn said. “Put your sleepiness down to a combination of the wine and the weather. Perhaps accompanied by a tinge of tristesse — am I right, young man? This is your last night in La Serenissima for a little while and who could fail to experience a frisson of regret at departing from here?” He refilled their glasses, taking no notice when Joly shook his head. “So let us drink to our good friend Joly, and express the sincere hope that soon he will be back here for good!”
He reached out and patted Joly’s arm. Blearily, Joly tried to focus on how to interpret the old man’s behaviour. His hand did not linger. Had it been unfair to impute to him some sexual motive for such generosity? Perhaps in truth Sanborn’s generosity did not amount to anything out of the ordinary. For a rich man, the cost of the dinner was small change. Sanborn was probably no more than he seemed, a lonely old millionaire, keen to share the company of the young and beautiful, as well as that of his ailing friend.