In fact, Edward Hillstone wondered how she could live with herself. Even if it wouldn’t be for much longer.
BOOK SIX
Venice, 1556
Aretino keeps to his house. Takes the passage from the back entrance across his private bridge to enter the city. He puffs with exertion, for worry has made him even more gross; he sweats with the weight of his sins and sends presents to Titian’s studio, pleading for forgiveness.
Pomponio is innocent, Aretino says, I was wrong. So misguided, so duped by the merchant.
And what of the merchant, Vespucci? Aretino fears no exposure now. His championing of the killer is done with; and he will tell anyone with a mind to hear that Vespucci is no more. The mob which bayed outside the merchant’s house is told of a disappearance. Vespucci has cheated the judge, the prison, the rope. The Skin Hunter has gone, and taken his prizes with him.
I was wrong, says Aretino, deceived as we all were.
But Titian will have none of it. Pomponio, still smarting from the accusations, plans to leave, but not before he rails against his father for being the writer’s dupe. It does no good for Titian to respond; each word is taken as a blow, one more sliver of malice driven into the priest’s tight heart.
Titian has lost his son. Again. And his friend. His closest ally levered from his side by treachery.
Vespucci gone, they showed the portrait in the church, Titian ordering where it should be placed. They suspended the merchant’s likeness as they would have hanged the man himself. I heard some talk that the artist was offering it for penance. For payment of Vespucci’s sins. That Titian’s genius might atone for all the winter’s butchery. Yet the night after it was exhibited, a fire started in the vestry. It burned the rafters, tore through half the roof, and every pew was rendered black as an imp’s hand.
Only the painting was untouched.
On Titian’s orders a notice was hung up in St Mark’s Square, saying the portrait would be destroyed. Someone sent news to Aretino, who came to beg for it. He mourns his loss of influence with the painter, he fears his loss of revenue from Titian, as once he feared exposure from the merchant.
But Vespucci will not speak against him. For Vespucci will not speak again … He has gone, disappeared, leaving no trace. There is no body. None has come up from the water, surfacing, bloated on a late tide. There is no carcass left flayed for the birds to peck at, no music coming across the water, no sounds of a hundred lurid couplings, no grumblings from misers, gluttons, deviants and their whores.
The fogs of Venice lifted when the portrait disappeared. When it was gone the winds dispersed, and clouds as wide as continents gave way to the sun’s return.
They say we have our city back. The darkness has left us; gone with Vespucci and his likeness. Gone with the merchant and the merchant’s image. Gone on some nether tide, out to the sea, to the slithering depths of all damnation. They say we are no longer bewitched.
Look how the Doge recovers, the ships coming back to land.
They say the coldest and most terrible of winters is passed; that God is back among us. Some even tell of flowers come to blossom, of fruit ripening out of season, and angels settling on the bell tower of St Mark’s.
But Titian sees no angels, paints no flowers. He grieves. A lesser man would seek out some revenge, but his regret is contained, and swells like a boil in the heart. He walks Venice like a man without his shadow and a hollow grows inside him.
And I watch him. As I watch Aretino. I see what others see, but Venice is not delivered yet.
Aretino might have picked the merchant’s grave and made him own it, but another waits. The water sits beneath us, its cold wet mouth yawning in the darkness, its gills moving with the tide. It waits for the bloated carcass of Aretino to fall, panicked and gasping, into the muddy hollow of its lair.
Under the water he will go. Down with the dead soldiers, dogs and devils. Down with Vespucci, caught up in all the green weeds of his lies. Down with the suicides, the lusty priests, the cripples and the damned. Down with all the other traitors.
But Aretino suspects nothing. He walks like a man who has rid himself of a threat, and is now sure of forgiveness. For Titian loves him still. In time he would, against judgement and logic, allow Aretino to return. Against reason, and tempting destruction, he would let him in.
He would.
But I will not.
62
29 December
In Kensington, Nino Bergstrom was on his computer, looking for Rachel. Working his way through newspaper art pages and internet listings, he turned to the Spotlight magazine for actors. But there was only one Rachel who was white, young and pretty.
He rang her, but a man answered, apparently her husband. Without alarming anyone, Nino asked if she would be available for an interview, only to be told that Rachel was in hospital preparing for the birth of her second child, in two weeks’ time.
Wrong Rachel.
Checking Spotlight, and the US version of the actors’ magazine, he looked for any reference to productions about Vespucci being cast. Nothing. Then he turned to The Stage and searched that paper. Again, there was nothing referring to The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci, or even plays set in Venice. In desperation, Nino trailed through every forthcoming play about murderers and their crimes – of which there were many.
It seemed that every town, city or state was putting on some play about a killer. But none of them were about Angelico Vespucci. The morning came and went, Gaspare made lunch and Nino kept working. At three, the dealer went to a hospital appointment and Nino returned to the archives in the London Central Library, looking back into the past. Perhaps something had been written before, and was being rewritten? Again, he drew a blank. He worked through every listing he could find about theatre staff in the UK and the USA, looking for Rachel. But Nino knew it was a long shot. The theatrical world was a movable feast – people came and went monthly, or changed their names, or moved into different areas. And he didn’t know what the elusive Rachel actually did. Actor, manager, agent, painter, costume designer or stage doorman. His request to discover the names of angels – the backers who put up money for shows – was met with silence. Most wanted to remain anonymous.
December 28 had passed, December 29 was coming in, and still Nino had nothing to go on. At one point he even wondered if he was completely off target, if the victim had simply been photographed in front of a theatre without having any connection to it. Deflated, he then checked his last search – and this time there was a result: three theatres whose names began with HA.
HAMPTON THEATRE
HAILSTONE THEATRE
THE HAMLET THEATRE
The first was in Basingstoke, the second in Dorset and the third in Battersea.
Tapping out the name of The Hamlet Theatre, Nino entered their website. At the top of the home page was a list of reviews, all favourable and widespread in the press, some of the theatre’s actors surprisingly well known.
Welcome!
We are a small company, but one of the most innovative in the UK. Although we have only been in existence for seven years, our play on W. H. Auden – Salut, Salut – was a hit on Broadway in New York, and in the West End, London.