Rizzo said nothing. Massiter laughed. “Do you know the difference between us, Rizzo?”
“You’re smart. I’m dumb.”
The Englishman laughed again and patted Rizzo lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’re quite the clever boy. No. The difference is that you steal things for themselves. While I…acquire them in order that I might, if they are of suitable quality, become their owner. What interests you is the object. What interests me is the act of possession.”
“Got you,” Rizzo said uncertainly.
“Let me put it more succinctly. You are a thief. I am a collector. We’ll leave it at that, shall we?”
The Englishman got up, stretching his legs as if they hurt.
“That girl owned an object which belongs to me. I have missed it since her death. I hear things, Rizzo. I hear something very like it could be for sale right now, if a man were to go to the right place and offer the right kind of money. I wonder where it is. I wonder how it got there.”
Rizzo made sure he didn’t move a single muscle in his face. “What do you want me to do?”
“Why,” Massiter replied, with the warm, beaming smile again, “watch. Listen. Be my eyes. Be my ears.” He looked at the large and expensive watch on his wrist. It was close to one. “Then tell me everything you know. But for now, you’d best get the hell out of here. I have a reception to attend, with people who know me to be the very picture of modern rectitude. And since I’m paying for the thing, I’ll be damned if I don’t get a little entertainment while they drink my wine.”
7
Beyond the law
Intrigue! Intrigue!
There. I have you instantly. None of this is fiction, either. Your hapless brother is in the thick of it, and I cannot help but wonder what dangers and mysteries lurk around the corner.
Yesterday Leo called me in to the parlour and said very gravely that I was to go about important and confidential business on behalf of the House of Scacchi. Vivaldi, that Red Priest of great fame, is teetering on his throne. His muse, it seems, has left him, and so have several of his players. The priest’s reputation rests, of course, on the little band of female musicians he had gathered together at La Pietà. Well, sickness, arguments (plenty of them), and attrition over the years have left him short. Vivaldi must play his usual concert season, yet lacks the talent to perform his works.
I thought for one ghastly moment that Leo was expecting me to don a frock and enter the lists, and was about to plead terror, incontinence, or a sudden stiffness in the hands — anything I could think of. Uncle shook his head impatiently, reading my mind, and explained. “Not you, lad. He needs a fiddle-player, and I know just the one. I’m too busy. Be the girl’s chaperone. Take a gondola there and back. Spare no expense. Vivaldi’s a fading power in this city, no doubt, but even a ghost may have influence.”
“You want me to accompany the lady to the church, sir? Is she ill?”
“No,” he replied, and I thought I saw a touch of sly fear in his eyes. “She is a Jew!”
I had not the faintest idea what to make of this. “A Jew? But this is impossible. How can she play in a Christian church, Uncle? I don’t believe Vivaldi may allow it.”
“I don’t believe Vivaldi need know! The lady in question is presentable and highly talented. She can play anything the priest may throw at her— and more. If she were Gentile, and a man, I daresay she’d be packing the concert hall by herself. But she’s a Jew and a pretty little thing, so that’s that. She has neither a hook nose nor a beard. Provided you can get her there safely and persuade her to remove her red scarf before you enter the church, Vivaldi won’t think twice. And once he hears her play, he’s caught!”
The dusty parlour felt cold as he said this. I may not know much about Jews, but I do know they are not allowed to walk the streets without some badge announcing their breeding and may not, under any circumstance, enter a church. Imprisonment, or worse, would surely follow. And prison, too, for any who encouraged them to break the Doge’s law.
“I think the schedule is not so busy, sir, that you may not undertake this yourself. I am just a lad. I don’t know the city so well as you.”
Leo’s eyes, dark at the best of times, narrowed and became unreadable. “I believe I am the one who enters the daily catalogue of this trade’s calendar, Lorenzo. When I took you in from penury and made you my apprentice, you agreed to do my every bidding. Now, kindly meet that side of your contract.”
“But, sir! What if we are caught!”
“Then I shall be most disappointed and deny all knowledge of your tricks. This is a dirty world. You cannot prosper without dipping your hands into the muck from time to time.”
Yes, I thought. My hands.
“Besides, boy. You may find it more enjoyable than you expect.”
I said nothing, hoping he would relent. But Uncle Leo is made of sti f board. He never bends. He never so much as wavers.
“And if I refuse, sir?”
“Then you can pack your bag and find your own way through this life. If I don’t have a congratulatory letter from Vivaldi on my desk by tomorrow morning, you might as well do that anyway. Fat use you are to me in the press room, spilling ink and printing pages upside down.”
With that he thrust some small coinage into my hand — enough for the gondola only if I walked all the way to meet my Hebrew charge and back again — and a scribbled piece of paper, then went back to reading the proofs of some piece of medical quackery destined for the Arabs.
I am, sister, still alive, of course, and free enough to write this letter, which you will, I trust, burn immediately. So you may see that, so far anyway, this adventure has not yet devoured the life of your little brother, though it gives me small opportunity to sleep at night, for a variety of reasons.
8
A mission
Daniel Forster’s first full day in the city was, at Scacchi’s suggestion, spent in some solitary sightseeing. He arrived back at the large house by the square of San Cassian at five and was summoned, on the ringing of the church bells at six, for the evening rituaclass="underline" spritz. Scacchi drank three large tumblers, each bloodred, Paul a little less. Laura, both servant and guest, had but a single glass.
Scacchi looked fitter today. His face had more colour to it, and his mood seemed much improved. Daniel understood the nature of the illness afflicting both men yet believed he could not begin to appreciate how deeply it might alter their moods. Laura’s plea for his consideration towards both of them was not, in truth, necessary.
“You know how this young man found his way here, Laura?” Scacchi asked.
She exchanged a glance with Paul. “You may have mentioned it once or twice. But do, please, jog my memory.”
“Why, through genius! There he is, writing some thesis on the Venetian printing industry in that famed college of his in Oxford. And what does he do? Finds that one of the humbler printing houses still exists! In bricks and mortar alone, of course. I salute your dedication, Daniel!” Scacchi’s glass bobbed up and down. “It is more than two hundred and fifty years since a page was printed on these premises, and still you track us down!”