“Signor Massiter,” he said, smiling broadly. “You grace our city with your presence and your generosity once more, sir. How can we express our gratitude?”
“Oh, Scacchi,” Massiter replied, “there are ways and ways. Something to sell, perhaps? I have a particular object in mind. We must speak of it.”
Scacchi shook his head. “I regret I have nothing of the calibre you rightly expect. I merely deal in baubles these days. But who knows?”
Massiter introduced the girl he was speaking to as Amy Hartston, aged eighteen, from Portland, Maine. Scacchi bowed. Daniel took her soft hand and, awkwardly, shook it. She had long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, a constant smile, and the blank, vague prettiness Daniel had, against his own wishes, come to associate with a certain breed of American student.
“I don’t recall you from two years ago,” she said to Daniel in an odd accent, American, but with a genteel flatness not unlike old-fashioned upper-class English.
“I wasn’t here. I’ve never visited Venice before.”
“Wow.” She seemed amazed. “You live in England and you’ve never been here?”
“Not everyone has the advantage of a rich and generous father, my dear,” Massiter declared.
“He’s glad to get rid of me for the summer vacation,” she grumbled. “This is just camp under another name.”
Massiter beamed. He seemed, Daniel thought, much too disengaged, much too pleasant, to be the owner of a large and successful company working in the aggressively competitive world of art sales. “Ah, the young,” he said. “Never explain. Never apologise. Never feel grateful.”
“About sums it up!” Amy Hartston agreed cheerfully.
“Hmmm,” Massiter grunted, then said, “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up her violin case, gently opened it, and removed the instrument inside. Daniel Forster blinked at what Massiter held up for all to see in the poor light of La Pietà. It was an ancient fiddle, unmistakably Italian, probably of the early eighteenth century.
“This,” Massiter announced, “is what I seek, Scacchi. Well, almost, anyway. You recognise it? No peeking at the label, now.”
The old man took the fiddle and held it in his hands, inspecting the instrument minutely from top to tailpiece. The violin had a shallow belly and a narrow waist. In the yellowish artificial light it seemed a light chestnut colour, with some marks, a few old, a few more recent, perhaps the result of a clumsy owner.
“I hate these parlour games,” the old man complained. “One should not rush into a judgement.”
Massiter was unmoved. “Oh, come on, Scacchi. It’s easy enough for a man like you.”
“Hmmm,” Scacchi murmured. “I would prefer a look in good light, and with a glass, but without that I shall hazard a guess. Cremona, undoubtedly. There is no sign of Saint Theresa, so it cannot be Andrea Guarneri, though it has his feel to it. But that narrow waist. It must be the son, Giuseppe, I think. Early eighteenth century…perhaps 1720 or so.”
Amy’s eyes opened wide. “Unbelievable. How do you do that? To me it just feels like a great fiddle.”
“And it is,” Massiter said. “Though not of the highest order. I seek something rather better. From another Guarneri.”
Scacchi surveyed him, his face full of scepticism. “You mean Giuseppe del Gesù, I imagine? But, Massiter, you know there are so few of those in the world. If one were to come onto the market, everyone would know about it.”
Massiter snorted. “The open market, yes. But we play the game, Scacchi. We know there are rules and rules. Sell like that, and there are taxes to pay. And a commission to a dealer like me. The instrument I have heard of is one of his beauties, big and bold, worth a fortune, and with a canny seller who’s reluctant to show his or her face. Funny, that, eh? You, I imagine, have heard the same rumour. Now, don’t deny it.”
Scacchi demurred. It seemed to Daniel that the old man was incapable of deception in the face of Massiter’s iron-grey stare.
“You hear such nonsense on the streets, Massiter. We both know you cannot believe a word.”
Massiter’s right arm stole around Scacchi’s shoulders, then squeezed, quite hard, the flesh close to his neck. “Of course. But you will alert me should a little bird sing, won’t you? My money’s as good as any man’s.”
Scacchi took one short step backwards to detach himself from Massiter’s grip. “Daniel here is my guest and part of your school for the duration. If you have anything to say to me, or I to you, perhaps we should communicate through him. I am too feeble these days to be disturbed by the telephone.”
Massiter stared at Daniel, as did Amy Hartston. Daniel had the feeling he was being judged.
“Very well,” replied Massiter with a sudden, efficient smile, before turning his attention completely to the girl. “And as for you, my dear, I should be grateful if you would join me for dinner at the Locanda Cipriani tomorrow. They have sea urchins and bass ravioli and the finest mantis shrimp you’ll ever taste. Afterwards I’ll show you some very fine devils.”
“Cool!” the girl answered, eyes glittering.
Massiter clapped his hands lightly. “My launch leaves at seven. And you…” He peered at Daniel. “The name again?”
“Daniel Forster, sir.”
“Would you care to come along, Daniel Forster?”
He looked at Scacchi. The old man shooed him on. “Good Lord, Daniel. The only way the likes of us will eat at that place on Torcello is if someone else is paying the bill!”
“But the work, Scacchi?”
“There is always time for work. You are here to enjoy yourself too.”
“Then it’s agreed!” Massiter announced with some finality. “Both of you, bring your fiddles and some notes you intend to submit for the composition section. This circus costs me plenty, so I may ask you to play for your supper. Now…!” He clapped his large hands again, loudly so that all in the airy, oval church might hear. “On with the show, children! Avanti! Avanti! Play as if it were your last day upon this earth!”
14
The taste of mud
What an unattractive trait jealousy is! I report to you, honestly, about the people I meet, and the next thing I know, your letters are spitting viper’s venom from the page. Did I react like a madman when you told me about that handsome, flashing-eyed Spaniard you met by the banks of the Guadalquivir? Let us have a little perspective here, sister. We are currently spectators in our respective worlds, children who have by accident flitted into some fancy costume ball where we scarcely belong. Would you have me tell you pious fairy tales that are as dull as ditchwater?
Still, if you wish a break from the “lovely Rebecca,” as you describe her (no, I won’t argue with that), you shall have it, though it disrupts the thread of this narrative for no good reason other than your own vanity.
The day after our visit to La Pietà (which I shall chronicle for you next), I attended with Uncle Leo when he joined Mr. Delapole at Venezia Triofante. This is one of those fashionable co fee shops where the city seems to spend inordinate parts of the day stirring small cups of a muddy brown fluid that looks as if it has just been dredged from the bed of the lagoon. I imagine there is no co fee in Seville. It is a creation of the East brought here by the Arabs apparently, who are forbidden by the Koran to consume it themselves and so sell it on to us in order to rot good Christian brains and teeth. Almost every doorway in St. Mark’s piazza now leads to a botteghe de caffè. They may soon convert the basilica into one, too, I imagine. You have no idea what geography has spared you.