Gobbo raised an eyebrow at me from the corner. Delapole is neither as impoverished nor as credulous as he wishes to appear, I think. No aristocratic fop could make his way alone through Europe for three years or more, as I understand he has, without a brain in his head. At least I hoped so if we were, together, to outwit my uncle.
“Well then, young Scacchi,” he demanded. “I am at your service.”
I had rehearsed these words in my head as best I could beforehand. This was a tricky path I sought to negotiate, and one with steep chasms on either side.
“Sir,” I began. “I wish to speak alone, if you permit.”
“What? Not in front of your friend here? Why, I think he will be quite offended.”
Gobbo did look shocked. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame him.
“It is not that I mistrust anyone, sir. But I believe what I have to say is best confined to as few as possible.”
“Oh,” Delapole objected. “Two sets of ears are scarcely more than one. Young Gobbo knows things about me that would set your hair on fire, lad, and never has he betrayed a trust. If he can’t hear it, neither can I. For if it requires action, then who should I turn to but my manservant?”
He had a point there. “As you please. But first let me say that I bring this news to you reluctantly. It pains me to reveal it, and in doing so, I place myself and one I admire at your mercy. You have shown yourself to be a good and generous man, Mr. Delapole, and I would not presume on these admirable qualities more than I have already.”
He cast a weary eye out of the window at the traffic on the water. “It’s obvious you’re not a Venetian, Scacchi. Three whole sentences there and you didn’t ask me for money once.”
“It is not your money that I need, sir. It is your advice and wisdom and impartiality. For I fear a grave injustice is about to be done which will harm one you have already honoured with your kindness.”
His pallid English face looked intrigued at that. He took a tall dining chair at the old walnut table which formed the centrepiece of the room and waved both Gobbo and me to join him. Once seated, I took a deep breath and told my tale, as accurately and as clearly as I knew it, withholding only those things which I deemed irrelevant, the most important being my own relationship with Rebecca Levi. I also left, for the moment, the matter of her race.
As I fell into the rhythm of my exposition, I relaxed a little, seeing on Delapole’s face, and even Gobbo’s, some shock at my revelations. Both had marvelled at Rebecca’s virtuosity in La Pietà; to learn that she wrote the selfsame marvel astonished them. When I told them how Leo had held on to her single manuscript and sought to bargain with it to his advantage, Gobbo gave out a low whistle.
“There,” he said with some self-satisfaction. “I told you that man was a bad ’un, Scacchi. You can see it in his weasel eyes. No one treats his own blood like he treats you, especially when you’re new orphaned and left in a place like this.”
“You did tell me, my friend,” I agreed. “And I listened to you. But he is still my uncle, and I his apprentice. It is his right to treat me so, and if this were simply a matter of his attitude to me, I would not trouble you with my worries. I cannot, though, sit by while he wrongs another, and one whose talents are so great.”
Delapole was puzzled. Rightly so, for I had left out the crucial element in my tale, and without it nothing made sense. “I don’t see it, Scacchi. It’s very odd, I’ll admit, for a young girl to produce such stuff as this. Raises a few issues, I’m sure, particularly with the older generation. But what’s to stop her standing up and riding the storm? She wrote it. Presumably there’s more where that came from. There’ll be a few catcalls, naturally. Vivaldi gets his share of them these days. Why doesn’t she just take a deep breath and get on with it?”
He gazed at me across the ancient, polished table, and I knew I hadn’t judged him wrong. Delapole could cut to the heart of matters when required. The English foppishness was a façade behind which lurked a canny brain.
“Because it is impossible. She is a Jew, though none outside her circle know it, save for me and Leo.”
The long, sallow face regarded me with puzzlement. “A Jew? Good God. Are you sure, lad? Being English, I’m not so good at these things. If they don’t wear a badge or that thing on their head, I’m damned if I can spot them. Why, I swear I could strike up conversation with a Negro in the dark and never know and—”
“I am sure, sir. Every night when she has played for Vivaldi, under the name Rebecca Guillaume, I have secreted her out of the ghetto on false pretences.”
Gobbo groaned. “Oh, Scacchi. You are in it now, up to your neck.”
Delapole seemed mystified. “But is this such a problem? So, she’s a woman. So, she’s a Jew. Damn fine player as well, and quite a beauty too. We’re not living in the Dark Ages. What difference does it make?”
“Maybe none in London, Master,” Gobbo groaned. “But this is Venice, and the Doge has his rules. They live where they’re told. They stay behind their walls after nightfall. They keep out of our churches lest their presence defile the place. To break those rules is to defy the Doge, and we all know where that leads.”
“I still don’t understand,” Delapole persisted. “It’s such a little thing in the face of such talent. Why, it might add a little colour to the tale. A touch of melodrama never did any artist harm.”
We said nothing. He looked at our faces, and it was our grim silence that finally convinced him. “Very well,” he admitted. “I accept your interpretation of these facts. There are times, Gobbo, when I miss my native soil. A spot of English practicality would do you folk no end of good. I deem it somewhat amazing that Venice should find itself possessor of, apparently, the first great woman musician the world has known, and thinks the best way to deal with this news is to throw her in prison, then start spouting mumbo-jumbo and throwing incense in the air. If I’d wanted Spanish habits, I’d have gone to Spain.”
Gobbo looked sideways at me. Delapole did not appreciate the gravity of the position. The Doge was impartial in his interpretation of the law. He’d throw a loose-tongued Englishman in jail as quickly as a Hebrew impostor if it suited him.
“I think, sir,” Gobbo said carefully, “it would be best if we keep this matter to ourselves and not make light of the Republic’s justice outside these walls. You are a celebrity in this city, and that makes you an easy target for the gossips.”
At that the Englishman grew very cross. “Oh, so that will be their gratitude, will it? To scrawl my name on some false charge and drop it in one of those stupid leonine pisspots, eh? By God, they should not do down this poor girl so cruelly. You blame your uncle, Scacchi, but let me tell you, without the city on his side, he’d never dream of acting thus. This place is rotten as a pear, and that’s what leads him on.”
“I agree, sir,” I answered, nodding. “But what is to be done?”
“Tell me,” he replied. “What’s old Leo’s game?”
“To claim he is the composer when the moment arises.”
“A week today is when we’re set for the revelation,” Gobbo interjected. “It was supposed to be sooner, but Vivaldi’s playing up about the dates. I believe he sees it as his nemesis. Can’t put it off forever, though. Three o’clock at La Pietà. Quite a commotion that will be.”
“Before that,” I continued, “I fear Leo will offer Rebecca some arrangement. He will take the credit — and the money. In return, her secret remains safe with him and she gets a little income, perhaps. I don’t know. The cards are all in his hand.”
“That they are,” Gobbo agreed glumly.
“And what of the girl?” Delapole asked. “What does she think?”
“I am not sure what she thinks, sir.”