“It is her decision, Scacchi. If Leo comes up with some compromise she finds satisfactory — she continues to compose in freedom while he picks up the plaudits — there’s nothing we could or should do.”
“I agree, sir. But knowing Rebecca as I do…”
Those pale-blue English eyes never left me.
“… I do not doubt for a moment that Miss Levi will have all the glory or none. She has risked everything to smuggle her art out of the ghetto. Even if she were to sign such a covenant, I fully believe it would of itself stifle her such that she might never write nor play again.”
“Hmmm.” He stood up and walked over to the window. We watched him. Delapole was the master here. Both of us depended on his guidance. Gobbo fetched me a playful punch upon the arm as if to say It will be all right.
We waited for his decision. After a full five minutes, he returned to the table, sat purposefully in his chair, and regarded me.
“A wise man should think twice before crying ‘injustice’ in a society which is itself unjust. I am a foreigner here, and one who has already paid his dues, as it were.”
My heart sank, though I could not argue with his logic. “I only seek your counsel, sir, nothing else. It is your foreignness that draws me here. If you were a Venetian, then my name would be heading for the Doge’s clerks the moment I left this room, and Rebecca Levi abandoned to her fate alone.”
He smiled. “You’ve got a fair turn of phrase on you, lad, I’ll say that. Even saw off that twittering peacock Rousseau once or twice, and he was no fool.”
“I thank you, sir. I shall not think one iota the less of you if we never speak of this again.”
“Oh, come.” His hand reached across the table and patted mine in a gesture which was almost paternal. “You are a serious fellow, Scacchi. Do smile a little now and then.”
My heart was pounding. “You’ll help me, then?”
He glanced at Gobbo. “Between the two of you, make an appointment with the girl. In daytime, please. No more subterfuge on my part. Until I know her thoughts, it’s impossible to proceed. But yes, Scacchi, I’ll do what I can, pathetic and misguided as it may be.”
The Englishman clapped his hands. “There! Another smile! We’ll cure this melancholy yet, young Scacchi. Gobbo, buy him a drink around the corner. I need some solitude. There’s many a solution to this puzzle. It requires only some thought and prescience on our part.”
He stood up. We did likewise. “Sir,” I said, bowing. “I will always be in your debt. As will Miss Levi.”
“If debt is friendship in another form, I think I must be both the most loved and loving man in all the world. Now, be off with you. And cheer him up, Gobbo.”
Which he tried to do, after his own fashion, by leading me into one of the low taverns by the rio and introducing a couple of his lady friends. They were both pretty, with large eyes and straight black hair, scarlet dresses, and a ready manner.
Gobbo took me aside for a moment and said, “Come on, Scacchi. I think we’ll get this ride for free. Both find you comely.”
“I don’t wish to offend,” I replied. “My mood isn’t up for it, Gobbo.”
“Your mood. Your mood. Well, there goes my sport.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Huh.” He stared at me. “I hope she’s worth it, my friend. Your little Jewish mistress could kill us all if Delapole steps too far out of line.”
I finished my wine and went outside. It had been a satisfactory morning. I had no intention of spoiling it by feeding Gobbo’s curiosity. Soon there were more immediate matters to occupy my mind. When I returned to Ca’ Scacchi, Leo was at his desk, waiting for me. I would not, I vowed then, allow him to beat me again. But he had a more subtle form of punishment.
“Lorenzo,” he said mock pleasantly. “I despair of you, I really do. All I ask is a simple task, that you remain at your office, and it goes undone. And now, being the generous soul I am, I intend to reward you with an adventure.”
The look of triumph on his face depressed me greatly. If he had found the time to speak to Rebecca, he had no intention of revealing the outcome to me.
“An adventure, Uncle?”
“There’s a magistrate, Marchese, in Rome. He thinks his memoirs may make a little light reading for the masses. You shall fetch the manuscript for me and I’ll consider it at my leisure.”
“Rome? Uncle, that is a good two days away by coach. There is much to do here.”
“There is indeed, but given your showing this morning, I doubt you’ll do it. So, Rome it is. Two days out, two days back. One day to discuss my pricing structure and editorial requirements with Signor Marchese. If you get a move on, you’ll be home for the big day. When all will be revealed. You wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would you?”
I couldn’t speak. He had me trapped. If I refused, I would be ejected from his household as a faithless apprentice and lose what little standing I had to aid Rebecca.
“Come along, boy. You must take the boat to Mestre and get the evening coach. Miss that, and God knows when you’ll return.”
I dashed to my room, filled my bag, then took the papers and the pitiful pile of coins Leo gave me. And so my body departed for Rome, leaving my mind and heart in Venice. In the Ghetto Nuovo, to be precise.
45
Shapes in the mirror
The apartment seemed to be made from glass. Amy Hartston swayed gently, half-drunk. They had eaten at Da Fiore: fried soft-shell crabs with polenta, turbot, and lobster, and an excess of flinty white wine. She stared at her reflection in the huge window overlooking the canal. Vaporetti crisscrossed the water with only a handful of late-night passengers on board. A lone gondola carrying a handful of tourists made its way to the Accademia bridge, an accordionist crooning from the prow. Something about the sight disturbed her. She was becoming too familiar with Venice, too entangled in the city. Her head swam. She felt concerned, for herself, and for Daniel too. The last, strange interview outside the church made her fear for him. There was a darkness in his eyes which betokened more than simple grief.
She turned and looked at Hugo Massiter. He was pouring two glasses of cognac from a decanter that sat on a stark, modernist cabinet, all smoked glass and satin metal. Her boast about Hugo’s interest in her now seemed remote, childish. Yet some determination remained inside her: she did not wish to leave Venice as she had arrived.
He walked towards her with the drinks. In the mirrors that ran around the walls, his shape was multiplied over and over again. She felt she was surrounded by Hugo Massiter, swallowed by his powerful presence.
She took the glass and gulped the contents. Her head felt heavy. He grasped her arm, and they walked back to the window. For some reason she could not comprehend, she was disinclined to look out at the canal again.
“What is it, Amy?” he asked pleasantly.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah,” he replied, as if her answer said everything. “I understand.”
“You understand what, Hugo?”
“You regret accepting my invitation to come here. You think it was the wrong decision. Beautiful young girl. Decrepit old man.”
“No!” He was teasing. He had to be. Hugo was well-preserved for his age.
“Then what?”
She sat on the pale leather sofa, feeling it gasp beneath her. “I don’t know precisely.”
Hugo laughed lightly. “But of course you do, my dear. You simply don’t want to talk about it. Or do you?”
That was a sign of age, she thought: Hugo’s perception, and his refusal to hide it for fear of offence.
“I’m concerned about this music, Hugo. The concerto.”
He blinked, bemused. “You think there’s something wrong with it? You don’t like the way Fabozzi is doing his job?”