Talk of this soon palled: the contrast with their present situation was too great.
Almost apologetically, Renzi tried to change tack: 'In Venice gambling is a form of art. Should there be a pack of cards, and as we have time on our hands I would be glad to introduce you to vingt et un - perhaps, or . ..'
Time dragged. A noon meal in the smoke-blackened furatole did not improve the oudook of the three seamen.
Back in the room, Larsson's expression faded to an enduring blankness, and Renzi's features darkened with frustration. Many times he went to the grimy window and stared out over the rooftops.
'I needs a grog,' grunted Larsson, challenging Renzi with a glower.
Renzi didn't answer for a time. Then, suddenly, he stood up. 'Yes. Below.' He left the room abrupdy, without his coat.
Kydd jumped up and followed, tumbling down the stairway. 'Garba!' he heard Renzi shout. It was rough brandy and water; Kydd had no real desire for it, and was unsettled by Renzi's deep pull at his pot.
The third round of drink came. In a low, measured tone, Renzi spat vehemently, 'Diavolo!' The others looked at him. 'This is Venice?
'Aye, and so?' Kydd asked.
Renzi glared at him. 'When last I was here . . .' He stopped. His knuckles showed white as he gripped the stone drinking vessel. Then he got to his feet in a sudden clumsy move that sent Kydd's pot smashing to the floor. Curious eyes flickered from other tables.
'I'm going out!' Renzi said thickly. T' breathe some o' the air of Venice. Are you with me?'
'An' what about Leith?' Kydd wanted to know.
A quick smile. 'Taken by the French long ago,' Renzi said contemptuously, 'How can he get through a whole army to us here? No chance. We make our time here as bearable as we can. Are you coming?'
Kydd saw that something serious had affected his friend, and resolved to stay by him. 'I'll come, Nicholas.' Larsson merely shook his head.
The evening, drawing in, had a spring coolness, but this did not deter the swelling numbers joining the hurrying tradesmen, market porters and domestics concluding their working day. An outrageously sequined and powdered harlequin stumbled by, well taken in drink, and an apparition emerged from the shadows wearing a cruel bird's-head mask and flowing blue cape. It trod softly, a thinly disguised Dulcinea on its arm in a red silk swirling cape and a glittering mask.
It was dream-like and disturbing: no one took any notice of the grotesquerie in their midst. A group of masked revellers turned the corner, laughing and singing to the discordant accompaniment of timbrel and tambourine.
Kydd stood rooted in astonishment. 'Is this—'
'Carnivale!' cackled Renzi harshly. 'The world is aflame, and all they think of is carnival!'
A couple passed, exchanging kisses, elaborate coquetry with their masks doing little to conceal the naked sensuousness of their acts. Renzi stopped, staring after them. 'But who then is to say — in all logic, for God's sake — that they are the ones with the perverted sense of the fitness of things, their perspectives malformed, their humanity at question?'
He breathed heavily, watching a figure in a russet cloak approach. The man's mask had slipped, exposing his foolish, inebriated grin as he staggered towards them. Renzi tensed. The figure bent double against a wall and Renzi darted across and toppled him over.
'Camivale!' he howled triumphantly, tore away the cloak and snatched up the ivory mask. ‘Se non ha alcunia obbiezione' he threw at the fallen form.
Kydd was appalled. 'Nicholas, you — you—' But Renzi had thrown the cloak around himself, and pushed forcefully ahead, predatory eyes agleam through the cruel saturnalian mask.
Kydd hurried after him, helpless in the face of the unknown demons that possessed his friend. The narrow maze of streets now looked sinister, threatening. Renzi plunged on. A small humped bridge appeared ahead, spanning a canal. The blaze of a link torch carried by a servant preceded a decorous, well-dressed group, which scattered at Renzi's advance.
They were soon in an ancient square with a dusky red church facing them. Light showed in its high windows. As they thrust across, music swelled from it. Renzi faltered, then stopped. It was a choral piece, the melodic line exquisitely sustained by a faultless choir, the counterpoint in muted trumpet and strings a meltingly lovely intertwining of harmonies.
Kydd stopped, too, as the music entered his soul. Within those moments came a dawning realisation that there were regions of the human experience above the grossness of existence and beyond the capability of the world to corrupt and destroy.
He turned to Renzi, but his friend was lost, staring at the church, rigid. Kydd tried to find some words but, suddenly, Renzi crumpled to his knees. The mask fell and Kydd saw his face distort and tears course down.
'N-Nicholas—' He struggled to reach out Around them the people of Venice busded with hardly a glance, the harlequins, falcons and the rest in a blur of colour and impressions, and all the time the cool passion of the music .. .
Kydd tried to help Renzi up, but he pulled himself free and shot to his feet
'Nicholas—'
Renzi rounded on him, his face livid. 'Damn you!' he shouted. 'Damn you to hell!' His voice broke with the passion of his words.
'M' friend, I only—'
Renzi's savage swing took Kydd squarely, and he was thrown to one side. He shook his head to clear it, but when he was able to see, there was no sign of Renzi.
Chapter 4
Images streamed past Renzi, as bittersweet memories flooded back. He pushed past the gay troubadours, weary craftsmen, giggling couples, bored gondoliers — on and on into the Venetian night. His thoughts steadied, coalesced. For someone whose pride disallowed a display of emotion, his sudden loss of control in the square was disturbing and frightening.
His frenetic pacing calmed and he took note of his surroundings. He was heading in the direction of the dark rabbit warrens around Santa Croce and turned to retrace his steps. Then, recalling the soaring beauty of the Vivaldi that had so unfairly got under his guard, he stopped, confused. In truth, he could not go back — or forward.
A memory of what had been returned in full flower. The more he considered it, the more he yearned for her, the calm certitude and steel-cored passion he remembered from before. He had to go to her.
Lucrezia Carradini was married, but that had not mattered before and would not now; in the Venetian way it was a matter of comment if a lady did not have at least one lover. He racked his brain to recall her whereabouts — yes, it was somewhere near the Palazzo Farsetti on San Marco side.
With rising excitement he made his way to the Grand Canal, taking an indolent gondola trip, then stepping feverishly through the night until he found himself before the Palazzo Carradini. He remembered the ogling brass-mouth knocker, but not the servant who answered the door.