He stripped off his wet things and washed his face and hands in the bowl, turning the water a muddy gray. He wiped himself over with a damp towel, shivering, wishing that the Venetians among all their thefts and adoptions from Istanbul had chosen the hammam. He felt as though the rotting ooze of the canals had seeped into the pores of his skin, and cold, too. What he needed now was unlimited hot water and a man to knead him like fresh dough. He put on some fresh linen and dry clothes, and felt somewhat refreshed.
Back in the salon he stood for a long time at the window, watching the traffic thicken on the canal, listening to the sound of bells and thinking about the man he had killed.
106
The bells of San Sebastiano were ringing when Signora Contarini sallied forth in her best bonnet. Her husband had willingly ceded his position on her arm to Stanislaw Palewski, who walked solemnly at her side. Behind them came Maria, holding the speechless young man by one hand and a small sister by the other. Her brother followed with two children.
The Contarinis were going to Mass.
“The mad boy should come,” the signora had decided. “Why not? He’s a Christian, isn’t he?”
“How can you tell, signora?” Palewski replied. “He might be a Moor, like Yashim.”
She shook her head vigorously. “Believe me, signore, he’s a Christian. As I hope you are, signore.”
The man remained quiet until they reached the church, when he began to utter small cries, patting the doorway with his hands and nodding amiably. Some of the parishioners stared, but Signora Contarini kept her chin level and swept her entourage grandly inside, where they had some difficulty in pressing the man into a pew. He seemed to want to go around and around the walls, touching everything. Only when Father Andrea entered did the man grow still, his stubbly head cocked in wonder at the motions of the priest.
As the Communion approached, the signora became a little agitated.
“He must stay with the children,” she hissed.
They shuffled forward to the altar rail. Palewski knelt between Signora Contarini and Maria to receive the host.
“In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti.”
“Amen.”
Palewski lifted the wafer to his mouth.
Maria nudged him. The signora was putting the wafer in her mouth, and beyond her knelt the speechless young man.
Palewski glanced sideways. The man’s face was transfigured by an expression of-what, exactly? It was the expression worn by an apostle in a medieval Assumption. Amazement? Fear?
Signora Contarini’s head jerked with impatience when she saw the man.
“In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,” Father Andrea murmured, holding out the wafer.
The man reached up. He took the priest’s hand in his and brought it to his cheek.
Father Andrea murmured a blessing. He made to move on, but the man seemed unwilling to let him go.
As he stooped to say something in the man’s ear, Palewski saw a look of confusion cross his face. Then the color drained from his cheeks.
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Tousle — haired from sleep and looking lovelier than ever, Carla entered the salon to find Yashim asleep with his forehead against the windowpane.
She gave a small cry of surprise, and Yashim opened his eyes. She was dressed in her nightgown, under a long embroidered coat whose sleeves were slashed to dangle at the elbows.
“I thought you were dead,” she breathed.
“That was another man,” Yashim answered, rubbing his eyes. “He came to kill you.”
She took his hands. “Tell me what happened.”
He told her, almost reluctantly, and when he had finished she said, “Yesterday I thought you had come to kill me, Yashim. Instead, you saved my life.”
“Will you sell me the Bellini?”
“You?”
“The sultan.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “The money, you understand. It’s not for me.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“No, of course not.” She bent forward and kissed him, softly, on the lips. “But I wanted you to be sure. In Venice, Yashim, honor is all that’s left.”
Then the door opened, and two white-jacketed soldiers came in.
Behind them followed Sergeant Vosper and finally, looking stout in his uniform, the stadtmeister himself.
At the door he checked himself abruptly. “Contessa?”
He bowed and clicked his heels.
“I regret intruding upon you, Contessa, in this manner,” he said, “but it is a matter of urgency.”
“Urgency?”
“Indeed. You will be so kind as to give me the papers.”
And he held out his hand, as if the contessa were holding them in hers.
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“Nikola!”
The young man gave a birdlike cry, and then he was gobbling, and grinning, and nodding his head in an ecstasy of pleasure, patting Father Andrea’s hand to his cheek.
In the midst of his astonishment, Palewski still wondered what, exactly, was the liturgical form. Could Communion be interrupted? Father Andrea seemed to have little choice: the man-Nikola-was not going to be parted easily from him.
In the end the priest solved the problem by lifting the altar rail and bringing Nikola to stand beside him like an acolyte. While he grinned and nodded, Father Andrea continued with the wafer and the wine, smiling broadly all the while.
After the service the priest and the speechless man came back to the Contarini house together, hand in hand. Commissario Brunelli was there already, telling Signor Contarini about an extraordinary accident that had occurred on the Grand Canal only that morning.
Over breakfast Nikola’s story emerged.
“Nikola,” the priest explained, leaning back to look at him more carefully, “is my old friend. We were in Croatia together, Nikola and I. But one day, he disappeared.”
The young man pulled a long face and solemnly shook his head.
“No? Well, I expect we’ll learn something about that, by and by. Everyone searched for him. In the end, we discovered that he had been seen getting into a coach, with a stranger, bound for Trieste.”
The young man, Nikola, nodded again, but this time he slid from his chair and began rifling through the pictures he had drawn. He found the one he wanted and laid it on the table.
Everyone craned for a better look. It was a charcoal sketch of a man sitting in a hard chair. He was solidly built-a strong man gone to seed, one would have said-his eyes were cast down, almost modestly, looking at a picture or book on his lap.
“Yes,” the priest said slowly. “That’s the man. I knew it! He called himself Spoletti. From Padua.”
“It’s Alfredo!” Palewski cried.
Brunelli leaned forward. “You’re both wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s Popi Eletro.”
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Carla gave a shaky laugh. “The papers? I don’t understand.”
The stadtmeister curled his lip. “Please don’t joke with me, Contessa.”
Carla’s chest lifted. She half turned her head. “I have nothing whatever that belongs to you, Stadtmeister. Nothing at all.”
The stadtmeister’s eyes were like currants. “To me, no. But I will see to it that you get a receipt from the relevant authorities.”
“Ah, the authorities.” Carla took a deep breath. “But what, exactly, do the authorities seek?”
Finkel’s jaw was working. “We both know exactly what you need to produce. Let us not delude ourselves, Contessa. You have a note of hand, signed by the Duke of Naxos. You also have a proscribed artwork by Gentile Bellini.”
“Proscribed? What does it mean?”
“It means, Contessa, that the state has seen fit to confiscate the said work in its own interest. I hold a warrant, signed by Vienna. A certain compensation can be agreed,” he added.