If there was no mention that he had ever said Mass or performed a marriage ceremony or buried the dead or heard a confession, then why was he pictured both times in the regalia of his clerical position? He had spent the bulk of his life as a singer, composer, and diplomat, yet neither author could find a visual record of any of these, and one claimed that such images did not exist.
More important, for her immediate purposes, how could such a man accumulate “treasure,” and what form would it take? And, if he did have it, why then did most accounts state that he had died in debt and poverty after first selling off most of his possessions? Why would he sacrifice a passion for a duty and then die poor as a result?
Caterina glanced at her watch and saw that it was after seven. She felt the sudden, irrational fear of being locked inside overnight and snapped the book closed. She took out her telefonino and dialed Ezio’s number. It rang five times before he answered, saying, “I’m on my way to get you, Caterina. Be there in three minutes.”
Pretending, even to herself, that she had known he was there and would come to get her, she put the book back on the shelf, put her pencil and notebook in her bag, and had a more careful look around the room. She went to stand in front of the card catalogue, filled with the names of the people who had given music to the world, and she was filled with a pride that surprised her: we have done so much; we have made so much beauty. Subtract Italy, wipe it from history, perhaps even cancel the peninsula from the continent, and what would Western culture be? Who would have painted their portraits, or built their churches, designed their clothing, given them the concept of law? Or taught them how to sing?
Ezio’s entrance broke into these reflections, which she decided to keep to herself. “Did you find what you wanted?” he asked.
“Too much,” she said. “I found four biographies, endless histories of the music of the period, of the politics of the times.”
“Will it be enough to answer your questions?” He sounded very interested. She remembered that Ezio had a degree in history and had more or less learned about libraries as he worked in one.
“That depends on what I find in the documents,” she said. Then, on an impulse, she asked, “Am I allowed to take books with me?”
“Which ones?” he asked.
Turning back to the shelf, she pulled out one book, then another, then replaced that with a different one. “These,” she said, showing him the two books.
He studied them, studied the bindings and not the titles, as if there were some sort of secret library code hidden in their call numbers, then said, “No.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, realizing she had asked too much and reaching toward the books.
“But I can,” Ezio said, slipping them under his arm.
Caterina laughed but then the scholar in her said, “But you have to log them out.”
Still smiling at his own joke, Ezio said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve known you for so many years, I know you’re not going to disappear with the books. Believe me, it’s easier this way.” He took her arm.
“What happens when I try to bring them back?”
“You just carry them in and put them back on that table down there,” he said, turning to point toward the restacking table.
“But how can I bring them in if they haven’t been checked out?”
His confusion was written across his face. “Just keep them in your bag and show them your card.”
“Won’t they register when I go through the metal detector?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It registers only metal.”
“Ah,” she said. “Of course, a metal detector.”
Then, perhaps to keep her from getting ideas she shouldn’t, he said, “The machines at the public exit register chips in the bindings, so you can’t take books out.” Of course, she thought, who’d sneak a book into a library?
She stopped. They had somehow come again to the front of the building, and there, ahead of them and off to the left, was the facade of the Basilica. “What an absurd building that is,” she said. “Look at it, all those domes and the arcs and the pillars all different from one another. Who’d build a thing like that?” she asked.
“We’re in Italy, cara mia. Anything is possible.” He handed her the books.
Eleven
THEY WENT INTO FLORIAN’S, TO THE BAR AT THE BACK, AND each ordered a spritz. The barman recognized Ezio and, smiling at Caterina, put a dish of cashews in front of them.
Taking one, she asked, “Is this your reward for being an habitué? The most I ever get is peanuts.”
He laughed and took a drink. “No. He’s an old friend. We went to school together, so he always gives them to me.”
“It doesn’t end, does it?” she asked, a remark that confused him.
“What doesn’t end?”
“The advantages of having been born here,” she explained. Then, more soberly, “I saw in the paper this morning that there are now fewer than fifty-nine thousand of us.”
Ezio shrugged. “I don’t see what we can do. Old people die. Young people get jobs in other places. There’s no work here.” Then, tilting his glass in her direction, he said, “You’re the lucky exception. You got called home to take a job.” Then, before she could say anything, he asked, “Are you staying with your family?”
“No,” she said. “An apartment came with the job.”
“What?”
“An apartment. It’s not much, and it’s down in Castello, but it has three rooms and it’s on the top floor.”
“Are you making this up?” he asked.
“No, not at all. It’s just on the other side of Via Garibaldi, so it’s easy enough to get to work.”
“How’d that happen?”
Here Caterina gave him an edited version of the facts, saying that the Foundation had an apartment it offered to visiting scholars. This was not true, and the apartment belonged to Scapinelli, who had agreed that she could stay in it while she did the research. It was usually rented out to tourists and was decorated—though Caterina thought that word an exaggeration—in the style Venetians thought tasteful.
“Lucky you,” he said, “job and apartment.”
“Both temporary,” she reminded him.
He ate a few cashews and asked, “You have any idea how long it might last?”
She shook her head. “God knows.” She reached toward the books he had set on the counter. “May I?”
“Oh, sure, sure,” he said, handing them to her.
“The more I read, the sooner it will be done.”
“And then?”
She shrugged, then slipped the books into her bag. “No idea. I’ve got job applications out all over the place, in four countries.”
“Where?” he asked, interested enough to set his glass down.
She counted them out on her fingers. “Here, though I might as well forget about that. It’s only teaching. No time for research.” Then, seeing how real his curiosity was, she went on, “Germany, Austria, and the United States.”
“You’d go?” he asked, astonished.
This time, she waved the question away with her hand. “If the job is interesting, yes. I’d go.”
“Well, good for you,” he said, meaning it. “You’ve got the advantage of the language, haven’t you?”
If the remark had come from another person, Caterina might have heard it as a criticism of the advantage she had, but from Ezio it was only admiration.
It came to her to say that she had the advantage of more than one language, but it would have sounded like boasting, and she didn’t want to do that, so she contented herself with nodding in agreement.
He finished his drink. Half of the cashews were still in the glass bowl but neither had any further interest in them. Caterina finished her drink and pulled out a ten-euro bill. She placed it on the bar and caught the waiter’s eye.