Authors: Jonathan Gash
We chatted all the way. They had
shacked up somewhere near the station, after returning from Padua ("Queer
lighting for painting in Padua, and no engines"). Gerry gave me their
address. We said so long and swore undying determination to meet for a drink,
the way folk do. Honestly, I was pleased at having met a confirmed neutral for
once, and kept thinking of Keith's fascination for engines. An artist is a poor
sort of ally, but a bloke with a dredger is a different matter.
At Cosima's tiny apartment I had a
bath, generally defilthed, and was flitting anxiously about the narrow
calli
outside when midday struck.
Ten minutes later, with me all but
demented from depressing convictions, a gondola tapped its hollow tap on the
nearby canal and a woman's heel clicks echoed through the
sottoportego
archway. Alone, I watched her silhouette take color as
Signora Norman emerged from the shadow. The gondolier pushed away, calling his
warning "Ioooo" at the sharp comer. The gondola had looked genuinely
fresh from its three-weekly tarring, so it was probably innocent, not some
cunning private craft ballasted out with an armored division. I stood forward,
in the little campo.
"Hello, signora. This way."
She was amused because I peered in every
direction. "You're like a little boy playing Indians. Were you frightened
I'd bring Tonio?"
Derision's a woman's chief weapon,
probably because it always works. "Deep locked cellars are fine for
Casanova and Luciano. Not for me."
"He was furious with me for
letting you go, Lovejoy."
"I'll bet. Erm, excuse me,
please." Redfaced, I fumbled with my wire and let us both in. "Sorry
about the shambles, but I haven't had a minute lately."
"Night work, I suppose," she
said evenly. Women entering somebody else's home look about with peculiar
intensity. "Is this it?''
"It's nice," I shot back,
irritated. "No dungeons."
"You mean Luciano?" She
walked about, swishing her finger along surfaces and distastefully rubbing the
dust away. They always make you feel to blame for everything. "Tonio
explained that Luciano came with some tale of you making trouble. Placido had
him wait downstairs."
"Like they did Carlo?"
"Who on earth's Carlo?"
"Never mind." She was
probably not in on Tonio's detailed arrangements for life and death. "Erm,
would you care for a drink, signora?" I had this little tray with two
glasses and a bottle of cheap wine. It was decked out with a few small
carnations in a cup, though I'm normally on the flowers' side.
"How kind." She sat in a
wicker chair, clearly still slumming. Suspicious she was taking the mickey, I
waited for the guffaw at my floral poshness but it never came. I was glad of
that, and poured the wine with only the odd shred of floating cork.
"Who is she, Lovejoy?"
"Eh?"
"The woman so conveniently
absent."
You have to admire a woman like that.
Never been here before, and instantly she spots that it's a woman's flat.
Clever. It's a female knack.
"Oh. A friend. She's not here
now."
"She forgot to leave you her
key."
"Careless," I agreed, working
out how to start. "But you've been a bit careless too lately."
Actually her presence was worrying.
There was none of that naturalness which Cosima brought, that inner shining.
Older, with a brittle quality which somehow overlay her wealth. She knew she
was beautiful, which intensified her, as if her movements announced, I have
powder, you peasant—bring me more. Uneasily I remembered that it was in a
nearby palazzo that poor old philosopher Bruno was betrayed to the
Inquisition—by his patron, of course, in true Venetian tradition. You have to
watch friends.
My remark had touched some nerve
"I'm never careless."
"Indiscriminate's careless."
I gave her a filled glass, 'Your scam must have seemed as foolproof as your
father's."
She looked into wine. "There's
only one plan. Lovejoy."
"No, love. On the one hand there's
your dad's plan— forgeries galore, replace Venice's fabulous stuff as you go
along. All"—and I couldn't help smiling—"for the very best motives,
preserving the treasures for when Venice sinks. Then there's
your
plan. Very different. Your plan
requires teams of expert movie people to make advertising videos of the fakes
and the nicked antiques, right? In a score of different languages for marketing
in different countries. Where did you have them made, Lavinia? The movie
conference place on the San Giorgio?"
"I'm simply carrying out Babbo's
orders—"
"Not you, love. Not once you'd
shacked up with Tonio. Was it his idea to defraud your dad's syndicate and keep
the originals? Or yours?"
She smiled beatifically. "Mine. I
have a safe house in Tuscany." She did that breast-tilting shrug I was
coming to know and love. "They're morons in Tuscany, but what choice has
one?"
"And instead of taking them to the
refuge your father's syndicate has organized, you'll send the counterfeits?
Naughty girl."
She took a swing at me, blazing.
"Don't you lay that tone on me, Lovejoy." I only just escaped another
clout as she spat out, "Or your word 'counterfeit.' Everything's
counterfeit, or didn't you know? Belgium imports counterfeit heart pacemakers,
for Christ's sake. France counterfeits wine. Britain exports counterfeit jeans.
America's mass-produced counterfeit African tribal designs for ages—the Yoruba,
Kuba and Senufo have never got a bent cent in royalties. Taiwan counterfeits
spares for Boeing jets, Cartier watches, every damned thing." She was
breathless, heaving with fury. "Want me to go on?"
"And you'll have hundreds and
hundreds of originals?"
"Only some originals,
Lovejoy." She pouted. "The best ones."
She sounded so indignant I had to
laugh. After a startled second she laughed with me. That really set me off. We
sat there like fools, falling about, wine spilling so much she squawked and
held her glass away to save her skirt, and that made us howl all the more.
I roared till my ribs hurt and I lay
spread-eagled at the sight of the lovely bird, helpless with her eyes streaming
and her luscious shape skew-wiff in the chair, trying to control the slopping
wine. Just when we'd started subsiding, one or other of us would gasp, "Only
some
originals," to set us off
wheezing and choking laughter. What with the bonny bird becoming more and more
disheveled and my face aching and my chest burning we must have looked a right
pair.
Gawd knows what Cosima's neighbors
thought.
As it turned out, Cosima's neighbors
kept their thoughts to themselves. If they heard anything at all, they showed
no sign, not even later on when the little bed thumped the wall under the
stress we inflicted on it, Lavinia desperately shushing us by shoving her hand,
still erotically gloved, between the headboard and the wall but to no avail.
Her ungainly attempt set us laughing again so much it nearly made us ill.
Sooner or later I'd have to make a list of the enemy, complete with reasons,
but for the moment Lavinia's softness was all over me and I'd other things on
my mind.
Eventually after love we slept, Lavinia
giving occasional moans as the laughter's ache returned now and then. Just
before I fell into oblivion, I tried hard to work out why the hell she didn't
know the real truth, but with my head warping her soft belly and my sweat
drenching our sticky slumber I hadn't a chance. It's an odd fact that oblivion
is better shared. What I wanted for the next two days was no friends and no
lovers, and with luck I'd manage to pull off my own private scam. Instead, I
leap into bed with the naked—you can't count gloves—boss enemy and develop this
weird feeling that she and I are on the same side after all. Typical.
"I thought real Venetians didn't
use gondolas."
"Only in extreme necessity.
They're a diminishing breed."
We were at the canal by the arch. The
approaching gondolier couldn't believe his luck at getting a fare. I tried not
to remember that Lavinia held Tonio's arm exactly like she was holding mine.
“To I report for work tonight?"
"Certainly not, darling. It's
suspended for two days."
"Any reason?" I tried to
sound thick, but I knew the
acqua alta
was coming.
"Don't bother your head, darling.
I'll be here with you tomorrow, after breakfast. You'll receive further orders
then." She descended grandly and took her place. "Your flower is
artificial," she reproved the man severely. Gondolas have a little gilded
vase fixed near the prow. This one's carnation was plastic.
"Apologies, signora," the
gondolier bleated.
"Genuine is infinitely
preferable," she said primly. The gondolier gave a puzzled glance at my
snort of incredulity and even Lavinia looked round in surprise. She caught
sight of my expression and got the joke.
Her laughter echoed along the chasm of
the narrow canal and reverberated under the pretty bridge until the gondola was
out of sight. I remained there, smiling reflectively, in case she had second
thoughts. When I was dead certain she'd gone I streaked off over the bridge and
down the narrow
calle
in a hell of a
hurry. I needed Cesare urgently. And Keith. And Caterina. And I was due at my
own private funeral by midnight.
When you need friends, where are they?
Or even enemies. Cesare was nowhere, the bum. Two solid hours it took me,
zooming exhausted around the Riva searching. I asked Ivan the Terrible, who
only laughed. I spent a fortune on water taxis and gondolas. I even crossed
hopefully to the Giudecca, and funds were becoming dangerously low.
Eventually, would you believe, I found
him half sloshed in that same bar down the Garibaldi laying down the law about
a football match to two old geezers doing mental battle about who'd buy the
next round. He was practically pickled and glared blearily up at me when I
accosted him.
"Cesare!" I made sure I
looked elated and breathless. "Congratulations. Come quickly, mate."
"Eh?" He peered and chuckled.
"Oh, Lovejoy."
"Help me!" Pulling him to his
feet wasn't easy. The old blokes blinked while I tapped Cesare's face.
"You drunken sod. We've got tenth prize in the Irish lottery! Come now!
Where's your boat? The money—" At the magic word, the Venetian catalyst,
three elderly blokes and the young barman had Cesare up and out in a trice.
"It's down the Garibaldi, signore.
This way."
Another geriatric propelled me along at
a spring. Everybody fired questions about the money, the lottery, the money, as
we tore through the market to where Cesare's water taxi rocked in a small
bacino
. I told my eager helpers Cesare
and I had equal shares.
"Lucky I caught sight of our names
on the board," I gasped, flopping into the boat. "Don't know how
much, but ..." Willing hands cast us off amid shouts. Cesare's drunken
attempts at the controls were too much for the spectators, who were frantic at
the thought of escaping gelt. Two of the bar blokes got us going and reversed
fast to the intersection so I could turn.
I yelled thanks above the roar, and was
off, with Cesare giving a boxer's triumphant handclasp and falling over. The
crowd babbled satisfyingly on the
rio
.
"Lovejoy," Cesare cried in a
drunk's thick voice. "Where's my ticket? I've not lost it, have I?"
'There is no ticket, stupid
burke." Boats go faster than they seem. It was hell to control, trying to
rear up out of the water. I had to put her down to walking pace. A hand damped
on my shoulder.
''
You
got my ticket, Lovejoy?"
"No," I said wearily. I'd
have to go along with him until he sobered. "A lady's keeping it for
you."
"Where? Where?"
"I'm not exactly sure. In the
Eveline
, a big white yacht. It UHis on
the 21attere . . ."
Drunk as a newt, he determinedly took
the controls again. I was glad and sat back. I didn't want time to be too much
of a problem. After we found Caterina I'd need every second.
Boat people are funny. Drunk or sober,
they can manage very well thank you. Like antique dealers, really, though on
the whole we're ignorant of our pursuit, whereas boatmen know all about fathoms
and other nauticals.
Exactly two hours later, after umpteen
shouted discussions with other boats and a long run down the lagoon, we found
the
Eveline
wharved among smaller
leisure fry in Chioggia.
Beginning of the end, you might say, I
thought as we stood off and looked at the great two-masted yacht from the
lagoon. For whom I wasn't quite sure, but it was coming, almost within reach.
26
Chioggia's the port ("The
enemy
port,” I once heard a Venetian
explain, nastily referring to some long-vanished barney at the bottom end of
Venice's lagoon). It's very different. Venice is as unplanned as tangled wool.
Chioggia by comparison is mathematical, its canals practically straight and the
bridges predictable. The medieval Chioggians knew their trigonometry.