The Kaisho (39 page)

“I will remember. I promise.”

The little man grunted, as if, possibly, he did not believe her.

“Marin, we need your help,” Celeste said. “Do you remember the mask you recently made for Okami-san?”

“The Domino. But of course! A magnificent piece of work.” Fornovo scowled. “It has not come to harm?”

“We need some information on the Domino itself,” Celeste said, adroitly sidestepping his question. “I seem to remember that it wasn’t one of the original Venetian characters.”

“No, no, of course not. The Domino was introduced into Venice in the second half of the sixteenth century.” Fornovo began to mix a color in a shallow bowl. “It is actually French in origin. The
domino
was the name the French gave to the long, thick capes their monks wore, and which, when their noblemen and ambassadors traveled here, they brought into Venetian fashion.”

The color was becoming clear now, a deep cerulean that even in its dull pot appeared luminous. “The mask itself is a kind of joke, however. The Venetians were forever irreverent when it came to their popes.” Fornovo lifted a thick tear-shaped drop of the pigment into the light, eyeing it speculatively. “It was a pope who declared Venice a threat to the rest of the world, you know.” With vigor he smeared the pigment onto the cheek of a naked white mask. “That damnable man. But why should we decry him? We Venetians refused to contemplate the past unless it is beribboned with ritual. But this is what makes us Venetians great.”

He daubed the other cheek, the ends of the eyeholes, the lips, and now, by some alchemical process, the mask had become a face.
“Morte at tiranni!
That has always been our battle cry! Death to the tyrants of Rome!—whether they be popes or caesars. Our Republic was the only one to survive the fall of the Roman Empire; that was no happenstance!”

He set the mask carefully aside, winked at Nicholas. “Here in Venice, we have always been free. That is why the Jews fled here from their persecution in less enlightened lands. The ghetto was invented here just after 1500, and for many years Venice became the heart of rabbinical study in Europe.”

He took up another pot, began to mix a color that might eventually become a shade of scarlet. “The truth is we understood the Jews, and they us. We were the same, really: enigmatic, brilliant, eminently practical—the scholars of business. When the rest of the civilized world was feudal, we were not; the Jews, who could not abide feudal thinking, appreciated this most of all. We were, all of us, capitalists from time out of mind.”

Yes, scarlet, bright, startling as newly drawn blood. He looked at the mask he was working on, nodded, as if satisfied with the magic he had wrought. “Of course, we made the Jews pay for their sanctuary. Why not? They could afford it—and they had nowhere else to go. And we marked them by decreeing that they wear red hats.”

He began to apply the scarlet sparingly, almost, one might say, compassionately. “Was that cruel? Why should anyone say so? We treated them no differently than we treated our own doges. We isolated the Jews in their ghetto just as we incarcerated the doge in his magnificent palace in San Marco. His oath of office became longer each year because we kept adding to the things he was enjoined from doing.”

He lifted a forefinger, waggled it at them. “Of course, from time to time we paid a heavy price for our successes. Like the Jews, we were often despised and envied for what we were. In 1605, when Pope Paul V accused Venice of heresy, didn’t we reply that we were better Christians than he? Who fought the Turk in the name of Christ while Rome sat idly by? Why, Venice, of course!”

“Marin,” Celeste broke in gently. “About the Domino.”

“Yes, yes,” he said almost irritably. Again, he put the mask aside to dry. “I’m coming to that. Did you think I’d forgotten?” He gave Nicholas another sharp look. “We Venetians have a saying: When history is inadequate, myth will do.” He smiled at his own enigmatic joke. “Well, there is a myth concerning the introduction of the Domino into the Carnival and it is this: It was not French noblemen and ambassadors who brought this ironic, irreligious character to Venice, but the Jews fleeing the anti-Semitism in France.”

He turned abruptly, went through a beaded curtain into the rear of his shop. A moment later, he returned, cradling an item in his hands as if it were as fragile as a newborn baby.

“The Domino!” Celeste exclaimed. “But that’s impossible.”

“Hardly,
cara mia,
because here it is.” Fornovo gave her a crafty smile as he held it out for them to examine. “But this is the original—the oldest mask in my own private collection. I am showing it to you as I did to Okami before you.”

“Did Okami-san know of the origins of the Domino?” Nicholas asked.

“But of course,” Fornovo said, frowning deeply. “Did you think I would be so remiss to sell him one of my prized Dominos without making him cognizant of its history? What kind of a Venetian do you take me for?” He made a face. “Besides,
this
Domino is special, because it was
made
in France—Paris to be exact—and brought here by the Jews fleeing persecution.”

Carefully he turned the mask over so that they could see the underside. “Here is the name of the maker: A. Aloins.” He pointed with a thin forefinger. “And here, just below, is the stamp of the company under whose aegis M. Aloins toiled. It is the oldest mask-maker in France, which is saying something. And it still exists.”

He lifted the mask toward them so they could read its name:

Avalon Ltd.

In the ensuing silence the crash of a dish slipping out of a waiter’s hand was stunning, but Margarite’s eyes never left Croaker’s. There was a defiance there that made him believe this was the first time she was confessing this horror.

“He beat me and what’s worse I let him do it. I didn’t complain, didn’t go to Dom, didn’t take my daughter, Francine, and leave. Instead, I stayed and submitted.”

“Why?”

She smiled, but the brittleness had returned, and he had the impression if he reached out and shook her now, she would shatter into ten thousand pieces.

“That’s the billion-dollar question, isn’t it?” She dabbed at her lips again, but there was no longer anything to wipe away. “Maybe I felt I deserved it, marrying against my brother’s wishes.”

“Dominic was against the marriage?”

“Very much so.”

“Why?”

Margarite shrugged. “Maybe he knew Tony better than I did. But I was determined then. I thought I knew it all. Or maybe I was hell-bent to defy Dom. Who knows anymore?”

“Yet Dominic named Tony his successor.”

Margarite watched him with her wide-set eyes. “I’m going to have to start calling you detective again.”

He smiled at her. “It’s what I do, ma’am. Detecting’s in my blood.”

That made her laugh. The owner came with more garlic bread, but she declined, and he cleared the plates away. She ordered espresso for them both.

Because he didn’t think she was going to answer his previous question, Croaker said, “If I might ask, what’s the current state of your marriage?”

She was thoughtful for some time. Her eyes were leveled at him and he could see now that they were the color of amber. “We coexist. But I think that’s the state many married couples find themselves in.”

The noise level in the diner rose as a bunch of high-school kids slouched in, gangly-legged, jeans-clad, Walkman-armored. The espresso came, along with cordial glasses of sambuca, compliments of the owner. Margarite turned and caught his attention right away. She blew him a kiss, which caused the widest smile Croaker had ever seen.

She turned back to him, said abruptly, “I think Dom had a love-hate relationship with Tony. He could admire the legitimate practice he had built up all on his own while still recognizing all of Tony’s faults.”

“Which are?”

She toyed with her espresso cup. “He’s impulsive, often too aggressive; he has an inflated sense of his own importance.”

“And what about your brother? What were his faults?”

“The feds I’ve talked with think they know more about him than I do.”

“Lucky for me I don’t come with that bias.”

Those amber eyes regarded him in that very intimate way. “You’re the first man I’ve met since Dom who thought my opinions were worth a damn.” She plucked a coffee bean out of her sambuca, placed it into her mouth, bit down on it without wincing. “Dom was a devil and an angel, all in the same breath. You know, it never made a difference to either of us that he was my stepmother’s child. When my father officially adopted him, that was it. I had a brother. It didn’t matter that he was thirteen years older than I was.”

Her eyes shifted over his shoulder and her expression changed in some subtle way. Croaker was careful not to turn his head in the direction she was looking. A moment later, he was aware of another presence.

“Hi, Mom!”

He turned to see a red-haired girl who was just as beautiful as Margarite. She was slender, a long-legged colt with that impossible to duplicate ungainly grace, the sole province of teenagers. This must be Francine. He was stunned to think of her as Margarite’s daughter. How old had she been when she had given birth to this nymphet? Nineteen or twenty, no more. He thought about what Margarite had told him of her marriage.

“Francie, what are you doing here?”

“I’m with Doug and Richie and Mary,” Francie said, pointing to a group of teens taking a booth in boisterous fashion.

“I told you about going out alone.”

Francie made a face. “I’m not alone, Mom. I’m with the guys. Besides, Richie’s father—”

“I know all about Richie’s father,” Margarite said quickly.

Croaker glanced over at the other booth, saw that another wiseguy had taken up station in the diner. The place was crawling with them now.

“Who’s this?” Francie was looking directly at Croaker.

“Francie, this is... a business acquaintance of mine,” Margarite said, thinking fast. “Lew Croaker.”

“Howdy, ma’am!” Croaker said, making Francie giggle. He extended his hand and she stared at it.

“What happened to you?”

“Francie!” Margarite exclaimed.

“No, it’s all right.” Croaker looked up into Francie’s race. “I lost my hand in a fight. A sword sliced it off. Surgeons in Tokyo gave me this one, instead. Like it?”

She took it gingerly in her own. She was clearly fascinated, and he asked her to join them for a moment.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Margarite said.

Francie gave her a quick look before sliding in beside her.

Was it his imagination or did Margarite seem uncomfortable as her daughter sat beside her?

Francie put her elbows on the table, ordered a double bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese, a large order of fries, and a diet Coke. With a child’s unconcern she seemed to have completely forgotten Croaker’s hand. She leaned over, took a sip of her mother’s sambuca. Oddly, Margarite said nothing. Her unease increased.

“What kind of business are you in?” Francie said, impaling Croaker with her large pate eyes.

“Does it matter?”

Francie nodded. “Sure. You make Mom laugh.”

His gaze just touched Margarite’s for an instant before sliding away.

“The truth is, Francie, I came to talk to your mom about your uncle Dominic.”

Her diet Coke arrived, and she abandoned the sambuca to slurp it through a straw. A moment later, the food arrived, and she attacked it as if she had not eaten in a week.

“Would you like to tell me about him?”

Margarite’s agitation increased exponentially. “I don’t think that would be—”

“I miss him,” Francie said around an enormous mouthful of food. “He was good to me.”

Croaker, listening to her answer, kept hearing echoes of what she might be feeling and not saying:
I miss him; he was good to me
—not like my Dad.

“Did you see a lot of him?”

“Sure,” Francie said, pouring more ketchup on her fries. “Mom would take me when she went to see Uncle Dom.” Chomp chomp. “He always had a freezer full of ice cream—neat new flavors he was testing out. It was cool.”

“I’ll bet,” Croaker said, wondering about Margarite’s palpable distress. Up until Francie arrived she had been very much in control. No, that wasn’t quite true, he thought. She had cracked when he had mentioned the rottweiler Caesar’s death, and then again when he had shown her the pictures of her brother. “So you all sat around eating ice cream.”

“Uh-uh,” Francie said, cramming her cheeks full of fries. “I’d eat the ice cream while Mom and Uncle Dom talked in the library.”

Croaker gave Margarite a quick glance, but her attention was concentrated on her daughter.

“Didn’t your dad ever come along?”

“Uh-uh,” Francie said, wiping her smeared lips with a napkin. She began to edge out of the booth. “You’ll have to excuse me now.”

Then she was walking very quickly through the restaurant. Croaker watched Margarite follow her with her eyes as she passed by her friends’ booth, made her way to the ladies’ room.

“Excuse me, Lew, while I go powder my nose,” Margarite said. Her face was white.

She disappeared into the ladies’ room and something clicked in Croaker’s mind. He was up, almost running through the restaurant.

At the door to the ladies’ room, he paused for a moment, then said, “What the hell,” and pushed it open.

He found Margarite in a stall on her knees beside Francine, who was bent almost double over a toilet. The teenager was vomiting in great heaves.

Margarite became aware of him; the distress on her face was acute.

“Get out of here, will you?” She was on the verge of tears.

Croaker went into the ladies’ room, letting the door close behind him. “She isn’t sick, is she? At least not with a virus or the flu. She’s bulimic.”

Margarite said nothing, continued to hold her child’s head while she rocked a little, crooning to her. At length, she looked at him again. “Why are you still here?”

“I think I can help her.”

“Leave us alone.”

“I don’t believe either of you want that now.”

He went over to her, took Francie gently by the shoulders, led her over to the sink, ran the cold water for her. Behind him, he heard the toilet flush several times. Then Margarite emerged from the stall, stood looking at the two of them.