chocolate.
“What did you tell him?’
‘Only what you told me to, that my life is in danger, that we need help.’
‘Is he able to help us? Did you tell him what we need to know?’
Makonnen nodded.
‘Yes. He has contacts. Old friends from the days when he was an altar boy. And more recent friends. He’s a Communist now, or says he is. Before his mother died and he had to look after his father more, he belonged to some left-wing clubs in Cannaregio.’
An English family came in, shivering, handing their Burberries and streaming umbrellas to a patient waiter. There were four of them, a husband, wife, and two blond-haired children aged about seven, a boy and a girl. They seemed self-conscious, almost timid, as the English always do in foreign parts. The dowager eyed them through gold pince-nez, as though irritated to be thus disturbed by tourists out of season.
‘What about you?’ Makonnen asked. What did you find at the cemetery this morning?’ he asked.
Patrick described his fruitless visit to the island, his conversation with Brother Antonio. He heard himself speak, yet it seemed as though he stood somewhere apart, watching, listening. Detached from his surroundings, he watched the English family seat themselves, the contessa sip her chocolate, the waiters come and go like acolytes in a glazed and gilded temple.
He had come here many times in the past with Francesca, to escape the crowds in the summer, to listen to the orchestra play old dance tunes, to watch the world reflected in the mirrors, everything back to front and yet somehow more real than life, more intense.
He wondered if Ruth had ever come here. She would have fitted in, he thought, a figure out of Henry James or Fitzgerald. Americans like that were almost an extinct species now. Hollywood and Disneyland and Burger King had all but wiped them from the face of the earth. And now Ruth had joined them, a victim of a different kind of greed. It seemed crass, but he thought he loved her more now that she was dead. It had been that way with Francesca too. Would Assefa regard that as a sin, he wondered.
‘Are you all right, Patrick?’ The priest leaned over the table, a look of concern on his face. Patrick came out of his reverie.
‘I’m sorry. I must have drifted away. I was thinking about Ruth.’
‘That’s all right. You don’t have to explain.’
The waiter brought their food. They ate in silence, washing the meat down with glasses of mineral water. They were almost finished when Patrick noticed the grande dame pay her bill and take her coat and umbrella from the waiter. Instead of going straight out, she came across to their table.
“You an American?’ she asked Patrick. With a shock, he recognized the accent - Boston or maybe Cambridge. His contessa was a character out of The Aspern Papers after all.
He nodded.
‘Take my advice,’ she hissed, bending over him and clutching his shoulder with a claw-like hand. Close up, her skin was taut and mottled with age. Her breath smelled of chocolate. ‘Next time you’re here, leave the nigger outside. He doesn’t belong.’
Before Patrick could respond, she had turned and was stalking towards the door. At their table, the English family sat and talked about a thatched cottage they had just purchased somewhere in Surrey. The door closed and their tinny voices filled the little room.
They took a water-bus as far as Santa Marcuola and walked the rest of the way into Cannaregio. The rain had eased back to a drizzle. Here and there a handful of cats had ventured out to look for scraps. As they headed down towards the Ghetto, the streets became tighter and the houses taller, hemming them in. An old woman in a tattered overcoat passed, carrying shopping in a plastic bag. In a doorway, a blind man sat scraping lines in the ground with a white stick. They passed over narrow bridges, across side canals in which rotting vegetables and dog turds floated. Everywhere there a smell of poverty and neglect hovered in the air. And a deeper, more insidious smell, age mingled with despair.
Claudio Surian and his father lived on the top floor of a six-storey tenement. On the street outside, scruffy children played with a battered football. From a broken gutter water trickled down the front wall, leaving a dark, rusted stain on the ancient brickwork. The house had never been very beautiful, but once it had possessed a certain dignity that was now almost wholly eroded. Assefa pushed open the huge wooden door that led into the courtyard.
A stone staircase led up to the apartments. Assefa and Patrick climbed slowly, their feet slipping on worn steps made slick by the rain. A faint smell of urine greeted them on each of the little landings. On the wall opposite, a shutter was pulled back and a woman’s head looked out. She watched them climb, her eyes suspicious, her expression hostile.
Someone had sprinkled disinfectant on the top landing. Assefa knocked on a heavy door from which all but a few scraps of red paint had worn away. After about a minute, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened several inches on a chain before being pulled back more widely to admit them.
Patrick’s first impression of Claudio Surian was that he had tried to commit suicide and failed. There was a look of resignation in his face, especially marked around the eyes. It was the face of a man who knows that his despair is rational and therefore unavoidable, who has considered hope among other crutches and rejected it as useless. He seemed ill. His thin cheeks exaggerated what his eyes betrayed. But his clothes were neat and tidy, and he was clean-shaven.
‘Entrate, vi prego,’ he said.
To Patrick’s surprise, the voice was pleasant, almost kindly, with not a trace of the sourness or bad temper he had expected. He shook hands with Surian and followed Assefa through the door.
The room was dimly lit, except for one area over what appeared to be a workbench. The walls were covered in masks - some white, some painted, others half-and-half. There were masks in the shape of suns and moons, masks with tall hats, chequered masks with stars for eyes. There were several examples of the plain white bauta, some complete with tricorn and long black veil. The best examples were masks of the Commedia dell’ Arte - the black half-mask of Arlecchino, Pulcinella’s long nose and pointed hat. In the centre of the floor stood a steaming cauldron filled with papier mache. Small tins of paint, bottles of thinner, and brushes covered the workbench.
‘I’m sorry,’ Surian said, finding chairs for his visitors. ‘I have very little space. This room has to serve as my workshop. My father is resting in his bedroom. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk in here.’
The only source of heat was a small paraffin heater in one corner, but the room was warm, even stuffy. A haze of cigarette smoke hung over everything like a bluish mist on the lagoon.
‘So many masks,’ exclaimed Patrick.
Surian snorted.
‘It’s our boom industry, didn’t you know? No tourist leaves Venice without at least one mask. About fifteen years ago, there were only a dozen or so mask shops in the whole of Venice. Now there are nearly three hundred.’ He sat down on a rough wooden stool. ‘I’m building up stock now for the summer season. I sell my masks to shops on the Strada Nuova mostly, and a few places near the Rialto.’
‘But these are much better than the average tourist masks.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘It isn’t what I wanted to do with my life - but I’m sure Assefa has told you that.’ He paused and drew his stool closer to his visitors. ‘I understand you want information about our good Cardinal Migliau.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I’m willing to pay you for your time.’
Surian laughed.
‘What makes you think you could afford me? I won’t be patronized, signore. If I help you, it’s on Assefa’s account. He says he’s in danger. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘For something he did?’
‘For something he knows. Something we both know.’
‘But you won’t tell me what it is?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘It’s very complicated. There’s no need for you to know, and I think you could be in danger if you did. Please trust us.’
