heard her laugh.
“So, a hussar!”
Palewski ground his teeth and said nothing.
She opened in octave, made a feint to sixte-her favorite-and then followed it up with a low attack in septime, which Palewski managed-only just-to parry, returning to octave before she parried in octave and took the point of his foil wide.
She made a fleche and won the point.
The bout was hers.
Palewski, with nothing to lose, found himself relaxed. He’d lost, what of it?
“In guardia.”
She opened her attack with the feint to sixte, but this time Palewski was ready for her. He parried with an indirect riposte that went home and struck her chest.
“Touche, madame,” he muttered.
Carla arched her body and eased her hands along her outstretched leg, to the floor.
Palewski put up his foil.
“In guardia.”
Carla’s foil flipped into guard: she stamped and stepped forward with a feint to octave.
Palewski had anticipated the feint-and she had guessed he would. Now she took him by surprise by executing a beat to his blade. With a delicate disengage she placed the point of her foil neatly into the center of Palewski’s chest.
She held the blade there, curved, for a fraction longer.
Then she pulled off her mask, undid the ribbon, and tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Fencing-it’s like conversation, don’t you agree?”
Her blue eyes were full of mischief.
“What did you learn about me, Signor Brett?”
Palewski took a deep breath and nodded. “You didn’t give much away, madame-neither points nor traits.”
“There must be something. Or am I too cold?”
“Cold? I think you’re controlled. Very sure of yourself. A little dangerous maybe-to yourself and others.”
He was looking at the pattern of pink, green, and gray marble laid out on the floor.
“To myself? I’m not sure I understand.”
Palewski looked thoughtful. Most people, he reflected, shy from pain, but he could hardly tell the contessa what he had sensed about her, even if it were true.
“Perhaps if I knew why the d’Aspis die young, madame?”
“Ha!” She considered him in silence for a moment. “As for you, Signor Brett, New York is not where you learned to fence. Or would it be better to say, where you learned to wield a sword?” She paused, long enough to gauge his reaction. “I practice for an hour every day-and you won a point off me. But just now you wanted to fight saber, I’m sure of it.”
Palewski gave a shrug. “I’ve picked up some bad habits. It was a long time ago.”
She ran a fingertip along the line of her cheek. “An American sabreur,” she said thoughtfully. “The War of 1812, perhaps? Cavalry action along the Canadian border.” The irony was inescapable.
Palewski looked down at the floor. “This pattern-you use it, don’t you? To fence.”
He felt her watching him. After a moment she said, “You’re very perceptive, Signor Brett. Yes, I use it: it helps me to concentrate. To keep control, as you put it.”
He nodded. The pattern made an endless knot, woven from four triangles in a square.
“Is it Venetian?”
“You don’t recognize it?”
Palewski shook his head. “It’s very beautiful.”
“Yes.” She rang a bell, for coffee. “And also a grappa, Antonio, for Signor Brett.”
She smiled. “I always imagine that hussars drink grappa-but there, Signor Brett, I’m making you cross.” She half lowered her eyelids. “Forgive me.”
“The hussars-are boors,” he explained. “I hope you don’t find me too boorish.”
She gave a peal of laughter and covered her mouth with her hand. “I was being-complimentary. Don’t the hussars say that they always make the people run-the men away, and the women into their arms?”
Palewski gave a weak smile. “Whatever they say, madame, it was true only of the lancers.”
She gave him an almost tender look. “The lancers.”
“You were telling me about the pattern on the floor,” he said uncomfortably.
“The Sand-Reckoner’s diagram,” Carla said. “It has other names-this one, from Archimedes’ effort to calculate the size of the universe.” She smiled. “Now you know-and here’s your coffee.”
Palewski took the grappa, downed it, and replaced the glass on the tray. He drank the coffee standing, as she did. There was barely a stick of furniture in the salon.
“Barbieri told me you were hunting in Venice for something rare.”
I found you, Palewski thought. Aloud he said, “Yes. I mentioned Bellini, and he laughed at me, just about. Said we’d have to steal it.”
“Steal it? A respectable man like Count Barbieri?”
“It sounded like a joke.”
She gave a wan smile. “I didn’t know the count was capable of a joke where money was involved. But Bellini? I admire your ambition, signore-but I doubt you will succeed.”
“Perhaps not. It was just a rumor. I was acting on impulse.”
“Yes, Signor Brett. That I can believe.”
“You divined as much from my fencing, madame.”
“Perhaps before. It was the way you accepted my challenge. After all, you came here expecting to have coffee with an old lady,” she added with a laugh. “I’m glad you gave me a bout. It was-gallant of you. I hope you will come back. I practice every morning, at this time.”
Palewski bowed.
“But come tonight, as well,” she said, holding out her hand. Palewski brought it to his lips. “Seven o’clock. And Count Barbieri will be here. You never know, signore, he may have stolen you a Bellini already.”
25
The Croat was getting worse: his moods, his withdrawals, were becoming more frequent. Even his products were less reliable. In a year or two, Popi considered, he might be useless to him.
He saw it finally: the shadowy figure of a man in a top hat standing at a window overlooking the Grand Canal.
Drawn obviously from life-what of it the Croat ever saw. Nobody had worn top hats in Canaletto’s day.
Popi brought his index finger up slowly so the Croat could see and pointed at the offending image.
“Change the hat,” he said. He did not think that after all this time he would need to say, or do, any more.
The Croat did not even glance at the picture. He simply stared at Popi with an expression of sullen disappointment.
“Change the hat,” Popi said slowly. “Then we varnish the pictures. And then, my friend, two bottles.” He held up two fingers.
The Croat looked at the fingers, then for the first time at the picture. It was agreed.
Popi’s jaw worked. Two bottles-if he kept his side of the bargain the Croat would be incapacitated for a week. But at least Popi would have something to sell the American. He couldn’t afford to wait.
“Take this one through to the studio,” Popi said.
The Croat lifted the painting down and carried it into the back room, where Popi kept his paints and
