must understand that these treasures belong in some sense to the patrimony of Venice, even if she is fallen today. They belong to old families. They constitute a history of a house, and the people who have lived there.” He paused, frowned, looked for the proper explanation. “Aha-it is like these pieces can be compared to a beautiful daughter. Her marriage, when she leaves the house, is not left to chance. It is a matter for full and delicate consideration.”
Palewski nodded. He wondered whether Signor Brett, of New York, for all his wealth, was quite the kind of catch a patrician Venetian would consider for his daughter-even if she were made of canvas and oil.
Alfredo seemed to have read his thoughts. “My patron understands these delicate matters,” he said. “I think, before I was sent to you, that your case was hopeless. In Venice you can buy-what? Anything-a friend, a woman, a nice house.” He glanced at Palewski as he spoke, and Palewski flushed slightly. “But a work of art? This is different.”
He cocked his head. “Let me be frank. My patron, he is not unhappy to see you in Venice. You are something new, signore. For many years, we arrange matters between our clients-his clients, I mean-and his Venetian friends. These are very important works, and the prices are, well-who can pay? The French? Hmm. Some. Some Russians. Some others, Swedes, princes, yes. But the English-these are the best. The famous Byron, pah! But Byron’s friends, lords, like him, with palazzi of their own. For many years we have dealt with these men. Only these, I would say.”
“And now you’d appreciate a little competition.”
Alfredo smiled. “You understand me very well, signore.”
Palewski signaled to the waiter. “Two brandies,” he said. To Alfredo he said, “You know nothing about me.”
Alfredo laughed, to Palewski’s surprise. He waited while the waiter set the brandies down in two huge balloons.
“You exaggerate, Signor Brett. I think you might be surprised how much we know about you.”
He slipped his hand beneath the bowl of his glass and swirled it violently so that the caramel liquid left an oily sheen on the inside, then he raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“But in fact it doesn’t altogether matter. Yours is a big country, Signor Brett, as I think you have already remarked.”
Palewski looked up, and their eyes met.
“I’m glad we’ve had a chance to talk,” Alfredo said. He inclined his glass toward Palewski. “To Bellini,” he said quietly. Then, without waiting for a response, he drank the liquor and got up.
“We haven’t really discussed Bellini, Signor Alfredo,” Palewski said.
“I was always talking about Bellini, Signor Brett.”
He turned to go, then stopped and looked around. “We’ll meet again. The bill is taken care of,” he added, with a flicker of a smile.
With that he was gone, through an arch of the arcade in two quick strides.
“Exit right,” Palewski murmured to himself. “Signor Brett onstage, drinking brandy.”
He looked down and recognized the list he’d been writing, balancing the options.
He tore the list into little pieces. That done, he got up and went to the edge of the canal, where he let the pieces drop from his fingers into the water.
“Curtain.”
It was not what he had expected. It made him uneasy.
Afraid.
He would miss the rendezvous, he thought.
44
“Signor Brett.”
Palewski glanced around and recognized Alfredo. They walked in step, neither man saying anything, until Alfredo gestured to a pontoon.
He walked to the rail and leaned on it, looking out toward Giudecca, and then half turned toward Palewski and smiled.
“What do you know about the Bellinis, Signor Brett? As a family, I mean?”
“The Bellinis? Father, Jacopo. Good painter, highly regarded in his day. Two sons-Gentile and Giovanni. Vasari says they were very loving. Giovanni was working on the frescoes in the Doges’ Palace when Mehmet’s invitation to the best Venetian painter arrived, and Vasari suggests that the Senate didn’t feel they could spare him. So Gentile was sent.”
“Oh, I think Gentile was good enough for the job, Signor Brett. We should allow him that. When Bellini left, Mehmet gave him a title.”
“He didn’t use the title.”
“Of course not. Mehmet also gave him a gold belt, weighted with coins. It was kept by the Bellini family for many years.”
Palewski leaned on the rail. “Well?”
“Signor Brett.” Alfredo seemed amused. “My patron has spoken at some length to the very owner of the painting you seek.”
“The portrait of Mehmet the Conqueror? By Gentile Bellini?”
“My patron saw it several months ago. And again this morning. Before that-well, it has to do with those gold coins, Signor Brett, and also Tiziano, your Titian. He was a pupil of Bellini.”
“Of Giovanni, surely?” Palewski had not spent those hours reading and rereading Vasari for nothing.
“Of Giovanni, yes, but they were a close family, Signor Brett. And I think, more importantly, we should remember how close the Venetians and the Ottomans were. When Venice sent a bailo to Istanbul, it sent the best, and there were many other merchants, too.”
“Someone bought the portrait and brought it back?”
“Someone who would have known the quality of the work.”
“Who?”
Alfredo smiled and spread his hands. “A little too direct, signore. I cannot tell you the name now-but of course, in due time…”
“And what is the deal?”
“Sixteen thousand kreuzers. Just under six thousand sterling, if you prefer.”
Palewski turned to the rail. Six thousand pounds! Enough, he supposed, to keep a palazzo for a lifetime, with a gondolier in perpetual attendance! Less than the sultan spent in a month on candles, too, no doubt.
“I do not wish to influence you,” Alfredo remarked. “Believe me, I understand it is a lot of money. But my patron has sold many paintings for very much more. Bellini is not in fashion, to be honest. Tiepolo, Titian, Veronese-very well. We sold a Titian last year to an Englishman for fifteen thousand.”
Palewski gave an imperceptible nod. He had done some homework: Alfredo was right.
“Fashions change,” the dealer observed. “Canaletto-once, two thousand, three thousand. Now you can buy him for eight hundred. There is always another, if you miss one.” He shrugged. “But a Bellini-that, Signor Brett, you can buy only once. If you permit me, I shall leave you with your thoughts. You can find me in Costa’s little bar-it’s close to the end, down a few steps. The evening is getting chilly.”
They shook hands. “Thank you, Alfredo. Give me five minutes.”
Italians, he smiled to himself: always afraid of the cold. Then he remembered something he had not thought of for many years-a companion he’d loved, a man who joked and was generous and knew how to fight. But when Ranieri had lost his horse on the long retreat, he died before Palewski found him blue and stiff in the Russian snow.
He blew out his cheeks and leaned against the rail. The sunlight was gradually dragging itself from the Giudecca, dropping the spires and the old faded housefronts slowly into the shade. A grayer tide was moving in from the east as the still waters lost their sparkle: the gray ordinary light of all cities in the early dusk, when they
