lost their beauty and had not gained the shimmering jeweled presence of the night.
He hunched his body against the rail, thinking of another age, when the sun over Italy had set on promises and hope: the promises of a tyrant and the hope of simple men. He had never expected to come back, had he? The gesticulations, and the imprecations soon forgotten, the musical staccato of the language, and beneath his hands the heartbreaking dent of a woman’s back as they walked together in the evening light.
Now he was back, and soon he would be gone.
He touched the scarf closer to his neck, wondering if the Italians were right and if there was a coldness about the dusk.
Six thousand sterling. Yashim would be pleased.
And a man in a wineshop, ready to talk terms.
Stanislaw Palewski patted the rail and turned back to the Zattere, and made his way along it toward a darkening sky.
45
Signor Ruggerio, stepping out of his house in San Barnaba to buy a small cheroot from the corner shop, was surprised to find himself accompanied by two men he vaguely remembered who held his arms and suggested a drink together, somewhere outside the campo.
Somewhere, in fact, beyond a certain little network of alleyways, a distinct island of mud and pilings and pavements faced about with small canals, which constituted the parish of San Barnaba.
They took him over a bridge.
They gave him a glass of wine.
“He’s money,” Ruggerio said, prudently swallowing his jealousy along with his rosso — for nobody likes to lose a client. “That’s for sure. The question is, where’s it from?”
The men, it seemed, liked the way he talked.
“That’s for you, Barone,” one of them said outside the bar, tucking a cheroot wrapped in a note into his breast pocket. “I expect you can find your own way home?”
“You know how it is, gentlemen,” Ruggerio replied nervously. “At my age, you begin to forget everything.”
One of the men reached out and tweaked Ruggerio’s cheek. “I’m delighted to hear it, Barone,” he said. “Sleep well.”
46
Palewski walked slowly back to his apartment. It had occurred to him, ironically, and with curiosity, what might be done with six thousand pounds.
Now and then he heard footsteps approaching; a dark figure would loom out of the narrow passage, his shadow lengthening with every step, and he would pass with a muffled greeting. Sometimes he heard footsteps behind him. He walked slowly, savoring the money, and let them pass.
Six thousand would buy him a regiment, or a library, or an assassin. He wondered about that. He wondered, too, what it would be like to own a newspaper, perhaps in France, editions in Polish and French, articles about poetry and music, and above all the truth about Poland and the Poles. Mickiewicz was a good poet. Herzen-he’d contribute on the Russian side. Yes, six thousand pounds would go a long way in the diaspora, into garrets and drawing rooms.
And then again, not far enough. Better, perhaps, to go to New York, like Signor Brett, selling Canalettos to the newly rich? He smiled broadly and turned left. Australia! A new life. A new life certainly, but even in his dreams he was unclear what a life in Australia might entail.
Six thousand: two dropped on opium from Bengal, two on a cutter. Sold to China. Palewski Taipan, the richest man in Amoy! He gave a short laugh.
Footsteps again rang out on the cobbles behind him.
He stopped to look about and failed to recognize the alley. There were no lights beyond. He realized he’d taken a wrong turning; to make sure he went to the end of the alley and found himself looking through an archway at a set of slimy steps and a canal.
He swiveled around and began to retrace his steps, hearing their uneven echo in the dark ahead.
47
Maria was sitting quietly in a chair when she saw the door handle turn.
The first man had a scar that ran from his eye to his mouth; he was thin and Maria guessed him to be about forty, forty-five. The other man was younger, bigger, and puffy eyed. He looked like a drinker.
Neither of them looked like friends of Signor Brett.
“Waiting for someone?” The man with the scar stood in the doorway, stropping his hand with his gloves. He looked annoyed.
“I’m waiting for Signor Brett,” Maria snapped. “Who else? Hey, you can’t come in here,” she added, as the big man walked past her and glanced out the window.
The man with the scar ignored her. He closed the door behind him.
Maria felt afraid.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The scar-faced man walked up to her and looked into her face. “Tell us about your boyfriend, my dear,” he said.
Maria stuck out her lip. “There’s nothing to tell. He’s American.”
“American? Oh-oh. It’s not what I hear, pretty one. Like, where he buys his hats.”
“His hats?”
“You heard what I said. Istanbul. Constantinople. You have heard of Constantinople? I do hope so. I do hope you’re not stupid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maria said.
The scar-faced man stood looking into her face. His eyes were expressionless.
Without warning he drew back his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek.
Maria gave a cry and staggered sideways.
“I don’t like lying women,” he said. “I don’t like whores.”
“I’m not-”
He slapped her again.
Maria looked up: the candlelights were huge and blurred. She felt dizzy.
“This is his room,” she said thickly. She could taste blood in her mouth. “Get out of here.” She sounded drunk; her head was pounding. “Get out.”
There was a faint whistle; the scar-faced man pointed a finger at Maria, who was kneeling on the floor.
Maria tried to move but the other, silent man took her arms and dragged them roughly up behind her back.
“Another sound out of you, and you can kiss your lover goodbye.” Scar-face went to the mantelpiece and pinched out the candle.
The silent man shoved her ahead of him, through the doorway. At the door scar-face looked at Maria and said, “Where’s your bonnet?”
She shook her head. He went inside and reappeared with it, crushed up in his hand.
