54
They gave her water, though not before they had amused themselves by trickling it anywhere but on her lips.
When the strong man saw her bend her head, trying to lick the water from the muslin of her own dress, he laughed excitedly.
The scar-faced man looked at him with disgust. Perhaps that was what made him decide to reach around and cut the cord that bound Maria’s wrists.
“She’s not going anywhere,” he said.
Even with her arms free, Maria had to have the jug held to her mouth: her hands were swollen and the muscles in her arms could not obey her.
“Changed your mind yet?” The scar-faced man held her by the chin. Maria closed her eyes, waiting for the sting.
Instead, he pushed her away. “We’ll see you again, pretty one. Don’t you worry. We’ll be back.”
They left her in the darkness. She heard the bolts ram home through the thick door, and she folded her fingers over the raw skin on her wrists and wept.
55
Whenever Palewski closed his eyes he was plunged back into darkness. The sound of that bestial cry would lift him from the pillows, grinding his teeth. He had seen and heard men die. Sometimes they died silently like Ranieri in the snow. Sometimes they raved. But too often he had heard that cry of an animal in fright or pain.
What am I? he asked himself once. He did not think he was a coward. But he had saved himself, certainly. Saved himself for what? For Poland? He sneered at the thought. Was it true that everything he did was purely for the motherland? Then why bother with Bellini and a sultan’s ball at all? Why not take the money and set it to work? Perhaps that was what a braver man would do.
Hours passed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. He saw the dawn gather at his window; he had forgotten to close the shutters. For some the dawn brings hope, but for Palewski it was as if the sun were spying through the glass on a man who was no longer young, half sick with brandy and sour dreams, primping and petting on tyrants and courtesans.
A man who let another die alone.
A man too frightened to strike a match in the darkness.
Then the sun slipped from his window again and he lay immobile on the pillows, seeing the window through a tangle of black lashes, until he finally noticed Yashim near the foot of his bed.
“I’ve failed,” he murmured, feeling no surprise. Yashim only smiled.
Palewski felt no desire to open his eyes. In his dream he was running across snow, like a hare on the thin crust, and the surface of the snow was pockmarked by the little holes into which his friends had sunk, one by one. He ran hither and thither across the snow, whining and wringing his hands, knowing that if he tried to crack through the crust to save them then he, too, would slide through it like a hot coal.
And when he opened his eyes with a jerk the room was as empty as it had always been, and someone was knocking on the door and calling out, “Signor Brett! Signor Brett! Are you at home?”
56
Palewski let Ruggerio prattle on. It was battle enough simply to lift his hand and take the morsel of bread from his plate and put it to his lips.
The sun was already warm on his back, but he felt a shudder pass across his shoulder blades. He rested his hand on the cloth and then put it out again, to take a thin fluted glass of the amaro.
He tilted the glass and the liquor ran into his mouth and he made an effort with his tongue and it went down.
“I thought I’d lost you.” The cicerone was beaming across the table.
“Lost me?” Palewski leaned forward and examined the Venetian as if for the first time.
Ruggerio looked disconcerted. “I mean only to say, signore, we have not seen each other for a few days. But if you are busy, then Ruggerio is happy!” He winked, grinning again. “Maybe la signorina Maria opens up-a little Venice, also? With her, signore, you see many attractive sights, no?”
Palewski stared at him, expressionless.
“A little Venice, signore, between a woman’s thighs!”
“I haven’t seen the girl for two days,” Palewski said coldly.
The grin faltered and congealed on Ruggerio’s face. “Are you sure?”
“Two nights,” Palewski admitted. “She’s a damn nice girl.”
Ruggerio looked uneasy. “I think so, too. Very clean,” he murmured. He was silent for a while.
Palewski reached for the coffee.
“I’ll be leaving in a day or so, Ruggerio.”
“But Signor Brett!” Ruggerio’s face fell. “I think your matters are not yet arranged-you must give us time.” His eyes widened. “Is it-is it because of Count Barbieri?”
“It’s a business matter.” Palewski dabbed a napkin to his lips. “The rent is paid on the apartment. I owe you for your time, of course-and Maria’s, too.”
Ruggerio drew himself up. “You are too kind, signore. Of course, I will be grateful for any gift you choose to bestow. I can take care of the girl, also-she was not with you last night? I am sorry for that.” He pursed his lips. “But I am afraid it is not quite so simple. My honor, also, is at stake.”
“Your honor, Ruggerio?”
Ruggerio leaned his head to one side. “Signor Brett, I am surprised you do not appreciate my difficulty.” He sounded severe, cross almost. “I deliver your cards to the most prestigious dealers in Venetian art in the city. The card says-what? That you are from New York. That you collect art.” He looked upset and waved his hands. “Forgive me, Signor Brett, but such a card you can buy for a few lire at the printers. If you see cunt written on a wall, do you stand to it?”
Palewski smiled in spite of himself. “Of course not.”
“Of course not. That’s very good, signore.” Ruggerio seemed to be working himself up into a passion. “It is the same with this card. You think the dealers become stiff because you have a card with a name written on it? No, of course not. Yet Count Barbieri-he died, but he came to see you. At the Correr, the director made time for you. Signor Eletro-he, too, starts to think about this Signor Brett. They must think-and it is I, Antonio Ruggerio, who brought them something to think about!”
He grabbed out and his hand collided with Palewski’s glass. He snatched it up and drained it.
“In a month, I tell them, you must flush out the greatest of your pictures. I tell them, Signor Brett is a friend to Ruggerio, a good man, with a keen eye and some money to spend. I admit I said that-or why would they come? For a card? Pah!”
“You have been more than kind, Signor Ruggerio-”
“Barone.”
“Barone Ruggerio. I apologize. I am at fault, and I acknowledge it freely.”
But I am always at fault, he thought. He shook his head, to block out that cry in the dark.
“I have put you in a position of some delicacy, I understand,” he continued. “But what must be, must be. How can I make it acceptable to your honor?”
How, he wondered, how does a man regain his honor?
Ruggerio’s anger seemed to collapse.
“Once,” he began, “I told you that the story of Venice is never written. It can never end, because no one
