replete with the sights of canal life in Venice in the 1760s. Gondolas slipped across the rippled water; matrons hung out of balconies, drawing up their shopping on a string; a periwigged grandee lectured his ladies on the classical orders in front of Santa Maria della Salute; a dog barked at a beggar; a woman sat at her window, reading a letter with a happy smile.
Unlike Palewski, Yashim had never before seen such attention to detail. It was more than a realistic rendering of light in paint. It was like looking through a window. He almost believed he could jump in and come out wet, floundering in the Grand Canal.
“It makes no difference,” Palewski was saying. “This man Eletro must have had a sort of brilliance-but it’s all reflected. And why not? Canaletto held a mirror up to this city and painted the reflection. Very clever. Medal of honor. Eletro holds a mirror up to Canaletto. Clever, too. Medal of honor, second class.”
Yashim straightened up. “Is that Eletro on the floor next door, do you think?”
“I assumed so. I don’t know, now you mention it.”
“No, I think it’s him, too.” Yashim gestured to the tangled sheets and blankets. “This is where he lived. And where he was left dead.” He returned his gaze to the canvas, fascinated by the depth of perspective, the animation of the tiny figures who looked solid and real in the foreground and then dwindled into mere brushstrokes as the distance lengthened.
He moved his head back and forth, screwing up his eyes.
“It wasn’t Eletro who painted this picture,” he said finally. “It wasn’t your Canaletto, either. But whoever it was, he did hold a mirror up to Venice. Look.”
He was pointing at the canvas-not touching it. The paint was still fresh.
Palewski bent his head and looked.
“Good God!”
Yashim wasn’t pointing to the foreground. He was pointing, instead, to a tiny window in a row of windows almost lost in the shade of the great church. There, in a darkened room, a man with red arms and a curious topknot could be seen grappling with a pair of bloody legs.
72
Vosper stood stiffly in front of the stadtmeister’s desk and repeated what he had said.
“The pasha’s servant, sir. His very words.”
The stadtmeister spread his papers across his desk, in a gesture of despair. “I have nothing about this. Nothing! And you say he was wearing a turban? My God!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry? ja, ja, we will all be sorry, Vosper. What are we to do? Tomorrow, you say?”
“That’s what he told me, sir.”
“Did he say how many? Any names?”
“I–I don’t think so, sir. He thought I knew all about it. I assumed you had been informed.”
“Der Teufel! I work with idiots!” The stadtmeister began opening drawers, pulling out sheaves of yellow imperial paper, all embossed with the K. u. K. double-eagle crest. “Go back, Vosper, and find this man, this pasha’s servant, and bring him to me immediately. Be tactful of course. You will say that the stadtmeister wishes to run through a few items on the reception program and would be pleased to discuss them this afternoon.”
Vosper’s heels clicked. “If I can find him, sir.”
“Find him? Of course you must find him! Isn’t he staying in the American’s old apartment?”
“Yes, sir. He was just moving in.”
“There you are, then. And Vosper”-the stadtmeister chewed his mustache-”send Brunelli to me, right away.”
73
Palewski studied the picture.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If that’s Eletro being killed-why, who would have painted such a thing? And when, Yashim?”
Yashim was at the open window. It was a twenty-foot drop into the canal below.
He turned and surveyed the room: bare walls, the little paint-splattered table, a crucifix above the bed.
He was about to go back through the door when his glance fell on the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed.
Yashim strode over to the bed and tugged at the yellowing sheets.
For a moment he thought he had been deceived, that there was nothing there.
The man was curled up with his arms over his head, his knees drawn up to his chin, his hands clenched into bony fists.
Yashim took his arms and pulled them back, to reveal a wizened face the color of old sheets, eyes shut, the mouth dry and cracked.
There was no resistance in the curled-up figure: he was beyond strength, possibly beyond all help. His limbs peeled apart to the touch.
“We need water,” Yashim said. Without hesitation he bent down and scooped the man up in his arms. “Pick up the painting.”
They waded through a cloud of flies and on the landing Palewski pulled the door shut behind them. Outside in the campo he opened the well cover and pulled up a bucket of water. Yashim sat down and held the man against his chest, sprinkling his lips with drops from the bucket.
He took the water in his hand and ran it over the man’s face.
The eyelids did not stir, but the cracked lips moved slightly.
Yashim held his hand as a scoop and let a little water trickle into the man’s mouth. There was a catching sound, and the man swallowed.
“What are we going to do with him?”
Yashim looked anxious. “We’ll take him to the Contarinis. Don’t worry. He hasn’t killed anyone. No blood on him.” He glanced up. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
He unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around the frail skeleton.
Palewski said, “Sometimes it’s the ones who seem weak, like him, who survive.”
They carried him to the gondola. The gondolier started at the sight of Yashim’s bundle. “What’s that? It looks like a pieta,” he exclaimed, crossing himself.
“Take us to Dorsoduro as fast as you can,” Palewski said. “And pray, my friend, for the resurrection.”
74
The stadtmeister’s atlas confirmed that Venice and the Ottoman capital, Istanbul, were separated by only four degrees of latitude. Very significant, he thought. Two Mediterranean cities-one sheltered from its direct influence by the Adriatic and the lagoon, and the other by the Sea of Marmara.
Brunelli was just the man for the job.
“Ach, Commissario,” he said, as Brunelli entered. “I need your help.”
“Help, sir?” Brunelli faced his chief with a dull expression. “I was under the impression that Vosper provided you with all the help you need.”
“What? What?” The stadtmeister reddened. “Look, Brunelli. It is my job to organize the disposition of forces in this city to the maximum advantage of the public. Operational necessities. I mean, let us not delude ourselves,
