He saw the turban. He saw Palewski’s lean, pale face. He saw Maria, doubtful, with her jet-black hair. He saw children, shaved headed, staring at him with their big eyes, and their father, smiling, and the shadows and the black beams and the embers of the dying fire.
He advanced, unsteadily, into the room.
“Buon appetito,” he said with a bow, and stumbled into a pallet on which he was scarcely surprised to see the figure of the dying Christ.
“Please, Signor Brunelli,” the signora said magisterially. “Join us.”
Brunelli found himself squashed onto the end of a bench with a small child on one side and Yashim on the other, and knife, fork, plate, and red wine in front of him.
The only difference between this and other feasts he could imagine was that no one seemed actually to be eating.
His nostrils twitched, and his gaze returned to the table. It was covered with a clean cloth, and on it stood several plates. He saw a mound of rice, a dish of something with raw onion, a heap of curious green packages about the size of eggs, and an earthenware dish containing something in a white sauce.
Around the table he noticed a lot of very suspicious faces.
The Brunelli name was not inscribed in the Golden Book, which had listed the aristocratic families entitled to enjoy the burdens and the rewards of government. But the blood of Venice flowed in Brunelli’s veins nonetheless, the blood of men who had eaten raw horsemeat with the riders of the Crimea, nibbled thousand-year-old eggs with the Great Khan in Cathay and spice-laden stews with the Bedouin of the Persian gulf-not to mention boiled cabbage in the halls of the Polish kings.
Brunelli stretched out his hands, inspired, and delivered a grace. It was a grace he had heard said in the Ghetto, many times.
“Blessed are you, our God, Lord of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”
Palewski smiled and helped the signora to the pilaff.
Brunelli picked up the vine leaves and offered them to his neighbor. Yashim took one, Brunelli another. They passed the dish along. A small child helped himself to some pilaff. Maria’s father took a spoonful of liver and onions, while Maria picked up a vine-leaf parcel and bit into it. She gave a little cry of appreciation.
“It’s fish! Mamma, try one!”
In a matter of moments everyone was eating and talking all at once.
Brunelli leaned across the table.
“Signor Brett,” he began.
Signor Brett cut him off.
“I haven’t been straight with you, Commissario, I’m afraid. Not from the start. For which I’m sorry. This is Yashim.”
“Good,” the big man said. “I don’t like straight.” He took a sip of wine. “What are you both doing, exactly?”
Palewski looked over at Yashim. “What are we doing, anyway?”
“Looking for justice,” Yashim replied. “Justice, and a Bellini.”
Brunelli raised a single eyebrow.
“Both valuable, signore. Both rare.”
And Yashim smiled and told him everything they knew.
83
Much later, when Brunelli had gone home and the Contarini family had gone to bed, still drowsily exclaiming their surprise: Raw onion! Fish in a coat! Lasagna without pasta! — Yashim and Palewski drew closer to the fire.
“Tell me more about the contessa,” Yashim suggested.
Palewski shrugged. “I haven’t much to tell. Except that she’s very beautiful, she fights foil, and some ancestor of hers was with Morosini in the Peloponnese. She’s a surprise, Yashim. Something dangerous about her, maybe. She won’t marry either, I don’t know why.”
He repeated the details of the family tragedy that the old lady at the Ca’ d’Istria had given him.
“Her father was the last Venetian bailo in Istanbul. Hence the Koran. And she was born there, as it happens.”
Yashim raised an eyebrow. “And she won’t see you, you say?”
Palewski shook his head. “I’m not even sure she’s there. The last time I tried no one even came to the door.”
Yashim prodded the embers with a stick.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said slowly. “Venice is a theater, you say. Perhaps the time has come to take a more theatrical approach.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once, the doge married the sea.”
“Napoleon burned the bucintoro,” Palewski pointed out.
“Quite so. I wasn’t imagining a return of the doge. But I’ve been talking to Signor Contarini. The bargee.”
Palewski looked surprised. “What does Signor Contarini have to do with it?”
“Everything. Venice has been starved of entertainment for far too long. What I imagine,” said Yashim, sketching his plan in the smoke from the signora’s fire, “is a visit. A visit,” he added, yawning, “from a lost world.”
Palewski rubbed his hands across his face and stretched his feet to the fire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see.”
84
Yashim was gone again the next morning when Palewski and Maria sat down to breakfast. Maria, too, had errands to perform, so Palewski spent the morning in the yard with the unemployed men, trying to penetrate their dialect and taking the occasional whiff of a very cheap cigar. An old man without teeth had been at the battle of Borodino. They shared their disappointments and capped each other’s reminiscences for the entertainment of the younger men, until the signora called him in for lunch.
Yashim returned a few minutes later and sat down to a thick lentil soup with evident enjoyment.
After lunch, Yashim spoke quietly to Maria and her mother; Palewski could not quite hear what they said, but the old lady looked thoroughly dubious. Finally she burst out laughing and flipped her apron over her head to hide her bad teeth. Palewski watched Yashim give the signora some money.
Yashim came out into the yard. Palewski threw him an inquiring look.
“The signora,” Yashim explained, “has agreed to spend the afternoon baking. Along with a dozen of her friends.”
“Buns?”
“Buns are traditional in Istanbul. I imagine they’ll be equally appreciated in Venice.”
“Yashim, I’m completely confused.”
“In which case,” Yashim replied, smiling, “my plan is more likely to succeed.”
85
