rich slice of impenetrable dialect, which seemed to be returned: fists were shaken; the nuns looked away. Palewski smiled. The nuns in their habits reminded him of ladies at home, ladies in Istanbul.
He was aware now of something he had already sensed but not understood: the almost total absence of any sound beyond the shouts of boatmen and the liquid notes of water dropping from oars or hissing at the foaming prow of the boats. But as the gondolier pressed down on his sweep, they swung abruptly into a side canal, and sound and sunlight were blotted out.
Palewski started back, as if the bricks were about to strike his face. Twisting in his seat, he stared upward: they were passing down a slimy passage between tall buildings. The windows overhead were framed in stone, with rusty iron bars; patches of fallen plaster revealed an expanse of narrow brick. Here and there, laundry hung limply on lines stretched across the canal. Palewski wondered how it could ever dry. He pulled his coat across his chest and turned to the little window at his back.
“Brrr. Pensione Inghilterra?”
“Si, si. Pensione.” The gondolier jerked his chin.
“Inghilterra?” A doubt had lodged in Palewski’s mind. “Pensione Inghilterra?”
But Palewski’s question was destined to go unanswered, for at that moment the gondolier stumbled, staring into the water.
“Sacramento! ” he growled. “A man!”
9
It had been a man, certainly. The image was still lingering in Palewski’s mind as he sat in his apartment at the Pensione Inghilterra watching the reflected light from the water ripple across the facade of the building opposite. He turned his head. Involuntarily he saw, again, the mat of dark hair and the whole revolving, bulbous mass of the dead man’s face sliding beneath the surface. The boatman, prodding with his sweep, had brought up the corpse in a roil of bubbles and guided it toward the nearest quay. Palewski had not stayed to see more.
He took a sip of tea. It was barely warm, and with a shudder of disgust he stood up, crossed the room, and emptied his cup out the window. He heard it patter into the water down below.
He set the cup back on its saucer and rang his bell.
“I am going out,” he told the valet.
At Florian he ordered wine and a dish of polenta, which arrived smothered in onions and anchovies and put him in a better mood. He asked for grappa. He’d been hungry, thirsty, and thrown by that horrible unexpected corpse floating in the water. Who knew how the poor fellow had got there? Missed his step in the dark, maybe. One thing you could say about Venice: it would never do to trip in the street.
He leaned back and began to survey the square for the first time. At one end, beyond the enormous tower that reminded him, once again, of Cracow, stood a squat church, like a pig in rut. The arcades that lined the piazza on three sides were pretty fine. The pigeons were returning to their roosts with the dusk; little fires were springing up across the piazza, and the air had begun to fill with the scent of roasted chestnuts. It was after nine.
“Permesso?”
The man had his hand on the back of a chair. Palewski raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
The stranger pulled out the chair and sat down. He put his forearms on the table.
“Parlite Italiano? Good. My English is poor, Signor Brett.”
His frank blue eyes looked Palewski in the face. He was a big man in his early fifties, Palewski judged, with a fine head of black hair. How the devil did he know his name?
“And you are, Signor-?”
“Brunelli.” He put out his hand. “Commissario. You are welcome to Venice.”
Palewski blinked and shook hands.
“The boy at the Inghilterra said you had come out,” Brunelli explained. “And I needed a little air. Perhaps a grappa, too.”
He clicked his fingers and the waiter came forward.
“Grappa- due. The polenta is good here, Signor Brett.”
“Thank you, I’ve eaten,” Palewski replied. He eyed the commissario uncertainly. He had told the valet he was going out, nothing more. “How did you know I’d be here?”
Brunelli shrugged lightly. “On their first night in Venice, everyone comes to Florian. Or Quadri,” he added. The waiter laid the glasses on the table. Brunelli took a sip. “Or have you perhaps been to Venice before?”
“It’s my first time, Commissario.” Some functionary of the police, evidently; for a few moments Palewski had allowed himself to forget that he was in Habsburg territory.
He downed his grappa and called for the bill. “Do excuse me, I’d like to walk a little.”
Brunelli rose to his feet with surprising lightness for a large man.
“Let me walk a little way with you, signore,” he said. “I will show you the pillars of St. Mark.”
Palewski bowed stiffly. The evening was warm but his hands were cold, and he could feel the beating of his heart.
“You were in Istanbul?” the commissario remarked casually, as they strolled along the arcade toward St. Mark’s.
The ship’s manifest, of course, would have given this man his name and his port of embarkation.
“I went to buy a statue,” Palewski said. He and Yashim had devised this story together. “For a collector in New York.”
“Did you have any luck?”
“Not yet. Ottoman bureaucracy is very slow.”
The policeman nodded. “Here it is the same. Vienna is a long way away.”
Palewski did not reply. He had recognized, with a shock, the gray-coated Habsburg sentries strutting outside the government buildings at the far end of the piazza. It had been many years since he had seen the uniform: columns of soldiers in greatcoats, marching through snow. Vienna seemed uncomfortably close.
“You deal in artwork, Signor Brett.” The commissario sighed. “And in Venice?”
“And in Venice, yes. There is a lot to see.”
They turned in front of the basilica and began to walk toward the water.
“A strange thought, Signor Brett, that our Tiepolos and Titians may end up in the land of beavers and savage Indians.”
“Would you rather see them in Vienna, Commissario?” Palewski tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Brunelli’s voice came from behind. “Stop where you are!”
Palewski turned around slowly.
Brunelli was shaking his head. “The pillars,” he said. “It is very bad luck to pass between them.”
“Between them?” Palewski echoed. “Why?”
Brunelli smiled. “Venice is an old city, Signor Brett. Not like New York.”
Palewski looked up at the pillars. They were not matched, one green-gray, the other of red granite. On top of the green pillar stood a small winged lion, the symbol of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice.
“In former days,” Brunelli explained, “this is where we executed our criminals and traitors. Their heads went on a pillar over there, by the entrance to the church, until they began to stink.”
They skirted the pillars and came down to the waterfront. “The Republic was finished off when I was three years old,” Brunelli added. “Many people-my family among them-had great hopes of Napoleon. In the end, he destroyed some churches and stole some of our treasures.”
“Treasures, perhaps, the Venetians had stolen from others.”
“Yes,” Brunelli said mildly. “Perhaps that is exactly what I mean. We rob, and we are robbed. This is the great game of history, Signor Brett. It is played out over our heads-like a meeting of the gods, painted on a ceiling by Tiepolo.” He drew a breath, like a whistle. “It may be different in America, of course.”
He blew on his hands, to cool them.
“In the meantime, the people still need justice-and protection.” Brunelli turned his head and stared out
