Lucifer's Shadow

31 An uneasy state of grace

The fiddle was bought. Some $30,000 of Massiter’s money remained in the house, with the prospect of a further $50,000 before the end of the summer. The additional reserve, Daniel believed, ought to make Scacchi’s negotiations with his creditors more flexible. If this was the case, the old man did not mention it. Once the instrument was in his hands, he thanked Daniel in the most sincere of fashions and declared there was no further need for his involvement in any subterfuge. It was essential the instrument’s existence be kept from Laura, Scacchi insisted, but its sale had already been pre-arranged. The sums would be sufficient to save their skins. It was now time for Daniel to concentrate on enjoying himself. With a wave of his hand, Scacchi seemed to dismiss the Guarneri and its acquisition entirely.

For Scacchi and Paul, it appeared, the entire episode now lay in the past, unworthy of recall. The two men’s health was a little improved. Their temperaments were happy and nonchalant. Laura, too, seemed relaxed and contented. Ca’ Scacchi had moved from the brink of catastrophe to a happy equilibrium in a matter of days, largely through Daniel’s efforts, as the old man had gratefully admitted once the violin was his.

Yet Daniel found his own mood failed to follow theirs, for reasons he could not explain to them. Giulia Morelli seemed to be developing a fascination with him. She had now approached him twice since her deliberate appearance at the vaporetto stop, once when he was daydreaming around the Guggenheim and a second time, more boldly, at La Pietà. On each occasion she had asked no direct questions and, in the gallery, had gone so far as to pretend her presence was accidental. Yet from her tone and the gentle, insistent probing of her comments, it was clear that she suspected Scacchi had engaged in some transaction of late and that Daniel was a part of it.

The last interview had taken place on a pew at the rear of the church while Fabozzi talked quietly to his players only a few yards away. Finally, Daniel had snapped and asked her to continue the discussion outside. There, on the steps of La Pietà, under a bright summer sun, he had demanded an explanation.

“An explanation?” she had answered, amused. “But you know what I seek, Daniel. Some object that has come on the market. And the discovery of those who seek to acquire it.”

“But I have told you a thousand times. I know nothing of this. Nor, as far as I am aware, does Scacchi. If you suspect he does, interrogate him, not me.”

She laughed. “And what would be the point of that? Scacchi is intrinsically dishonest, much as I like his company. He would never tell the truth. Not if it did not suit him.”

“So you come to me in the belief I will. And when you hear it, you dismiss it as fiction.”

“Oh, Daniel. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“No. Nor do I care.”

“I see an honest young man. An innocent young man. One who has become trapped in some world he finds exciting — up to a point, perhaps. But frightening too. And I ask myself why. What frightens you, Daniel?”

“Nothing you would understand. I have this concert in my head. It is a responsibility.”

“Ah! The concert. You see, there you puzzle me too. Where does this music come from, Daniel? Please tell me. I’m interested, as a listener, not merely a police officer.”

He clapped his hands, drawing the interview to a close. “That, Captain, is enough. If you have anything else to say to me, kindly ask me to the police station. The same goes for Scacchi.”

“You can tell him if you like. Of our little talks.”

Daniel swore mildly, then turned on his heels and went back into the church. He was grateful, and a little surprised, that she did not follow him.

The concert, at least, seemed on track. The transcription work was done. Fabozzi cooed over the final product. There was every sign that the première would be a considerable success. Daniel had given interviews to several journalists from the international press, flown in at Massiter’s expense and kept in luxury at the Cipriani. He made it plain in these brief, vague conversations that there would be no more work from his pen in the foreseeable future. This did not prevent word of the surprising nature and quality of the work leaking beyond La Pietà into the world at large, with Massiter’s encouragement, ensuring the night would be a sellout, and followed soon by performances in greater concert halls elsewhere. The risk of discovery was surely small and predictable. Giulia Morelli suspected much but knew nothing. Yet Daniel was troubled by a distant, intangible feeling that all was not as it should be. Nor was this concern self-centred. It was the Scacchi household which worried him. Each one of them seemed to be living in a pleasant daydream set firmly on the border of hubris. Irrational as he knew this to be, it was impossible to shake from his head the idea that another catastrophe, of a different nature, might lie around the corner.

The following morning, Sunday, found them on the jetty at San Stae, waiting for the Sophia to crawl down the Grand Canal and pick them up. It had the makings of a hot, dry, sunny day. Scacchi wore a dark jacket, pale trousers, and an old-fashioned trilby hat. Paul was in jeans, a denim shirt, and a baseball cap. Laura chose plain, cheap slacks — the kind, Daniel thought, they sold on market stalls — and a simple cheesecloth top. He and Paul had helped her carry the supplies: baskets of panini, sausage, ham and cheese, a selection of fruit, and a brown paper bag of tiny leaves of rocket, chicory, dandelion, and lettuce which, covered in Parmesan, seemed to grace every meal. There was drink too: bottles of white wine safe inside a vast cooler with bags of ice, three litres of Campari, and two of sparkling mineral water. More than sufficient, Daniel judged, to keep six adults in a comfortable state for an entire day.

Scacchi and Paul sat together on a bench. He stood with Laura, watching the traffic on the canal. Vaporetti vied with delivery barges and refuse-collection vessels, each dodging the low black shapes of the gondolas ferrying locals across to the traghetto stop by the city casino. Laura had been to the hairdresser’s and now sported a short, practical cut which curled in at the neck. Daniel had come to believe she dyed her hair yet never once wore a speck of make-up. Perhaps because it suited her, he thought, cursing himself. Sometimes he sought roundabout explanations when simpler answers stared him in the face.

“He comes!” Laura cried. “Daniel! Look!”

The low blue form of the Sophia cut a steady, straight line through the canal traffic, the large bulk of Piero upright at the tiller in the rear. At the prow Xerxes stood smugly erect, nose in the air, mouth open, pink tongue lolling lazily to one side. Daniel was grateful to find himself gripped by a sudden fit of the giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Laura demanded.

“I was wondering what Amy will make of all this. It will be a little different from our trip with Massiter.”

“Amy must take us as she finds us.”

Daniel gave her a sharp look. “You’ll behave, won’t you? She’s our star violinist.”

She seemed taken aback. “I always behave!”

He did not reply. The Sophia was making a sharp cut into the jetty. Xerxes eyed the planking, chose his moment, then leapt with precise timing onto land and began to sniff at the picnic baskets.

“Rope!” Piero yelled. Laura caught the end before Daniel began to realise what was needed, tethered the boat, then helped Scacchi and Paul on board. Xerxes watched the humans clamber onto the Sophia with their customary lack of elegance, eyeing this escapade with disparaging canine bewilderment, then sprang in at the last moment. Within the space of five minutes, they were in place, with provisions, turned round in the canal, and setting back towards San Marco, where Amy would be picked up as previously arranged. They had assumed — automatically, it seemed — the same positions they had on that first trip from the airport: Paul and Scacchi together in the prow, Daniel next to Laura on the left-hand side of the boat. Xerxes seemed more interested in the food baskets than the tiller at this moment, but soon abandoned them to be petted by Paul.

They entered the long bend of the canal which the locals called simply the volta. The curious mansion Laura had pointed out emerged on the right.

“There’s your palace,” Daniel said, pointing.

“It’s not my palace,” she objected.

Scacchi overheard. “Explain, Laura. I didn’t know you were familiar with Ca’ Dario.”

“I’m not. Daniel makes up fairy stories.”

“But you told me—!”

“I said,” she interrupted, “that it was just the foolish fancy of a child.”

“Out with it!” Scacchi ordered. “Let’s probe your psyche, dear.”

She glared at Daniel, blaming him for this turn of conversation. “There’s precious little to tell. I was a child. It was the day of my confirmation. I was dressed in white and it was carnival, so everyone was in costume too. The vaporetto went past that place and I looked up, seeing in a second-floor window”—she pointed very deliberately—“that one, a face. Which frightened the stupid little girl I was then.”

“Ah,” Scacchi announced triumphantly. “A carnival figure? The plague doctor, no doubt. Don’t be ashamed, Laura. That long nose and those white cheeks scare us all. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t the plague doctor. Or any of the others. It was something else.” She fell silent.

“Well?” Scacchi probed.

“It was a man. With his hands and his face covered in blood. He was staring through the window, looking straight at our boat, seemingly straight at me, screaming. As if he had just witnessed the most terrible thing in the world.”

Scacchi raised an eyebrow. “Your confirmation dress wasn’t that bad, surely? I know the Venetian ladies like to adorn their little darlings, but…”

Laura reached into one of the hampers, withdrew a croissant, and launched it through the air. Before it could strike the intended target, Xerxes leapt skywards from Paul’s lap with infallible accuracy, caught it in his jaws, and began to devour the pastry greedily. The occupants of the moto topo Sophia were reduced to an immediate bout of laughter, ended only by Scacchi’s weak cry of “Spritz! For the love of God. Spritz!”

“No,” Laura replied curtly. “It’s too early. And you’ve been wicked.”

“As you see fit,” he murmured, and was content when she handed out glasses of mineral water with the admonishment “I don’t want Daniel’s friend to believe we’re a bunch of drunks.”

Daniel saw she wished to change the subject, but he wanted one last question answered. “So what do you think you saw, Laura?”

She thought about her reply. “Some carnival nonsense. Or perhaps it was some kind of hallucination. I was a child, Daniel, as I continue to remind you. My mother never saw anything, nor did anyone else on the boat. All they knew was that they suddenly had a screaming girl in their midst.”

“Of course.” He hesitated. She never spoke of her past. He knew nothing about her life outside Ca’ Scacchi at all, it occurred to him. “What did she do, your mother?”

The sharp green eyes flared. “Work.”

“And your father?”

“Drink. When he was still alive.”

The two men in the prow watched them, seeming uncomfortable, then fell into a low conversation of their own.

“I see,” Daniel said.

“Do you?”

“No. I…I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t mean to pry. I just wondered who you are when you’re not looking after us.”

“I’m just a simple, boring servant, Daniel, who is both lucky and cursed by the fact that my masters appear to be my children too. My past is as dull as the water in this canal.”

“And your future?” He felt as if he were pressing her too much, but insisted in any case.

“The present is full of enough cares, don’t you think?”

He was about to answer when she pointed to the jetty. They were fast approaching San Marco, and the Sophia was headed directly for the landing stage where they had joined Massiter’s boat. Amy stood there, not yet seeing them. She wore, Daniel was dismayed to see, a cream silk dress and a floppy white hat to keep off the sun. She looked as if she were prepared to be a guest at a society wedding, not spend a few hours on the grubby planks of the Sophia, then disembark to deal with whatever bucolic pleasures Piero had arranged on Sant’ Erasmo.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed.

She slapped him hard on the knee. “And you ask if I’ll behave! You will be an English gentleman, my boy, or I’ll want to know why.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” he muttered, then stood up, broke into a broad smile, and greeted Amy from the low-slung Sophia as it hacked towards the jetty. Scacchi rose, too, and announced to everyone, including the tourists who lounged by the jetty, “It’s Amy Hartston, the famous American violinist. Behold! Applause!” And smacked his leathery hands together until a fair number of those in the vicinity joined in.

Amy’s tanned cheeks turned a darker shade. Daniel wished he could see her eyes. She wore large sunglasses of the Italian kind. They did not suit her. He held out his hand and let her step, very gingerly, into the boat, then take a seat opposite Laura, amid the introductions.

“Spritz!” Scacchi declared. “Spritz!”

Laura remained seated, wearing a wry grin, and lightly pushed Daniel in the chest as he lowered himself to join her. A single flash of her eyes gave him the message. He crossed the boat and sat next to Amy, who daintily arranged the silk hem of her dress around her legs, watched by the puzzled Xerxes. Drinks were duly served.

“Where are we going?” Amy asked eventually.

“To paradise,” Piero replied, turning up the little diesel engine until it coughed like an asthmatic donkey. “Away from this festering sore of iniquity and these hard-assed city bastards.”

Laura waved at him. “Poppycock. You worked in the city when you were younger, Piero.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but only in the morgue. Therefore, I dealt with dead people who were, to a man and a woman, very decent and unobjectionable. The living, on the other hand— Hey! Pisquano!”

A water taxi roared away from the neighbouring jetty, sending up a swell which tipped the Sophia to near forty-five degrees. They clutched for handholds. Xerxes barked angrily. Amy’s drink spilled down the front of her elegant dress.

“Shit!” she hissed with a sudden vehemence.

Laura reached into her bag, crossed the boat, and motioned for Daniel to return to the other side. Then she set about dabbing at the fabric with a damp tissue, clucking all the while. It did not work. The dress now possessed a long, broad stain, the colour of bright blood, running from Amy’s navel to her knees.

Daniel saw the sullen fury in her face and watched the way she let Laura, who had so quickly assumed the role of servant, try to help. La Pietà moved slowly past behind him. Sant’ Erasmo lay on the horizon, a long, low finger of green.

He finished his drink and, for no reason at all, found he could not shake from his head the image of Giulia Morelli and her incessant questions. Daniel took the pack out of Laura’s bag and, for the first time in his life, began to smoke a cigarette.