Lucifer's Shadow

44 An interview with the Englishman

I entered by the tradesman’s door at the rear and found Gobbo in the kitchen, taunting one of the maids. He took one look at me and abandoned his pursuit.

“Good God, Scacchi. You look like you’ve spent the night on the tiles, and I know that’s not your style. What’s up?”

“I would like to see your master on a matter of some importance.”

“If it’s money, chum, forget it. Our Oliver’s quite sick of Venetians hanging round his purse. Some blackguard got away with the cash from that concert of his. There’s the city’s thanks, eh? Pat him on the back one moment, rob him blind the next. Couldn’t have come at a worse time, either. He put off getting funds from London because of that. Now the banks are getting sticky and we’ve all manner of locals asking to be paid.”

He stared at me with a chilly expression. “If that’s what you’ve come for, some debt he owes to Leo, you’re not going through that door. Friendship ends when the master starts throwing the pots around. I’m not getting my arse kicked just to see you present another bill upon the table.”

“It’s not for money, Gobbo. At least not demanding it. In fact, he might even turn a penny or two out of what I’ve got to tell him.”

“Really?” He was an ugly fellow, particularly sneering like this.

“Yes. Really. Now, get along there and tell him I need ten minutes of his time and not a penny of his money.”

With that he was off, through the door which led to the front of the mansion and the first-floor room that, with its view of the canal, served as its principal meeting place. I waited, enduring the maid’s childish smirks, and then was summoned through into the vast, mirrored space I had last seen on the day of our trip to Torcello. Its magnificence seemed to have waned somewhat over the weeks. The glass could use a clean. The furniture looked old and marked. Rented premises are never the same as property occupied by the owner, I imagine. With just the three of us in it, this hall seemed empty and cold. Only the noise of the canal beyond the windows added a little life to the scene.

Delapole looked at me cheerily. “Scacchi! Not seen you since the triumph, eh? What a performance! Shame some thieving local saw off with my gains. I could have used that. I’ve a house in Whitehall, an estate in Norfolk, and God knows how many lumps of sod in Ireland. But tell that to one of your oh-so-worldly bankers and I might as well be offering collateral on Lilliput. You read Swift out here, I imagine?”

“It takes a little while for the translation, sir. Though I have heard much of him.”

“Damned good stuff, not that I understand it all. One verse hits the mark, though.”

He waved an arm in front of him, like a gentleman taking a bow, then recited:

It was a humorous line and even brought a smile to my face.

“There,” he said, pleased that he had amused me. “That wasn’t hard, now, was it? Mind you, I think I’m not a flea, but the very dog — the original dog — upon which the first flea fed. At least I can find no blood to suck, try as I might. It’s bread and water till that envelope gets here from London.”

Gobbo raised an eyebrow at me from the corner. Delapole is neither as impoverished nor as credulous as he wishes to appear, I think. No aristocratic fop could make his way alone through Europe for three years or more, as I understand he has, without a brain in his head. At least I hoped so if we were, together, to outwit my uncle.

“Well then, young Scacchi,” he demanded. “I am at your service.”

I had rehearsed these words in my head as best I could beforehand. This was a tricky path I sought to negotiate, and one with steep chasms on either side.

“Sir,” I began. “I wish to speak alone, if you permit.”

“What? Not in front of your friend here? Why, I think he will be quite offended.”

Gobbo did look shocked. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame him.

“It is not that I mistrust anyone, sir. But I believe what I have to say is best confined to as few as possible.”

“Oh,” Delapole objected. “Two sets of ears are scarcely more than one. Young Gobbo knows things about me that would set your hair on fire, lad, and never has he betrayed a trust. If he can’t hear it, neither can I. For if it requires action, then who should I turn to but my manservant?”

He had a point there. “As you please. But first let me say that I bring this news to you reluctantly. It pains me to reveal it, and in doing so, I place myself and one I admire at your mercy. You have shown yourself to be a good and generous man, Mr. Delapole, and I would not presume on these admirable qualities more than I have already.”

He cast a weary eye out of the window at the traffic on the water. “It’s obvious you’re not a Venetian, Scacchi. Three whole sentences there and you didn’t ask me for money once.”

“It is not your money that I need, sir. It is your advice and wisdom and impartiality. For I fear a grave injustice is about to be done which will harm one you have already honoured with your kindness.”

His pallid English face looked intrigued at that. He took a tall dining chair at the old walnut table which formed the centrepiece of the room and waved both Gobbo and me to join him. Once seated, I took a deep breath and told my tale, as accurately and as clearly as I knew it, withholding only those things which I deemed irrelevant, the most important being my own relationship with Rebecca Levi. I also left, for the moment, the matter of her race.

As I fell into the rhythm of my exposition, I relaxed a little, seeing on Delapole’s face, and even Gobbo’s, some shock at my revelations. Both had marvelled at Rebecca’s virtuosity in La Pietà; to learn that she wrote the selfsame marvel astonished them. When I told them how Leo had held on to her single manuscript and sought to bargain with it to his advantage, Gobbo gave out a low whistle.

“There,” he said with some self-satisfaction. “I told you that man was a bad ’un, Scacchi. You can see it in his weasel eyes. No one treats his own blood like he treats you, especially when you’re new orphaned and left in a place like this.”

“You did tell me, my friend,” I agreed. “And I listened to you. But he is still my uncle, and I his apprentice. It is his right to treat me so, and if this were simply a matter of his attitude to me, I would not trouble you with my worries. I cannot, though, sit by while he wrongs another, and one whose talents are so great.”

Delapole was puzzled. Rightly so, for I had left out the crucial element in my tale, and without it nothing made sense. “I don’t see it, Scacchi. It’s very odd, I’ll admit, for a young girl to produce such stuff as this. Raises a few issues, I’m sure, particularly with the older generation. But what’s to stop her standing up and riding the storm? She wrote it. Presumably there’s more where that came from. There’ll be a few catcalls, naturally. Vivaldi gets his share of them these days. Why doesn’t she just take a deep breath and get on with it?”

He gazed at me across the ancient, polished table, and I knew I hadn’t judged him wrong. Delapole could cut to the heart of matters when required. The English foppishness was a façade behind which lurked a canny brain.

“Because it is impossible. She is a Jew, though none outside her circle know it, save for me and Leo.”

The long, sallow face regarded me with puzzlement. “A Jew? Good God. Are you sure, lad? Being English, I’m not so good at these things. If they don’t wear a badge or that thing on their head, I’m damned if I can spot them. Why, I swear I could strike up conversation with a Negro in the dark and never know and—”

“I am sure, sir. Every night when she has played for Vivaldi, under the name Rebecca Guillaume, I have secreted her out of the ghetto on false pretences.”

Gobbo groaned. “Oh, Scacchi. You are in it now, up to your neck.”

Delapole seemed mystified. “But is this such a problem? So, she’s a woman. So, she’s a Jew. Damn fine player as well, and quite a beauty too. We’re not living in the Dark Ages. What difference does it make?”

“Maybe none in London, Master,” Gobbo groaned. “But this is Venice, and the Doge has his rules. They live where they’re told. They stay behind their walls after nightfall. They keep out of our churches lest their presence defile the place. To break those rules is to defy the Doge, and we all know where that leads.”

“I still don’t understand,” Delapole persisted. “It’s such a little thing in the face of such talent. Why, it might add a little colour to the tale. A touch of melodrama never did any artist harm.”

We said nothing. He looked at our faces, and it was our grim silence that finally convinced him. “Very well,” he admitted. “I accept your interpretation of these facts. There are times, Gobbo, when I miss my native soil. A spot of English practicality would do you folk no end of good. I deem it somewhat amazing that Venice should find itself possessor of, apparently, the first great woman musician the world has known, and thinks the best way to deal with this news is to throw her in prison, then start spouting mumbo-jumbo and throwing incense in the air. If I’d wanted Spanish habits, I’d have gone to Spain.”

Gobbo looked sideways at me. Delapole did not appreciate the gravity of the position. The Doge was impartial in his interpretation of the law. He’d throw a loose-tongued Englishman in jail as quickly as a Hebrew impostor if it suited him.

“I think, sir,” Gobbo said carefully, “it would be best if we keep this matter to ourselves and not make light of the Republic’s justice outside these walls. You are a celebrity in this city, and that makes you an easy target for the gossips.”

At that the Englishman grew very cross. “Oh, so that will be their gratitude, will it? To scrawl my name on some false charge and drop it in one of those stupid leonine pisspots, eh? By God, they should not do down this poor girl so cruelly. You blame your uncle, Scacchi, but let me tell you, without the city on his side, he’d never dream of acting thus. This place is rotten as a pear, and that’s what leads him on.”

“I agree, sir,” I answered, nodding. “But what is to be done?”

“Tell me,” he replied. “What’s old Leo’s game?”

“To claim he is the composer when the moment arises.”

“A week today is when we’re set for the revelation,” Gobbo interjected. “It was supposed to be sooner, but Vivaldi’s playing up about the dates. I believe he sees it as his nemesis. Can’t put it off forever, though. Three o’clock at La Pietà. Quite a commotion that will be.”

“Before that,” I continued, “I fear Leo will offer Rebecca some arrangement. He will take the credit — and the money. In return, her secret remains safe with him and she gets a little income, perhaps. I don’t know. The cards are all in his hand.”

“That they are,” Gobbo agreed glumly.

“And what of the girl?” Delapole asked. “What does she think?”

“I am not sure what she thinks, sir.”

“It is her decision, Scacchi. If Leo comes up with some compromise she finds satisfactory — she continues to compose in freedom while he picks up the plaudits — there’s nothing we could or should do.”

“I agree, sir. But knowing Rebecca as I do…”

Those pale-blue English eyes never left me.

“… I do not doubt for a moment that Miss Levi will have all the glory or none. She has risked everything to smuggle her art out of the ghetto. Even if she were to sign such a covenant, I fully believe it would of itself stifle her such that she might never write nor play again.”

“Hmmm.” He stood up and walked over to the window. We watched him. Delapole was the master here. Both of us depended on his guidance. Gobbo fetched me a playful punch upon the arm as if to say It will be all right.

We waited for his decision. After a full five minutes, he returned to the table, sat purposefully in his chair, and regarded me.

“A wise man should think twice before crying ‘injustice’ in a society which is itself unjust. I am a foreigner here, and one who has already paid his dues, as it were.”

My heart sank, though I could not argue with his logic. “I only seek your counsel, sir, nothing else. It is your foreignness that draws me here. If you were a Venetian, then my name would be heading for the Doge’s clerks the moment I left this room, and Rebecca Levi abandoned to her fate alone.”

He smiled. “You’ve got a fair turn of phrase on you, lad, I’ll say that. Even saw off that twittering peacock Rousseau once or twice, and he was no fool.”

“I thank you, sir. I shall not think one iota the less of you if we never speak of this again.”

“Oh, come.” His hand reached across the table and patted mine in a gesture which was almost paternal. “You are a serious fellow, Scacchi. Do smile a little now and then.”

My heart was pounding. “You’ll help me, then?”

He glanced at Gobbo. “Between the two of you, make an appointment with the girl. In daytime, please. No more subterfuge on my part. Until I know her thoughts, it’s impossible to proceed. But yes, Scacchi, I’ll do what I can, pathetic and misguided as it may be.”

The Englishman clapped his hands. “There! Another smile! We’ll cure this melancholy yet, young Scacchi. Gobbo, buy him a drink around the corner. I need some solitude. There’s many a solution to this puzzle. It requires only some thought and prescience on our part.”

He stood up. We did likewise. “Sir,” I said, bowing. “I will always be in your debt. As will Miss Levi.”

“If debt is friendship in another form, I think I must be both the most loved and loving man in all the world. Now, be off with you. And cheer him up, Gobbo.”

Which he tried to do, after his own fashion, by leading me into one of the low taverns by the rio and introducing a couple of his lady friends. They were both pretty, with large eyes and straight black hair, scarlet dresses, and a ready manner.

Gobbo took me aside for a moment and said, “Come on, Scacchi. I think we’ll get this ride for free. Both find you comely.”

“I don’t wish to offend,” I replied. “My mood isn’t up for it, Gobbo.”

“Your mood. Your mood. Well, there goes my sport.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh.” He stared at me. “I hope she’s worth it, my friend. Your little Jewish mistress could kill us all if Delapole steps too far out of line.”

I finished my wine and went outside. It had been a satisfactory morning. I had no intention of spoiling it by feeding Gobbo’s curiosity. Soon there were more immediate matters to occupy my mind. When I returned to Ca’ Scacchi, Leo was at his desk, waiting for me. I would not, I vowed then, allow him to beat me again. But he had a more subtle form of punishment.

“Lorenzo,” he said mock pleasantly. “I despair of you, I really do. All I ask is a simple task, that you remain at your office, and it goes undone. And now, being the generous soul I am, I intend to reward you with an adventure.”

The look of triumph on his face depressed me greatly. If he had found the time to speak to Rebecca, he had no intention of revealing the outcome to me.

“An adventure, Uncle?”

“There’s a magistrate, Marchese, in Rome. He thinks his memoirs may make a little light reading for the masses. You shall fetch the manuscript for me and I’ll consider it at my leisure.”

“Rome? Uncle, that is a good two days away by coach. There is much to do here.”

“There is indeed, but given your showing this morning, I doubt you’ll do it. So, Rome it is. Two days out, two days back. One day to discuss my pricing structure and editorial requirements with Signor Marchese. If you get a move on, you’ll be home for the big day. When all will be revealed. You wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would you?”

I couldn’t speak. He had me trapped. If I refused, I would be ejected from his household as a faithless apprentice and lose what little standing I had to aid Rebecca.

“Come along, boy. You must take the boat to Mestre and get the evening coach. Miss that, and God knows when you’ll return.”

I dashed to my room, filled my bag, then took the papers and the pitiful pile of coins Leo gave me. And so my body departed for Rome, leaving my mind and heart in Venice. In the Ghetto Nuovo, to be precise.