I let Bruno carry it downstairs for me, because he would have been hurt had I not. Giorgio rowed me to Ca’ Sanudo and did not offer to lift the case ashore because he knew I would refuse if he did. I wielded the big brass anchor and the summons was answered by Fabricio, the footman. This time he was dressed as a gondolier.
I was dressed as an apprentice and carried luggage, but he knew me and knew I was recorded in the Golden Book, so he bowed. I inquired after Danese and was assured that he would be informed directly of the honor of my visit if I would be so gracious as to wait in the androne
…
There were fewer crates and fewer empty shelves than before, but a forest had sprouted on the floor, trees of books both high and low, indicating that the huge collection was still being sorted. Let loose in such a feast, the Maestro would starve to death before he remembered to eat. Lucky, perhaps, that he was no longer mobile enough to indulge himself in such bibliophilic orgies.
Fabricio returned, scooped up the portmanteau, and led me upstairs. Since my last visit the landing at the mezzanine level had been furnished with three marble busts and the fair madonna Grazia, she of the divine eyes and devilish nose. Her gown was a glittering mist of silver taffeta and pearls, her hair had been set in a much less childish style than before, and only time would ever make her look like an adult.
She beamed, extending both hands to me. “ Dear sier Alfeo! I am so ashamed of my cruel words to you on Sunday! Such ingratitude for all your help! Can you ever forgive me?”
Forgiveness, it is well known, requires repentance. I kissed her knuckles. “Think nothing of it, madonna! You were understandably upset. Your frowns are forgotten and your smiles compensate a thousand times for any trifling service I may have been privileged to offer.”
“My husband and I are so grateful to you. If the foolish man had just told me that you were a nobile homo I should not have spoken so ungraciously. Sier Danese says you are his oldest friend and he will ask you to be his witness at the formal wedding ceremony.” And so on. Her life had been transformed thanks to me, et cetera.
I was more than happy, et more cetera. If I was Danese’s best friend, that said a lot about Danese.
“Fabricio!” the sylph commanded. “Go down and tell sier Alfeo’s gondolier that he can go. Sier Alfeo will dine with us today.”
There were two doors opening off that landing and Fabricio, interestingly, was just closing the one on the garden side-wrestling with it, for Venice is built on wooden piles sunk in the mud and sand of the lagoon; doors develop minds of their own as they age. I knew that must be Grazia’s chamber. Fabricio no longer carried Danese’s portmanteau. Had Grazia ordered this arrangement and did her parents know of it? That was no business of mine.
As a matter of form, I had to protest the dinner invitation, but the idea appealed to my gastrointestinal apparatus, which had been complaining noisily all the way from Ca’ Barbolano. Quite apart from the prospect of food, I always enjoy snooping in the homes of the rich, especially if I can win a chance to admire their paintings. With my customary grace I let myself be persuaded.
I offered the lady my arm to steady her on her platform soles as we proceeded up the second flight, while she continued to chatter. Awaiting us in the salone were Danese, clad in a smug golden glow, and madonna Eva with a smile of welcome carefully chiseled in place. She was decked out in a dark blue gown to set off her golden hair and a treasure of golden ornaments speckled with diamonds. The wonderfully feminine roundness of her chin and bosom were offset by the sapphire hardness of her blue eyes, two jewels on velvet.
“ Sier Alfeo! What a pleasant surprise! You are most welcome. You must join us for dinner.”
I accepted again.
She forced the smile a notch or two wider. “ Sier Zuanbattista and I never properly thanked you for all you did. Truly you were the white knight to the rescue! So romantic! So poetic!” So nice that you hit my son-in-law with a sword.
“Come!” Grazia snapped, unwilling to be upstaged. She detached me and dragged me in the direction of the salotto I had visited on Sunday. Mother and daughter were still on speaking terms, but only barely. I could not believe that women would seriously quarrel over Danese Dolfin himself, but they were playing for points that men could not appreciate.
Great-aunt Fortunata had not been tidied away during my absence, perhaps not even moved for dusting. Crabbed, wizened, lipless, toothless, and malevolent, forked tongued and hairy chinned, she appraised me with two bleary eyes like agate chips in milk and then, to my astonishment, spoke. “The Good Lord told us to judge the tree by the fruit it bears!” I had forgotten how discordant her voice was, the sound of a granite lid being pushed off a crypt.
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“Father Varutti says that even your use of demonic forces to rescue Grazia may not have damned you to Hell because it was in a good cause.”
“I hope so and believe so,” I agreed, “trusting in the salvation that-”
“But he is sure that you are damned anyway.”
If contemplation of homicide was cause enough, then I certainly was. I did not bother to explain that I had used no demonic forces and that clairvoyance is no more a black art than astrology is. Even the Pope employs astrologers.
A strikingly pretty maidservant brought us wine. I overheard her being addressed as Noelia, so she was the ladies’ maid who had discovered the empty coop. She could not be a day older than twelve.
Trying to edge closer to the Palma Vecchio portrait, I got cornered by the leering Danese, who thanked me for returning his baggage. The cause of his good cheer was too good to keep secret. “You saved me a journey, old friend,” he whispered triumphantly. “Grazia has finally made her mother see reason. We are man and wife in the eyes of the church. There can be no sin in admitting it.” Or admitting him, in other words. Bedtime, all.
“Congratulations.”
So it went. We were obviously waiting for someone, and my next attempt to stalk a painting brought me within range of madonna Eva again.
“I am so happy that you can stay to dine, sier Alfeo” she declaimed. “I know my husband will be devastated at having missed this opportunity to thank you again, but he will be unable to join us.”
Danese and Grazia were locked in eye-to-eye adoration, out of the conversation. I rose to the occasion.
“I don’t imagine you see very much of him just now, madonna.”
She pouted, obviously not for the first time. Despite her comparative youth, her mouth was settling into mean lines. “Not much more than I saw of him when he was ambassador in Constantinople! The Signoria ’s schedule is brutal! At least sier Zuanbattista only has to put up with it for eight months; I cannot imagine how the poor doge stands it as a lifetime ordeal. The Collegio in the morning, the Senate most afternoons, and the Council of Ten in the evenings, not to mention all the purely ceremonial functions, the Great Council on Sundays, and many diplomatic meetings.”
Then she glanced past me and brightened like fireworks over the Grand Canal. I turned, expecting to see her husband striding through the doorway in his scarlet counselor robe, but it was merely the nondescript Girolamo in his ministerial violet.