Marta would fetch it for him, before he had even asked for it sometimes.
He took off his top hat and let the breeze ruffle his hair.
Venice from the lagoon was too flat to look like Istanbul, though the shoulder of Santa Maria della Salute, its great white dome, recalled the domes of Istanbul, and the rooftops looked crowded and orange like the roofs of the houses that crowded the shores of the Golden Horn.
He shaded his eyes and gazed ahead to a spire and a low red wall topped with greenery rising almost miraculously from the lagoon. The gondola advanced with a thudding swiftness while Palewski gazed almost blindly on the rosy apparition, lost in thought.
An hour later he wondered why he had come at all. The brightness of the lagoon had given him a headache. Now he strained his eyes to see the treasures that the gentle Armenian priest was lovingly laying out for his inspection in the dim scriptorium. At first, the thousands of ancient volumes in their shelves had heartened him, but, after all, they were all written in Armenian, except for a rather beautiful Koran. It was a gift to the monastery from the Aspi family, he noticed, its pages decorated with tendrils and lilies, and on the frontispiece a rendition of the pattern on the contessa’s floor. Palewski saw his hands were trembling.
He asked for a glass of water, which momentarily broke the flow of the priest’s gentle speech. He went out into the monastery garden to drink it and sat for a few moments beneath a tree in the shade.
“Come, signore,” the priest said softly. “I will take you to Father Aristo, who is doing a wonderful work. Our first Armenian-English dictionary. The great poet Lord Byron asked that this should be done. Peace to his memory. He studied here, for almost a year.”
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well,” Palewski said. Then, not to sound rude, he added, “Byron studied here?”
“Every week, efendi. He wanted to learn Armenian, for the good of his mind.” He paused, smiled. “I am afraid he was not a very diligent student.”
Palewski stood up. He felt light-headed. “Can you tell me where to find my gondolier?”
The priest nodded, disappointed. “I will take you to him, if you prefer.”
“Thank you.” Palewski reached into his pocket and brought out some banknotes. “You have been very kind.”
They went through a gate to the landing stage. In the gondola Palewski relaxed and closed his eyes. He unbuttoned his coat to feel the breeze and lay back against the cushions. The next time he opened his eyes he found himself in the Grand Canal again: he must have slept. His hands were cold.
Back in the apartment he paused only to pick up a card from beneath the mirror in the vestibule and to remove his shoes before he tumbled headlong onto his bed. He read the card at an angle: it was from the Contessa d’Aspi d’Istria, repeating her invitation to a reception that evening. After a few minutes he reached out and flicked up the counterpane, and in a moment he was asleep.
27
On the piano nobile of the Ca’ d’Aspi crystal goblets sparkled in the light of hundreds of candles set into candelabra of old glass, all reflected in the mottled mirrors that lined the walls. Down the center of the great room heavily embroidered linen hung in folds from the table, as though carved from pure stone. The curtains were not drawn. As the evening wore on, the glass of the tall windows, too, came to reflect the brightness of the room; from outside, on the Grand Canal, it looked as though the whole palazzo was aflame.
Stadtmeister Finkel, passing in a gondola on his way back to his fat blond wife, saw the lights and sighed. One thing was for sure: neither the stadtmeister, nor his superior, nor any member of the Austrian administration would ever attend a Venetian party, thrown by a Venetian. Only the year before, at Carnivale, the stadtmeister had inaugurated a ball at the Procuratie that not a single native had deigned to attend. The elegant officers had stood in their white gloves and immaculate uniforms like mustachioed wallflowers while the band played mazurkas and the candles burned low in their sockets.
Very faintly now he heard the strains of a quartet floating through an open window.
“Der Teufel! ” he grunted, turning his thick neck to address the gondolier. “What are we dawdling for?”
Having given the band the signal to play, the contessa threw back a window and stood there for a moment, looking out.
She turned from the window with a radiant welcome for the man who had just entered the room.
“Dottore-I’m so glad it is you. If I am lucky I will have you to myself for a few minutes, at least. Somehow at these occasions one never manages to talk to the people one wants to talk to. Come, sit at the window here with me. In Venice,” she added, with a sudden change of tone, “we need never tire of the view.”
The professor, a small, barrel-chested man with a beautiful head of wavy gray hair, lifted a glass from a liveried attendant. He spoke in low tones to the contessa, who now and then wrung her hands. “Idiots!” she murmured. “It is barbarism!”
The professor spread his hands ruefully. “What to do? The Austrians have never been refused. In Prague, in Cracow, they can take what they want. Destroy what they like. And the emperor will act like a new Napoleon. I do not think he was happy when the horses of St. Mark returned from Paris.”
The contessa clenched her fists. “We shall see the Bandieras this evening, Dottore. Attilio and his brother are not afraid to act. But money, yes.” She wrung her hands.
The room was filling up. Out of the corner of her eye the contessa noticed a man standing uncertainly in the doorway. He was tall, pale, and good-looking; his clothes were immaculate. The contessa swiveled and held out her hands with a charming smile.
“Signor Brett! But how wonderful you could come. You see, Tommaseo, we are neighbors now! But yes-Signor Brett has come all the way from America to share my view. Is it not so?” She laughed, and light played in her eyes.
Palewski smiled. “Had I known I might share a view with you, madame, I would have left America sooner,” he said.
“Basta, signore.” The contessa raised a hand, but she looked pleased.
The contessa touched his arm. “Let me introduce you to Tommaseo Zen-he is a recluse, but for this evening we have dragged him out. He lives on Burano.”
She snapped her fingers, and a glass of prosecco appeared in front of Palewski. Before he knew it, he was talking to a quiet young man about the flora and fauna of the lagoon, and his glass was empty. A footman materialized with a bottle.
“There is a type of clam, also,” the young man was saying, “that is unique to the lagoon. It exists only here and, so I understand, at the mouth of the Canton River, in China.”
“Perhaps Marco Polo-” Palewski began, then stopped. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He fought for a moment to stay on his feet and pressed the cold glass against his cheek.
“Signor Brett, I believe you have already met Count Barbieri?”
Palewski turned. The room was spinning. He murmured a greeting and shook hands.
“Signor Brett was telling me such interesting things about his country,” Barbieri said.
The contessa smiled. “Tell me, amico! Tell us-what is it about America you love?”
Palewski focused on her lips.
“Many things,” he said cautiously. “A wonderful country.”
He was aware that a hush had fallen on the company.
“It is a very big country,” he began. What had he said yesterday? “We are a people of independent education. Who know how to eat well.” He saw someone raise a finger and wag it at the crowd. “Just like here, in Venice!”
It was his finger. He snapped it shut and put his fist behind his back.
“We have great cities, too, like Venice,” he added, remembering. “New Orleans is like Venice. Boston is like Venice. New York is like Venice.” That surely wasn’t true, he thought. He rocked on his toes and peered around at the assembled guests, hanging on his every word.