Zuichini nodded with unaccustomed animation. “Right. That is right.”
“Listen to this good man. He knows the joys of a craft, the unique pleasure that comes with creation. This is where you can steal a march on me, Joly. I am proud of my collection of books, undeniably, but I have never experienced the delight of creating a masterpiece of my own. I cannot paint, or compose, or write to any level of acceptable competence. I lack skills of a practical nature. But you, my young friend, are different. If you were to put your talents to good purpose…”
“I have an idea!” Lucia clapped her hands. Champagne went to her head. After a single glass, already she was raising her voice and her skin was flushed. “Once you have seen Rome, you could come back here and train as Zuichini’s apprentice!”
The plague doctor’s face split in a horrid smile, while Sanborn exclaimed with delight. “Perfect! There, Joly, you have your answer. How clever you are, Lucia. That way two birds could be killed with one stone. Joly would learn from a master at the height of his powers, and Zuichini would have a good man to whom he could pass on the tricks of his trade before it is too late.” Sanborn lowered his voice. “And there is something else that I have omitted to mention. Zuichini, may I? You see, Joly. This good fellow here, as you may have notice, is afflicted by a dreadful malady. Parkinson’s attacks the nervous system and he has been suffering stoically for some time. But it becomes increasingly difficult for him to work. An utter tragedy, sometimes I despair. Not only because Zuichini’s disability saddens me, but also from a selfish motive. For who will succeed him in business, who will practise his very special skills, so as to keep me supplied in fine books? In you, perhaps I have found the answer to my prayers.”
“I don’t think so,” Joly said slowly.
“Oh, but you must!” Lucia exclaimed. “Such an opportunity, to learn from a genius!”
Sanborn must have primed her with this idea and asked her to offer support. They’d met during the day, not only so that Sanborn could pay for the new dress. The American was, Joly thought, like the most demanding parent. He wanted to have the young folk beholden to him, at his beck and call and used his control of the purse strings to make sure they did not escape.
“I suppose I can mull it over, when I am in Rome.”
He’d expected Sanborn to suggest that he abandoned his trip, but the old man surprised him, giving a broad smile and murmuring that he could not say fairer than that. Zuichini went so far as to give him a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Good apprentice, yes?”
While Joly tucked into the succulent beef, Sanborn talked about the art of binding books. He spoke of the pouch binding of Japanese books and the unique technique of nakatoji, of Jean Groller’s leather-bound tomes covered with intricate geometric paterns, inlaid with coloured enamels and books bound in the flayed skin of murderers and highwaymen. He told them about cheverell, a goatskin parchment transformed into a binding both supple and strong with a bold, grainy pattern, popular in Italy during the fourteenth century, he described methods of fatliquoring leather, he explained…
“Joly, wake up!”
He became aware of Lucia’s sharp elbow, digging into his side. Sanborn was beaming at him like a benevolent uncle, surveying a favourite nephew who has overdone the Christmas pudding. Zuichini was savouring his wine, still casting the occasional frank glance at Lucia’s ample cleavage.
“Sorry, must have dropped off.”
“Please do not apologize, I beg you,” Sanborn said. “Put your sleepiness down to a combination of the wine and the weather. Perhaps accompanied by a tinge of tristesse - am I right, young man? This is your last night in La Serenissima for a little while and who could fail to experience a frisson of regret at departing from here?” He refilled their glasses, taking no notice when Joly shook his head. “So let us drink to our good friend Joly, and express the sincere hope that soon he will be back here for good!”
He reached out and patted Joly’s arm. Blearily, Joly tried to focus on how to interpret the old man’s behaviour. His hand did not linger. Had it been unfair to impute to him some sexual motive for such generosity? Perhaps in truth Sanborn’s generosity did not amount to anything out of the ordinary. For a rich man, the cost of a couple of meals and a few bottles of fine wine was small change. Was it possible that Sanborn was no more than he seemed, a lonely old millionaire, keen to share the company of the young and beautiful, as well as that of his ailing friend, and that he had no ulterior motive at all?
Sanborn made some remark and Lucia laughed long and loud, a noise that reminded Joly of a workman drilling in the road. She had a good head for drink, Joly knew that from experience, but even she was beginning to lose control. He remembered her telling him about her last night with the Mafia boss. She’d plucked up the courage to put a small knife in her bag. If he’d attacked her, she’d steeled herself to fight for her life. Joly did not doubt the strength of her survival instinct. If she thought herself threatened, she would lash out without a moment’s hesitation. What would happen if Zuichini made her afraid with the clumsiness of his overtures?
He yawned. His head was spinning and he couldn’t keep worrying about what might happen between consenting adults. Que sera, sera.
Next thing he knew, someone was tapping him on the arm. Through the fog of a hangover, he heard Sanborn’s gentle voice.
“Joly, my boy. Are you all right?”
Even the act of opening his eyes made him want to cry out, it hurt so much. Christ, how much had he drunk? He had no head for champagne, but he’d never felt this bad before. He blinked hard and tried to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a hard bed in a small, musty room. The sun was shining in through a small high window but he had no idea where he might be. Sanborn was standing beside the bed, arms folded, studying him. Suddenly, he felt afraid.
“Where am I?”
“Listen, my friend, you have nothing to fear. You just had rather too much to drink, that’s all.”
“The drinks were spiked.” Nothing else could explain how he had come to black out; this had never happened to him before.
“No, no, no.” Sanborn had a first-class bedside manner, though Joly was sure he was lying. “You overdid it, simple as that. And you threw up all over Lucia, which frankly wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Lucia?” He gazed at the peeling wallpaper, the unfamiliar cupboard and door. “Where have you brought me?”
“Listen, it’s all right. Lucia was upset, that’s all. Zuichini took care of her, no need to worry. As she wouldn’t entertain you in her bed last night, I volunteered to bring you here. Now, you need to get up and dressed. I think you said you plan to take the one o’clock coach from Piazzale Roma?”
A wave of panic engulfed him. Effectively, he was the old man’s prisoner.
“You haven’t told me where you’ve brought me.”
“There’s no secret, Joly, keep your hair on, my dear fellow. This is an apartment I bought six months ago. Hardly the lap of luxury, but it’s only a stone’s throw from the restaurant. It seemed like the best solution. We could hardly leave you to your own devices, the state you were in, and Lucia was in no mood to take you back with her.”
Joly coughed. “Then – I’m free to go?”
Sanborn’s parchment features conveyed benign bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Why should you not be? I was only striving to do you a good turn.”
I’ve been a fool, Joly thought, this isn’t a man to fear. The question is – what happened between Lucia and Zuichini? Did he try it on, did she let him get away with it?
“Sorry, Darius. I’m not myself.”