Jason Goodwin - The Bellini card

“You don’t think so.”

Carla shrugged. “It’s tradition. As for Eletro, he merely wears a mask.” She paused, remembering. “We took a gondola to the water gate. He was there already-Eletro, I mean-like a host, really. It was night, of course, and you couldn’t see the state of the place beyond the candlelight. Hundreds of tiny candles, in glass jars. And the doors-they were flung back-opened onto a great stone staircase, with the candles flickering on every step. Eletro led us up-Barbieri recognized him, I think, or guessed-with a great candelabra in his hand. And it was exciting because I have been in every palazzo in Venice, I suppose, at one time or another. But I’d never been there before. So it was Venice, but not quite like Venice.

“Halfway up the stairs we all stopped. The fondaco, you know, was a Byzantine palace. Once, even the Emperor of Byzantium stayed there-and he brought six hundred and fifty priests of his Orthodox faith, too. So we stopped to look down into the courtyard. It was lit, with flambeaux. And anyway, the doors above were shut-at least, there was a great curtain across the doorway. There was a lot of incense in the air-I suppose the place didn’t smell very good, after all those years of collapse-and Eletro in a grotesque mask, holding the candles in one hand over his head, and putting his fingers to his lips. So we stopped and listened.

“You couldn’t hear anything at first-just the people on the stairs, and I had the duke on my arm and he-he gave it a squeeze. Then some of us heard a very faint, eerie sound-it was the scrape of a violin but very quiet-but as we listened it got gradually louder, and then other instruments fell in, and all of a sudden Eletro whisked back the curtain and there we were! The piano nobile-it’s a huge room-lit by a great candelabra in the middle, and all the walls hung with muslin, and the orchestra playing in the gloom somewhere-I think from overhead.”

“How many of you?”

“About a dozen, if I remember. We sat at table, and there was champagne and supper. And afterward we played cards.”

“At other tables?”

“Little card tables. All set up. That’s when-that’s when the four men got together.”

“You didn’t play?”

“Not that night. The stakes were too high, Yashim Pasha. I helped the duke, a little. He was very young.”

“Yes,” Yashim said, thoughtfully. “Yes. I suppose he was.” He paused. “And the cicerone?”

“Oh, he moved about, seeing that everything was all right.”

“Who was the cicerone, Contessa?”

“One of the Barnabotti. A professional. His name is Ruggerio.”

Vosper caught up with the pasha’s servant at the entrance to Palewski’s apartment.

“Begging your pardon, signore, but the stadtmeister wants to know when it would be convenient to hold an audience with your master.”

“An audience?” Yashim cocked his head. “I don’t think an audience is really appropriate, Sergeant. The pasha is making a private visit.”

Vosper’s face lengthened. “A private visit, signore? It’s-it’s irregular, I should tell you. I think the stadtmeister is expecting some sort of, some kind of, ah, visit.”

“I will mention it to the pasha, signore.”

“You wouldn’t care to come to the Procuratie yourself and explain what you’ve told me to the stadtmeister?”

“I’m afraid not, Sergeant. I am not at liberty to make calls. But as I told you, I will inform my master-as you may yours. Good day.”

With Vosper gone, Yashim packed a small bag with Palewski’s clothes and made his way back to the Dorsoduro.

“Our friend sat up and ate a bowl of soup,” Paleswki said. “Like a wolf.”

“Has he said anything?”

Palewski and Maria exchanged glances. “He makes-noises. I don’t think it’s talking,” Maria said.

They found the man sitting up with a blanket wrapped around his knees. He made no effort to turn his head when they came in, but sat still and silent, staring at the fire.

Yashim came and squatted down beside him.

“It’s good you’ve eaten,” he said. “My name’s Yashim.”

The man did not react. Yashim took his hand and guided it to his chest. “I am Yashim,” he repeated. He patted the man’s hand against his chest. “Yashim. Do you understand?”

He glanced up at Palewski, who pulled a face and shrugged.

Very slowly the man’s head moved around, although his eyes remained fixed for longer on the fire. Finally he looked at Yashim.

But when he opened his mouth to speak, only a sound came out-a sort of moan, from his throat. His lips hardly moved.

Yashim blinked. He smiled. He leaned toward the fire and pulled out a burning twig. With the charred end he wrote his name on the hearth. YASHIM.

He pointed to the name, and to himself.

The man hardly looked at the name. He stared for a while at the twig in Yashim’s hand, then looked into his face.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he put out his hand and took the twig, glancing between it and Yashim.

His head turned toward the hearth. He leaned forward, his tongue protruding between his compressed lips.

Palewski gave a low whistle. “It’s you, Yash. He’s drawing a portrait of you.”

Yashim knelt up and cocked his head. The man sank back on his hams and almost shyly handed him the twig again.

On the hearthstone, in a few rough strokes of charcoal, was Yashim himself, turban and mustache and-most extraordinarily-the very look of him, right down to his expression of concern.

“You’re the painter!” Yashim exclaimed involuntarily. “The Canaletto painter.”

The man’s eyes clouded over.

Yashim smiled and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and patted the man on his scrawny arm.

He stood up slowly and led Palewski to the door.

“What do you make of it?”

“Pff. I’ve never seen anything like it. He must have forged the Canalettos.”

“Yes. Did you see how he concentrated, too? Like a child.”

“That’s not a child’s drawing,” Palewski pointed out.

“No. I think we should give him some better materials. Paper. Charcoal. Maria?”

Maria was gone for more than an hour, but when she returned the man took the paper and charcoal with whimpers of pleasure. He laid the paper on the floor and began immediately to draw, filling each sheet with sketches of the room, the window, the people, with the same lively concentration he had shown when he sketched Yashim on the hearthstone.

He drew for over an hour, but more and more slowly. And then he rolled back into his bed and went to sleep.

Yashim studied his drawings, awestruck.

“At home,” he said at last, feeling the hairs prickling on the back of his neck, “we would say this man is touched by God.”

“You think he can’t speak-or won’t?”

“I suspect that speaking is not his way. Perhaps he sees and understands things differently from us.”

“What are we going to do with him?”

“Feed him. Give him strength. And we will wait and see.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the Palazzo d’Aspi. It’s not every day the contessa receives a pasha, and she’s expecting me to stay. I think I will.”

“I see.” Palewski sounded cool. “Much as I enjoy a hearty lentil soup, Yashim, I’m beginning to chafe under the social arrangements. Can’t I go back to my own apartment yet?”

He looked so cross that Yashim laughed. “I thought you got to sleep with the daughter of the house?”

“Yashim!” Palewski looked shocked. “Anyway, Maria sleeps with half her family as it is.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t be for long.” Yashim looked serious. “Tell me, if someone loses at cards, and owes money, what does he do?”