2 - Painted Veil (5 page)

“Sounds a deuce more interesting than what I usually do,” he said.

“And what is that?”

He wrinkled his brow. “Wander around mostly. I found a café that knows how to cook a good English breakfast, so I go there every morning. Then I take a gondola to see some paintings or a church that someone has recommended. Sometimes I have an invitation to dine. If not, no matter.” He grinned and patted his sturdy midsection. “I could stand to lose a stone or two.”

“Then, you are making what your countrymen call ‘the grand tour.’”

“Well, I was. I seem to have gotten stuck.”

I cocked an inquiring eyebrow. At first glance, Gussie Rumbolt had seemed a typical English tourist, the sort of young man who was perpetually prepared to jump on a horse and gallop over his father’s fields in pursuit of some unfortunate species of wildlife. But as he told me over another glass of wine, “That’s my brother Gerald. I’m the one my family has always despaired of. While Gerald was out with the dogs or down at the stables, I was in the library poring over Father’s moldy art books or piddling around with a daub of my own."

“You paint?” I was unprepared for the discomforting shift in mood that my simple question produced.

“I did,” he answered in a voice heavy with bitterness. “Father made me give it up before I went up to Cambridge. When I stopped here in Venice, I thought I might get some canvas and oils and give it another try, but…” He shook his head.

“I have no right to ask, but you will find I seldom let that stop me. Why haven’t you taken up your brushes again?”

“Sheer cowardice.” He sighed. “I’m surrounded by inspiration, but the competition is daunting. Everywhere my eyes light, from the walls of the great houses to the stage of your theater, there are beautiful paintings. Work that I could never aspire to.”

I nodded, reminded of my own situation. The challenge of singing on the same stage as the famous Francesco Florio had rekindled the burning ambition of my student days, but not before I had wallowed in a fortnight’s worth of paralyzing self-doubt. I had the idea that Gussie might uncover his own burning embers once he became accustomed to the engulfing beauty that is Venice.

We drank in silence for a few moments. The Englishman’s smile had vanished; he appeared lost in thought. The interior of the tavern was warm, and the soothing murmur of nearby conversations lulled me into a drowsy state. To forestall a yawn, I asked, “How long have you been in Venice?”

“Three months. Father died last year while I was away at school. The estate was entailed, so Gerald inherited everything. He and my mother expected me to start a career in law. When I refused, they started pushing the church. I think they were surprised when I completely stubbed up on them.” A playful smile returned to his lips. “To get me out of the way for a while, Mother induced Gerald to send me around Europe. They arranged for my old tutor to travel with me and gave him instructions to lecture me on my familial duty at every turn. For weeks, I viewed the sights of Paris and the ancient ruins of Rome with his dull voice droning in my ear, draining the joy out of every excursion. Then fate took me in hand.”

“How was that?”

“About the time we landed in Venice, my father’s oldest sister followed him to the grave. Aunt Maud was a widow, well provided for, and childless. She did not forget her favorite nephew in her bequests.” He wiggled his eyebrows over a grin. “When I realized that my good aunt had left me an income sufficient to live in Venice with a modest degree of dignity, I sent my tutor packing. If I spend carefully and do without a servant, I can stay here as long as I like.”

I smiled, now fully alert and conscious that the afternoon was wearing on. As pleasant as the Englishman’s conversation was, I needed to continue on to Luca’s rooms. But before I could take my leave, Gussie continued, “At first being on my own was a great adventure, but lately I’ve lacked good company and the days have become… well, rather boring.”

I looked into his candid blue eyes and made an impromptu decision that I have never had cause to regret. After months of fawning attention from what
my
favorite aunt would have called “dubious company,” this cheerful, well-scrubbed, pink-cheeked Englishman was just the sort of companion I needed. “Why don’t you come with me to the painter’s lodging?” I asked. “We can have a little fun solving Torani’s mystery.”

Chapter 5

The address that Torani had given me was in one of Venice’s more expensive neighborhoods. When our gondola stopped at a flight of well-scrubbed stone steps, several porters sprang to steady the boat so Gussie and I could alight. Their frowns told me they expected this small favor to garner more than the paltry coins I tossed their way. I asked myself how Luca could afford to live in this quarter. Did he have a wealthy patron I had never heard about? Or had he managed to find a distressed widow forced to split her once fine house into apartments to survive?

My second guess struck closer to the mark. A few steps down a nearby
calle
brought us to a peaceful square. Late afternoon sun warmed a central well, concentric circles of paving stones, and house fronts of pale yellow stucco. As Gussie and I searched for the right number, a row of pigeons on a balcony railing furnished the only onlookers. Luca’s house turned out to be the neglected stepchild of this neatly kept
campo
. It was a weather-stained, three-story structure with cracked windows and sagging shutters as its only external ornament. I pulled the fraying bell cord.

After a decent interval, I gave a stronger pull.

A female squawk echoed the bells’ last jangle. The shuffle of slippered feet approached the door at a snail’s pace. At last, we beheld a bent woman with wispy gray hair surrounding her head like a halo of smoke. One eye was nearly shut; the other fixed us with a clouded pupil.

“Eh? Who are you and what do you want?” Her head bobbed from side to side.

“We are looking for Luca Cavalieri,” I answered. “Does he live here?”

“I don’t want any. Go away and leave a body in peace.”

The old woman shuffled back. The door swung toward us. After trading wide-eyed looks, Gussie shot a flat hand against the stout wood and I fumbled for my purse. A few silver coins gained our admittance to a dingy corridor that must have led straight through to the kitchen. The unmistakable smell of overboiled liver thickened the air. Hangings of dusty fabric concealed doorways leading off the corridor. Halfway to the kitchen, an uncarpeted staircase rose to an empty landing, made a square turn, and continued at a steep angle.

With considerable difficulty, and the transfer of several more coins, we learned the details of the household. We were in the residence of a vineyard owner who preferred to live on his mainland estate and traveled to the city only for occasional business. Our nearly blind and deaf hostess was an old family nurse who’d been lodged in the town house to serve as housekeeper and watchman. It was probably just as well that she couldn’t hear Gussie’s quaking chuckles when she gave herself that last designation.

We convinced her we were friends of Luca—a practical approach that fell just within the bounds of truth. Our mission was not unfriendly; we definitely had his best interests at heart. Torani would not be able to cover up the painter’s absence much longer. Luca might be the best scenic artist in Venice, but if Morelli discovered he’d been shirking his duties, he’d never work in a Venetian theater again.

“Does Signor Cavaliere keep rooms here?” I asked, just a whisker below a shout.

“
Si
, the master rents out the top floor. He says it pays to keep a tenant around. Your friend has been here about a year.”

“Is Luca at home now?”

“Don’t ask me. He has his own keys and comes and goes as he pleases. I couldn’t keep up with that young buck if I tried.”

“When did you last see him?”

She shrugged, working toothless gums. “Not today. Not yesterday. Must have been the day before. Yes, it was marketing day. Signor Cavaliere helped me carry my baskets. He does that if he sees me going out. Nice young fellow, even if his paints do stink up the second floor.”

When I explained the urgency of our mission, she offered to climb the stairs and let us into Luca’s rooms. She seemed relieved when I assured her we could manage by ourselves.

Key in hand, I led the way up two flights and unlocked the door of a large, L-shaped apartment that doubled as studio and living quarters. One end was arranged as a sitting room with a faded Turkey carpet and a few pieces of shabby furniture. The larger space was hung with numerous unframed views of canals and buildings and contained the typical artist’s paraphernalia. Light from a long double window fell on lightly dusted surfaces. If the windows had been open, Luca’s studio would have been pleasantly airy. As it was, a mixture of pent-up odors hung like an invisible fog: wood smoke, unwashed chamber pot, and an unrecognizable spicy fragrance that competed with the expected paint and turpentine smells.

“What are we looking for?” Gussie asked, eyes roving the simply furnished apartment.

“I’m not sure. Anything amiss, I suppose.”

Gussie moved to open a tall wardrobe while I approached an easel that held a cloth-covered canvas. The easel looked down on a low couch overspread with jumbled bedclothes and pillows. Near at hand, an artist’s palette dotted with dabs of paint leaned against a jar of turpentine bristling with brushes and paint knives shaped like miniature trowels. A faded blue smock smudged with a rainbow of hues hung from a peg.

I poked at the colorful blobs ringing the palette. Their crusted skins yielded to my forefinger. “Look, Gussie, these paints are still soft. Luca must have been using them recently.”

My friend came over to study the palette and the soaking brushes. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Oils can take days to dry out, especially in thick blobs like these. Let’s see what the painting can tell us.”

He threw the cloth off the rectangular canvas, and we stared at Luca’s work for a few seconds of stupefied silence. Finally, Gussie gave a low whistle and said, “I’d like to know where this fellow hired his model.”

“I recognize her. She’s not a professional model. She’s a seamstress who makes costume pieces for the theater. Her name is Liya Del’Vecchio.”

“A most attractive woman, painted in loving detail.”

“Yes,” I answered absently, absorbed by the striking depiction in front of me. The woman I had admired in the heavy skirts and modest bodices of a working seamstress sprawled across Luca’s canvas in a state of exuberant undress.

Liya lay on her stomach, left leg hanging off the low couch so that the tip of one pink toe barely touched the floor. The twisted sheets angled across her arched back leaving her smooth, rounded bottom as the focal point of the painting. Her chin rested on her raised left hand. With head slightly turned, she gazed out from the painting with a mischievous, challenging look. The braids piled on top of her head struck an incongruously formal note in this riot of dishabille.

I shook my head slowly. I didn’t like the sensation that was rising from my gorge. “I had no idea that Luca and Liya were on these terms,” I muttered.

Gussie gave me a sharp look. “You know her well?”

I affected an indifferent tone. “No, not really. She’s a Jew. Her family has a workshop in the ghetto. A young man usually comes to the theater with her, some brother or cousin I think.”

Using two fingers, Gussie patted around the edges of the canvas, then bent close to take a long whiff. “It’s not totally dry. He’s been working on the background bits, but not for four or five days I’d say.”

As Gussie replaced the cloth, I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the easel to examine the cupboards that lined the lower walls of the studio. Glass phials of oily liquids, tin boxes filled with powders, and twists of paper from a chemist’s shop stacked the shelves in chaotic profusion. Most were unmarked, but one ceramic pot was labeled
dragon gum
in faded ink. It contained yellowish granules but gave no clue to their intended use. On top of the cupboard stood a mortar and pestle that contained remnants of reddish-brown powder.

I questioned Gussie. “Are all these substances used to make paint?”

The big Englishman rummaged through Luca’s stock of materials. “Most serious artists grind their own pigments, and I do recognize some of these.” He rubbed the powder from the mortar between thumb and forefinger. “I’d wager this is cinnabar. It makes a lovely scarlet. But most of these have me stumped.”

We explored further. A trunk with a coverlet thrown across it held a number of books on magical lore and occult sciences. I reached for the largest volume and carried it to the long windows. “
The Keys of Solomon
,” I read from the gilt letters stamped on its worn leather cover. The book fell open to a page marked with a strip of torn paper. The wording of the passage was flowery and esoteric, but it seemed to be a treatise on how to conjure demons and spirits.

Gussie was flipping through another volume illustrated with pyramids of oriental symbols and fantastic figures labeled with Latin names. “Does the artist also fancy himself a magician?” he asked.

“Who knows? Luca has never mentioned anything of the kind within my hearing. At least he has enough sense to keep these books hidden. A person can get away with quite a bit in Venice, but the State Inquisitors take a dim view of alchemists and freethinkers.”

We replaced the books and turned our attention to a chest of drawers. The first two contained a generous quantity of underclothes, frayed neckbands, and stockings with darned toes and heels. These, together with the coats and breeches hanging in the wardrobe and the traveling cases stacked above, argued against Luca having set out on a planned journey.

I opened the last drawer to find a stack of curious scarves or kerchiefs. “What do you suppose these are?” I asked, handing one to Gussie.

The cloths were fashioned of delicate, age-mottled silk, a rich cream the color of old parchment. They were all rectangles of varying sizes. Hemmed along one long edge, the others lightly fringed, the largest couldn’t have measured over fifteen by eighteen inches.

Gussie was holding his up to the window. “There’s an image drawn or painted here, but I can’t quite make it out.”

I picked one out, held it at arm’s length, and turned it this way and that. Suddenly, the mingled strokes of faded brown resolved into a recognizable pattern. “Don’t look straight at it. Hold it like this, at an angle. See the swelling cheek and the flowing hair. It’s the face of a woman.”

“I see it now,” Gussie cried. “She’s done in profile, barely sketched in. Her eyes are closed. Here the lashes lay on her cheek. Are these tears?” He indicated russet flecks tracking down the curved cheek.

I shrugged and began to fold the cloths back into the drawer. Fighting mounting exasperation, I said, “This is all very interesting, but not likely to help us find Luca. What we need are letters, diaries, invitations. Anything that would tell us where he’s been spending his time.”

“With company like that,” said Gussie, jerking his head toward the easel, “why would he want to spend time anywhere else?” The Englishman smiled as he handed me his cloth. On impulse, I slipped it into my waistcoat pocket.

The apartment had little else to tell us. I opened the windows and stepped onto a narrow balcony where a row of flowerpots filled with dirt awaited the blooming of spring flowers. Gussie found a few tradesmen’s bills tucked under a blotter on the writing table, but no other personal papers. We both turned our noses up at a pot of mold-skimmed coffee sitting on the corner stove. Feeling a little foolish, like a couple of amateur spies playing at intrigue, we finally decided to give the puzzle of Luca’s disappearance a rest and repair to my house for a much delayed dinner.

***

“So Luca has taken a fancy to a Jewess. Doesn’t he care what people will say?” My sister Annetta toyed with her empty wine glass.

“Apparently he does. At the theater, I have seen him walk right by Liya without so much as a smile of recognition. I would never have guessed they were in the midst of an amorous dalliance.” I poured more wine for Gussie. My sister shook her head as I stretched my arm toward her glass.

I’d invited Gussie home to dine, and we were still at table, picking at some fruit and cheese. The candles in their branched holders were burning low. Their flames illuminated my sister’s soft brown eyes and coronet of chestnut hair. Her wide mouth had settled into an uncommonly relaxed smile. Gussie had tucked into her simple meal of risotto and grilled perch with a gusto that had charmed her almost as much as his ready smile and eager, often ingenuous, questions. My new friend showed particular interest in the customs of the city he had made his temporary home.

“What would people say if they knew Luca and Liya were romantically involved?” Gussie asked, nibbling at a cube of blue-veined cheese.

Annetta leaned forward, gripping the arms of her chair. “A Jewess from the ghetto and a Christian man? Such an outrageous relationship simply would not be tolerated. The Jewess’ family would disown her in disgrace. Even if she turned her back on her religion and allowed herself to be baptized, the Christian’s family would always look on the couple with scorn. Is it not the same in England?”

“I suppose so. I never really gave the matter much thought. I grew up on a manor in the Wiltshire countryside. The nearest Jew was probably in London, well over a hundred miles away.”

“You see Jews everywhere in Venice. They live in the ghetto, but have the run of the city during the daylight hours,” Annetta said as she cut off a handful of grapes. “One brought his barrow to our
campo
just this morning, crying for old rags to buy.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them. Near the café where I breakfast, a bearded Jew sets up a cart to sell old pots and pans. He has a running war with some boys of that neighborhood. They keep trying to snatch his hat.”

“That’s a cruel game they are playing.” I went on in response to Gussie’s questioning look. “The red hat rule is strictly enforced. When venturing out of the ghetto, a Jewish man is required to wear a crimson hat. A woman must wear a red kerchief or scarf. If the
sbirri
, or the constables as you probably call them, catch a Jew without his identifying head cover, they can beat him and extract a heavy fine.”

“I see. I’m beginning to understand why Luca’s relationship with the lovely seamstress is so fraught with risk,” said Gussie thoughtfully. “Are all the Jews of Venice poor?”