Brotherhood of the Tomb (25 page)

‘Siniscalchi has evidence that the cardinal has had meetings with politicians from the extreme right, not just here in Italy, but in France, Spain, Germany, Austria, and possibly elsewhere. There are no documents, of course, nothing that l’Unita or any other paper can publish. But one report suggests that Migliau has offered to do a deal. If he becomes pope, he will instruct his bishops in each of those countries to see to it that their flocks vote for his candidates. Once in power, they will pledge political and legislative support for his campaign against modernism in all its forms. Migliau will be the first

pope in centuries with more than encyclicals as his weapons. He’ll have a police state at his disposal.’

THIRTY-THREE

Patrick felt the breath thicken in his chest. It sounded plausible, too plausible.

‘You say Siniscalchi has evidence of this?’

‘Of a sort, yes. But hard proof, no.’

‘Can he get hard proof?’

‘Yes. He knows someone who has access to Migliau’s office. He wants to see you tonight -he may have something for you then.’

‘You said he disagreed with the police theory about a kidnapping. What’s his explanation for the disappearance?’

‘Just that the kidnapping theory doesn’t hold water. No one on the right would dare lay a finger on Migliau. Nor, to be honest, would they want to. The same goes for the Mafia. That leaves the left. Siniscalchi has more contacts than the police with left-wing factions and terrorist groups - or so he told me - and he swears that Migliau’s disappearance is as much a mystery to them as to anybody else.’

‘What does that leave?’

‘It leaves the possibility that Migliau has dropped out of circulation from choice. For reasons known only to Migliau and whomever Migliau confides in. He thinks it could tie in with our problem, though he doesn’t know how.’

Patrick paused.

‘How much have you told him?’

‘I . . .’

At that moment, the door opened and Dr Luciani came into the room. He smiled and introduced himself to Makonnen.

‘I wonder if you would mind waiting outside,

Mr Makonnen. I’d like to have a word with your friend.’

When Assefa had gone, the doctor sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at Patrick.

Well, Signor Canavan, how do you feel?’

‘Much better, thank you. Completely well, in fact. If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.’

A frown creased Luciani’s high forehead.

‘Actually, Signor Canavan, I do mind. You may feel well, but I would like you to stay here for at least another twenty-four hours.’

“What for?’

‘Just observation. There are a few more tests I would like to run. In a few days’ time, I would like you to have a CT scan. We don’t have the equipment here, but the hospital in Mestre has had a scanner installed recently, and I think I can have you booked in there for an appointment later this week.’

Patrick felt a stab of alarm.

‘Is that necessary? Is something wrong?’

The doctor shook his head vigorously.

‘No, no. I have no reason to think so.’

‘Then...’

Luciani interrupted.

‘Signor Canavan, have you been experiencing ... any auditory or visual disturbances recently?’

‘I don’t understand. Disturbances?’

‘Perhaps hallucinations would be a better word. Allucinazioni. Any of the senses could be affected. You might taste or smell something that was not there. A food or a perfume, flowers perhaps. Or it might be a sound - music, a voice ...’

Patrick looked away. He heard water lapping, smelt a woman’s body, warm and close.

‘No,’ he lied. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘You are sure? Think very hard.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Why do you ask?’

The doctor hesitated.

‘On the basis of what happened to you and the test results I have had back, I think you may be suffering from a form of focal epilepsy. Please, don’t be alarmed. It need not be serious. And there are other possible diagnoses. I only want you to help me.’

‘But it may be serious. That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?’

Luciani did not reply at once.

‘Signor Canavan, I have no wish to alarm you. Diagnosis in such matters can be extremely difficult: that is why I would like you to undergo further tests. And even if a firm diagnosis is made, establishing the aetiology - the cause - will be far from simple.

‘The most common cause of focal epilepsy is a lesion of the temporal lobe of the brain. That is why I want you to have the EEG and, if possible, the CT scan. If there is a lesion, it will normally give rise to hallucinations of some kind. The lesion may be minor or, at your age, it may be a tumour. I say that, not to frighten you, but to convey some notion of the potential seriousness of your condition, and, therefore, of the need for your co-operation. Tell me, have you had episodes like this before?’

Patrick hesitated.

‘No. Not exactly ... There have been dreams. Dei sogni.’

What sort of dreams?’

Patrick attempted to explain. When he finished, Luciani nodded.

‘Very well. I would like to speak about your case with one of my colleagues here. He is a specialist in neurological disorders. I think he may be able to see you some time this evening. I must emphasize that you take what I am telling you very seriously. I realize

that you are perhaps in ... some kind of trouble. That is not my business. But your well-being is.

‘If you have had episodes such as the ones you have described, it is likely that the lesion is quite far advanced. You may have to undergo surgery. Whatever matters are troubling you right now, I would ask you to do your best to put them out of your mind. This must take priority. Otherwise, the consequences could be serious. Do you understand?’

Patrick nodded. He felt numb. There was no pain, only shadowy visions. How could shadows kill him? There must be some mistake.

‘I have to leave now, but I’ll be back this evening. I hope to bring my colleague with me. Please don’t worry. We have excellent facilities here and in Mestre. Even if we have to operate, there is nothing to be concerned about. There will be a nurse on hand at all times: let her know if you need anything, or if you experience any fresh symptoms.’

At the door, he paused.

‘Signor Canavan, I think I should tell you that there is a Carabinieri inspector downstairs. His name is Maglione, from the station at San Zaccaria. He has been waiting for permission to interview you.’ He glanced at the floor. ‘Do you have any idea why he wants to see you?’

‘No, I ... There must be some mistake. I’ve done nothing.’

‘Please don’t play games with me, signore. We found a gun in the pocket of your jacket. It has been placed in the hospital safe until we decide what to do with it. Now, I can ask this gentleman from the Carabinieri to leave; but if he insists on seeing you, I may not be able to stop him. As your doctor, I would prefer you not to be placed under any unnecessary stress at the moment. Frankly, I’m

worried in case it triggers another attack. But I cannot refuse a reasonable request from the police. So, you tell me: what shall I do?’

Patrick thought quickly.

‘Let him come up,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. But I’d like a little longer to speak with my friend, Mr Makonnen. It’s a private matter, and it is important to me. I promise you it has nothing to do with a criminal offence of any nature.’

Luciani took a while to make up his mind.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll tell Maglione he can see you in ten minutes. Will that be enough?’

‘Yes, I think so. Thank you.’

As he left, Luciani spoke briefly to Makonnen, who was still waiting outside.

‘Assefa, please close the door,’ said Patrick as he entered.

‘What is it, Patrick? Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m fine. Listen, Assefa - we don’t have much time. There’s a policeman waiting for me downstairs. God knows what’s going on, but I don’t intend to hang around here to find out. You’ve got to help me find a back way out of this place.’

‘But the doctor said ...’

‘I don’t give a damn what he said. I can’t stay here. Nor can you. Passover starts in a couple of days. We don’t have any time to lose.’

THIRTY-FOUR

They walked to Cannaregio through the clamorous dim light of mid-afternoon. Like refugees nearing an ill-marked border, they looked about them constantly, at every moment fearful of arrest. Every face, every gesture seemed to threaten betrayal or discovery.

Gradually, they left the more populated streets behind and began to relax. Patrick told Assefa what had happened after leaving him the night before. He described the chase after someone he had thought was Francesca, his collapse from exhaustion, and his dream. When he finished, Assefa walked beside him for a while in silence. They crossed the Rio di Noale onto the long stretch of the Fondamenta della Misericordia. A boat carrying refuse passed, headed for the Canale della Sacche. The driver waved at them and smiled. A faint smell of rotting garbage hung in the air for a moment.

‘You say you passed a square in which men were chasing a pig,’ said Assefa at last.

“Yes. Blind men. With knives.’

With knives, yes. And this scene - did it mean anything to you?’

‘Mean anything?’ Patrick could sense his friend’s unease. He watched the heavy boat piled high with rubbish chug out of sight. Why should it mean something? It was the sort of thing you see in dreams. Nonsense, really.’ But he knew that could not be true. Nothing else in his dreams had been nonsense, they had all made perfect sense: and he could remember the details with all the exactness that an invalid remembers pain.

Assefa shook his head.

‘No, Patrick. Not nonsense. In the eighteenth century - are you listening, Patrick? This is important - in the eighteenth century, on each of the two Sundays of the Carnival every year, the city would arrange for blind men to gather in a square in order to slaughter a pig. It was a sort of spectacle, something for the nobili to laugh at, to feel superior about. Are you telling me you’ve never heard of it?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘And yet you dreamed of it. You knew nothing about it, yet you dreamed it was happening.’

By the time they reached the Ghetto area, it was almost dark. Centuries ago, the Jews of Venice had been confined to this section of the city, the first of a multitude of ghettoes throughout the world. Now, only a couple of synagogues survived on the edge of squalor. As they passed the Scuola Canton, Patrick wondered what Migliau would do with the Jews if he came to power. Would he return them to their ghettoes, force them to wear the letter ‘O’ on their chests or yellow hats once more, make them pay over and over for the supposed crime of killing his god? For a moment, he dismissed such thoughts as ridiculous: not even a pope could bring the Middle Ages back again. And at once he remembered the small plaque that faces the main synagogue in the Calle del Ghetto Vecchio, commemorating the deaths of two hundred Venetian Jews at the hands of the Nazis.

There, just ahead of them, was the tenement in which Surian and his father lived. In a city where a new building is almost a contradiction in terms, the block seemed not merely old but ailing, as though infected by some insidious and wasting disease.

Drawing closer, they noticed a small knot of people milling round the front entrance. At first he took them for a group of casual loiterers, but it was soon apparent that they had a purpose in gathering there. A handful of schoolchildren, satchels still in their hands, skittered about, excited yet curiously silent. The rest of the crowd was made up mainly of women and old men. Patrick and Assefa were about to push through the crowd when they noticed a policeman at the centre. He was trying to take a statement from one old woman, but everyone else insisted on talking as well.

‘Che cosa e successo? E morto qualcuno?’

‘Poveretto, si e ammazzato.’

‘Chi era? Tu lo conosce vi?’

Patrick’s first thought was that someone had taken note of their visit here yesterday. But that would scarcely explain the crowd or the excited jabbering. At that moment, a small boy tried to squeeze between Patrick’s legs, in order to get to the front. Patrick reached down and grabbed him by the neck. The child squealed and tried to wriggle free. A woman looked round at them and laughed. Patrick smiled at her reassuringly.

‘Hang on,’ Patrick said to the boy. He could not have been more than five or six. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Stronzo, lasciami andare! Lemme go! Get yer friggin’ hands off of me!’ shouted the little brute.

‘Not until you tell me where you’re going.’

‘Inna house, where d’you think?’

‘What for?’

‘See the man.’

‘The man? What man?’

‘The dead man, stupid. Jumped out of the winder inter the courtyard. Lemme in.’

A chill passed through Patrick. Without another word, he let the boy go. His hand was numb and useless.

‘It may not be him, Patrick.’ Assefa had moved to Patrick’s side. But his voice carried no conviction.

They squeezed their way through the crowd. No one challenged their right to pass. The main door stood open, leading into the courtyard.

Only a weak light managed to struggle past the high walls. The windows round the courtyard were lit up, as though in celebration of some festival. Indistinct faces stared out into the gathering dark, some curious, indifferent, but each drawn by the same fascination with violent and unexpected death.

The child’s courage had failed him a couple of yards inside the entrance. He was standing nervously, unable to take another step, yet rooted hard to the spot by morbid curiosity and a last pale ghost of bravado. On the other side of the courtyard, a huddled form lay unmoving on the ground. Patrick and Assefa went across. Someone had covered the body with an old bedspread. Blood had spilled out from underneath, forming a dark, sludgy pool on the concrete. Patrick bent down and raised the edge of the coarse fabric.

An imperfect, wounded light sloped across the lifeless face beneath the cloth. Patrick’s first thought was that someone had played a joke on them. The face staring up at him was not human at all, but a dummy’s face, white and hard, with painted eyes and varnished cheeks. It was the face of Arlecchino, cracked down the centre and smeared at the base with common blood. Patrick’s fingers fumbled at the mask, pulling it back to reveal Claudio Surian’s face. The back of the skull had caved in: fragments of white bone jutted out awkwardly, as though desperately