14 San Polo

14 San Polo

"How much will you earn for Nicky's Gentileschi?"

"Barely enough to cover the cost of my solvents and cotton wool."

"Your work will be effectively pro bono, you mean?"

"Yes," said Gabriel. "Rather like my work for you."

Having dealt with the dishes and supervised the bathing of the children, they had repaired to the loggia overlooking the Grand

Canal. The bottle of Barbaresco stood on the table before them. A butane outdoor heater, purchased over Irene's tear-streaked

objections, burned the cold from the air. Gabriel wore no coat, only a zippered woolen pullover. Chiara was wrapped in a quilted

down duvet.

"And to think that none of this would have happened if you hadn't attended that ceremony at the Courtauld."

"You're wrong about that."

"Me? Impossible."

"Charlotte Blake would still be dead, regardless of whether I had showed my face at the Courtauld. And so would Emanuel Cohen."

"I was referring to your personal involvement in this matter," said Chiara. "Therefore, I was in no way wrong. And I resent the implication that I was."

"Can you ever forgive me?"

"That depends on whether Irene tells her teacher and her friends about my torrid affair with Gennaro the barman."

"So you admit it, after all?"

"Yes," she answered. "I've been tending to your boundless sexual needs as well as his. And in my spare time, I've been running

the most prominent restoration firm in the Veneto and raising two children, not to mention a tiger." She emptied the last

of the wine into Gabriel's glass. "But back to the matter at hand."

"My boundless sexual needs?"

"Your latest investigation."

"I should probably tell the British and French police everything I know."

"With all due respect, darling, you know very little. In fact, you can't even prove that Emanuel Cohen was murdered."

"I have a witness."

"The Senegalese seller of counterfeit handbags?"

"He has a name, Chiara."

"Obviously I meant no disrespect. I was just pointing out that your friend Amadou Kamara is less than reliable."

"What possible motive did he have to mislead me?"

"Fifteen hundred euros."

"You think he made up the story?"

"It did seem to get better every time you gave him money."

Gabriel admired the view of the Grand Canal from his loggia. "He needs it more than we do."

"You're beginning to sound like your daughter."

"Is she an immigrant-rights activist as well?"

"She's troubled by the way many Venetians refer to African street vendors, as is her mother. I see them every day in San Marco with their blankets and their handbags, the wretched of the earth. The way the police chase them away is disgraceful."

"And what about the retailers or the makers of real luxury goods? Do they not have rights?"

"I agree that the piles of counterfeit bags on our streets are unsightly and that the vendors are engaging in criminal activity

and undercutting the profits of fabulously wealthy corporations. But it is not a life to which anyone would aspire. People

like Amadou Kamara sell fake handbags because they are desperately poor."

"Which makes his story no less credible. He saw what he saw."

"A murder made to look like an accident?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Who do you suppose hired the killers?"

"Someone with a great deal to lose if that Picasso were ever to be discovered inside the Geneva Freeport."

"How much is it worth?"

"A hundred million, give or take."

Chiara considered this. "A hundred million isn't enough to justify two professional hits. There has to be more to this than

just a single painting."

"All the more reason to go to the police."

"A dreadful idea."

"What would you suggest?"

"Finish the restoration of the Pordenone."

"And then?"

"Find the Picasso, of course."

"In the Geneva Freeport?" asked Gabriel. "One of the world's most heavily guarded storage facilities for art and other valuable

objects? Why didn't I think of that?"

"I'm not suggesting that you break into the Freeport and go vault to vault. You have no choice but to go into business with this Ricard fellow. Not you personally, of course. You're far too famous for that now. You'll need a cutout."

"A collector?"

Chiara nodded. "But you can't invent one out of whole cloth. Ricard is far too crafty. You'll need a real person. Someone

with a considerable fortune and, preferably, a whiff of scandal in her past."

"Her?"

Chiara allowed a moment to pass before answering. "Don't make me say that woman's name aloud. I've had enough unpleasantness

for one evening."

"What makes you think she'll do it?"

"Because she's still madly in love with you."

She was perfect, of course. She was enormously rich, she was an international celebrity, and she was the keeper of a substantial

collection of paintings that had belonged to her disgraced father. Still, Gabriel could not shake himself of the nagging fear

that his wife was trying to get rid of him for a few days.

"This doesn't have anything to do with—"

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

He decided a change of subject was in order. "Is she buying or selling?"

"Your girlfriend? Selling, I imagine."

"I thought so, too. But that means she's going to need paintings."

"Dirty paintings," said Chiara. "The dirtier the better."

"How many?"

"Enough to move the needle."

Gabriel made a show of thought. "Six feels about right."

"Estimated market value?"

"How does a hundred million sound?"

"Not as sweet as two hundred," replied Chiara. "Or two fifty, for that matter."

"In that case, I'll need a couple of heavy hitters."

"What do you have in mind?"

"A Modigliani would be nice." Gabriel shrugged. "Maybe a Van Gogh."

"How about a Renoir?"

"Why not?"

"Cézanne?"

"A fine idea."

"You should probably give your girlfriend a Monet, too. Nothing moves the needle quite like a Monet."

"Especially a Monet with a murky provenance."

"Yes," agreed Chiara. "The murkier the better."

***

For the next ten days, Gabriel was the first member of the restoration team to arrive at the church each morning and the last

to leave. Typically, he granted himself two brief intermezzi, both of which he took at Bar al Ponte. Bartolomeo, on a windblown

Wednesday, quite unexpectedly raised the subject of Gennaro Castelli, the much beloved counterman at Bar Cupido.

"He's wondering why you haven't been stopping there lately. He's concerned you might be angry with him."

"Why would I be angry at a barman?"

"He didn't go into specifics."

"And anyway," said Gabriel, "how does he even know who I am? I've never told him my name."

"Venice is a small town, Signore Allon. Everyone knows who you are." Bartolomeo indicated a platter of tramezzini . "Tomato and cheese or tuna and egg?"

Gabriel returned to the church to find that Adrianna Zinetti had rearranged his work trolley and stolen his copy of Schubert's

Death and the Maiden string quartet, a piece she loathed. She surrendered the CD that evening during the vaporetto ride from Murano to the Fondamente

Nove. As they walked past Bar Cupido, she smiled at Gennaro Castelli through the glass.

"Friend of yours?" asked Gabriel.

"I should be so lucky. He's quite luscious."

"Signore Luscious has a thing for my wife."

"Yes, I know. He told me."

"And you, of course, told Chiara."

"I might have," Adrianna admitted. "She found it quite amusing."

"What are young Gennaro's intentions?"

"Harmless, I'm sure. He's terrified of you."

"He should be."

"Come on, Gabriel. He's the nicest guy in the world."

Gabriel saw Adrianna to the door of her apartment building in Cannaregio, then walked to the Rialto and caught a Number 2

to San Tomà. Over dinner that evening, Chiara did not speak the name of her not-so-secret admirer from Bar Cupido, despite

the apologetic text message she had undoubtedly received from Adrianna minutes before Gabriel's arrival. Instead, she requested

a progress report on the altarpiece and, satisfied with Gabriel's update, suggested he take Raphael to his math lesson the

following afternoon.

"I'm rather busy at the moment."

"You're nearly finished, Gabriel. Besides, I think you'll find it interesting."

The lesson took place in a study room at the university, where Raphael's tutor was a graduate student. Gabriel sat outside in the corridor with Irene, listening to the murmur of voices within. His son, having already mastered basic algebra and geometry, was now wrestling with more advanced inferential and deductive concepts. Though Gabriel understood little of the material, it was obvious that he had somehow sired a genius. His pride was tempered by the knowledge that minds such as Raphael's were prone to disorders and disturbances. He was already troubled by his son's profound remoteness. His thoughts always seemed to be elsewhere.

During the walk home, the boy declined Gabriel's invitation to discuss what he had learned that afternoon. Irene walked a

few paces before them, pausing every now and again to jump into a puddle.

"Why is she doing that?" asked Raphael.

"Because she's eight."

"It's a composite number, you know."

"I didn't."

"It's also a power of two."

"I'll have to take your word for it." They followed Irene over the Rio de la Frescada. "Do you enjoy it, Raffi?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Mathematics."

"I'm good at it."

"That's not what I asked."

"Do you enjoy restoring paintings?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"What's an additive inverse?" Raphael looked up from the paving stones of the Calle del Campanile and smiled. The boy had been cursed with Gabriel's face and his jade-colored eyes. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Because I want to make certain you're happy. And I was wondering whether you might be interested in studying something other

than math."

"Like painting?" The child shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll never be able to paint like you."

"I felt the same way when I was your age. I was certain that I would never be as good as my mother and grandfather."

"Were you?"

"I never had a chance to find out."

"Why don't you try again?"

"I'm too old, Raffi. My time has come and gone. I'm just a restorer now."

"One of the best in the world," said the boy, and chased his sister across the Campo San Tomà.

If need be, Gabriel was one of the fastest art restorers in the world as well. He completed the retouching of the Pordenone

in five marathon sessions, then covered it in a fresh coat of varnish. Chiara came to the church two days later to supervise

the return of the enormous canvas to its marble frame above the high altar. Gabriel, however, was not in attendance; he was

on a train headed north through the Italian Alps. He waited until he had crossed the Austrian border before phoning the world's

most famous violinist.

"Have you finally come to your senses?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "Quite the opposite."