The Bellini Card

18

Palewski twisted the wire, and the cork popped out into his hand.

“Brillat-Savarin,” Count Barbieri said.

Palewski knew exactly what the count meant.

Brillat-Savarin, the French gastronome, had established a sensational fact, which flew in the face of all recognized wisdom.

After the battle of Waterloo, British regiments stationed around Champagne had plundered the wineries. Bottles were popped, quaffed, and tossed into the hedges; old vintages vanished indiscriminately with the latest crop. When order was restored, the champagne houses were left with shattered cellars.

“The champagne makers thought the British had ruined them,” Palewski began. “Until every club in London-”

“Ordered another twelve dozen cases!” Barbieri beamed. “The champagne houses made their fortune.”

“You truly are an optimist, Count Barbieri.”

“A realist, Signor Brett.”

Palewski clasped his hands under his chin.

“I am looking for a Bellini,” he said.

Gianfranco Barbieri came from a long line of Venetian aristocrats who had been trained, like aristocrats everywhere, not to reveal his feelings easily. He opened his eyes wide and gave a whistle.

“Bellini! No. Bassano, yes. Longhi, Ricci. Guardi-it would not be too much of a problem. But Bellini? That would be a miracle.” He blew on his fingertips and laughed. “You would have to steal it,” he added.

“It is what America wants,” Palewski explained. “Something utterly first class. Better one work by a master like Bellini than a whole gallery of lesser paintings.”

“No, no. You must begin slowly. Like us.”

Palewski knelt on the window seat and contemplated the Grand Canal.

“Count Barbieri,” he began, “I wonder-if, by some stroke of fortune, someone in Venice was in a position to offer a Bellini on the market-it’s a hypothetical suggestion-you would know about it, I suppose?”

The count shrugged. “If it were to be offered through the usual channels, then yes, I would know of it. But for such a painting-well. This is Venice, Signor Brett. Not all traffic passes down the Grand Canal.”

“I understand,” the American said.

Barbieri set down his glass. “I am expected at the opera, Signor Brett. There’s no reason to be disappointed. If a Bellini should suddenly appear… In the meantime, I can show you at least three works that would delight you. They would cause a stir if they were exhibited in London or Paris. A fourth, I think, would interest you also.”

They shook hands at the door. “Your neighbor is an old friend of mine. Carla d’Aspi d’Istria. She’s having a little gathering tomorrow night. Do drop her your card, I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet you.”

Later, Signor Brett did take a few steps along the alley to a large green door, where he delivered his card to his neighbor.

On his way back he looked into the cafe. He was hungry; something smelled good. He ordered wine and a dish of rice. To his astonishment it arrived looking black as if it had been burned.

“Risotto al nero de seppia,” the girl explained. Palewski ate it all; it was delicious. But it was very black, and he could not quite escape the impression that he had been offered death on a plate.