The Bellini Card

27

On the piano nobile of the Ca’ d’Aspi crystal goblets sparkled in the light of hundreds of candles set into candelabra of old glass, all reflected in the mottled mirrors that lined the walls. Down the center of the great room heavily embroidered linen hung in folds from the table, as though carved from pure stone. The curtains were not drawn. As the evening wore on, the glass of the tall windows, too, came to reflect the brightness of the room; from outside, on the Grand Canal, it looked as though the whole palazzo was aflame.

Stadtmeister Finkel, passing in a gondola on his way back to his fat blond wife, saw the lights and sighed. One thing was for sure: neither the stadtmeister, nor his superior, nor any member of the Austrian administration would ever attend a Venetian party, thrown by a Venetian. Only the year before, at Carnivale, the stadtmeister had inaugurated a ball at the Procuratie that not a single native had deigned to attend. The elegant officers had stood in their white gloves and immaculate uniforms like mustachioed wallflowers while the band played mazurkas and the candles burned low in their sockets.

Very faintly now he heard the strains of a quartet floating through an open window.

“Der Teufel! ” he grunted, turning his thick neck to address the gondolier. “What are we dawdling for?”

Having given the band the signal to play, the contessa threw back a window and stood there for a moment, looking out.

She turned from the window with a radiant welcome for the man who had just entered the room.

“Dottore-I’m so glad it is you. If I am lucky I will have you to myself for a few minutes, at least. Somehow at these occasions one never manages to talk to the people one wants to talk to. Come, sit at the window here with me. In Venice,” she added, with a sudden change of tone, “we need never tire of the view.”

The professor, a small, barrel-chested man with a beautiful head of wavy gray hair, lifted a glass from a liveried attendant. He spoke in low tones to the contessa, who now and then wrung her hands. “Idiots!” she murmured. “It is barbarism!”

The professor spread his hands ruefully. “What to do? The Austrians have never been refused. In Prague, in Cracow, they can take what they want. Destroy what they like. And the emperor will act like a new Napoleon. I do not think he was happy when the horses of St. Mark returned from Paris.”

The contessa clenched her fists. “We shall see the Bandieras this evening, Dottore. Attilio and his brother are not afraid to act. But money, yes.” She wrung her hands.

The room was filling up. Out of the corner of her eye the contessa noticed a man standing uncertainly in the doorway. He was tall, pale, and good-looking; his clothes were immaculate. The contessa swiveled and held out her hands with a charming smile.

“Signor Brett! But how wonderful you could come. You see, Tommaseo, we are neighbors now! But yes-Signor Brett has come all the way from America to share my view. Is it not so?” She laughed, and light played in her eyes.

Palewski smiled. “Had I known I might share a view with you, madame, I would have left America sooner,” he said.

“Basta, signore.” The contessa raised a hand, but she looked pleased.

The contessa touched his arm. “Let me introduce you to Tommaseo Zen-he is a recluse, but for this evening we have dragged him out. He lives on Burano.”

She snapped her fingers, and a glass of prosecco appeared in front of Palewski. Before he knew it, he was talking to a quiet young man about the flora and fauna of the lagoon, and his glass was empty. A footman materialized with a bottle.

“There is a type of clam, also,” the young man was saying, “that is unique to the lagoon. It exists only here and, so I understand, at the mouth of the Canton River, in China.”

“Perhaps Marco Polo-” Palewski began, then stopped. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He fought for a moment to stay on his feet and pressed the cold glass against his cheek.

“Signor Brett, I believe you have already met Count Barbieri?”

Palewski turned. The room was spinning. He murmured a greeting and shook hands.

“Signor Brett was telling me such interesting things about his country,” Barbieri said.

The contessa smiled. “Tell me, amico! Tell us-what is it about America you love?”

Palewski focused on her lips.

“Many things,” he said cautiously. “A wonderful country.”

He was aware that a hush had fallen on the company.

“It is a very big country,” he began. What had he said yesterday? “We are a people of independent education. Who know how to eat well.” He saw someone raise a finger and wag it at the crowd. “Just like here, in Venice!”

It was his finger. He snapped it shut and put his fist behind his back.

“We have great cities, too, like Venice,” he added, remembering. “New Orleans is like Venice. Boston is like Venice. New York is like Venice.” That surely wasn’t true, he thought. He rocked on his toes and peered around at the assembled guests, hanging on his every word.

“Like Venice-but no canals.”

“And art?”

“Quite. Instead of canals, the American people have a desire for art.”

The contessa looked surprised. She took his arm and steered him to one side. “I’m afraid we are plaguing you with our foolish questions. Forgive me.”

“No, no-it’s just…” Palewski felt her squeeze his arm. “A touch of sun, Contessa. Day on the lagoon.” He shook his head. “I think I rather need a rest.”

“But no, Signor Brett, we must apologize. I will send Antonio to see you home. When you feel better, please come to visit me again.”

Palewski inclined his head. “That would be delightful,” he murmured. Right now, he wanted only to lie down.

Outside on the stairs he felt a little calmer. Antonio, the footman, held his coat over his arm and walked him back downstairs and out into the street. At the door of his building Palewski fumbled for his key, and found some change.

“No, signore. Grazie a voi,” Antonio said with a rich smile, backing away.

The ambassador tottered into the hall and leaned heavily for a moment against the wall, rubbing his forehead, before taking the stairs slowly, keeling like a drunken man. He should have stayed in bed, of course-but then he would not have met the contessa again. What a charming person! And he had been complaining that everyone in Venice wanted something from him!

He turned the key in the lock of his apartment, but the door was fast; he turned it again, and it swung open.

He kicked off his shoes and made his way groggily across the room, shedding clothes as he went.

Stanislaw Palewski, Polish ambassador to the Sublime Porte, alias S. Brett, connoisseur, flung back the covers and collapsed into his bed, stark naked.

Just like the woman he discovered there.

“Ah! Mio caro,” she said, putting out her dimpled arms. “I thought I would have to wait too, too long.”

It seemed to Palewski that the introductions had been peremptory, at best.

He gave a groan, and before his head hit the pillow he was fast asleep.