The Bellini Card

45

Signor Ruggerio, stepping out of his house in San Barnaba to buy a small cheroot from the corner shop, was surprised to find himself accompanied by two men he vaguely remembered who held his arms and suggested a drink together, somewhere outside the campo.

Somewhere, in fact, beyond a certain little network of alleyways, a distinct island of mud and pilings and pavements faced about with small canals, which constituted the parish of San Barnaba.

They took him over a bridge.

They gave him a glass of wine.

“He’s money,” Ruggerio said, prudently swallowing his jealousy along with his rosso — for nobody likes to lose a client. “That’s for sure. The question is, where’s it from?”

The men, it seemed, liked the way he talked.

“That’s for you, Barone,” one of them said outside the bar, tucking a cheroot wrapped in a note into his breast pocket. “I expect you can find your own way home?”

“You know how it is, gentlemen,” Ruggerio replied nervously. “At my age, you begin to forget everything.”

One of the men reached out and tweaked Ruggerio’s cheek. “I’m delighted to hear it, Barone,” he said. “Sleep well.”