The Bellini Card

56

Palewski let Ruggerio prattle on. It was battle enough simply to lift his hand and take the morsel of bread from his plate and put it to his lips.

The sun was already warm on his back, but he felt a shudder pass across his shoulder blades. He rested his hand on the cloth and then put it out again, to take a thin fluted glass of the amaro.

He tilted the glass and the liquor ran into his mouth and he made an effort with his tongue and it went down.

“I thought I’d lost you.” The cicerone was beaming across the table.

“Lost me?” Palewski leaned forward and examined the Venetian as if for the first time.

Ruggerio looked disconcerted. “I mean only to say, signore, we have not seen each other for a few days. But if you are busy, then Ruggerio is happy!” He winked, grinning again. “Maybe la signorina Maria opens up-a little Venice, also? With her, signore, you see many attractive sights, no?”

Palewski stared at him, expressionless.

“A little Venice, signore, between a woman’s thighs!”

“I haven’t seen the girl for two days,” Palewski said coldly.

The grin faltered and congealed on Ruggerio’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Two nights,” Palewski admitted. “She’s a damn nice girl.”

Ruggerio looked uneasy. “I think so, too. Very clean,” he murmured. He was silent for a while.

Palewski reached for the coffee.

“I’ll be leaving in a day or so, Ruggerio.”

“But Signor Brett!” Ruggerio’s face fell. “I think your matters are not yet arranged-you must give us time.” His eyes widened. “Is it-is it because of Count Barbieri?”

“It’s a business matter.” Palewski dabbed a napkin to his lips. “The rent is paid on the apartment. I owe you for your time, of course-and Maria’s, too.”

Ruggerio drew himself up. “You are too kind, signore. Of course, I will be grateful for any gift you choose to bestow. I can take care of the girl, also-she was not with you last night? I am sorry for that.” He pursed his lips. “But I am afraid it is not quite so simple. My honor, also, is at stake.”

“Your honor, Ruggerio?”

Ruggerio leaned his head to one side. “Signor Brett, I am surprised you do not appreciate my difficulty.” He sounded severe, cross almost. “I deliver your cards to the most prestigious dealers in Venetian art in the city. The card says-what? That you are from New York. That you collect art.” He looked upset and waved his hands. “Forgive me, Signor Brett, but such a card you can buy for a few lire at the printers. If you see cunt written on a wall, do you stand to it?”

Palewski smiled in spite of himself. “Of course not.”

“Of course not. That’s very good, signore.” Ruggerio seemed to be working himself up into a passion. “It is the same with this card. You think the dealers become stiff because you have a card with a name written on it? No, of course not. Yet Count Barbieri-he died, but he came to see you. At the Correr, the director made time for you. Signor Eletro-he, too, starts to think about this Signor Brett. They must think-and it is I, Antonio Ruggerio, who brought them something to think about!”

He grabbed out and his hand collided with Palewski’s glass. He snatched it up and drained it.

“In a month, I tell them, you must flush out the greatest of your pictures. I tell them, Signor Brett is a friend to Ruggerio, a good man, with a keen eye and some money to spend. I admit I said that-or why would they come? For a card? Pah!”

“You have been more than kind, Signor Ruggerio-”

“Barone.”

“Barone Ruggerio. I apologize. I am at fault, and I acknowledge it freely.”

But I am always at fault, he thought. He shook his head, to block out that cry in the dark.

“I have put you in a position of some delicacy, I understand,” he continued. “But what must be, must be. How can I make it acceptable to your honor?”

How, he wondered, how does a man regain his honor?

Ruggerio’s anger seemed to collapse.

“Once,” he began, “I told you that the story of Venice is never written. It can never end, because no one writes the same story twice. You tell me you must go away.” He reached out for his coffee. “You will be back. You must come back.”

Palewski remained still. Was that it, then? No one could write the same story twice?

“And Maria? I’d like to leave her something-it’s a pity she could not come herself.”

“Have no fear, Signor Brett. Upon my honor as a Ruggerio, I will see that she gets whatever you choose to give her.”

Palewski grunted. “Where the devil is she, Ruggerio?”

“Ha ha! But you know how it is, Signor Brett, with women. And where would we be without them!”

“I must take a ship in Trieste,” Palewski said brusquely. “Perhaps you can find out for me the sailings in the next few days?”

“I want only to help,” Ruggerio said.

“Meet me at Florian, then, at twelve,” Palewski said, praying that he could be there, too.

They shook hands and Ruggerio departed, bowing and scraping.

“Shame about the girl, though,” Palewski murmured to himself later, as he stood with his hands in his pockets and watched the barges and gondolas slip past beneath his window.