The Bellini Card

66

“The first thing we have to do,” Yashim went on imperturbably, “is find somewhere safe to put you.”

“The first thing I have to do,” Palewski countered, breathing heavily, “is find somewhere to drink a large glass of grappa.” He peered at the beggar again and looked away. “I just can’t believe it, Yash. I mean, your own mother wouldn’t know you.” He paused. “You look horrible. What have you done to your face?”

“I dyed my eyebrows yellow to match the beard. The beard comes off.”

Palewski saw why the beggar had seemed so sensitive to light: with his eyes wide open, he looked-well, still hardly like his friend of so many years.

“I could guess that much. It’s your-your face that looks so different. Wrong shape.”

Yashim stuck a dirty finger into his mouth and began to work around his gums. Various damp little bundles came out; Yashim flexed his jaw.

“Wadding,” he said triumphantly. He reached behind his ears and removed some putty, so that they lay flat against his head. “Know me now?”

Palewski nodded. It was Yashim-but still a horrible, scabrous, sandy-bearded parody of his old friend. “Your teeth,” he objected weakly.

Yashim chuckled. “I forgot the teeth,” he said and picked off some flakes of wax.

“You look completely horrible.”

“I feel a lot better.”

“I suppose under all those rags you’re beautifully dressed, too?”

“As a matter of fact, I believe I am respectable.”

Yashim stood up and peeled away a few layers of grimy cloth.

“The beard stays,” he said. “It takes lye and water to get it off, I think.”

“I don’t know about respectable,” Palewski pointed out, as he surveyed his friend’s familiar brown robe. “You aren’t exactly going to blend in unobserved.”

“That may be part of the plan,” Yashim said. “Let’s go.”

Leaving his rags in a bundle by the bridge, Yashim led the way to the cafe where Palewski and Ruggerio had had breakfast several days before.

Palewski ordered grappa. The waiter glanced curiously at Yashim but seemed more interested in his ringworm than his costume.

“The worst of it, Yashim, is that…” He trailed off. “My God. Yashim. Yashim.” Palewski shook his head. “I still don’t believe it. But it’s all wasted. You’re too late.”

Yashim cocked his head. “On the contrary. I said I was just in time.”

“No, look. I’m sorry. I’ve found the Bellini-I’m taking it tomorrow. In fact, I’d better get back to the house. We have to catch my friend Alfredo before he meets the policeman.” He leaned across the table. “I’ve bought the painting, Yashim. Or nearly. The sultan’s Bellini! That’s why I needed the bag.”

“And that’s why I took it,” Yashim said.

Palewski nodded. “Thank God you did. Whole thing’s getting complicated-I’ll explain later. I’m getting out as quickly as I can. We must get you a passage on that ship tomorrow-it’s only going to Corfu, I’m afraid, but needs must, all that.”

He downed his grappa and sighed. “My God, Yashim. I almost died of shock.”

Yashim looked grave-or as grave as was possible for a man with a false beard with his eyebrows and lashes dyed a sickly yellow.

“I’m afraid the shock’s not quite over yet.” He paused. “You can’t hand over the money,” he said quietly. “Your Bellini’s a fake.”

Palewski was still.

“Oh,” he said coldly. “You know that, do you?”

Yashim nodded.

“The beggar business was inspired, Yashim. I’m still finding it hard to believe you’re here, like this. But if I’m wrong about the Bellini, my name’s not Palewski.”

Yashim smiled, a trifle sadly. “Well, it’s not, is it, Signor Brett?”

“Being a beggar is all very well,” Palewski replied facetiously, “but I don’t suppose you were lurking under the table when we looked at the painting? The chap selling it-his brother almost died as a result. Came in waving a gun and took the bullet himself. It was dark,” he added. “Very nearly shot me first.”

Yashim looked interested. “Ah, so that was how it was done,” he murmured. “I wondered.”

“Oh, come on, Yashim. A family heirloom. Probably the best thing they’d turned up since the fall of Athens.”

“They?”

“The family that’s selling their painting, on the quiet.” It sounded thin. “You can’t go around bawling your prices on the Rialto these days. The friends-the Austrians-would get to hear about it.”

“How convenient.”

“Convenient? Nonsense. We’ll meet them tomorrow. The vendor and his brother-they fixed up some sort of pact, thank God. I thought the brother had died. As soon as I’ve got the painting, I’ll ask Alfredo who they were.”

Yashim gazed at his old friend. Palewski didn’t like it and looked away.

“Did you go to the theater while you were here?”

Palewski looked surprised. “The theater? I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Yash. I’ve been ill, I’ve been busy, I’ve been-God, I found Compston here and had to fix up a couple of courtesans to see him off, along with his Habsburg chum.” He leaned back, and now that he had found his theme he discovered it was warm. “I’ve had policemen dunning me over two chaps who got murdered-nothing to do with me. I’ve had a fellow shot under my nose-I thought he’d died. I’ve been threatened with guns, with hanging, with cholera. I’ve swum the Grand Canal. Not along it, like Byron, but Byron didn’t have his shoes hanging around his neck. I was even poisoned. Nasty stuff, prosecco. So no, sorry. I somehow missed the theater.”

He stood up.

“Venice is a theater, Yashim. You fit right in, too, with your beard and eyebrows. No wonder the waiter didn’t look twice. At the end of the day they probably lay him down in a box marked ‘Cafe Characters.’ I’ve had enough.”

Yashim hadn’t moved.

Palewski stared at him for a while.

He gripped the chair and sat down.

He put his head in his hands.

He said a word in Polish that Yashim didn’t understand.

“Go on, then, Yash,” he said at last. “What makes you believe the Bellini is a fake?”