The Bellini Card

73

Palewski studied the picture.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If that’s Eletro being killed-why, who would have painted such a thing? And when, Yashim?”

Yashim was at the open window. It was a twenty-foot drop into the canal below.

He turned and surveyed the room: bare walls, the little paint-splattered table, a crucifix above the bed.

He was about to go back through the door when his glance fell on the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed.

Yashim strode over to the bed and tugged at the yellowing sheets.

For a moment he thought he had been deceived, that there was nothing there.

The man was curled up with his arms over his head, his knees drawn up to his chin, his hands clenched into bony fists.

Yashim took his arms and pulled them back, to reveal a wizened face the color of old sheets, eyes shut, the mouth dry and cracked.

There was no resistance in the curled-up figure: he was beyond strength, possibly beyond all help. His limbs peeled apart to the touch.

“We need water,” Yashim said. Without hesitation he bent down and scooped the man up in his arms. “Pick up the painting.”

They waded through a cloud of flies and on the landing Palewski pulled the door shut behind them. Outside in the campo he opened the well cover and pulled up a bucket of water. Yashim sat down and held the man against his chest, sprinkling his lips with drops from the bucket.

He took the water in his hand and ran it over the man’s face.

The eyelids did not stir, but the cracked lips moved slightly.

Yashim held his hand as a scoop and let a little water trickle into the man’s mouth. There was a catching sound, and the man swallowed.

“What are we going to do with him?”

Yashim looked anxious. “We’ll take him to the Contarinis. Don’t worry. He hasn’t killed anyone. No blood on him.” He glanced up. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

He unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around the frail skeleton.

Palewski said, “Sometimes it’s the ones who seem weak, like him, who survive.”

They carried him to the gondola. The gondolier started at the sight of Yashim’s bundle. “What’s that? It looks like a pieta,” he exclaimed, crossing himself.

“Take us to Dorsoduro as fast as you can,” Palewski said. “And pray, my friend, for the resurrection.”