The Bellini Card

82

Commissario Brunelli liked to think he’d seen everything in Venice, but when Maria brought him into her mother’s kitchen he changed his mind.

“My name, signora, is Brunelli. Vittorio Brunelli.” He took a deep sniff, and his chest rose. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

The candlelight, at first, made the hairs prickle at the nape of his neck. He felt it all-the light, the smells, the shadows on the faces-long before he realized what it was.

It was a feast among the poor.

He saw the turban. He saw Palewski’s lean, pale face. He saw Maria, doubtful, with her jet-black hair. He saw children, shaved headed, staring at him with their big eyes, and their father, smiling, and the shadows and the black beams and the embers of the dying fire.

He advanced, unsteadily, into the room.

“Buon appetito,” he said with a bow, and stumbled into a pallet on which he was scarcely surprised to see the figure of the dying Christ.

“Please, Signor Brunelli,” the signora said magisterially. “Join us.”

Brunelli found himself squashed onto the end of a bench with a small child on one side and Yashim on the other, and knife, fork, plate, and red wine in front of him.

The only difference between this and other feasts he could imagine was that no one seemed actually to be eating.

His nostrils twitched, and his gaze returned to the table. It was covered with a clean cloth, and on it stood several plates. He saw a mound of rice, a dish of something with raw onion, a heap of curious green packages about the size of eggs, and an earthenware dish containing something in a white sauce.

Around the table he noticed a lot of very suspicious faces.

The Brunelli name was not inscribed in the Golden Book, which had listed the aristocratic families entitled to enjoy the burdens and the rewards of government. But the blood of Venice flowed in Brunelli’s veins nonetheless, the blood of men who had eaten raw horsemeat with the riders of the Crimea, nibbled thousand-year-old eggs with the Great Khan in Cathay and spice-laden stews with the Bedouin of the Persian gulf-not to mention boiled cabbage in the halls of the Polish kings.

Brunelli stretched out his hands, inspired, and delivered a grace. It was a grace he had heard said in the Ghetto, many times.

“Blessed are you, our God, Lord of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

Palewski smiled and helped the signora to the pilaff.

Brunelli picked up the vine leaves and offered them to his neighbor. Yashim took one, Brunelli another. They passed the dish along. A small child helped himself to some pilaff. Maria’s father took a spoonful of liver and onions, while Maria picked up a vine-leaf parcel and bit into it. She gave a little cry of appreciation.

“It’s fish! Mamma, try one!”

In a matter of moments everyone was eating and talking all at once.

Brunelli leaned across the table.

“Signor Brett,” he began.

Signor Brett cut him off.

“I haven’t been straight with you, Commissario, I’m afraid. Not from the start. For which I’m sorry. This is Yashim.”

“Good,” the big man said. “I don’t like straight.” He took a sip of wine. “What are you both doing, exactly?”

Palewski looked over at Yashim. “What are we doing, anyway?”

“Looking for justice,” Yashim replied. “Justice, and a Bellini.”

Brunelli raised a single eyebrow.

“Both valuable, signore. Both rare.”

And Yashim smiled and told him everything they knew.