The Bellini Card

89

An old woman complained to the police that a beggar had taken up residence on her steps and wouldn’t move.

He was sitting on the steps with his head on his knees. By the time Scorlotti reached him he was locked into place; only his arms had risen weirdly, like the arms of a devotee, as the rigor set in.

There wasn’t a mark on him except for a dull purple flush on the back of his neck and a faint bruise over his Adam’s apple. His papers, and a small amount of change, were still in his pockets.

The old woman slammed the door and turned the lock; Scorlotti heard the bolts shoot home.

He took the corpse to the mortuary in a gondola.

“Naxos belonged to the Venetians, until the reign of Suleyman,” Yashim said slowly. “Only the Venetians appointed a Duke of Naxos, until it fell to the Ottomans. After that, there was only one. Joseph Nasi. But when Nasi died, the title would have, I don’t know, lapsed.”

“I suppose so.” She seemed amused. “Or else-it was added to the many titles already possessed by the man who bestowed it on Nasi.”

“Sultan Selim?”

“Sultan,” she intoned, closing her eyes, “padishah, lord of the two seas and the two continents, ruler of Mingrelia and Hungary, in the Crimea, Khan, and Voivode in the Danubian principalities. He was the Duke of Naxos.”

“So now-” Yashim was struggling to comprehend. “The Duke of Naxos

…?”

She gave an equivocal shrug. “Would be the sultan. Or his son, perhaps.”

“I don’t believe it,” Yashim said.

“Are you playing with me, Yashim Pasha?”

But Yashim could only stare.

“Fourteen times since the conquest of Istanbul, the Aspi family has provided Venice with a bailo in the city,” Carla continued. “Istanbul has been our second home. One of my ancestors, Alvise d’Aspi, was the richest merchant prince in Pera-Suleyman the Magnificent went to visit him, Yashim Pasha. They were friends. My father, also Alvise, was the last bailo of the Republic. He knew Selim III well; they played music together. Can you believe that? Or have times so far changed that men do not remember?”

“I believe it,” Yashim said. His mouth was dry.

She gestured to the arms on the wall behind him. “The Aspis have not been afraid to fight, either. We were not all merchants and ambassadors, Yashim Pasha. We supplied the Republic with admirals and generals, and when Venice was pressed too hard, we have helped make wars to win peace.”

She turned to face him. “I am the last of the Aspis. That is-my pride, if you will. But you must believe me when I tell you that I knew the Duke of Naxos. I knew him by instinct, as if he were my own son.”

Yashim’s eyes traveled over the swags of weaponry, the golden cornices, the fantastical trompe l’oeil-and saw nothing.

Abdulmecid! The Duke of Naxos, Crown Prince of the throne of Osman?

The shy, retiring boy-that pale youth who had been afraid to watch his own father die-had come to Venice, in disguise!

It was impossible. No one of the Ottoman line had ever stepped beyond the borders of the empire-unless to conquer. The idea was mad!

And yet… and yet.

Sultans disguised themselves. It had happened: incognito, they had moved through the markets and the mosques, gauging what the people said.

Incognito! In Venice at Carnevale everyone was incognito-why, incognito was a Venetian word!

And Abdulmecid enjoyed a freedom his father had never known, a freedom that would disappear on his elevation to the throne. As sultan, he would be watched every minute of the day.

Abdulmecid spoke French.

“The duke. Did he win-or lose?”

“At cards?” She looked surprised. “He played well.”

“He won? Money?” Yashim had never gambled.

“I said he played well, Yashim Pasha. But Barbieri is very good-and the stakes were high.”

“The party, Contessa, was arranged by you?”

“You could say I inspired it. The duke had a cicerone-I suggested it to him. He made the arrangements with Eletro.”

“But why did Eletro come? He wasn’t an aristocrat, as you said. He was a sort of criminal.”

“He plays cards. And it was Carnevale. A period of misrule. It used to be glamorous-and very long. A long season of parties, gambling, drinking. Everyone goes masked-that’s part of the fun, I suppose.”

“You don’t think so.”

Carla shrugged. “It’s tradition. As for Eletro, he merely wears a mask.” She paused, remembering. “We took a gondola to the water gate. He was there already-Eletro, I mean-like a host, really. It was night, of course, and you couldn’t see the state of the place beyond the candlelight. Hundreds of tiny candles, in glass jars. And the doors-they were flung back-opened onto a great stone staircase, with the candles flickering on every step. Eletro led us up-Barbieri recognized him, I think, or guessed-with a great candelabra in his hand. And it was exciting because I have been in every palazzo in Venice, I suppose, at one time or another. But I’d never been there before. So it was Venice, but not quite like Venice.

“Halfway up the stairs we all stopped. The fondaco, you know, was a Byzantine palace. Once, even the Emperor of Byzantium stayed there-and he brought six hundred and fifty priests of his Orthodox faith, too. So we stopped to look down into the courtyard. It was lit, with flambeaux. And anyway, the doors above were shut-at least, there was a great curtain across the doorway. There was a lot of incense in the air-I suppose the place didn’t smell very good, after all those years of collapse-and Eletro in a grotesque mask, holding the candles in one hand over his head, and putting his fingers to his lips. So we stopped and listened.

“You couldn’t hear anything at first-just the people on the stairs, and I had the duke on my arm and he-he gave it a squeeze. Then some of us heard a very faint, eerie sound-it was the scrape of a violin but very quiet-but as we listened it got gradually louder, and then other instruments fell in, and all of a sudden Eletro whisked back the curtain and there we were! The piano nobile-it’s a huge room-lit by a great candelabra in the middle, and all the walls hung with muslin, and the orchestra playing in the gloom somewhere-I think from overhead.”

“How many of you?”

“About a dozen, if I remember. We sat at table, and there was champagne and supper. And afterward we played cards.”

“At other tables?”

“Little card tables. All set up. That’s when-that’s when the four men got together.”

“You didn’t play?”

“Not that night. The stakes were too high, Yashim Pasha. I helped the duke, a little. He was very young.”

“Yes,” Yashim said, thoughtfully. “Yes. I suppose he was.” He paused. “And the cicerone?”

“Oh, he moved about, seeing that everything was all right.”

“Who was the cicerone, Contessa?”

“One of the Barnabotti. A professional. His name is Ruggerio.”