The Bellini Card

91

Vosper caught up with the pasha’s servant at the entrance to Palewski’s apartment.

“Begging your pardon, signore, but the stadtmeister wants to know when it would be convenient to hold an audience with your master.”

“An audience?” Yashim cocked his head. “I don’t think an audience is really appropriate, Sergeant. The pasha is making a private visit.”

Vosper’s face lengthened. “A private visit, signore? It’s-it’s irregular, I should tell you. I think the stadtmeister is expecting some sort of, some kind of, ah, visit.”

“I will mention it to the pasha, signore.”

“You wouldn’t care to come to the Procuratie yourself and explain what you’ve told me to the stadtmeister?”

“I’m afraid not, Sergeant. I am not at liberty to make calls. But as I told you, I will inform my master-as you may yours. Good day.”

With Vosper gone, Yashim packed a small bag with Palewski’s clothes and made his way back to the Dorsoduro.

“Our friend sat up and ate a bowl of soup,” Paleswki said. “Like a wolf.”

“Has he said anything?”

Palewski and Maria exchanged glances. “He makes-noises. I don’t think it’s talking,” Maria said.

They found the man sitting up with a blanket wrapped around his knees. He made no effort to turn his head when they came in, but sat still and silent, staring at the fire.

Yashim came and squatted down beside him.

“It’s good you’ve eaten,” he said. “My name’s Yashim.”

The man did not react. Yashim took his hand and guided it to his chest. “I am Yashim,” he repeated. He patted the man’s hand against his chest. “Yashim. Do you understand?”

He glanced up at Palewski, who pulled a face and shrugged.

Very slowly the man’s head moved around, although his eyes remained fixed for longer on the fire. Finally he looked at Yashim.

But when he opened his mouth to speak, only a sound came out-a sort of moan, from his throat. His lips hardly moved.

Yashim blinked. He smiled. He leaned toward the fire and pulled out a burning twig. With the charred end he wrote his name on the hearth. YASHIM.

He pointed to the name, and to himself.

The man hardly looked at the name. He stared for a while at the twig in Yashim’s hand, then looked into his face.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he put out his hand and took the twig, glancing between it and Yashim.

His head turned toward the hearth. He leaned forward, his tongue protruding between his compressed lips.

Palewski gave a low whistle. “It’s you, Yash. He’s drawing a portrait of you.”

Yashim knelt up and cocked his head. The man sank back on his hams and almost shyly handed him the twig again.

On the hearthstone, in a few rough strokes of charcoal, was Yashim himself, turban and mustache and-most extraordinarily-the very look of him, right down to his expression of concern.

“You’re the painter!” Yashim exclaimed involuntarily. “The Canaletto painter.”

The man’s eyes clouded over.

Yashim smiled and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and patted the man on his scrawny arm.

He stood up slowly and led Palewski to the door.

“What do you make of it?”

“Pff. I’ve never seen anything like it. He must have forged the Canalettos.”

“Yes. Did you see how he concentrated, too? Like a child.”

“That’s not a child’s drawing,” Palewski pointed out.

“No. I think we should give him some better materials. Paper. Charcoal. Maria?”

Maria was gone for more than an hour, but when she returned the man took the paper and charcoal with whimpers of pleasure. He laid the paper on the floor and began immediately to draw, filling each sheet with sketches of the room, the window, the people, with the same lively concentration he had shown when he sketched Yashim on the hearthstone.

He drew for over an hour, but more and more slowly. And then he rolled back into his bed and went to sleep.

Yashim studied his drawings, awestruck.

“At home,” he said at last, feeling the hairs prickling on the back of his neck, “we would say this man is touched by God.”

“You think he can’t speak-or won’t?”

“I suspect that speaking is not his way. Perhaps he sees and understands things differently from us.”

“What are we going to do with him?”

“Feed him. Give him strength. And we will wait and see.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the Palazzo d’Aspi. It’s not every day the contessa receives a pasha, and she’s expecting me to stay. I think I will.”

“I see.” Palewski sounded cool. “Much as I enjoy a hearty lentil soup, Yashim, I’m beginning to chafe under the social arrangements. Can’t I go back to my own apartment yet?”

He looked so cross that Yashim laughed. “I thought you got to sleep with the daughter of the house?”

“Yashim!” Palewski looked shocked. “Anyway, Maria sleeps with half her family as it is.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t be for long.” Yashim looked serious. “Tell me, if someone loses at cards, and owes money, what does he do?”

“Shoots himself, if he’s a gentleman,” Palewski said. “Unless he can pay, of course.”

“He can pay-but he wouldn’t have the money on him. What then?”

“Then, if he’s trusted enough, he’ll give his creditor a note of hand.”

“A note of hand? A promise to pay later, you mean?”

“Depending how often they cash up, the whole game can be notes of hand. I lose, I write you one. You stake it next time. Lots of paper, back and forth. I gave it up, years ago. Too many fellows gamble and drink at the same time. Awfully dangerous, gambling.”

“Signed paper?”

“Signed, of course. Next day, when he’s feeling like Marat in his bath, the unlucky gambler gets presented with all his notes for immediate payment.”

“I suppose, in some cases, the signature might be worth more than the note.”

“Threaten to show it to the wife, sort of thing? Happens. Depends on the company you chose.”

“Or on who you are,” Yashim murmured.

“You’re being mysterious, Yashim.”

Yashim nodded slowly. “It is still a mystery, my friend.”