The Bellini Card

94

Yashim’s first feeling was one of relief, as he saw that the panel was much larger than the painting Palewski had been shown.

It stood framed in a simple band of gold, about twenty inches high and sixteen inches wide. Inside the frame was another, a painted arch that framed the portrait of the aging sultan like a window, its sill draped with heavy brown damask embroidered with pearls, florets of rubies and emeralds, and a silver threadwork crown. There were six crowns, in two columns, on either side of the frame. Mehmet was the seventh sultan.

Yashim peered up at the portrait. The arched brows, the long slender nose, and the pronounced chin were all traits he recognized: when Abdulmecid was old and sick, he too might look like this.

“Mehmet the Conqueror,” he murmured.

“An English milord might pay for it,” Carla said. “Or an art dealer from America, even. To them it would be-what? An old master, with a curious tale behind it. Better than the rich man’s Vivarini, but scarcely equal to his Titian, or his Veronese.” She tossed her head. “It deserves better.”

“You want to observe the pattern, don’t you? Not step out of it.”

“Precisely. You are an Ottoman, Yashim. I know that. Perhaps you are not a pasha, but you are from the palace. You understand the pattern: not to explain it, maybe, but to use it. If anyone is to return the painting to Istanbul, it must be you.”

“You said it was your pride to be the last of the Aspis, Contessa. What did you mean?”

“They say a good captain goes down with his ship, Yashim Pasha. So it is, with families like mine. The old families, who lived for the Republic. I took a vow-and I was not alone.”

“A vow to be celibate-like a nun?”

She smiled at him. “I would say more precisely, a vow never to marry. The Austrians could take La Serenissima-but they could never take us. The blood of the Republic.”

Was it true, Yashim wondered, that these old families were the blood of the Republic? They had directed its course for centuries, certainly: but where had it run? Into the sand, at last. Surely the blood of Venice flowed in the veins of the sailors who manned the ships, the oarsmen, the soldiers? Wasn’t Venice as much a speechless painter, or a cheeky gondolier, as an Aspi or a Gritti? Wasn’t Venice a place for the living rather than a bitter memory, frozen for all eternity?

The contessa had made a choice: but for her, perhaps, it was not too late. For Yashim, the choice was already made.

“Are you not afraid,” he said gently, “that you have abandoned Venice?”

She was very still: only the candlelight caught a misting in her eyes.

She shook her head. “I made a vow. And Venice will not rise again.”

Their eyes met. Then:

“Yes,” she answered very softly. “Yes, that is my only fear.”