The Lizard's Bite

THE LAWYERS’ OFFICES WERE ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF a block on the Zattere waterfront in Dorsoduro, with a view out to Guidecca, the low residential island opposite. Emily Deacon forced her mind off the conversation briefly and stared at the Molino Stucky, the old mill almost opposite. This was, like the Isola degli Arcangeli, a piece of Venetian obsolescence seeking a purpose in a new, changing world. Unused for decades since the company behind the towering, red-brick factorylike structure collapsed, it had been through any number of redevelopment schemes trying to revive the place for industrial or manufacturing purposes. Now it was turning into a mix of hotels and apartments, a sign of the way Venice was headed. Massiter was right. There was only one form of commerce allowed in this city these days—the milking of ever-increasing numbers of visitors. Compared to the Molino Stucky, the Arcangeli’s island was paradise, a unique mix of extraordinary architecture and location, not some ungainly refurbished mill block perched at the end of an island few would ever wish to visit. She could appreciate why Massiter didn’t intend to be encumbered by the Arcangeli’s futile aspirations to continue their glassmaking trade. He’d seen the main chance and was now intent on seizing it.

She listened to the argument continuing to rattle from side to side, between Massiter’s two surly attorneys, one English, one Milanese, and the single local lawyer representing the Arcangeli, a man who was both out of his depth and, it seemed to her, a little afraid of the Englishman. Michele Arcangelo sat by the man’s side, intent on stiffening his resolve every time some new demand from Massiter fell on the table, his one good eye staring at the sheaves of papers and plans that marked, as he surely knew, the end of the Arcangeli’s tenure on their sad little island. His brother Gabriele remained mute on the other side, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else in the world. This was all, Emily decided, Michele’s game. He was driven by his ego, his desire to be seen as an equal with his father. Massiter’s solution left him with nothing but money. Plenty of money. Several million euros to spare, even after the family’s debts were cleared. All the same, it was apparent to her this was meaningless. Without some stake in the island’s future, Michele Arcangelo would deem this deal worthless. Unless the alternative was even more difficult to swallow.

The Arcangeli had conceded every point but one. That last concerned the fornace. Michele was insistent that Massiter hold to his original offer, allowing them to work the place unhindered and set up a small shop to market their goods. It was a final sticking point, one Massiter was reluctant to let pass. On the yacht, Emily had seen enough of the plans for the scheme to understand what the Englishman wanted for the building. It would be a restaurant and conference facility, sitting alongside the gallery of the palazzo, the premium hotel rooms of the mansion, and in front of a new hotel facility of cheaper rooms intended to be squeezed in at the rear of the property. The idea that he’d allow a working furnace, with its gas and smoke and industrial stink, to live alongside the rest of the island was unthinkable. Tourists demanded perfection, solitude, a promise of escape. Not the Arcangeli clan’s hot, noisy nights of glassmaking on their doorstep. This doubtless explained why Massiter had concealed from the Arcangeli from the beginning his greater plan for the island, allowing them to believe his interest was merely personal, focused on the establishment of the exhibition facility.

There was a reason for Emily’s presence in the room. She wanted to keep Hugo Massiter’s trust, as much as possible, until it no longer mattered. Trust and usefulness were indivisible to him. So she looked at her watch and, quite deliberately, interrupted Michele in full flow as he embarked upon a bitter tirade about the major changes being introduced into the contract at such a late stage.

“We’ve two hours to conclude this, gentlemen,” she said. “Is it really worth pursuing these points? Or should we just call it a day? Everyone from the mayor down is scheduled to see you people sign on the dotted line at six. If that’s going to be cancelled, let’s do it now.”

Michele’s glassy eye glinted at her. “The mistress speaks,” he snarled. “Is this one more insult you hurl at me, Massiter? If so—”

“I’m his architect,” she interrupted. “I’m here to try to ensure that, whatever contract Signor Massiter signs, it makes some kind of economic sense. He’s too shrewd a man to wind up in the financial mess you did. I intend to keep it that way.”

The man’s wrinkled hands stabbed at the papers on the table. “So you knew? All along? That this was what was on his mind?”

Massiter was watching her, smiling. Impressed, she judged.

“Many people work on contracts of this scale,” she replied. She felt emboldened by her position, able to play this charade. “None of this is one person’s work alone. I apologise to both of you if this sounds rude, Signor Arcangelo. But an enterprise which is to survive must be based upon sound financial planning. Not daydreams.”

“Like ours?” Michele roared.

“Like yours,” she rejoined calmly.

“We’re artists! We’re the kind of people who made Venice what it is!”

Massiter laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, Michele. Please. Don’t be so precious. You’re a bunch of Chioggia boatbuilders, one of whom happened to have an idea that worked for a little while. No one’s interested in your art anymore. It’s passé. That’s the problem with fashion. One day it’s in. The next . . .” He held up his hands.

“You’re too close to all this,” he continued. “So am I, in a way. Emily, on the other hand, has an admirable and cold indifference. We would both do well to listen.” He glanced at her, a warm glance, one that almost made her feel guilty. “Her advice is aimed at both of us. Whatever you may feel.”

“And that advice is what exactly?” Michele grumbled.

She knew the right reply instinctively. “For Hugo? To walk away. Right out of this room without even thinking about going through with this contract, even on the conditions sitting on the table right now. The survey of the island is incomplete and probably corrupt. I don’t need access to the bank accounts of some of the people involved here to understand that most of the reports are down to bribery, not fact. The state of the foundations, of the construction, the iron, the wood, the entire fabric of the palazzo . . . Hugo’s writing a blank cheque for everything, and without at least two months spent on proper, independent surveys, I can’t begin to calculate what the possible cost of putting that place straight might be.”

“It’s sound!” Michele yelled. “Besides, he’s squared the reconstruction costs with his friends in the regions. It’s public money that gets spent, not his.”

“That’s irrelevant. The place is a wreck,” she went on. “Had the fire in the fornace gone on for another fifteen minutes, we might not have a property to be discussing right now. Which could have been for the better. You didn’t start that yourself, did you?”

The man slammed his fist on the table. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Just a thought,” she continued. “It could have made sense. Your island is a shell. Rotten, empty, just waiting to collapse. And without Hugo, it will, too. You need his money. You don’t have time for alternatives.”

She looked at the brother. “Tell him, Gabriele. You work in those buildings. He just sits in the house trying to cook the books. Tell him the truth. It’s time someone did.”

The younger brother shuffled in his seat, refusing to look at anything but the papers on the table.

“Well?” Michele demanded.

“It’s bad,” Gabriele said quietly. “Worse than you know, Michele. The place is falling down. Sometimes I’d work and I’d wonder how long it would last. What might happen if we got another storm. It’s . . .”

He stared at the images of the palazzo in front of him, the place restored to some kind of glory, the restaurant tables on the extended quayside, the boats bringing in the tourists to the hotel.

“It’s time to put an end to this. We can’t go on anymore. Not without Uriel. Not without money.”

“I sign for the family,” Michele snapped. “That was agreed. It’s down on paper.”

“That’s agreed,” Gabriele concurred.

“And if I don’t sign,” the older brother continued, pointing an angry finger in Massiter’s face, “we all go down with this particular ship. You. Us. Those crooks in the city. Everyone.”

“Everyone?” Massiter echoed, laughing. “I don’t think so. I’ve a talent for walking away from train wrecks. Hadn’t you noticed? Of course, if you really want to risk taking others with you . . .”

Massiter stared the man down. They both knew how unwise such a course of action would be.

Michele Arcangelo scowled and was silent.

Emily Deacon packed away her pen and notepad. “I’ve got nothing else to add here, Hugo,” she declared. “If you want to go ahead with this nonsense, then do so. Just don’t wave the bill in my face when it all goes wrong.”

“Leave us some dignity,” Michele snarled. “A place to work? A place to sell? Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all,” Massiter answered. “I’ve an industrial unit near Piazzale Roma. It’s modern. Efficient. Take it. I’ve some retail outlets in the Strada Nuova too. Have one of those.”

Michele winced at the very name of the street. Emily knew the long drag from the station to San Marco, a parade of cheap tourist shops selling overpriced junk to gullible visitors.

“You can pass off anything as genuine there,” Massiter went on. “Take them, Michele. Rent-free for a decade. You can sell your little souvenirs there.”

“The Strada Nuova . . .” Michele let loose a short string of Venetian curses. “So I’m to be a shopkeeper now?”

“There’s a great future in shopkeeping hereabouts,” Massiter said. “More so than in making glass trinkets no one wants to buy. These are luxurious times only for those who can afford it. None of us can pick and choose anymore. I was content to live off an auction house once. Now I need to develop a little property, extend my range of friends. Only a fool thinks the world must change around him. We all have to find our own way. Listen to your own brother.”

Gabriele Arcangelo glowered at Massiter. “I’d like some dignity too,” he remarked.

“Then take it,” Massiter said severely. “Don’t test my generosity. A place to make your glass. A place to try to sell it. Free for ten years. Either that or ruin.” He leaned forward, emphasising the point. “Utter ruin. Perhaps jail for you, Michele. Or worse.”

The older man shook his head, full of regret. “I should never have allowed you through the door that day. I could have found others . . .”

“But you did!” Massiter replied with sudden spirit. “You invited me, if you recall. I only go where I’m welcome. I thought you understood that. And now . . .”

He withdrew a pen from his monogrammed shirt pocket. A large, gold Parker. He slid it across the table.

“You can use this in front of the mayor. Pretend it’s yours. Keep it after. Just one thing . . .”

Michele glared at the shining pen. “What?”

“Don’t linger once the place is mine,” Hugo Massiter said, with a deprecating smile.