Across the Canal

November 12, this year
Venice, Italy
6:00 am CEST

Fausto leads them through the workshop and into a high ceilinged room, its wood floors aglow with an amber sheen, its walls an aged parchment yellow. Oil portrait paintings, framed photographs of family. “My beautiful daughter,” he points to a picture of a lovely dark haired woman holding a baby. Fausto stands beside her with glistening eyes. His beard is white. Shelves packed with a lifetime of trinkets, tools and the occasional spying mask surround them. At one end is a comfortable kitchen next to a living room. Beyond that in the shadows is what looks to be an office-like space with a desk, a wall dedicated to books and collage of papers and notes tacked to the wall.

Fausto gestures to comfortable dining stools. He fills his kitchen countertop with a block of cheese, a plate of biscuits, a jar of Nutella and a container of yogurt. He makes coffee in a glass press. He shakes his head every few seconds and sighs, “Unbelievable.” He pours the coffee. He gestures at the food and says, “Eat, eat.”

Astrid obeys. The biscuits are sweet and crunchy. The coffee is bitter and strong. She hears herself sigh. The caffeine rises to her senses and carves away the fog. While she momentarily allows herself to forget the danger, the freakish reality unfolding before her, their host begins again to prattle in excited Italian about bits and pieces of Astrid’s research and his own summations in comparison. He speaks fast, and though Astrid can follow a good portion of his chatter, the food has captured her primary focus.

She also notes a collection of his hand made masks mounted on the wall, overlooking the dining area. Fausto’s artistry is unparalleled. In the center of the observing faces is a piece that lifts a chill from the base of her spine to the top of her head. She recognizes its shape, and its frightening purpose. The last time she saw this particular mask was on Yafarra’s bedchamber wall at Wyn Avuqua. Its elegant styling and unforgettable beauty make her think it could have been smuggled from the Avu Atheneum itself. It is Fausto’s attempt at an Ithicsazj, the death mask of Wyn Avuqua. A damn good attempt.

When Fausto says, “It was then that Dr. Loche Newirth and Basil Fenn came to Venice that I started to make a connection,” that Astrid feels the crumb of a biscuit lodge in her throat and the trance of breakfast disappear. She coughs and presses her palm to the table. Recovering, she says, “What?”

He says, “Dr. Loche Newirth and Basil Fenn. Basil Fenn the painter.”

“Connection? What do you mean, connection?”

“Did you not hear me?” Fausto asks, a little perturbed.

“I’m sorry,” Astrid says, “My Italian is not what it once was.”

The old man smiles, “It is okay. I have been told I speak a little too fast—and too much.” He leans in, “I’ve never met Dr. Newirth, but I have seen him. Twice. Once here in Venice. Once in Florence. At the Uffizi. That awful—horrible night…” Fausto looks down at his hands. A shadow tugging at him. “Basil Fenn shot himself that night, you know.”

“You were there?” Marcel asks. “We heard about the terrorist attack, but what has that to do with Loche Newirth?” He looks at Astrid, “He is from our part of the country. He was wanted for murder.”

Fausto nods. “Yes. I’ve read that.” He points to the dark end of the room where his desk sits. “But he is wanted for much more than that.”

Astrid feels her forehead scrunch. “What do you mean?”

Fausto again drops his gaze. His face seems to transform, as if he had quickly raised one of his masks to hide his fear. “I mean,” he says after a moment, “that Dr. Newirth is not simply a psychologist from the United States.”

Marcel asks, “You said that you saw him in Florence, and then a second time—here in Venice. Where was that?”

“Oh, just across the canal… two weeks ago, maybe.”

“Across the canal?”

“Yes,” Fausto says brightening, “he was a guest of my friend Albion Ravistelle.”

“Albion Ravistelle, is your friend?” Astrid and Marcel say in chorus.

“Yes. I have known him since I was quite young.” He pauses, seemingly weighing his guest’s current view of the matters at hand, “You do know, Mr. Ravistelle cannot age. He lives on and on. He is what you have written of extensively, Dr. Finnley: an Itonalya.” He shrugs—or shivers, Astrid cannot tell which, “Some have all the luck. I grew old, he stayed the same. Through all of your scholarly work, you must have met him. Yes?”

Astrid shakes her head. In my dreams, she thinks. He has been simply a face in two time-stained photographs—one at the turn of the nineteenth century, one shot likely from an iPhone. “No,” she replies. “We have not met.”

“He is…” A finger drags along his mustache and down his short beard, “he is very powerful. He is one to be treated with respect.”

“I see,” Astrid says.

“And,” the mask maker says, “you are in luck. He is coming here at midday. He is coming for a mask.”

Astrid feels her jaw drop. Dumbfounded she asks, “Why, Fausto, is he coming for a mask?”

“Why, he’s hosting a masquerade ball, of course.”