When I woke up the following morning I felt as if I had been drugged. My eyes were swollen and there was a sweetish metallic taste in my mouth. I said, ‘Kate?’ and reached across the rumpled sheets but Kate wasn’t there. I picked up my wristwatch and tried to focus on the time. It was only six minutes after seven. Surely she couldn’t have left already.
I climbed out of bed, went to the window and drew back the drapes. Outside, it had only just started to grow light, and the air was thick with a greenish-gray fog. I could just make out the wallowing surface of the water below the balcony, and the lights along the Grand Canal. The bedroom felt chilly, as if the heating had been turned off.
I wrapped myself in my toweling robe, opened the bedroom door and walked along to the kitchen. There was nobody there, so I went across to the fridge to help myself to a swig of orange juice. But the fridge door had been wedged half-an-inch ajar with a piece of folded cardboard, and it was switched off, and completely empty.
Shit. This was Stockholm all over again. I opened up all of the kitchen cupboards, one after the other, and every one of them was empty, except for some glass pickling jars. There was no cutlery in the kitchen drawers, and no saucepans or mixing bowls anywhere. The whole apartment was numbingly cold.
I went back to our bedroom, and through to the en-suite bathroom. Kate’s toothbrush and toiletry bag had gone, and when I opened up the bedroom closet, I found that she had taken her clothes, too. On the bed I found her black silk scarf, thin and twisted in the middle where she had gripped it between her teeth to prevent herself from screaming, but that was all that she had left behind.
I went across the corridor to Enrico and Salvina’s bedroom, and knocked.
‘Enrico? Are you there? It’s Gideon.’
There was no answer. I waited for a moment and then I opened the door. The bedroom was empty. The bed itself had been stripped right down to the mattress.
I went to the girls’ rooms, and it was the same story. Nobody there, and the beds both stripped. In Massimo’s room, the bed had even been dismantled, and stacked against the wall. There was no sign of Massimo’s toy box, or his train set, and the picture of the dancing mummers had been taken down.
I tried calling Kate on my cell, but there was no reply. All I could do was get dressed, and pack my suitcase. I was jonesing for a strong cup of coffee, but I was sure that plenty of cafes would be open by now.
I carried my case along the corridor, softly whistling my Purina music. ‘I met a girl called Kate … too early or too goddamned late …’ When I opened the drawing room door, however, I stopped whistling, dead. I think I said, ‘Oh, Christ,’ but I might have just thought it, rather than saying it out loud.
Hanging by their necks from the giant chandelier, six feet above my head, were Enrico and Salvina. They were both wearing their nightclothes – Enrico a pair of maroon silk pajamas, and Salvina a cream silk nightdress. Their eyes were bulging and Salvina’s tongue was sticking out.
They were rotating, very slowly, in opposite directions, as if they had been caught by the spider-like chandelier, and entwined in its web.
*
I stood there and watched them for over a minute, overwhelmed with dread, and with a terrible sense of pity, too, and helplessness. What had they done to deserve to die like this, hung from the ceiling of their own apartment, so that they gradually strangled?
I couldn’t think what the hell to do now. Call the polizia, as I had wanted to do when Jack Friendly had assaulted me? But supposing the polizia arrived and Enrico and Salvina weren’t here any more, or if they were, and I was arrested for stringing them up?
I decided that I couldn’t leave them hanging there, and leave Venice without telling anybody what had happened. Apart from the sheer inhumanity of it, my fingerprints were all over their apartment, and the police would inevitably come looking for me.
But I needed some time to get over the shock of finding them, and also to make absolutely sure that this wasn’t another one of those weird distortions in time and space. There was no doubt in my mind that Enrico and Salvina had been hanged, but the question was, when? Had it really been this morning, or weeks ago? Maybe it hadn’t even happened yet. Apart from that, where had Amalea and Raffaella and Massimo disappeared to? And when had Kate packed her clothes and left me?
I left my suitcase in the hallway and went outside, into the Campo San Polo. It was almost deserted, although the cafes and trattorias were beginning to open up, and a few spectral figures were taking their dogs for a walk through the fog. I found a small cafe called Al Assassini, and went inside. It was warm, and it was bright, and it smelled of fresh coffee and freshly baked panini.
I sat down in the corner next to the window and ordered an espresso.
‘Maybe you want something maybe to eat?’ asked the waiter. He had only one eye, and his black hair was varnished with gel. ‘Pastry, maybe? Sandwich?’
‘No, grazie.’
‘You know what day it is today, signore?’
‘Thursday, isn’t it?’
‘This is San Baltazar’s Day, the day of lies.’
‘Oh, yes?’ All I wanted was a large espresso, not a guide to Venetian saints’ days – especially the way that I was feeling.
‘This is the day that you must confess all of the lies that you have told during the year to your friends and your business partners and your loved ones, or else evil things will happen to you.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting. No, actually, I’m telling you a lie. It’s not at all interesting.’
The waiter lifted one finger, as if to admonish me, and gave me an enigmatic smile. I know your game, signore. I can see right through you. Then he went off to get my coffee.
I tried calling Kate again but she still wasn’t answering. I was attempting to get through to Margot when I noticed a white cat sitting under one of the tables on the opposite side of the cafe, staring at me. A white memory is watching you, so keep your door locked. I stared back at it, and eventually it stood up and haughtily walked away. Maybe it was Malkin. It certainly looked like Malkin, even though there was no sane or logical way to explain how Malkin could be sitting under a table in a cafe in Venice. But I was beginning to think that Malkin was a memory, rather than a real animal. She was a constant reminder of what Kate wanted me to do for her, whatever that was.
I finished my espresso and paid the check. The waiter said, ‘You want some good advice, signore?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Remember that your eyes can tell lies, as well as your tongue.’
‘Well, I’ll try to. Whose cat is that?’
‘Which cat, signore?’
‘The cat I just saw, sitting under the table over there.’
The waiter shook his head. ‘There is no cat here, signore. For health regulations, you understand?’
I looked into the back of the cafe, but there was no white cat. ‘Maybe my eyes are telling me lies.’
The waiter smiled again, and turned away. But I saw his face reflected in one of the wall mirrors, and the only way that I can describe his expression was sly – like Gollum.
I walked slowly back toward the Palazzetto Di Nerezza. I stood outside the front door, holding the key in my hand, for over a minute. A small boy with a green balloon in his hand stopped a few yards away and stared at me solemnly, as if he wanted to see what I was going to do next.
‘Ciao,’ I told him.
He gripped his balloon-string tighter and said, ‘Ciò è il aerostato mio.’
I opened the front door of the palazzetto and went inside. It was still very cold in there, and silent. I walked along the corridor toward the drawing room. Through the yellow-tinted windows I could see the sightseers on the Campo San Polo flickering like ghosts.
I reached the drawing room and immediately looked up toward the chandelier. Enrico and Salvina’s bodies had gone.
I made a quick search of the entire apartment. The bedrooms, the bathrooms, the study, the linen closet. I opened up the wooden chests that stood at the foot of each bed. There was nobody here now: no Cesarettis, either dead or alive.
After I had completed my search, I went back to the drawing room. I opened up the lid of the piano, and picked out the theme music from Doctor Paleface. I didn’t expect Amalea to reappear, in any form, but I guess it was a kind of a requiem for the Cesaretti family, wherever they were, and whatever had happened to them.
I was still playing when I heard the front door being unlocked, and opened. Footsteps came along the corridor toward the drawing room, and a thirty-ish woman in a smart black-and-white houndstooth suit appeared, carrying a briefcase.
‘Signore Morandi?’ she said. ‘Era il portello aperto?’
I lifted both of my hands. ‘I’m sorry. No – I’m not Signore Morandi.’
‘I have an appointment with Signore Morandi,’ she snapped, looking around the drawing room as if she expected to see him playing hide-and-go-seek behind one of the sofas. ‘So who are you? What are you doing in here?’
‘I’m a guest of the Cesarettis. They invited me here.’
She stalked up to me and frowned at me fiercely. Her lipstick was orange and she smelled of some very strong perfume. ‘The Cesarettis?’
I took my door key out of my pocket and showed it to her. ‘That’s right. Doctor and Mrs Cesaretti. They even lent me a key.’
‘Impossible,’ she retorted. ‘The Cesarettis, they have not lived here now for more than two years. Doctor Cesaretti, he took up a new appointment in Africa – Dar-es-Salaam, I think, to a children’s hospital.’
‘Maybe he did. But he’s back. Well, he must be back. I had dinner with the Cesarettis here last night.’
The woman looked at me very seriously, and then she said, ‘Signore – I think you must leave. I do not want to cause any trouble.’
‘All right, fine. I was leaving anyhow. But believe me, the Cesarettis were here. We had calves’ liver. We had baccala montecato. We played music.’
‘Please, to leave,’ said the woman. ‘My client will be here soon.’
‘Your client?’
‘For rental. Please.’
I was beginning to realize that she thought I was mad. In fact, she was terrified of me. She thought I was some loony who had somehow managed to break into the palazzetto, and was wandering around playing the piano and pretending that the Cesarettis still lived here, even though they didn’t.
But now I knew that they didn’t. In fact, everything was rapidly falling into place.
‘Who owns these apartments?’ I asked her.
‘The owners, they are my clients, of course. I cannot discuss this with you. You must go.’
‘If you answer me that one question, I’ll leave immediately – prontissimo. I promise you.’
The woman hesitated, and then she opened her purse and took out a business card. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Speak to my manager, Ettore Gavazzi. He will tell you.’
*
I found the offices of Agenzia Gavazzi on the third floor of an elegant pale-green building overlooking the Rio di San Polo. Although the building was probably fifteenth century, the interior of the offices was stark and modern, with white walls and bronze statues of twisted-looking nudes and glass-topped desks.
A tall receptionist in a strident red suit led me into Sig. Gavazzi’s office, wobbling ahead of me on high stiletto heels.
Ettore Gavazzi was short and swarthy, with black curly hair through which his scalp shone like a polished copper bowl. He wore a striped blue shirt with red suspenders, and very expensive brown shoes.
‘Mr Lake? My assistant Signorina Cappadona called me. She told me that somehow you had found entry into the Palazzetto Di Nerezza.’
‘That’s right. But I didn’t break in. I was a guest of the Cesarettis and I was given a key.’
‘The Cesarettis … yes, she told me that, too. But the Cesarettis have not lived in the Palazzetto Di Nerezza for more than two years. Dottore Cesaretti made over the title of the property to a holding company and then as far as we know he emigrated to Africa.’
‘This holding company,’ I asked him. ‘Can you tell me who owns it?’
He stared at me with protuberant eyes. He reminded me of a cartoon frog. ‘Who are you, signore?’ he said. ‘What is it exactly that you want?’
‘I’m a friend of the Cesarettis, that’s all. I want to find out exactly what happened to them.’
‘You are not from SEC?’
‘The Securities and Exchange Commission? Of course not. I’m a musician. I’m not trying to cause any trouble here.’
Ettore Gavazzi said nothing for a while, but kept on blowing out his cheeks, which made him look even more like a frog. There were no flies buzzing around the office, but I had the feeling that if there had been one, his tongue would have whipped out and caught it.
‘You told Signorina Cappadona that you had dinner with the Cesarettis last night.’
‘I guess she must have misunderstood me. I said that it was the Cesaretti’s wedding anniversary yesterday, and that, on their wedding anniversary, we always used to have dinner together.’
Even as I told him that, I thought of the waiter at Al Assassini, telling me that today was Saint Baltazar’s Day, the day of lies.
‘If you were such a good friend of the Cesarettis, why did they not tell you that they had sold their apartment and gone to Africa?’
‘I don’t know. We haven’t been in contact for a while. Sometimes, friends become estranged, don’t they? I guess Enrico was too busy being a surgeon and I was too busy writing music. You know how it is.’
Again, Ettore Gavazzi stayed silent, and blew his cheeks in and out. Eventually, though, he opened his desk drawer, took out a plain white card, and a blue enameled pen, and scribbled down a name for me.
‘There … these are the owners of the Palazzetto Di Nerezza. If you have any questions about the Cesarettis, you should ask them.’
He waved the card backward and forward to dry the ink, and then he passed it across to me, without looking up.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ I asked him.
He still didn’t raise his eyes. ‘I can give you no more information than that. But it was not usual, the way in which the property was transferred.’
‘Not usual? What do you mean?’
‘The Cesarettis’ lawyers were concerned because he wanted to sell the property so quick. What was the hurry? The palazzetto had been owned by the Cesaretti family for generations. They did not even have to sell it. My agency could have rented it for them, while they were away, and they could have returned to it when they came back from Africa. His lawyers advised Dottore Cesaretti to consider that option most seriously.’
‘But?’
‘But he said absolutely no. He wanted to give it up completely. And by Venetian standards the transfer of deeds was very quick. Usually, it takes the notary at least six weeks to go through all the preliminare, the searches and so forth, especially with such an historical building. But Dottore Cesaretti’s lawyers told me that from the first proposta to the final rogito notarile, the sale took less than a month.’
‘I see.’ I looked down at the card which he had given me. It read, Penumbra International Property, New York.
Ettore Gavazzi said, ‘Maybe … if you discover more about your friends, you would be kind enough to contact me again. I had the sensation from the very beginning that something was not quite right about the way in which they sold out so fast.’
I thanked him and shook his hand. Outside, heavy gray clouds were moving across the city from the north-west, and rain began to sprinkle the windows.
By the time I was sitting in a water taxi, making my way back across the lagoon to Marco Polo Airport, it was raining heavily. I had to sit inside, with my suitcase pressing hard against my knees.
*
At the Alitalia desk, I changed my flight so that I could catch the 14:40 Swiss International flight to Stockholm, changing planes at Zurich. Then I went to the airport’s shiny new wine bar, bought myself a large Pinot Grigio, and perched on a high stool to drink it.
I called Margot.
‘Lalo – do you know what time it is?’ she protested.
‘Sure. It’s six-twenty a.m. Time you were up and at ’em.’
‘I didn’t go to bed till three, you sadistic bastard. I was at Megafly, having a party with all of my friends from high school. Plus a few gorgeous men. Well, they looked gorgeous, after five tequilas. What do you want?’
‘This whole Kate thing is beginning to make sense. I’m flying to Stockholm and then I’m going on to London. I should be back sometime Sunday, but I need you to do something for me.’
‘Go on,’ she said, suspiciously.
‘I need you to check out a real estate company called Penumbra International Properties, based in New York. You got that? Penumbra. But don’t contact the company directly and don’t give them any indication that you’re checking up on them.’
‘What?’
‘Please, Margot. Do this one thing for me.’
‘You know I will. I love you, Lalo.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I love you, too.’
And the strange thing was, as I switched off my cell, I knew that I did love her. Not in the same way that I loved Kate. There was no danger in it, no edge-of-the-seat stuff. But when I had finished talking to Margot, I always felt warmer about the world, and the people who can do that are very few and far between.
*
My flight was due for boarding so I finished my glass of wine and went to the men’s room. I was standing in front of the mirror trying to work out how to turn on the high-tech Italian-style faucet when the door opened and Jack Friendly walked in.
He was wearing his black overcoat and his black sunglasses, but as he came up behind me he took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his inside pocket.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ He looked more like a predatory hawk than ever.
‘What are you going to do, Jack?’ I asked him, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Give me another whack on the beezer?’
‘Just wanted to give you a tip, Gideon. That’s all.’
‘Oh, yes?’ I suddenly managed to turn on the faucet, and cold water sprayed all over the front of my pants.
Jack managed a sloping, superior smile. ‘Kind of accident-prone, aren’t you, Gideon? So if I was you, I’d keep my nose out of other people’s business.’
‘Oh, really? And what particular business is that?’
‘You know what business I’m talking about. I know people who know people, and those people tell me everything that’s going on. You know why? Because they like what I give them if they do and they don’t like what I give them if they don’t. You went to see Ettore Gavazzi this morning, didn’t you?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘You were asking questions about a certain property, that’s what. And that property and who owns it is none of your concern.’
‘Supposing I was interested in renting it?’
‘It’s taken.’
I turned to face him. ‘Supposing I wanted to know why the Cesarettis sold it so quickly? You know – just out of academic interest.’
Without warning, Jack took hold of my throat. At the same time, he grabbed me between the legs, and squeezed me hard. I yelped like a puppy whose tail has been accidentally slammed in an automobile door, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he kept on gripping me until my eyes began to water.
‘You have no fucking interest in that property, academic or any other kind. Capisca?’
I could hardly breathe. ‘OK, OK, I have no fucking interest in that property.’
‘Not now, not ever. Got it?’
‘Got it. Now let me go, will you, for Christ’s sake! That hurts!’
He gave me one more vicious squeeze, and let me go, but he still didn’t relax his grip on my throat. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a craft knife. He held it up in front of my face and used his thumb to slide out the blade. It was narrow, and triangular, with a sharp tapered point.
Very slowly and deliberately, he moved the blade toward my right eye, until the point was less than a half-inch away from my eyeball. I was blinking furiously, even though I didn’t want to.
‘That Beethoven – he was deaf, right? – but he wrote music, didn’t he? I wonder how difficult you’d find it, if you were blind?’
I didn’t know what to say to him. I was whining for breath, and I felt as if my knees were going to give way under me.
‘You understand what I’m saying to you, Gideon?’ said Jack. The blade didn’t waver, and I was sure that he was going to stick it straight into my eyeball. ‘You carry on your life like a good little jingle-writer, and you don’t look right and you don’t look left, and in particular you don’t go looking into dark corners, because some dark corners have some real nasty surprises hiding inside of them.’
I didn’t even dare to nod, in case that blade went into my eye. Jack held it there for a few seconds longer, and I could smell the garlic on his breath. Then the men’s room door opened, and two Japanese came in, and he immediately released me.
‘Remember what I told you,’ he said, and clapped me on the back, as if we were the best of buddies. Then he put on his sunglasses and walked out.
I stayed where I was for a while, holding on to the washbasin and staring at myself in the mirror. I looked pale and very washed out, and the bump on my nose had turned an odd mixture of yellow and purple. Jack hadn’t blinded me, thank God, but I didn’t have the slightest doubt that he was capable of doing it.
I left the men’s room. Swiss International Airways were announcing the last call for flight LX 1663 for Zurich. I had a choice now. I could change my flight again, and return to New York, and forget about the Cesarettis and the Philips and the Westerlunds, and what Kate had been trying to show me. Or I could fly to Stockholm and see what I could find out about number 44 Skeppsbron – at the very real risk of Jack Friendly coming after me. I mean – how had he found me in the men’s room at Marco Polo Airport, if he hadn’t been following me?
I covered my eyes with my hand, so that all I could see was blackness, as if I were blind. But when I took my hand away, a white Persian cat was sitting close to my stool in the wine bar. It stayed there for a few seconds, staring at me, and then it disappeared in the direction of the departure gates.
‘God help me,’ I breathed, and followed it.