This inborn system of stalemate proved popular with the Venetians themselves, since it allowed them to carry on the business of business while the government squabbled and bickered and compromised itself into stability. It also, incidentally, laid the groundwork for America’s three governmental branches, designed to frustrate each other into tiny increments of progress.
For eleven centuries, the Venetian system held—until Europe on the one hand took to the seas and cut out the Venetian middleman, while the Ottomans on the other side grew powerful enough to block the formerly bottomless stream of trade from the East. When Bonaparte passed through Venice in 1797 on his way to a more important enemy, he decided, like any lesser tourist, to ship home his pick of the city’s riches. “I shall be an Attila to the state of Venice,” he thundered. Since the Venetian Navy consisted of but a dozen galleys, its Doge abdicated, and a thousand years of Republic quietly ended.
Under the Bonaparte régime, La Serenissima lost her independence, her authority, her vast agricultural hinterland, and a great deal of her art. (Most of which, to be honest, had been stolen in the first place.) Stripped and powerless, she was thrown to Austria in the peace accord.
But her stones remained. Like many other cross-roads of trade—Jerusalem, Cairo, Tokyo—the wealth of the city lay indoors, hidden from passers-by behind inscrutable faces.
As inscrutable as the faces of the residents.
“Venetians seem to have a very clear sense of Us and Them,” I mused. “Or rather, Us and You. Anyone who isn’t Venetian is by definition a customer, brought for the express purpose of having money removed from their pockets. But like any people who spread out across the world, they’re not fussy about how people claim residency. If you eat at a restaurant three times, you’re part of the family. If you hire a gondolier for a season, you’re expected to hire him the next time you show up, or God help you.”
As we walked, as my reflections on Venetian history eventually brought me back to the idea of our luggage sailing off with a clever thief, I felt Holmes glance down at me in growing consternation. Finally, he dropped his arm.
“Russell, how are you so familiar with this place?”
It is very seldom that one can achieve superiority over Sherlock Holmes, but I concealed my gloating expression behind a serenity fitting of our locale.
“I’m sure I’ve told you that my mother adored Venice. She only brought us here twice, and I was a child, but we were here for some time, and she often talked about it—and, about this.”
This was an island like any other in this tight conglomeration of islands, an irregular shape composed of a nondescript campo, or open plaza, framed by a single row of buildings whose backs overlooked the surrounding canals. The London equivalent of the campo would be a square of lawn with a fountain, crossed by paths and flower beds, with streets separating it from the facing houses. Here, the lawn was paving stones, the fountain was a well, and its landscaping amounted to a few trees and one hanging basket of parched-looking geraniums. Children played, dashing in and out of the doors of houses that opened directly onto the campo.
And not only of houses.
“The word ‘ghetto’ was coined—quite literally—at this place. The word comes from the Venetian dialect for metal—Jews were given the right to run foundries and pawn shops. Odd combination, isn’t it, metal and old clothes? The Jewish quarter was shut every night, and patrolled to make sure its residents stayed in. And, one must admit, that Christian trouble-makers stayed out. Venice always regarded its Jews as a sort of business partnership, and even after Napoleon, they’ve continued to feel a sort of contractual obligation.” I looked up at the building before us. “This was the synagogue we attended.”
After a bit we left, over the bridges to the more polished and maintained districts.
Venice is small. A brisk and direct walk would have a recent arrival stepping off its far end in less than an hour. Not that one can walk directly—or even briskly, once one hits a tourist path.
But with a directional compass (internal or actual) and a pair of decent shoes, one quickly develops an instinct for which tiny cramped lane ends at a door, and which connects to another lane that goes through a campo to another passageway that debouches onto a minuscule campiello that…
Holmes and I made our way through the city labyrinth with darkness at our heels. When we stepped out into the relative vastness of the Riva degli Schiavoni, remnant of an ancient wharf-side marketplace and now the only open waterfront in this crowded city, it was momentarily dizzying. I blinked a few times, looking around to get my bearings, and was ridiculously pleased to find that I had overshot my target by only two bridges.
What’s more, when we were shown to our rooms—a prime suite (the manager assured me, clasping my hand and exclaiming over how perfetto it was to see me again) rather than a baking garret beneath a tile roof—there sat our possessions, demure as if they had never even considered running off with the man in the steam launch.
A quick inventory confirmed that no one had discovered the secret compartment in the valise. I re-fastened its clasp and wedged it into one of the wardrobe shelves, as indication that I did not want it taken to the hotel’s storage room.
The next order of business was a long soak in a great deal of hot water.
Chapter Twenty-one
WHEN I EMERGED FROM THE steamy chamber, the grime of travel scrubbed from my pores, I found Holmes on the dark veranda. He had clearly made use of the shower-bath in the suite’s other bath-room, and dressed for dinner.
I sank into the other chair and watched the lights sparkling off the water: the public gardens far down to our left, San Giorgio Maggiore directly across from us, the Giudecca and the Salute down to the right, and bustling back and forth at our feet, a hundred varieties of water-craft. Just visible through the evening vapours was the twinkling Lido, with its stretch of fun-palaces, sanitoriums, and Adriatic beaches. And just to the side, halfway across the water, another island—what was that one? Not the cemetery island, that was to the north. A hospital?
Holmes shifted forward to crush out his cigarette, moving into the light from the room behind us. As far as I could see, his white shirt had only the faintest hint of a wrinkle. My frock, even after hanging in steam for the better part of an hour, had a sharp crease across the middle. Well, it didn’t matter, I would soon be hidden by a table.
At the thought, my stomach gave a growl. Holmes set his hands on the arms of the chair. “Shall we go down?”
I beat him to the door.
* * *
—
We had asked the manager to reserve us a table, and when we walked in, we were instantly whisked away to a candle-lit alcove.
Holmes watched the ma?tre d’h?tel’s eventual retreat, bemused. “Your mother must have made quite an impression, considering that she could not have been here more recently than 1912.”
I smoothed the linen napkin on my lap. “Ronnie and I may have added to that impression, a bit.”
“You and—ah. I did not know that you had come to Venice while you were at Oxford. This was after the War, surely?”
“Well after. And after Oxford. It was when Ronnie first learned she was pregnant. Miles was in Ireland, and she needed distraction. Since you were off in Baluchistan or Albania or somewhere, I thought, why not?”
“And you never mentioned it?”
“Well, did you think to mention Baluchistan?”
“It was Macedonia, and I did tell you.”
“As you walked out of the door.”
At the time, Holmes and I had been married for half a year, yet he had not hesitated to pack a bag without consulting me. If I’d happened to be away that morning, I’d have no doubt walked in to an empty house and a scribbled note. I was newly wed, and I’d found this cavalier attitude…irritating. When he returned, I took care to drive home the message that I was no longer his apprentice, but at the time, his blithe disregard had driven me to a secret of my own.
He protested, “Mycroft needed—”
“Of course. And when you got back, I told you I’d been off with Ronnie.”
“I believe you said that you’d gone to see her.”
“That’s more or less the same thing.”