It was exhausting. And when a mass exodus occurred halfway through the night—a slow time for the Chez Vous band coincided with the rumour of an American Negro jazz band at the Grand H?tel des Bains down the way—I started off with the rush, only to gratefully duck away.
My head spinning, my face aching with hours of smiles, I stumped tiredly across the island. There I found my faithful gondolieri, as requested many hours before, waiting and ready. I let Carlo wrap me with a travelling rug, not even contemplating its potential for fleas. We pushed into the dark, quiet waters, and flew, pulled by the city’s lights and two men’s expertise and eagerness. As we went, I found myself humming low, When daylight is fading, Enwrapt in night’s shading, With soft serenading, We sing them to sleep…
Giuseppe and Marco—no, those were the operetta: Giovanni and Carlo—slid into place before the Beau Rivage. They walked me across the wide quay to the hotel door, tipping their hats to me and murmuring that I should pay them tomorrow, tomorrow.
So grateful was I for their silence and their skill—and so firmly planted in my freestyle Lido persona (also, yes, maybe a little drunk)—that I nearly kissed them both, right there on the hotel steps. Fortunately, I caught back the impulse in time. Not only would they have quit instantly, but the night manager would have had my bags packed and in the lobby before morning.
Chapter Thirty-five
FRIDAY DAWNED.
Little point in rushing over to the Lido before noon, since my chances of finding Terry’s friend with the idiotic pet name that early were minuscule. Instead, I settled down to another morning of a warm tile balcony, another view of a living Canaletto, another breakfast of bread and jam. One could get used to this, I supposed.
Again, I gave Holmes a distilled version of the previous day: sun, drink, boredom, and a quick and fleeting glance of what might be Vivian Beaconsfield, in the guise of Cinderella. “I hope to find this Bongo fellow today. And you? What news from the Fascist front?”
The moment I said it, I heard the echo of a boot in flesh, that inhuman mewl of pain. “Oh, God, Holmes, I’m sorry—the attitude of the Lido set seems to be contagious. I meant to say: did you find out anything about the Porters’ guest list?”
“No need to apologise, Russell, I of all people can understand the dangers of a prolonged act. Yes, I did see it, under the nose of the servants.”
“Anything interesting?”
In response, he dug in his pocket, dropping a quarter-folded sheet of expensive writing paper on the table. I put down my cup and undid it, finding it covered top to bottom with his pinched scrawl: names, scores of them. Nearly all of them with check-marks by their sides.
“Good heavens, Holmes. You looked into all these people in one afternoon?”
“And evening. I had assistance.”
“Your waterborne Irregulars?”
“And a variety of garrulous shop-keepers, fishmongers, butchers, and delivery boys.”
I placed the sheet down on the table. “Well, you certainly had a more productive day than I did. Any conclusions to be drawn?”
“Your Elsa Maxwell may be disappointed to lose some of her prizes to the Porters this week. There were many names whose importance lies in their titles: the director of La Fenice opera house, the director of the Biennale international art exhibitions, the director of the…”
I waved away a wasp buzzing the jam-pot, wondering when Holmes would reach the point of his recitation.
“…including three Francolettis.”
A glance at the list confirmed my memory, that the very last name on it was just that. Holmes reached out to refresh his coffee, forcing me to ask. “Very well: who are the Francolettis?”
“Francoletti is an old Venetian family. As with many such, over the centuries their fortunes receded, and one by one they sold all of the important holdings that generations of marriage and acquisition had brought in all over the country—leaving the Francolettis with a mouldering palazzo, a venerable name, and a handful of worthless properties, including a stretch of swamp on the nearby mainland. Their sons were educated and scattered to the humiliation of earning a living. The palazzo slipped into further disrepair. And then, shortly after the War, Count Giuseppe Volpi looked at precisely that swath of worthless land on which to build a new deep-water port, a project aimed at transforming the economy of the entire Veneto district. The Francoletti palazzo is no longer in disrepair, and the family are on their way to becoming extremely wealthy indeed. The third brother’s name is Renato. He is fluent in English and has recently been brought back to Venice, having lived in Rome most of his adult life.”
At the name of the city, I looked up. “Is this brother by any chance a member of the Milizia Nazionale?”
Holmes smiled. “More than a member. Renato Francoletti is a Capitano.”
Yes, he could have led with that revelation, but I could not begrudge him his little drama. Although it did make me very aware of the terror of a certain San Clemente guard, and the thud of heavy boots. “Good to know. But do make sure there are plenty of people around if you ask him about Vivian.”
“I imagine, given the surroundings, it would be no difficult thing to turn the talk to mad English-speaking visitors.”
“Take care, Holmes.”
“Don’t I always, Russell?”
“Frankly, no.”
I sat for a moment, thinking over what the last two days had brought us.
I now had: an entrée to the Lido set, and with it an American party-organiser and a number of new acquaintances with varying degrees of money, wit, social rank, sobriety, and sexual conformity. A trip to San Clemente had added to my store two gondolieri; a confirmation that Vivian was not in that particular manicomio; an unsought mystery woman with Fascist connexions; and a greater appreciation for the homely Oxfordshire punt.
Holmes, in the meantime, had assembled: one weathered violin; a platoon—if not a company—of waterborne Irregulars; an introduction to Venice’s Milizia Nazionale; a growing intimacy with the city’s by-ways; and what could only be called a friendship with an unusual young musician. My mind did, I admit, stick a bit on this last one.
“You seem to like this Mr Porter.”
“He interests me. And he is remarkably talented, if he can find a way to keep his temptations under control.”
I studied Holmes: aquiline features, expressive hands, a slim and wiry figure that belonged to a younger man. “Er, Holmes. Do you think…I mean, this Porter fellow is fairly…notorious. Is it possible he—that is, I assume you made it clear…”
“That I am not, as they say, ‘interested’? Yes, Russell, the man does seem capable of mere friendships. He is under no delusion that I will fling down my violin and shower him with—”
“Holmes, stop, for God’s sake!” Of all the images I did not want in my mind’s eye! “I simply wanted to be sure you weren’t…”
“?‘Leading him on’?”
“Holmes, your well of English threatens to be permanently defiled by the Porter crowd—but yes, that’s what I meant.”
“No. Music is our shared language, one in which he is remarkably fluent.”
“Fine. Just so—oh, never mind.”
“I must go. Will your admirer with the speed-boat be returning you again tonight?”
“I may ask my two other gentlemen admirers to bring me back, rather more sedately. Giovanni and Carlo.”
“Have a charming afternoon,” said my husband, to all appearances utterly unconcerned by the growing list of gentlemen at his wife’s beck and call.
Chapter Thirty-six