A compact and sinewy man has risen from his seat at the corner table; he salutes with a raised hand. His garments are simple, grays and blacks, but of good fabric. His several rings and silver pendant put him at the uneasy margin of the sumptuary laws—unless he’s a citizen, or a noble, which Crivano very much doubts. The cut of his hair and beard suggests Spain. His loose bearing recalls the battlefield.
I have just finished my own meal, the man says, and now find that I have nothing better to do on this fine summer day than to sit in this parlor and broaden my association. Shameful to be so idle, I suppose. But gregariousness can be its own species of industry, don’t you agree, dottore? Please. Sit.
His jeweled hand drops to indicate the chair before him. The lace curtains behind him move in a breeze—swaying in unison as if linked by a thread of spidersilk—then sag again, inert. Through the windows, under the awning of a joiner’s shop across the street, Crivano spots two loitering figures; both wear new cloaks of like provenance, though of differing hue. The man at the corner table also wears such a cloak, and has opted not to surrender it to the parlor closet, although the weather is quite warm. As Crivano watches, one of the men across the street shifts and turns, revealing a single rolling eye, a dark hole of a mouth, a confusion of scars from chin to forehead, ear to ear. It’s the bravo he saw yesterday morning on the Mercerie, by Ciotti’s shop. Crivano takes a long slow breath, tightens his sphincter so as not to shit himself.
I don’t believe I know you, sir, he says.
As yet, the man replies with a bow, you do not. I’m called Lunardo.
Vettor Crivano, Crivano says.
Yes, dottore. I know.
Lunardo points to the chair again, raising his eyebrows good-humoredly. Crivano smiles. He has his walkingstick, and the stiletto in his boot. There will be more of these men—outside, and also in here, at other tables. If the White Eagle has a rear entrance he doesn’t know where it is; he should have checked.
He steps forward and sits. Lunardo settles into his own chair. The three men at the next table aren’t wearing cloaks, but Crivano can feel their eyes follow him. Six bravi, then. More?
Who are you? Crivano says. What do you want?
I am only a proud resident of the Rialto, Lunardo says, concerned for the security of my neighborhood. I have a few questions for you, dottore. Very simple questions.
Sbirri, Crivano thinks. In the employ of the Council of Ten. That’s good. Were they assassins, they probably would have cut him down last night in the streets. How long have they been watching him? How much have they seen? The girl he brought here? Perina at the convent? Serena at his factory? When he first saw these men on the Mercerie, were they following him, or Narkis? What snares does he now step among?
Ask what you will, Crivano says.
I shall. Where is your home, dottore?
I have come only recently to the city from Bologna. Until I establish myself, this locanda is my home.
You were a student in Bologna?
That’s right.
And before Bologna, Lunardo says, where was your home?
Surely you know all of this. Come to your point, please.
Lunardo smiles. Where do you hear the Mass?
Crivano furrows his brow. San Cassian, most recently, he says. Also San Aponal. Why?
Do you know Lord Andrea Morosini? Or his brother, Lord Nicolò? They keep a house on the right bank of the Grand Canal.
Crivano scans Lunardo’s face before he answers. The man’s eyes are bright and quick, his mien that of a cunning animal, inventive at feeding itself.
The Morosini house, Crivano says, is on the left bank. I was there two nights ago. I met both brothers at that time.
Anzolo is moving across the room, a full plate in one hand, a goblet in the other. His Friulian serving-girls stand awkwardly aside. Are you good sirs quite content? he asks two men seated at the parlor’s opposite end. And you, sirs? Is everything to your liking? This latter query is directed to the three men at the next table: he’s showing Crivano where the sbirri are. Eight, then. The plate appears before him. Enjoy, dottore, Anzolo says. Be cautious of the little bones.
Lunardo waits for Crivano to begin eating. Crivano has no appetite, but lifts his spoon anyway, feigning as much hunger as he can manage. Baked turbot, with a crust of crumbs and cheese. Rice porridge dotted with small grapes.
If you did not know the brothers Morosini prior to two nights ago, Lunardo asks, what brought you to their home?
Crivano chews very slowly before answering. I believe the Morosini often host scholars, he says. I am a scholar.
They invited you?
I was invited, yes.
Lunardo seems amused by this—by everything under the sun. The ill-matched rings on his fingers, Crivano now understands, once belonged to other men: men who now rot in prisons, or fill ossuaries, or pollute the lagoon with their corpses. The heavy silver pendant around his neck is in the shape of a key. Not functional, probably. No way to know what it means, if anything. Crivano recalls the key inked on his own chest, the emblem of his orta. The girl saw it last night. Has she told anyone?
What went on at the Morosini house two nights ago, dottore?
You know this already, I’m sure.
I do, Lunardo says. But I would like you to tell me.
A lecture. By a friar from Campania.