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.” She raised her chin with a gesture that recalled her raging mother.“I shouldn’t have listened to you.I should have returned in my own good time—when the cards would have foretold a warm welcome.”I looked around for support, but Fortunata had retreated back upstairs.Benito merely shrugged helplessly.I grasped my wife by the elbows.“Liya, how can you blame me? I’m your husband, remember, the one who’s on your side.I’ll take you home now.We’ll talk this out—”“No.” She broke my hold and stepped away.Holding my gaze for a moment, she said, “I can’t talk about it now.I must think.I’ll see you tonight.After the opera.”Before I could come up with an argument to dissuade her, Liya gathered her cloak and skirts and darted down the alley like a caged animal suddenly set free.“Should I go after her, Master?” Benito shifted his weight, ready to race away at my command.“I don’t know,” I answered, all at once befuddled and forlorn.Events were happening so fast.Too fast.“Should you?”He gave me another wordless shrug and spread his hands.Benito struck speechless—an ill omen, indeed.Chapter SixteenI sang poorly that night, but it was of little importance.Armida had been running for so many performances, it was no longer fashionable to listen to the music.My arias competed with an atrocious din.A few songs inspired the pit dwellers to raise a unified voice and sing along, but afterward, they quickly reverted to their muddled shouts, laughter, and invective.In the lowest tier of the crimson and gold boxes, the minor courtesans and faro dealers enjoyed a busy trade, paying no attention to the stage whatsoever.The wealthy box holders above played chess or cards, took refreshment, or had their curtains closed altogether.I was especially interested in Messer Grande’s box.Each time I glanced his way, the chief constable was slouching on the rail in mask and robe while surrounded by a gaggle of excited ladies in their middle years.They kept up a marathon of talk and gossip and also trained their glasses on persons of interest and pointed with closed fans—a breach of fan etiquette that would have embarrassed any true lady.Did I only imagine that Messer Grande stared at La Samsona’s darkened box with longing?After the opera I was anxious to leave the theater behind, as much because of Maestro Torani’s very obviously displayed cold shoulder as the inattentive audience.Benito and I had completed my change to street clothing and were strolling along the water landing toward Luigi’s boat when I saw Messer Grande handing his twittering, screeching party into a large, two-oared gondola.If a flock of chickens could don human form and spend a night at the opera, that is exactly how they would conduct themselves, without a mite of decorum.Turning my head away, I walked a little faster, hoping to reach Luigi before the constable caught sight of me.I wasn’t fast enough.I heard my name called and turned with a sigh.“I was hoping to run into you.” Messer Grande had pocketed his mask.His naked face regarded me forlornly, and he gestured toward a sleek boat with the Lion of San Marco emblazoned on the felze.“My party is taken care of and I have my own gondola waiting.Please join me.”“I must get home.My wife is…unwell.”“I’ll see you back to the Cannaregio…after we’ve talked.” His manner was stiff and uneasy.Benito questioned me with a raised eyebrow.“Go on,” I told him.“Tell Liya I’ll be with her soon.”Luigi and Benito headed north.I watched their gondola recede until its lantern became just one floating firefly among a multitude of others.Then I ducked under the canopy of Messer Grande’s boat and settled back on the velvet cushion.Facing me across the shadowy space, the chief constable was merely an uncertain silhouette.I suppose I must have seemed the same.A tense silence was the third passenger in the boat.It lasted as the gondolier picked his way through the canals and guided us into the choppier waters of the basin.“Where are we going?” I finally asked.“The Cannaregio, as I promised.But the long way round.”“Oh.” Looking left, toward the Piazza, I saw scattered torches glimmering at docks and the dark outline of the Campanile against a blue-black sky filled with stars.The soaring tower seemed to shudder as a cascade of bells tolled the hour.Midnight.The boat had navigated the eastern tip of the island and was coming up on San Pietro before Messer Grande spoke again.“You’re angry.” He shifted uneasily.“I don’t blame you.You think I’ve been hoarding information.”“You must have spoken to La Samsona.”In the gloom, I sensed his nod.“But your mistress wasn’t at the performance tonight…unless you had her under your robe again, hidden from your party of females.”He slid forward on the slick cushion until I could see his face.His expression was as close to chagrin as I had ever seen.“That was my wife, her favorite aunt, and a sampling of cousins.My box would never accommodate the total number.Let’s just say that I keep La Samsona as far away from my wife and her numerous relatives as possible—she told me about your visit when I stopped by her casino before the opera.You must understand that I’d already let you in on the important part of the story.I assured you that La Samsona couldn’t have murdered Zulietta and that was perfectly true—you should have left it at that.”I grunted.“I would have if Cesare Pino hadn’t produced the scented note.Or did your mistress leave that part out?”“No, she admitted summoning Cesare.”“And?”“And…what?”“No apology for impeding an official investigation? Doesn’t that transgress some statute of the public code?”He hesitated, staring at me steadily, nostrils flaring with each breath.The sour smell of wine filled the space between us.Finally he said, “Let it be, Tito.It doesn’t matter, anyway.”“Why?”“Because we’re at an impasse.We’ll never know who delayed Alessio’s gondolier or find the duplicate box key that’s probably been tossed away.You’ve done me a great favor, letting me parade my suspects before you and asking questions that would never be answered if I’d asked them.But we still haven’t caught our fish.Nor are we likely to.”My thoughts wandered as the gondola slowed to navigate the canals of the Cannaregio.At one time or another the patterns of my internal petal-scope had pictured the killer as Cesare Pino, Aram Pardo, La Samsona, or even Alessio Pino himself.Now, none of them made sense [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]