The collector, p.2
The Collector, page 2
“I was thinking,” he answered, glancing at his wristwatch, “that we ought to be leaving soon.”
“And miss the end of the game? I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides,” added Chiara, “your girlfriend’s concert doesn’t begin until eight.”
It was the annual black-tie gala to benefit the Venice Preservation Society, the London-based nonprofit organization dedicated to the care and restoration of the city’s fragile art and architecture. Gabriel had prevailed upon the renowned Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe, with whom he had once had a brief romantic entanglement, to appear at the fundraiser. She had dined the previous evening at the Allon family’s luxurious four-bedroom piano nobile della loggia overlooking the Grand Canal. Gabriel was only pleased that his wife, who had expertly prepared and served the meal, was once again speaking to him.
She stared straight ahead, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, as he returned to the bench. “Now is the point in the conversation,” she said evenly, “when you remind me that the world’s most famous violinist is no longer your girlfriend.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“It is.”
“She isn’t.”
Chiara dug a thumbnail into the back of his hand. “And you were never in love with her.”
“Never,” vowed Gabriel.
Chiara released the pressure and gently massaged the crescent-shaped indentation in his skin. “She’s bewitched your children. Irene informed me this morning that she’d like to begin studying the violin.”
“She’s a charmer, our Anna.”
“She’s a train wreck.”
“But an extremely talented one.” Gabriel had attended Anna’s rehearsal earlier that afternoon at Teatro La Fenice, Venice’s historic opera house. He had never heard her play so well.
“It’s funny,” said Chiara, “but she’s not as pretty in person as she is on the covers of her CDs. I suppose photographers use special filters when shooting older women.”
“That was beneath you.”
“I’m allowed.” Chiara issued a dramatic sigh. “Has the train wreck settled on her repertoire?”
“Schumann’s Violin Sonata No. 1 and the D-minor Brahms.”
“You always loved the Brahms, especially the second movement.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I suppose she’ll make us sit through an encore of the Devil’s Trill.”
“If she doesn’t play it, there’s likely to be a riot.”
Giuseppe Tartini’s technically demanding Violin Sonata in G Minor was Anna’s signature piece.
“A satanic sonata,” said Chiara. “One can only imagine why your girlfriend would be drawn to a piece like that.”
“She doesn’t believe in the devil. Nor, for that matter, does she believe Tartini’s silly story about hearing the piece in a dream.”
“But you don’t deny that she’s your girlfriend.”
“I believe I’ve been quite clear on that point.”
“And you were never in love with her?”
“Asked and answered.”
Chiara leaned her head against Gabriel’s shoulder. “And what about the devil?”
“He’s not my type.”
“Do you believe he exists?”
“Why would you ask such a question?”
“It might explain all the evil in this world of ours.”
She was referring, of course, to the war in Ukraine, now in its eighth month. It had been another dreadful day. More missiles directed against civilian targets in Kyiv. Mass graves with hundreds of bodies discovered in the town of Izium.
“Men rape and steal and murder all on their own,” said Gabriel, his eyes fixed on the Holocaust memorial. “And many of the worst atrocities in human history were committed by those who were motivated not by their devotion to the Evil One but by their faith in God.”
“How’s yours?”
“My faith?” Gabriel said nothing more.
“Perhaps you should talk to my father.”
“I talk to your father all the time.”
“About our work and the children and security at the synagogues, but not about God.”
“Next subject.”
“What were you thinking about a few minutes ago?”
“I was dreaming of your fettuccine and mushrooms.”
“Don’t make a joke about it.”
He answered truthfully.
“You really don’t remember how she looked?”
“At the end. But that wasn’t her.”
“Perhaps this will help.”
Rising, Chiara made her way to the center of the campo and took Irene by the hand. A moment later the child was sitting on her father’s knee, her arms around his neck. “What’s wrong?” she asked as he hurriedly wiped a tear from his cheek.
“Nothing,” he told her. “Nothing at all.”
3
______
San Polo
By the time Irene returned to the field of play, she had fallen into third place in the rankings. She lodged a formal protest and, receiving no satisfaction, withdrew to the sidelines and watched as the game dissolved into chaos and acrimony. Gabriel attempted to restore order, but to no avail; the contours of the dispute were Arab-Israeli in their complexity. Having no solution at the ready, he suggested a suspension of the tournament until the following afternoon, as the raised voices were liable to disturb the old ones in the Casa. The contestants agreed, and at half past four, peace returned to the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo.
Irene and Raphael, bookbags over their shoulders, scampered across the wooden footbridge on the southern edge of the square, with Gabriel and Chiara a step behind. A few centuries earlier, a Christian guard might have blocked their path, for the light was dwindling and the bridge would soon be sealed for the night. Now they strolled unmolested past gift shops and popular restaurants until they came to a small campo overlooked by a pair of opposing synagogues. Alessia Zolli, wife of the chief rabbi, waited outside the open doorway of the Levantine Synagogue, which served the community in winter. The children embraced their grandmother as though it had been untold months, not three short days, since they had seen her last.
“Remember,” explained Chiara, “they need to be at school tomorrow morning by eight o’clock at the latest.”
“And where is this school of theirs?” asked Alessia Zolli archly. “Is it here in Venice or on the mainland somewhere?” She looked at Gabriel and frowned. “It’s your fault she’s acting like this.”
“What have I done now?”
“I’d rather not say it aloud.” Alessia Zolli stroked her daughter’s riotous dark hair. “The poor thing has suffered enough already.”
“I’m afraid my suffering has only begun.”
Chiara kissed the children and set off with Gabriel toward the Fondamenta Cannaregio. While crossing the Ponte delle Guglie, they agreed that a light snack was in order. The recital was scheduled to conclude at 10:00 p.m., at which point they would repair to the Cipriani for a formal dinner with the director of the Venice Preservation Society and several deep-pocketed donors. Chiara had recently submitted bids to the group for a number of lucrative projects. She was therefore obliged to attend the dinner, even if it meant prolonging her exposure to her husband’s former lover.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
Gabriel’s favorite bacaro in Venice was All’Arco, but it was near the Rialto Fish Market and their time was running short. “How about Adagio?” he suggested.
“A most unfortunate name for a wine bar, don’t you think?”
It was in the Campo dei Frari, near the foot of the campanile. Inside, Gabriel ordered two glasses of Lombardian white and an assortment of cicchetti. Venetian culinary etiquette demanded that the small, delectable sandwiches be consumed while standing, but Chiara suggested they take a table in the square instead. The previous occupant had left behind a copy of Il Gazzettino. It was filled with photographs of the rich and celebrated, including Anna Rolfe.
“My first evening alone with my husband in months,” said Chiara, folding the newspaper in half, “and I get to spend it with her, of all people.”
“Was it really necessary to further undermine my position with your mother?”
“My mother thinks you walk on water.”
“Only during an acqua alta.”
Gabriel devoured a cicchetto smothered in artichoke hearts and ricotta, and washed it down with some of the vino bianco. It was his second glass of the day. Like most male residents of Venice, he had consumed un’ombra with his midmorning coffee. For the past two weeks, he had been frequenting a bar in Murano, where he was restoring an altarpiece by the Venetian school artist known as Il Pordenone. In his spare time, he was chipping away at two private commissions, as the parsimonious wages paid to him by his wife were insufficient to keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed.
She was pondering the cicchetti, deliberating between the smoked mackerel and the salmon. Both lay on a bed of creamy cheese and were sprinkled with finely chopped fresh herbs. Gabriel settled the matter by snatching the mackerel. It paired beautifully with the flinty Lombardian wine.
“I wanted that one,” said Chiara with a pout, and reached for the salmon. “Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to react tonight when someone asks whether you’re that Gabriel Allon?”
“I was hoping to avoid the issue entirely.”
“How?”
“By being my usual unapproachable self.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option, darling. It’s a social event, which means you’re expected to be sociable.”
“I’m an iconoclast. I flout convention.”
He was also the world’s most famous retired spy. He had settled in Venice with the approval of the Italian authorities—and with the knowledge of key figures in the Venetian cultural establishment—but his presence in the city was not widely known. For the most part, he dwelled in an uncertain realm between the overt and covert worlds. He carried a weapon, also with the approval of the Italian police, and maintained a pair of false German passports in the event he found it necessary to travel pseudonymously. Otherwise, he had shed the accoutrements of his previous life. Tonight’s gala, for better or worse, would be his coming-out party.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly charming.”
“And if someone asks how it is you know Anna Rolfe?”
“I’ll feign sudden hearing loss and make a dash for the gents.”
“Excellent strategy. But then operational planning always was your strong suit.” A single cicchetto remained. Chiara nudged the plate toward Gabriel. “You eat it. Otherwise, I won’t be able to fit into my dress.”
“Giorgio?”
“Versace.”
“How bad is it?”
“Scandalous.”
“That’s one way to secure funding for our projects.”
“Trust me, it isn’t for the benefit of the donors.”
“You’re a rabbi’s daughter.”
“With a body that won’t quit.”
“Tell me about it,” said Gabriel, and devoured the final cicchetto.
_________
It was a pleasant ten-minute walk from the Campo dei Frari to their apartment. In the spacious master bathroom suite, Gabriel quickly showered and then confronted his reflection in the looking glass. He judged his appearance to be satisfactory, though marred by the raised, puckered scar on the left side of his chest. It was approximately half the size of the corresponding scar beneath his left scapula. His two other bullet wounds had healed nicely, as had the bite marks, inflicted by an Alsatian guard dog, on his left forearm. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same for the two fractured vertebrae in his lower back.
Faced with the prospect of a two-hour concert followed by a multicourse seated dinner, he swallowed a prophylactic dose of Advil before heading to his dressing room. His Brioni tuxedo, a recent addition to his wardrobe, awaited him. His tailor had not found it unusual when he requested additional room in the waistline; all his trousers were cut in that manner to accommodate a concealed weapon. His preferred handgun was a Beretta 92FS, a sizable firearm that weighed nearly two pounds when fully loaded.
Dressed, Gabriel wedged the gun into place at the small of his back. Then, turning slightly, he examined his appearance a second time. Once again, he was mostly pleased by what he saw. The elegantly cut Brioni jacket rendered the weapon all but invisible. Moreover, the fashionable double vent would likely reduce his draw time, which, despite his many bodily injuries, remained lightning-strike fast.
He strapped a Patek Philippe timepiece to his wrist and, switching off the lights, went into the sitting room to await the appearance of his wife. Yes, he thought as he surveyed his sweeping view of the Grand Canal, he was that Gabriel Allon. Once he had been Israel’s angel of vengeance. Now he was the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company. Anna was someone he had encountered along the way. If the truth be told, he had tried to love her, but he wasn’t capable of it. Then he met a beautiful young girl from the ghetto, and the girl saved his life.
_________
The deep thigh slit and absence of shoulder straps notwithstanding, Chiara’s black Versace evening gown was by no means scandalous. Her shoes, however, were definitely a problem. Stiletto-heeled Ferragamo pumps, they added ten and a half desirable centimeters to her already statuesque frame. She gave Gabriel a discreet downward glance as they approached the pack of press photographers gathered outside Teatro La Fenice.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asked through a frozen smile.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered as a barrage of brilliant white flashes dazzled his eyes.
They passed beneath the blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flag hanging from the theater’s portico and entered the multilingual din of the crowded foyer. A few heads turned, but Gabriel received no excessive scrutiny. For the moment, at least, he was just another middle-aged man of uncertain nationality with a beautiful young woman on his arm.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“The night is young,” murmured Gabriel, and surveyed the shimmering room around him. Faded aristocrats, magnates and moguls, a smattering of important Old Master dealers. Tubby Oliver Dimbleby, never one to miss a good party, had made the trip down from London. He was comforting a French collector of note who had been burned to a crisp by a recent forgery scandal, the one involving the late Phillip Somerset and his fraudulent art-based hedge fund, Masterpiece Art Ventures.
“Did you know he was coming?” asked Chiara.
“Oliver? I heard an alarming report to that effect from one of my many sources in the London art world. He’s under strict instructions to give us a wide berth.”
“What happens if he can’t help himself?”
“Pretend he has leprosy and walk away as quickly as possible.”
A reporter approached Oliver and solicited a comment, about what, heaven only knew. Several other journalists were gathered around Lorena Rinaldi, the minister of culture in Italy’s new coalition government. Like the prime minister, Rinaldi belonged to a far-right political party that could trace its lineage to the National Fascists of Benito Mussolini.
“At least she didn’t wear her armband,” said a male voice at Gabriel’s shoulder. It belonged to Francesco Tiepolo, owner of the prominent restoration company that bore his family’s famous name. “I only wish she’d had the decency not to show her photogenic face at an event like this.”
“Evidently, she’s a great admirer of Anna Rolfe.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Me,” said Chiara.
Francesco smiled. An enormous, bearlike man, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Luciano Pavarotti. Even now, more than a decade after the tenor’s death, autograph-seeking tourists flocked to Francesco on the streets of Venice. If he was feeling mischievous, which was usually the case, he indulged them.
“Did you see the minister’s interview on RAI last night?” he asked. “She vowed to purge Italian culture of wokeism. For the life of me, I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.”
“Neither did she,” said Gabriel. “It was just something she overheard during her most recent visit to America.”
“We should probably take the opportunity to pay our respects.”
“Why on earth would we do that?”
“Because for the foreseeable future, Lorena Rinaldi will have the final say over all major restoration projects here in Venice, regardless of who’s footing the bill.”
Just then the lights in the foyer dimmed and a chime sounded. “Saved by the bell,” said Gabriel, and escorted Chiara into the theater. She managed to conceal her displeasure when settling into her VIP seat in the first row.
“How lovely,” she said. “I’m only sorry we’re not closer to the stage.”
Gabriel sat down next to her and made a small adjustment to the position of the Beretta. At length he said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”
“The night is young,” replied Chiara, and dug a thumbnail into the back of his hand.
4
______
Cipriani
The Schumann was wondrous, the Brahms searchingly beautiful. But it was Anna’s incendiary performance of Tartini’s Devil’s Trill that brought the audience to its feet. Three dramatic curtain calls later, she bade them a final farewell. Most of the patrons filed into the Corte San Gaetano, but a select few were discreetly escorted to the theater’s dock, where a flotilla of gleaming motoscafi waited to ferry them to the Cipriani hotel. Gabriel and Chiara made the journey with a delegation of agreeable New Yorkers. None appeared to recognize the famous retired spy in their midst. The same was true of the attractive, clipboard-wielding hostess at Oro, the Cipriani’s celebrated restaurant.
