Page 4 of The Collector
“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 thecampoand 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 smallcampooverlooked by a pair of opposing synagogues. Alessia Zolli, wife of the chief rabbi, waited outside the open doorway of theLevantine 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 favoritebacaroin 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 ofcicchetti. 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 previousoccupant had left behind a copy ofIlGazzettino. 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 withher, of all people.”
“Was it really necessary to further undermine my position with your mother?”
“My mother thinks you walk on water.”
“Only during anacquaalta.”
Gabriel devoured acicchettosmothered in artichoke hearts and ricotta, and washed it down with some of thevinobianco. It was his second glass of the day. Like most male residents of Venice, he had consumedun’ombrawith 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 thecicchetti, 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’rethatGabriel 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.”
