Page 6 of Palazzo
“I’ve read about them,” he said, and then she had a thought.
“Would you like a tour of the original workrooms tomorrow? They have changed very little since my grandfather’s day. It’s all still entirely artisanal.”
“I would love it,” he said.
“Eleven o’clock?” she suggested, and he looked enchanted, by her as much as by the invitation.
“That would be perfect. I have been obsessed with your family’s work for years. It is legendary.”
“We are very bound by tradition,” she admitted. “My brother and sister think too much so. I run the business now, and I’m trying to preserve what my father left us, without violating it, but we have to modernize somewhat. It’s hard to know how much. It’s a delicate balance.” He looked interested in what she said and was fascinated by her. He was impressed that she was a Saverio.
“I think you’ve done it beautifully.” He didn’t dare tell her that he made handbags too, which were embarrassingly commercial compared to hers and in an entirely different category. She was like Renoir or Degas in his mind, and he compared what he did to cartoons. His bags would be discarded in a year, which contributed to his success. Hers would last for generations.
They continued to chat on the terrace for a while, then went backinside. She shook his hand before she left, and said she’d see him at the store at eleven o’clock the next day. And then she discreetly disappeared and took the boat waiting for her back to the hotel. She glanced at her watch on the way. She was meeting someone in the bar at the hotel at eleven-thirty.
She walked through the lobby and into the bar when she arrived. It was twenty to midnight, but she knew he’d wait. She hadn’t seen him in a month. He lived in Rome, but had business in Venice too, and had said he’d be there that night. She saw him immediately when she walked into the bar, her heart pounding as it always did when she saw him. No matter what they had said or agreed to, that never changed. They had promised to stop seeing each other a dozen times or more, but couldn’t stick to it, although he was stronger than she was now. He had been determined to end it, although they still loved each other. He stayed seated at a dark corner table when she walked in, and didn’t stand as she approached, so as not to attract attention. People knew him in Venice, and all over Italy. He was an important man and had the aura of power about him.
As soon as she sat down, he kissed her, and there was no doubt in either of their minds that he still loved her, and she loved him. She had never loved anyone as she loved him, or known anyone like him. Gian Battista di San Martin had been a close friend of her father’s and was his attorney. He had helped her settle her parents’ estate and take charge of the business. He had advised and supported her and been there for her in every way after their deaths. She was in love with him long before he admitted it to her. He had waited three years to declare his feelings for her and had begged herforgiveness when he did. She was twenty-six then and he was sixty, now he was seventy-two, and as handsome as ever.
Their affair had been the most passionate either of them had ever known. But it had no future right from the beginning. He was married, although he and his wife had been ill suited from the start and lived separate lives under one roof for their entire marriage. It was a union that had been fashioned by their families when they were young, too young to realize that it was wrong and always would be. His uncle was a cardinal and his family was closely tied to the Vatican. He had a brother who was a bishop. Gian Battista and his wife had no children, but divorce was never going to be possible for them. His wife would never have agreed to it, nor his own family forgiven him the disgrace. Gian Battista had warned Cosima of it right from the first day, and she said she didn’t care. Divorce was legal in Italy now, but not for him. A little of him in the shadows was better than none at all. And she knew she had his whole heart. She had the business to run, she had vowed she would never marry once they loved each other. What they had, however limited, was enough for her.
They met in London several times, and in Paris. He met her in Rome discreetly, sometimes with the excuse of seeing her for business. They came to Venice separately, and stayed at the palazzo alone, listening to the sounds of the canal lapping against the outer walls in the winter. And they had met in exotic places for unforgettable romantic vacations. She had never regretted what they did for a minute. And three years earlier, after nine years of their affair, he had stopped everything, and said he wouldn’t see her anymore. She was thirty-five and he said he wanted her to find someone her ownage, marry, and have children. She even wanted his child out of wedlock, but he wanted a better life than that for her. They had tried not seeing each other at all, but couldn’t do it, and for the past three years, their relationship had been chaste. He refused to start up again, he said he was robbing her of her youth and her future and wouldn’t do that anymore. So they saw each other rarely now, when they could, and he tried to force her to look to the future, not the past, nor into their hearts.
Cosima had loved Gian Battista for fifteen years. At thirty-eight, she still wanted no one else, but he wouldn’t have her, except as a woman he loved from a distance. He said he knew he shouldn’t see her at all, but he wasn’t brave enough, so they lived with the tiny fleeting moments that were left to them now. Her feelings for him hadn’t changed, nor his for her. She could feel it and knew him well. This was all they had left. Stolen moments now and then, which she said were enough. She had stubbornly refused to move on once he changed the ground rules three years before. A stolen, stealthy kiss was all she had now, and it had to suffice. She said it did. No one knew their secret and never had, nor suspected.
They spent two hours together in the bar of her hotel that night, and as always Gian Battista refused to come upstairs with her when she asked him. He left her at the elevator and went out to the boat he had come in alone. He drove the short distance back to his own palazzo, with their secret wrapped around him like a magic cloak which gave him life, and Cosima rode upstairs in the elevator to her room, with an aching heart, which was so familiar to her now.
Chapter 4
Max Bayard arrived at the Gritti Palace half an hour after his father left for the Johnsons’ party. Olivier had left Max a note at the front desk, and had paid for his room, adjoining his suite. Max checked in with the small bag he’d brought, and already knew which casino he would go to. He had been there before. It was supposedly one of the oldest casinos in Europe, a seventeenth-century gaming palace, the Ca’ Vendramin Calergi, on the Grand Canal, a few minutes’ boat ride from the Piazza San Marco. It had all the gambling pursuits he liked, blackjack above all, roulette, Punto Banco, which was the original version of baccarat, and poker. Along with its venerable history, it had been very elegant at one time, but was more informal now. It had changed with the times. It was one of two casinos in Venice, and the one Max preferred. There was another casino closer to the train station, before one reached the canals, but the historical one had brought him luck before.
He ordered a light meal from room service, and at ten o’clock heleft for the casino. Things were a little slow that early in the evening, and once he got there, he started with roulette. He usually did well at that. Not tonight. He lost five hundred euros in half an hour, watched a poker game for a while, and moved on to the blackjack tables, which were his drug of choice. He took a seat when a player left at a table that looked like it was running hot. He bought a thousand euros’ worth of chips and jumped in. Three hands later, another player left and went to cash in his chips. Max hadn’t gotten lucky yet, but he knew he would soon, he could feel it. The new player next to him looked at him with a nod. The dealers seemed to know him. He was Italian, a striking-looking man around Max’s age. He asked for five thousand euros’ worth of chips, and they let him sign for them. It told Max immediately that he was a known gambler and played for high stakes.
They played consistently until midnight, side by side, and drank while they did. Max drank champagne, and the player next to him drank straight whiskey. Neither of them was drunk, but they had both lost a fair amount of money. Max had lost his thousand euros’ worth of chips, and bought two thousand more, and had lost most of them by midnight. The handsome Italian had lost twenty thousand by then and didn’t seem to care. Max was surprised that the man hadn’t left the table and gone to one that brought him more luck. As though reading his mind, the Italian said to him in English, so the other players wouldn’t understand, “My sister pays my gambling debts.” He had guessed that Max spoke English. He was cocky and Max was impressed. He usually lied to his father about his debts, but sometimes Olivier found out. Including his initial loss at the roulette table, Max had lost thirty-five hundred that night, which was a loteven for him. And by the time he stood up, the Italian had lost fifty thousand, and looked drunk by then.
“Want to have a drink at the bar?” he asked Max in French when he was leaving. Max took the few chips he had left and followed him to the bar. Luca had realized earlier that Max was French, and Luca spoke fluent French. Max didn’t speak much Italian, only French and English.
“You must play here a lot,” Max said to him, as they ordered scotch on the rocks, and the Italian grandly paid for them both.
“Luca Saverio,” he introduced himself. “I play here once or twice a month. In San Remo too.” It was one of four cities in Italy that had legal gambling.
“I play in Paris, and Monte Carlo when I can get there. Max Bayard.” The two men shook hands. “What do you do?” Max was curious about him. He had a bold, devil-may-care style about him that Max admired. He had the feeling that Luca was slightly older than he was, but not by much. In fact, Luca was three years older but didn’t look it. Luca was confident, friendly with Max, and arrogant.
“My family is in leather goods,” Luca said, and then the name clicked with Max.
“Saverio leathers?”
Luca nodded. “And you?” Luca asked him.
“I work for my father in Paris. My father is crazy about what your family does. He makes handbags too, but nothing as fancy as yours. We have a commercial line that sells pretty well. Bayard.” Luca didn’t recognize the name because he didn’t work in the business, and Bayard wasn’t a competitor of Saverio. Only Hermès was, and a few other brands around the world. “His dream would be to buyyou out,” Max confided, and Luca shook his head. He liked the young Frenchman. He seemed like a cool guy to him, even if a little young.
“My sister will never sell. She kills herself trying to keep our business alive. She loves the business more than anyone, except maybe my younger sister. The older one works hard, though. Do you want to go back to the game, at another table?” he suggested. Max wanted to look like a big shot to him.
“Sure. Why not?” They finished their drinks, stood up and left the bar.
They picked another table, where someone had just made a big win against the house, which Luca said was a good sign. They sat down and Luca played his losses for double or nothing, and within minutes, he owed the house a hundred thousand euros. By twoa.m. it was two hundred thousand. Max had lost ten thousand, a month’s salary, and they were both drunk.
They left the casino together and Luca laughed and was leaning on Max when he said, “My sister will be so pissed.” It didn’t seem to worry him at all.
