Chapters published
Instalment 1
Instalment 2
Instalment 3
Instalment 4
Instalment 5
Instalment 6
Instalment 7

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15

Pursued by the servant girl Bernadette, la Fragolina hurried along the narrow alleys, determined to reach her lesson before the other students arrived. She wanted to have a few moments alone with Signor Celdoni, to challenge him for the way he had treated her during their last private session. The man had raged at her, derided her lifestyle and the opulent conditions under which she lived, unmarried, with Count Kozlowski. He had accused her of gross amorality, of wanton extravagance, of being disconnected with the cosmos, of wastefulness, and recommended that she immediately alter her situation. He felt she should be surviving on her own, lodging by herself, and not supported like a kept woman, imprisoned by sumptuous meals, gifts of jewelry and expensive clothing. He would help her, he had promised, to find a simpler apartment, even to move her possessions out of the palazzo, and he recommended that she drink more water and less wine. If she had money which needed to be managed, he would advise her on that, too. While she was in his presence she felt overwhelmed by the force of his personality. His steely eyes seemed to bore into the centre of her being. He was so wise and strong even when he shouted at her! But when she was away from him doubts resurfaced, and she could not decide what to do: to stay with Balthazar, who had sheltered her and humoured her, who tolerated her temper and indulged her fancies, or to go out on her own as the esteemed Signor Celdoni counselled. Greatly at issue in her mind was the consequence of financial exposure, for though she owned many valuable bonds, she had gone through a tremendous amount of cash since fleeing her husband, much of it spent on the succession of gurus whom she seemed to find as gifts of fate in her remarkable life. And Count Kozlowski paid for so many of her simple necessities. It did annoy her that she had exchanged so much of her own money for Celdoni’s lessons, only to receive in return his scathing criticism of the very things she had fought so hard to uphold. She intended to confront him with his arrogance, and demand that he explain himself for such an outrage.

Grazia Rosetti, known to her public as la Fragolina, hurried along the passageways, through the piazzas, over the tiny canal bridges, hardly aware of the route she travelled. Perhaps it was time to make her move, cash out some of the bonds, buy her own palazzo, stand on her own two feet. Balthazar was a fine man, but his discomfort with her world was obvious. He did not like to engage the spiritual ideas which fascinated her. Lately she had detected signs of boredom on his face as she described some recent insight she had. His studio had turned into his refuge, not unlike the cavernous haven of her estranged husband, Sir Robert Marsh, him and his odious den of books. She had not even visited Balthazar’s studio yet—there had always been a conflicting appointment, and she would only find there a dusty, drafty place where he tried to compel her to disrobe so he could shape her likeness in paint yet again.

Her thoughts were soon consumed with visions of Yogi Vilsanaar, a Hindu mystic who had recently attracted quite a following to his ashram in the ghetto. A strikingly handsome dark-complexioned man who possessed knowledge of the mysterious Tantric arts, he had begun a weekly session of fascinating question and answer, describing his years of training among the ascetics of India. During his remarks he often demonstrated strange, contorted yogic poses and was said to give private lessons, much in demand. When word of that possibility had gotten out, he had been besieged by waves of spiritually impoverished wives and morally deficient men, prepared to pay whatever he asked for private demonstrations of his wisdom. Grazia had admired his muscular body, and the humorous outlook which he brought to his practice. She felt competitive with the other devotees, and nursed fantasies of furtive liaisons with him, in spite of a single mitigating factor: Vilsanaar had brought along a wife, who figured prominently in the equation; she was exotically attractive in a plain way, older than him and always clad in a simple sari, and she seemed to monitor his every move, lurking close at hand. Grazia had not yet figured a scheme to get him alone, away from his wife and to herself, but she had ideas as to how that could be done. Now that Balthazar was spending so much time in his atelier it would be easier to achieve. Perhaps it was the moment to bid farewell to Signor Celdoni once and for all, and continue her spiritual quest under the tutelage of Yogi Vilsanaar. He certainly was a formidable man, she thought, and less prone to chastise her. His infectious laughter was far more desirable than frequent scoldings.

La Fragolina’s mind was made up by the time she reached the door of Signor Celdoni’s house. Though she had contrived to be there early, it was obvious that other of his adherents had nursed similar intentions. She nodded politely at the crowd who clustered about the door, all holding their biscotti boxes, and she knew this would be the last time she sat at his feet. She wondered at the size of the fortune he would be counting tonight after his lecture, and if he ever tasted any of the confections which were presented to him with such respect, in such abundant quantities every day.

16

Balthazar meandered lazily to his atelier, a route which took him over the Rialto Bridge, through the shopping lanes, past boutiques and vendors, as he rubbed shoulders with the Venetian populace. He took in every detail that he could, for he had unashamedly fallen in love with the city, an unexpected pleasure for a man unconscious of how passionately he regarded the world of the senses. He treasured his routines, the morning coffees, the changing palette of the sky, the gondolas heavily laden with colourful fruits, the rippling effects on the water, the rustle of fabrics, the smells and the sounds which continually delighted him. Left to his own devices he never ceased to appreciate the world which surrounded him. His experience differed greatly from that of la Fragolina, for he was genuinely pleased to be acknowledged on his own: no matter who stopped him along his way he gave of his time, even placing his signature when asked on the poorest example of pirated replicas purporting to represent his painting which the world had entitled The Crimson Garter. In his own easygoing way he felt that since the reproductions could never be removed from the market, he might as well honour them, and add to the enjoyment, for he was proud of the work, even though the actual object had been purloined. He made the walk to his atelier nearly every day, and he had become a fixture of the street life. Unknown to him, merchants pointed him out, saying to each other, ‘There goes the artist Balthazar, on his way to paint another masterpiece. But see how he stops to pet the dog, to buy a cake for a child, to graciously sign another etching? It is a wonder, but he finds time for everyone.’

For some time now the Count’s attention had been focused on a particular style of pearl jewellery, which he had observed in his travels ever more frequently in recent months. He knew what original they represented: the Pearls of Jaipur, a magnificent double choker, one hundred-four matched South Sea island pearls of incredible perfection with a ten-carat ruby suspended from the lowest strand, originally the property of the Third Maharajah, which had been sold at auction the previous year to an anonymous buyer in London, to incredible furore. Those pearls had come into the possession of Adml Goberslieves, some said after he had successfully apprehended a bandit named Vashtar, while others were convinced it had been acquired after the Admiral had put down a bloody mutiny. Kozlowski had seen all manner of replica of it, from the sublime to the crude, around necks of shopgirls and beggars, finely dressed ladies and even peasants prowling the streets. He had seen copies in the boutique windows, adorning mannequins and even in the costuming of performances at la Fenice. He had seen all variations of them, from near-perfect duplications to garish distortions of colour and size, but the motif was always the same. There had been a blaze of speculation over the buyer’s identity—for on the day of the sale a spirited bidding war occurred and the pearls fetched ten times their estimate, an astronomical sum. Polite society quickly seized on the design and the story connected to it, and replicas soon propagated. Balthazar’s object had been to find a superior copy, to add to a collection of costume jewellery he kept in a box in his atelier, to accessorize his models.

Even more, he hungered to paint la Fragolina from life, while she was wearing only the pearls, a replacement canvas for The Crimson Garter, but she so far evaded his requests to pose for him. What with her schedule of wise men, social engagements, rehearsals and performances, he was lucky to see her alone at the end of the day, when she was merely hungry, exhausted and irritable. But he had imagined the painting in his mind, determined to complete his vision, and she figured in it. The answer, he believed, would be to find the finest and most faithful reproduction of the pearls he could. Once Grazia saw them she would be enchanted. He would attempt to persuade her to take a vacation from the ballet, to slow down and hold still for him. Perhaps they could rediscover each other without the intrusions of the rest of the world. Perhaps he could take some time away from her career. Perhaps they both could.

17

Today his eyes fell on a jeweller’s window, and he knew he had finally stumbled on the copy he wanted. It was authentic enough, a trifle oversize, but that would be better for his paintings. The opaline colours of the pearls had been shaped by the hand of a master craftsman in paste, the fittings were convincing, and the glass ruby refracted the light in an exaggerated but desirable shade of red. It looked remarkably like the illustrations he had seen. The price asked was extravagantly high. Quickly he haggled to purchase it, delighted to find that it came in its own hinged, cream satin-lined box, with the name of the Parisian pastemaker stamped elegantly in gold on the red velvet cover. After his item had been wrapped in patterned paper and tied with a tasteful ribbon, he took it in hand and started for his atelier. Those on the street who recognized him observed a jaunty lift to his step, and they nodded to each other knowingly: another bauble soon to be presented to his celebrated companion.

Count Kozlowski could fix his mind on some creative endeavour, and pass into a kingdom of delirious oblivion which often prevented him from seeing the obvious. He had a notion of the opportunists who confronted him, while he innocently excused Grazia’s dalliances as passing fads, confident she would eventually outgrow them. Other situations were not so transparent. Both he and la Fragolina continually received written pleas for financial patronage of all sorts, from people with whom they were unacquainted. Sometimes, individuals of questionable reputation proposed wild investment schemes naming stratospheric numbers and making absurd promises of heady profit and quick repayment. One dared not honour any request because it showed up in the hands of a liveried messenger. Venezia, for all its beauty and wealth, was also a den of fraud and subterfuge.

As he made his way down a narrow passaggio, he considered a series of bewildering letters which had been slipped through the transom of his atelier over the past few months. He wondered if today there would be another of the cards at his feet when he opened the door. From the first he had considered it a prank, for it had the air of ridicule: it was so preposterous in presentation. He found it amusing that someone would go to such eloquent trouble to torment him, in such an overt and presumptuous way. The first had been waiting for him soon after his arrival in Venezia. It was an ecru card, written in a flowing and elegant hand, placed in an oversize red envelope, sealed with gold wax on the flap. It invited him to wait at the Ruggiero landing the next night at a prescribed hour after dark, for a private meeting with an interested patron. Of course he did not appear as asked. The following day an identical envelope was slipped under his door, profuse with apologies, and suggesting that a portrait commission would be offered if he only would give an hour of his time to an individual whose identity would be revealed after a short gondola ride, which would begin at the Ruggiero landing the next night at the same hour. Again, Balthazar did not honor the request.

Then, silence for two months, and finally another card delivered, indicating that he only need double his usual price for a portrait, and inviting him to meet his intended subject after a short gondola ride. By this time Kozlowski was convinced he was the butt of some elaborate stunt designed to embarrass him, and so he chose again not to acknowledge. Soon, the cards became more furious and frequent, that he should name whatever price he wanted, then whatever terms he wanted, then apologies following the proposed rendezvous for any offence felt; then flattering notes about his talent, and then requests to buy The Crimson Garter for any price at all; and finally, cards written in a sullen tone, should he not consider the requests seriously then powerful people would be greatly offended; lastly, two days ago polite apologies again, and ultimately someone purporting to be the Fifth Maharajah of Jaipur, requesting the honour of his company wherever and whenever he chose, under any conditions he was free to specify, please reply to Signor Ruggiero at the Banco Ruggiero. At the time he read it, Count Kozlowski wondered how truly gullible they thought he must be to believe such a ludicrous performance. The Maharajah of Jaipur, indeed. Everyone knew he was well on his way back to India to survey his vast holdings there, and would not return until the following year, when he was sure to fill another barge to overflowing with the riches of Europe.

18

The table had been long set, and the candles were nearly burned down. Grazia first ate the langoustines, then worked her way through the tagliarini with shaved truffles, devoured her half pheasant, and now toyed with her sorbetto, as she considered the possibility of a small Calvados to calm her nerves. She had already drunk three glasses of wine. It was near midnight, the windows had been thrown open, and a refreshing breeze floated in from the sea, bearing a hint of salt and seaweed.

‘You did hear him say he was off to his atelier, did you not?’ she asked Bernadette, who hovered behind at her elbow, impatient to clear the table. Balthazar’s place remained unused. ‘And you did hear him say he would see me at dinner? I distinctly heard him say he would see me later. I came home directly after the performance so as to dine with him, and he has not even sent word of his delay. He has never done this before. Do you think he is punishing me for something? I know he is not aware of the particular fondness I have shown for Signor Celdoni. He cannot know anything about my growing affection for the Yogi. He seemed quite normal this morning, despite his harsh words about Dr Bin-Avraham. How could he expect me to have waited for him any longer, I must eat. I am doing my best, I work hard, I do not deserve a punishment from him. I do not nag him about how he spends his time when he is in his own studio, do I? He cannot expect me to account for every minute away from him. To think of him as suspicious, well, if that is the way he wants it. Perhaps he is annoyed because of the loyalty which compels him to defend Capt Harry Blackpool. I thought we had settled all that. He takes Blackpool’s side because he is a man. Men stick together, the beasts. I could not wait another minute, and so I ate. There: I have said it.’

‘Is Captain Blackpool … handsome?’ Bernadette ventured cautiously.

‘In a rough sort of way,’ La Fragolina answered, suddenly interested. ‘His eyes are quite attentive, and he is very graceful of gesture. He is disposed to innocuous clothing, mostly the colour black, yet he has a rather dashing look to him. Under other circumstances I might have found him appealing. In a rough sort of way.’

‘Does he have a lover?’

‘Nobody knows,’ La Fragolina said. ‘Why would you be interested in that tidbit? Nursing some fantasy about romance? My dear, I suggest you stay with your viola player at la Fenice. He will always be employed. But what about my beloved Balthazar? Why would he do this to me? I hope he is not cross when he gets home. I’m sorry, I had to eat. What crime is there in that? I’m doing the best I can.

‘I shall be quite angry when he returns,’ she decided.

‘All he needed to do was send a messenger with a letter of two lines. Instead he has made me agitated by ignoring me. I hope he does not expect me to wait up for him—he has probably found some card game, or patron backslapping him, congratulating him on his great brilliance, or he has been conned into signing a stack of etchings. I shall not wait up for him. Bernadette, pour a Calvados, and help me to bed.’

In the morning, she took her breakfast leisurely, sipped at her coffee, and read a frivolous novel. By noon she began to experience real alarm. What if he has fallen in his studio and hit his head, and has lain unconscious since yesterday, waiting for someone to discover him? I was such a fool, she thought, he cannot be tormenting me, he must have broken his leg, or languishes in the throes of fever. He must be calling my name at this very hour. She roused Bernadette and they soon set off for the atelier, making it there very quickly. The mission of mercy would be her first visit to the place.

The door was closed, but unlocked, so they let themselves in. It was a magnificent space, perhaps 100 ft long, with 30 ft ceilings, wood paneled walls, and a massive, broad, leaded glass window which reached to the rafters, and bathed the room in northern light from the wide canal it overlooked. At the near end was a grouping of couches and chairs, low tables, and Kozlowski’s ornate writing desk. Along the left hand wall stretched one after the other of large canvases in various states of completion, and on the facing wall, a long table of brushes and pigments and the apparatus of the studio, mixing pots, beakers, jars of spirits and palettes of different sizes and shapes, wood devices with lenses mounted, visualizing screens. Two massive easels stood before the window, and on one great canvas he had roughly sketched a compositional diagram for what would become the painting of la Fragolina wearing the Pearls of Jaipur. Grazia walked up to the canvas and wondered who the model was—the drawing was too crude, too new to be recognizable, and for a moment her jealous mind engaged in speculation about the subject’s identity. Then she noticed the stack of red envelopes on his desk. She did not hesitate for an instant, and began to read their contents in reverse order, and after a half an hour she felt convinced something suspicious had occurred. A crumpled piece of wrapping paper with a clump of red ribbon sat on a low table. There were signs he had left suddenly: his overcoat was still on the hook along with his favourite cap, a half- finished cup of tea, stone cold, could be found at the corner of the desk, even the boots he wore on the street were there, meaning he had left wearing the weather-beaten slippers he favoured when he painted. A flat, red velvet box with a gold stamp had been casually tossed into a bin of costume jewellery.

She worried that he might have been summoned from the passage, and accidentally fallen into the canal, washed away the night before on the tide, today the breakfast of crabs in the lagoon. The letters gave her some concern, since he had not mentioned them to her, and their frantic and escalating tone suggested foul play might figure. But she could not decide which course to take, how to begin. She had for so long lived her own life for the daylight hours that she did not even know his favourite café, the names of his friends, or what he did from the moment she left him in the morning until they met at the end of the day. An acute sense of panic overtook her. She would need someone with exceptional skills at deduction to find him, and she could not think of anyone she knew who could fit that need. Suddenly she felt helpless and painfully alone.