Free The Bellini Card by Jason Goodwin

must begin slowly. Like us.”
    Palewski knelt on the window seat and contemplated the Grand Canal.
    “Count Barbieri,” he began, “I wonder—if, by some stroke of fortune, someone in Venice was in a position to offer a Bellini on the market—it’s a hypothetical suggestion—you would know about it, I suppose?”
    The count shrugged. “If it were to be offered through the usual channels, then yes, I would know of it. But for such a painting—well. This is Venice, Signor Brett. Not all traffic passes down the Grand Canal.”
    “I understand,” the American said.
    Barbieri set down his glass. “I am expected at the opera, Signor Brett. There’s no reason to be disappointed. If a Bellini should suddenly appear … In the meantime, I can show you at least three works that woulddelight you. They would cause a stir if they were exhibited in London or Paris. A fourth, I think, would interest you also.”
    They shook hands at the door. “Your neighbor is an old friend of mine. Carla d’Aspi d’Istria. She’s having a little gathering tomorrow night. Do drop her your card, I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet you.”
    Later, Signor Brett did take a few steps along the alley to a large green door, where he delivered his card to his neighbor.
    On his way back he looked into the café. He was hungry; something smelled good. He ordered wine and a dish of rice. To his astonishment it arrived looking black as if it had been burned.
    “Risotto al nero de seppia,”
the girl explained. Palewski ate it all; it was delicious. But it was very black, and he could not quite escape the impression that he had been offered death on a plate.

 
    M ARTA served Yashim tea in the ambassador’s drawing room. She had kept the windows closed, she explained, because of the dust. The room was warm, and two flies batted sleepily against the windowpanes.
    Yashim dropped into his usual chair by the empty grate and looked around. He was accustomed to seeing a jumble of Palewski’s books and papers spread out in haphazard order over the tables, armchairs, and even across the floor. Now Palewski’s pince-nez reading glasses sat primly on an open book on the desk.
    “I wonder how he is getting on, in the
Dar al-Hab,”
Yashim said, when he had thanked her for the tea.
    Marta pursed her lips and nodded. “The lord has sent me a note,” she said.
    “A note?” Yashim turned in the chair.
    A curious, almost wary, expression passed across Marta’s serious face. She began to dust the window ledges, humming to herself.
    “He is in Venice, efendi. It must be very beautiful.”
    ‘So I understand.” He paused. He noticed Marta’s hand slip surreptitiously to her breast. “Is that what he writes about, Marta, in his note?”
    She caught his eye, then looked away. “The writing is very small, efendi.”
    Yashim nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m quite used to his small writing. What if I try to read what it says?”
    He could almost read the conflict in Marta’s mind. At last she nodded and fished the note out of her jacket.
    It was written in Palewski’s best classical Greek script and illustrated with little ink drawings: Palewski sitting in his window seat with a bottle of wine, a cheerfully waving gondolier, Palewski with one foot on the quay and the other improbably far apart on a gondola, and a man swimming with a top hat. It was an affectionate and amusing letter, and ended with an exhortation to Marta to look after Yashim. Yashim read it aloud, laughing at Palewski’s jokes; even Marta allowed herself a smile.
    It made no mention of the Bellini and gave no indication of when the ambassador would return. But it ended with the suggestion that Marta might be lonely in the empty house.
    Marta took the letter back and scanned it, as if committing its meaning to memory. Then she tucked it back into her jacket.
    “Yashim efendi,” she said. “Do you think the lord would be unhappy if I went home until he writes to say he is coming