The Mirror Thief(167)

I suppose you would, Crivano says. But you will not do so. It is halfway to Padua by now, I imagine. On its way to Bologna.

Bologna?

Indeed. A colleague of mine at the university asked me to have it made.

Who?

I will not tell you that.

Can you describe the mirror to me?

I can, Crivano says. But I will not.

Lunardo smiles, as if this genuinely pleases him. He reaches into his doublet, withdraws a rumpled wad, smoothes it on the tabletop: a pair of well-worn chamois gloves, flesh-colored, very finely made. I urge you to reconsider your reluctance, dottore, he says. I will not insist that you speak, but the tribunal will do so, I fear.

The tribunal? Or the Council of Ten?

Lunardo doesn’t respond. He begins to pull on a glove, sliding his fingers inside with great care and patience; against his skin the chamois all but vanishes. So, dottore, he says, was your little entertainment last night quite to your liking? I can’t remember if I’ve tried that particular girl. There are, after all, so very many.

Our dialogue is concluded, Crivano says, pushing back his chair. Good day, sir. To you, and to your fellows.

She’s hardly the one I would have picked for you, dottore, I confess. But there is a certain satisfaction, I suppose, in a really cheap whore when you know you can afford better. So long as she knows it too. Right, dottore? Such enthusiasm!

You are a dog, sirrah. I will not speak to you again. Tell your masters that they may find me here at the White Eagle if they have further business with me. And when next you plan to cross my path, wear those distasteful gloves, and look to your life.

As Crivano turns, his eyes make a slow sweep of the room and the street outside, taking in every face he sees: he needs to be able to recognize them again. The few innocent patrons here all inch their chairs out of his way, huddle over their plates in a pantomime of disinterest.

Lunardo raises his voice as Crivano departs. I can certainly understand, he says, why you were so quick to hire a girl last night. I can hardly walk past a convent without my prick turning to stone. And most of them are practically brothels anyway. Aren’t they, dottore?

Crivano is hesitant to expose his back to Lunardo, but he doubts the man will strike. If the sbirri were ready to do him harm, they would have done it. They want something from him, for him to give something away. What?

He meets Anzolo’s eyes as he crosses the parlor. I’ll be in my room, he says.

Lunardo comes to his feet now, too, but he’s in no hurry. Weren’t you going out, dottore? he shouts.

I was, Crivano says. I am no longer.

He’s in the corridor, on the stairs, inside his room, bolting the door. He paces the empty area between the bed and the wall—clutching his head in his hands, unable to think of anything—until Anzolo’s knock comes. I’m sorry, dottore, Anzolo says as he hurries inside. I tried to warn you.

You did warn me. I thank you. And I pray your interference with these knaves will not bring any great misery upon you.

Anzolo grimaces, waves an impatient hand. All innkeepers are outlaws, dottore, he says. We must be. It is my pleasure to oppose the sbirri. I hate them! Everyone in the Rialto hates them. But poor and desperate people sometimes sell them their eyes and their ears. When you go out again, assume that you are everywhere observed.

Crivano resumes his pacing. I’ve done nothing wrong, he says. Believe me.

It doesn’t matter, dottore.

I have to go out, Crivano mutters, half to Anzolo, half to himself. There are errands I must attend. But how? How am I to move freely through the streets?

Anzolo shifts his weight, angles his shoulders toward the door: sympathetic, but eager to distance himself. Crivano can hardly blame him. I’ll send word to Rigi, Anzolo says. The porter at the Contarini house in San Samuele. I recall correctly, do I not, that you are acquainted with Senator Giacomo Contarini? That’s very good. That will help you. Rigi can collect your things and lodge you until this matter is resolved. You’ll be safer there than here in the Rialto, dottore. Far safer.

Crivano nods. Yes, he says. That’s wise. But don’t send for him until I’ve gone out again. Between myself and my equipage, I’d like to divide the sbirri’s attention.

As you wish, dottore. They’ll search your room once you leave, of course. I won’t be able to stop them. I will try to prevent them from ruining or stealing your possessions, but the best I may manage is to keep tally of what’s lost.

Crivano steps to the window, parts the drapes to look down on the Street of the Coopers. Leisurely crowds move from storefront to storefront. The Jews’ Sabbath: no red hats or yellow turbans in sight. A cloaked figure watches from across the street; he looks young and sturdy, but also stupid and feckless. Crivano lets the curtain fall.

Do you think the girl told them about me? he says.

Anzolo is silent for a while. I spoke to her this morning, he says. I gave her a meal. She was in fair spirits, and she said you were generous. If she tells them anything, I think she’ll wait until she’s certain it won’t make any difference. No one hates a sbirro more than a whore, dottore. And she’s a good girl.

I’m sorry that I brought her here, Anzolo.

Tell your priest, dottore, not me. If I forbade such women in my rooms, my enterprise would collapse. I therefore cast no stones. I should go, dottore. They will be waiting for me.

Crivano bolts the door behind Anzolo, listens to his footfalls recede down the corridor. The muted voices from downstairs are soon drowned out by churchbells; it’s later than he thought.