Page 28 of Vengeance in Venice
Rossi concentrated hard on his finger and thumb to show about an inch of space. “Little,” he said, and lumbered back to the stairs. “Come, come.”
Solomon followed Constance inside, and the girl closed the door behind him. “I’ll bring coffee,” she said resignedly.
Surprisingly, the house was clean but appallingly untidy, especially in the main room, where clearly the artist worked. Rossi waded through fallen sketches and easels, lifted a pile of canvases off a chair for Constance, and looked around for somewhere to put them. Finding no available surface, he dropped them on the floor, gestured for Constance to sit, and swept a pile of brightly colored paint rags off another chair for Solomon.
Then he half sat, half fell onto a three-legged stool and grinned at them. “Soon, I am sober. What can I do for you?”
“I thought,” Solomon said, “you might paint my wife.”If you can see her.
However, Rossi’s gaze was suddenly perfectly focused as he stared at Constance. A gleam entered his bloodshot eyes. He began to smile more naturally and turned his gaze on Solomon. Then he reared back as though trying to take in both of them at once. Solomon exchanged quick glances with Constance and knew she was about to laugh. Which would have set him off, so he looked hastily back to Rossi.
The painter caught his breath. “Damn, I will paint you both. Together. I never see a couple like you before. I have not the words in English. I paint.”
“Not now,” Solomon said hastily, and Rossi laughed uproariously.
The girl came in with a large tray containing coffee and wine, cups and glasses, and a little plate of cicchetti. Rossi did not move, so Solomon rose to take the tray from her. She revealed a table by the painter’s own simple expedient of sweeping everything on it onto the floor, and Solomon set the tray down.
In an understandable breach of etiquette, the girl served their host first, shoving a full cup of coffee into his hands. “Drink. Now.” Then she poured wine for Constance and Solomon and offered them the plate. They each took a savorywith murmured thanks, and she placed the rest under Rossi’s nose. Then she swiped up the jug of wine and retreated.
The artist smiled after her. “Isn’t she wonderful? I don’t know why she puts up with me.”
Neither did Solomon, until his eyes finally fell on the canvas nearest him. It showed the Cannaregio Canal in the rain, and Solomon could almost feel the pattering on his face. The water of the canal seemed to move, slopping over the road above. The painter had caught several figures in flight, too, rushing for cover and slopping through the puddles.
Oh yes, Domenico Rossi was good. Unable to stop himself, Solomon rose and examined the picture more closely. One figure, dancing through puddles with all the fun of a child, bore the unmistakable features of the swerving girl.
Almost afraid, he moved it to look at the picture behind—a portrait. At first glance, it appeared to be just another middle-aged worthy, but this particular worthy’s character quickly seized and held his attention. Surely this was a handsome man of strength, intelligence, and nobility, yet with some subtle, tragic weakness about his eyes and the set of his mouth. It was a face of hope and hopelessness at the same time.
“I know him, don’t I?” Constance said behind him.
“Daniel Manin,” Rossi said. “Our glorious leader in ’48.”
“I’ve never seen him quite like that before.”
It was as if Rossi had painted the doom of Venice into the face of its erstwhile leader, now in exile.
“Waste of a man,” Rossi growled. “But a lot of men were wasted then.”
Solomon dragged his gaze from the portrait. “We plan to be in Venice for the next five weeks or so. Could you paint our portrait in that time?”
Rossi smiled. “I insist upon it, signor. How did you find me?”
Solomon had hoped he would ask that, but he let Constance answer.
“Signora Savelli said you were painting her and her husband.”
A frown darkened Rossi’s face. “I was. Not now.”
“Then you heard of Signor Savelli’s sad demise?”
“Of course. I could still have finished the portrait. It would have been good, and she would have liked to have it.”
“You mean you could finish it without Signor Savelli’s being there?” Constance asked.
“Of course I could.”
“She won’t let you?” Solomon said. “Or you are too delicate to ask?”
Rossi threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Delicate? Me? No, Savelli himself dismissed me, paid for my time as though I am a house painter or a layer of bricks, and dismissed me.”
