Vengeance in Venice Read online

  Philip Gwynne Jones was born in South Wales in 1966, and lived and worked throughout Europe before settling in Scotland in the 1990s. He first came to Italy in 1994, when he spent some time working for the European Space Agency in Frascati. Philip now works as a teacher, writer and translator, and lives in Venice.

  PRAISE FOR PHILIP GWYNNE JONES

  ‘A playful novel, recounted by a witty and engaging narrator . . . as Venetian as a painting by Bellini (or a glass of Bellini). Oh, and it’s also an unputdownable thriller’ – Gregory Dowling, author of Ascension , on The Venetian Game

  ‘A crime book for people with sophisticated tastes: Venice, opera, renaissance art, good food and wine . . . I enjoyed all that and more’ – The Crime Warp

  ‘The Venetian setting is vividly described and Gwynne Jones’s good, fluent writing makes for easy reading’ – Jessica Mann, Literary Review

  ‘A civilized, knowledgeable, charming antidote to the darker reaches of the genre, full of entertaining descriptions of the city . . . Lovely. Makes you want to book a flight to Venice straight away’ – N J Cooper, Bookoxygen.com

  Also by Philip Gwynne Jones

  The Venetian Game

  CONSTABLE

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Constable

  Copyright © Philip Gwynne Jones, 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental .

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-47212-399-2

  Constable

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  For Caroline, with my love

  Vernissage [ver-nuh -sahzh; French ver-nee-sazh]

  1. Also called varnishing day . The day before the opening of an art exhibition traditionally reserved for the artist to varnish the paintings.

  2. A reception at a gallery for an artist whose show is about to open to the public.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Gramsci hopped down from his window seat, padded across my desk and sat down on the keyboard. He prodded me in the chest and gave a little meep of satisfaction. Look at me. What a brilliant cat I am.

  I stared at him, and then at the screen, which was now filling up with a succession of letter Ts. I pushed him off, and rested my finger on the backspace key until I’d erased what he’d done.

  ‘Look, I know it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written, okay?’ I scrolled to the top of the document and reread my afternoon’s work. He jumped on to the back of the chair in order to be able to look over my shoulder. I reached the end of the page and turned to look at him. ‘To be honest, I think you probably understand as much of this as I do.’

  I checked my watch. Time was getting on. I’d got up far too late, and wasted most of the day. I was nursing a mild hangover, building up a backlog of work, and this particular translation really did have to be finished that day.

  Years that ended in an odd number were always good ones for business. Almost every vacant space in the city was being used as a venue for the great art Biennale, and every exhibitor wanted English translation work. Translating from Spanish, Italian and French alone would be enough to make me comfortable for months to come.

  Gramsci hopped down from the back of my chair and came to sit in front of the fan. He did this on a regular basis. I had no idea why, as he didn’t like it. He gave it two seconds, as he always did and then walked across the keyboard again. I sighed and looked at what he’d done. He sat down next to the monitor and stared at me.

  I nodded. ‘You know, I think you might actually be on to something here.’ I read through the rest of my translation. ‘I mean, it actually makes as much sense as everything else. I think you’re getting better at this.’ I scratched him behind his ears which he tolerated for a few seconds before snapping at me. He was becoming sentimental in middle age.

  I reread the document but found it difficult to keep my eyes from slipping off the words. My words. Or at least, my translation of Josè Rafael Villanueva’s. They sort of made sense in that they at least formed themselves into recognisable sentences and paragraphs but the meaning – and I was pretty sure there was a meaning to be found in there somewhere – refused to be grasped. And I’d written the bloody thing. What chance would other people have?

  I sighed. How many of these things had I done in the past month? I was, of course, grateful for the mountain of work and yet I was starting to feel as if the more translations I worked on, the more I was losing my ability to speak my own language.

  I printed it off, before realising that I hadn’t erased Gramsci’s key strokes. My finger hovered over the backspace key for a second, and then I stopped. I’d keep it as it was. Just to see if anybody noticed.

  There had once been a time when I had loved the Venice Biennale, the great contemporary art exhibition that had run since the end of the nineteenth century (with a few short breaks for various unpleasant reasons). Every two years the great and not-so-great, good and not-so-good of the art world would make their way to the thirty national pavilions in the Giardini and the great exhibition spaces in the cavernous halls of the Arsenale. Almost every empty palazzo was pressed into service as a national pavilion for those who hadn’t got in at the beginning and been granted a space in the gardens. Long-disused churches were opened up for the purpose of displaying art. Many of those that were still in use took advantage of the money flowing in to the city to host artists’ works, subject, of course, to the work being of a suitably respectful nature. Between May and November, the city practically ate, slept and breathed contemporary art.

  And I had loved it all. Ten years ago, when I had arrived in the city for the first time, I had spent the entire holiday moving from pavilion to palazzo to church in a Stendhal-like daze. It
wasn’t all brilliant, of course. Over the years, I’d developed a rule of thumb that about ninety per cent was rubbish. But that still left a substantial body of work that was, at least, pretty good, and it was the possibility, however small, of every unvisited space hiding something genuinely fantastic that kept me moving onwards.

  Then it became part of my job, and everything changed. Every day I would feel myself drowning in an ocean of almost unintelligible verbiage. Every year I seemed to write more and visit less. Everything was starting to feel stale and second-hand, and when I did visit the Giardini or Arsenale I felt myself in need of an emergency visit to the nearest church to look at a Titian or a Tintoretto. Even a Palma il Giovane would sometimes come as a blessed relief. I thought it was the fault of all the translation work. But I had to admit it was also possible that I was just becoming properly middle-aged.

  The doorbell rang. Federica, of course. I buzzed her up. A hug and a kiss.

  ‘So, did you have a nice time with Dario last night?’

  ‘How did you know I was with Dario?’

  She waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen. ‘An empty pizza box and a bottle of beer. Nowadays you only get a pizza after a night out with Dario. Secondly,’ and here she winced ever-so-slightly, ‘Blue Oyster Cult on the hi-fi. Again, you only play Blue Oyster Cult after a night out with Dario.’

  ‘That’s only because you won’t let me. But otherwise very good, dottoressa . Anything else?’

  ‘Well, yes. You rang me at about a quarter to one to tell me how much you loved me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was an awkward silence. I scratched my head. ‘Yes. Yes, now you mention it, I do kind of remember that.’

  ‘Oh good. I was hoping you hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Did you have an early start today?’

  ‘Yes. As I told you last night.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry, I’m afraid that bit’s dropped off the end as well. Were you back at the Frari?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On top of scaffolding? Very high up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The sort of thing you need a proper night’s sleep before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I nodded. ‘Sorry.’ I gave her what I hoped was my best disarming smile. ‘But it was kind of a cool thing to do, wasn’t it?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Really not cool at all.’ Then she gave up trying to look serious and smiled and touched my cheek. ‘But it was nice.’ She looked over at the desk. Gramsci, evidently worried about papers flying away in the breeze from the fan, had made himself a Useful Cat by sitting on top of them. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Busy. Busy busy busy. This stuff is hard work.’

  ‘I know. But still, it’s only for a few months. And the money’s good.’

  ‘Oh yes. I mean, I’m almost having to turn work away. But I don’t really enjoy it.’

  She sniffed. ‘Come on, it’s got to be better than – what was the last thing you did – a frying-pan catalogue?’

  ‘Frying pans are fine. I know what they’re for. I even bought a few of them. In fact, the money I made on the translation I then immediately spent on buying the bloody things. But all this,’ I waved my hand in the direction of Gramsci and his pile of papers, ‘all this arty-farty stuff is doing my head in.’

  ‘Think of the money, tesoro . You’ll be able to take a month or two off after this. Maybe we can even go on holiday? And don’t say arty-farty, it makes you sound like a philistine. You’re not a philistine.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it. I’ve taken an unintelligible Spanish document and turned it into an unintelligible English one. Here, take a look at this.’ I pushed Gramsci off the stack, and grabbed Mr Villanueva’s abstract.

  She took it from me and read for a few minutes. ‘Oh right, it’s about Chavez and the revolution.’

  ‘It’s the Venezuelan Pavilion. It’s always about Chavez and the revolution. But does it actually make any sense to you?’

  She read on. ‘ “. . . thus Josè Rafael Villanueva’s installation refers back to classical Marxist theory of historical inevitability, whilst at the same time creating a new paradigm for a post-capitalist society. Dialectical materialism is dead. Long live bningydega.’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘What’s bningydega?’

  I smiled. ‘Gramsci did that. I think I’m going to leave it in.’

  ‘You’re not!’

  ‘Come on, he’s – what do you say – “made an intervention”. I think it’s rather good.’

  She tried to look serious, failed again and laughed. ‘Okay. It’s funny. But you can’t leave it in. This is your job. And who’s that guy you know, the Venezuelan consul?’

  ‘Enrico.’

  ‘Enrico. He’s sort of a friend isn’t he? He could get into trouble if you let this go out.’

  I sighed. ‘I know. You’re right.’ I sat down and pushed Gramsci away. Then I changed the word ‘bningydega’ to ‘dialectical materialism’ and printed the whole piece off once more. ‘I’ll send him a copy tonight and he can get some laminates made up for tomorrow if he wants.’

  I powered down the computer. ‘And that, I think, is everything for today.’

  ‘Great. So what are we doing?’

  ‘I thought we might go downstairs to the Brazilians’ for a Negroni. And then I’ll cook dinner.’

  ‘Lovely. What are we having?’

  ‘Well it was going to be fish but, er, I didn’t make it to the market in time. I’ve got some aubergines and some peppers. A few tomatoes. Best Pasta Dish in the World Ever?’ I wandered through to the kitchen, and turned the oven on. ‘If I put the peppers in on the lowest setting they should be properly roasted by the time we get back. I don’t think there’s a risk of the house burning down. Unless it’s a multiple Negroni night, and I think we’re both too old for that now.’

  She smiled. ‘Speak for yourself.’ Then she pulled me towards her and kissed me. ‘And I love you too, you know?’

  Eduardo slid Federica’s drink across the bar, and then made to do the same with mine. Then he paused, and tilted his head to one side, looking me up and down. Then he turned to Federica.

  ‘He’s looking well, you know.’

  She smiled. ‘He scrubs up well enough.’

  ‘You can see the difference. He looks like a new man.’

  ‘Well he’s cooking properly again. That must help.’

  ‘Not just that. He hardly has breakfast here any more. And those multi-Negroni nights . . . well, I don’t know if we’ll ever see them again. To be honest, takings are down. I might have to sell up.’

  ‘You can’t do that. You’re the nearest thing he has to a father confessor.’

  I waved at them both. ‘I’m still here you know? And incidentally I have my cat to confess my numerous sins to.’

  Ed passed my drink over to me. ‘So, still working hard for the Biennale, Nat?’

  ‘Yep. And likely to be for the next few months. The work for the national pavilions is done but there’s always a bit of work for small exhibitions and independent shows. They don’t pay that much, but they’re worth doing.’

  ‘And any free invites? Openings, meeting the celebrities – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. British pavilion at the Giardini. A lot of the big hitters are going to be there. Journalists, critics, the British ambassador’s coming up from Rome. The Biennale curator will probably drop by as well, what’s his name?’ I turned to Federica.

  ‘Scarpa. Vincenzo Scarpa.’

  Ed shook his head. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I said.

  Federica sipped at her drink. ‘Very intelligent man. Ferociously intelligent, one might say. He’s also the rudest man in Italy.’

  ‘Wow.’ Eduardo and I answered as one.

  ‘Have you met him?’ I asked.

  ‘Once. At an opening nearly five years ago. He graced me with about thirty seconds of his precio
us time.’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘There are two sorts of people in this world. Those who hate Vincenzo Scarpa and those who haven’t met him. Oh, and I suppose there’s his mother. Possibly.’

  ‘Blimey. You’re kind of putting me off the whole idea of tomorrow.’

  She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll need to get around most of the main pavilions. He’ll swan in for two minutes to be nasty to the artist, and then he’ll head off again. He probably won’t even speak to you.’

  ‘But I’m the honorary consul.’

  ‘Nathan, the rudest man in Italy works to a very tight schedule. If he has the chance of being rude to you or rude to the ambassador, who do you think he’s going to choose?’

  My face fell. ‘I wish you were coming. I feel a bit scared now.’

  ‘No time, tesoro . Why didn’t you ask Dario?’

  ‘I did.’ She opened her mouth to speak but I interrupted. ‘I asked him after you told me you were busy, okay? But if he’s coming in to Venice in the morning he’d like to bring Valentina and Emily as well. Make a day of it.’

  ‘And you couldn’t get them a pass?’

  ‘The problem is little Emily. There’s a very strict no kids policy. No ifs, no buts.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Eduardo.

  ‘I don’t know. Probably something terribly naughty. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.’

  Federica gave me a hard stare. I reached for my Negroni, and drained it. I checked my watch. ‘The peppers should be roasted by now. Let’s go and eat. I probably won’t see you tomorrow, Ed.’

  His face fell. ‘But you do still love me, Nathan?’

  ‘You know I do, Ed.’

  He grinned. ‘Have a good time, yeah?’

  ‘I’m sure I will. The best part of the Biennale is always the vernissage .’

  Chapter 2

  It would have been nice to arrive by water taxi. In all my years in Venice I had never used one. There was something so grand, so sophisticated about the image of them, but they cost an arm and a leg, and occasionally another limb would need to be thrown in as a tip as well. It would, as usual, have to be a vaporetto . I made my way up to Rialto and realised I’d mistimed things.