Vengeance in Venice Read online

  The queue stretched out of the pontile and down as far the fondamenta . It was still early May but the weather was starting to get hot now and I really didn’t want to have to stand for the whole journey, away from any source of ventilation. What to do? I could get a coffee and wait for the next boat to pass and hope to be first in the line for the following one. I checked my watch. No time.

  The part of the pontile reserved for those disembarking was enticingly empty. There was also a No Entry sign. You were not, under any circumstances, supposed to wait in that area. Except, of course, unless you really wanted to. Everybody did it, from time to time. In Through the Out Door , as Led Zeppelin would have said. I strode up as if it were the most natural thing in the world, parked myself on a metal trunk that the marinai used for storage, took out my newspaper and pretended to read in order to shield myself from any accusing stares. It would, almost certainly, be all right.

  It wasn’t. An elderly lady with a shopping trolley started haranguing me as soon as I sat down. ‘ Signore! Signore! ’

  I pretended not to have heard, and buried my head in the football results. ‘ Signore! The queue starts outside. You mustn’t wait there.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m going to work. It’s important.’

  ‘I’m going to the shops. It’s important for me too. I need to sit down.’

  Someone else joined in. ‘I’m going to work too. Get to the back of the line.’

  I made one final, despairing effort. ‘Look. There’s room for us all here.’ I patted the space next to me. ‘Sit down here, signora .’ I’d picked the wrong day, obviously. The entire front row was now shouting at me. Italians are very good at those strange conversations where people pretend to be shouting at each other and having a proper fight for five minutes before the situation resolves itself and the problem just goes away. I began to realise it wasn’t going to be one of those occasions. When an ominously big and beardy fishmonger started remonstrating as well I decided to try and beat a dignified retreat. I folded my paper away and walked back to the fondamenta . Ironic cheers followed me along my way.

  I was last on to the vaporetto , the marinaio practically having to push the last few stragglers on, like commuters on the Tokyo underground being stuffed on to trains. I shared half my personal space with the rucksack of the backpacker next to me, who ignored the marinaio ’s plea to take it off and put it on the deck; something he might have been prepared to do had there been an inch of space there. Most people, hopefully, would be getting off at the San Zaccaria stop for Piazza San Marco. That was only twenty minutes away. But it was going to be a long twenty minutes.

  Sometimes Venice could be a hard city to live in. Sometimes, I thought, you really had to want to live here.

  The crush did indeed thin out a little, but I was still sweating uncomfortably by the time we reached the Arsenale stop, the last one before Giardini. I decided to get off anyway. It wasn’t a long walk, and it might help me to cool down a little. Many of the great and perhaps not quite so good had parked their maxi-yachts along the riva here, granting them a magnificent view over the bacino of San Marco and, coincidentally, blocking off said view for the local residents.

  After ten minutes’ walk I was at the entrance to the Giardini, that great, green space that was one of Napoleon’s better legacies to Venice. I walked past the statues of Wagner and Verdi, both of whom had had their noses removed in an act of vandalism a couple of years previously. There was no sign of the two of them ever being repaired. The two titans of nineteenth-century opera would probably always stare nose-lessly out at passers-by.

  Venice is short of public gardens and so it had always seemed a shame to me that so much of its biggest park remained closed off for so much of the time. Indeed, the public wouldn’t be allowed in for three days yet, as the art world’s press mixed with artists, curators, collectors and oligarchs during the preview. Crowds were forming at the entrance. There was still a pecking order, even amongst the chosen few.

  I had made up a little time so I stopped for a caffè macchiato at Paradiso, and took it outside. From here I could see the whole of the bacino , the island of Giudecca, the church of the Salute and the entrance to the Grand Canal. I hadn’t been up this way since, when? The last Biennale? I’d forgotten just how majestic that view was. Oh yes, you really had to want to live in Venice. And this was why people really wanted to live here.

  I walked past the ever-growing line and waved my pass to the guard. She took a brief look at it, and punched the number into her handset. Then she looked confused, looked at me again, and re-entered the number. Her device bleeped and flashed a red light in a way that didn’t seem terribly encouraging. She drew a deep breath. ‘This thing hasn’t been working all morning,’ and waved me through.

  My feet crunched on the gravel as I walked. The sky was clear, the sun was shining and, away from the suffocating crush of the vaporetto , it was just – just – warm enough. It was pretty much the perfect time of year to be in Venice. And it was certainly the perfect time to be at the Biennale; before actually seeing anything, when everything was unknown and everything was potentially brilliant. I smiled to myself. Months of translation work had left me feeling more than a bit cynical about the whole jamboree but – despite oligarchs, maxi-yachts and unintelligible abstracts – there was still a bit of magic about it. Some of the pavilions – the clean, minimalist lines of Scandinavia and Denmark, the jaggy modernism of Alvar Aalto’s Finnish building – seemed to reflect national stereotypes. Others were quirkier. The Hungarian pavilion was, somehow, the most Hungarian-looking building ever designed. The unfortunate Uruguayans were exiled to what had been a small warehouse around the back of the gardens. I stopped to give a quick wave to Enrico, engaged in conversation with a group of journalists outside the Venezuelan pavilion, a 1950s work by Carlo Scarpa.

  ‘Nathan, Nathan, wait up!’ I recognised the voice. I turned to see my Romanian friend Gheorghe jogging up the gravel path behind me, dressed, ever so slightly incongruously, in full evening dress. He smiled. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Meeting and greeting, Gheorghe. Opening day for the Brits. And, well, everyone I suppose. How about you? Come to cheer on the Romanians?’

  ‘Maybe later, Nathan. First day of work.’ He smiled.

  ‘Work? I thought you were still carrying dogs across bridges?’

  ‘I am, but I don’t do so much leg work these days. That whole operation is kind of franchised out. Leaves me a bit more time for other projects.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. I’m glad it’s going well. So what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m a dancing Frenchman.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘A dancing Frenchman. That’s their installation this year. Half a dozen of us at a time, we’re just dressed up like this, in evening dress. And when somebody enters the pavilion we do a little dance around them. There’s some words to go with it as well. It’s fun. Come along later.’

  ‘I will. But, erm, why you? I mean, with you not being French and all.’

  ‘They couldn’t get enough, Nathan. An Insufficiency of Frenchmen, they’re calling it. They wanted people who could dance a bit and do a French accent.’

  ‘So they called you?’

  ‘Bit of luck really. I was helping a young woman’s poodle over the Rialto Bridge. That’s a nice route to have, you can have a proper chat with people. Anyway, it turned out she’s working for the curator, told me to get in touch.’ He smiled. ‘It’s good pay as well. And nearly six months’ work.’

  ‘I’m glad. Could be a whole new career for you?’

  ‘You never know. It’s a bit of a niche market, mind, but the skills are transferable.’ I could never quite tell when Gheorghe was being serious.

  ‘They might have called me. I speak French.’

  ‘Are you much of a dancer, Nathan?’

  ‘Not for the dancing. For the translation.’

  We strolled together along the gravel paths in the
early morning sun, up to the three great pavilions of Germany, France and Great Britain. All imposing, and all just a little bit pompous in comparison to some of the more modern, funkier ones we’d passed. We shook hands. ‘ Buon lavoro , Gheorghe.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’ He looked around. ‘There’s a few photographers around. Maybe we’ll both be in the papers?’

  ‘That’d be nice. See you later.’ He walked off, giving a little twirl along the way as if already getting into character.

  A group of young people in regulation Art World Black T-shirts were handing out catalogues and goody bags at the entrance to the British pavilion. I took one from a young woman, and glanced around.

  ‘No prosecco?’

  She smiled. ‘No prosecco! They won’t let us. Too dangerous, they say.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ I checked my watch. ‘I know it’s only half past ten but what could be dangerous about a few drinks and cicheti ?’

  She smiled again. ‘You’ll see.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s another complaint about the lack of drinks, isn’t it?’ I turned around. The speaker was a man of about my age, wearing a dark suit over a plain black T-shirt. He had a thin growth of stubble, and hair just ever-so-slightly too long. He attempted to look serious, failed, and then grinned. ‘I’m Paul Considine. And it’s my fault that there’s no prosecco.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘This is my pavilion. Hang on, that sounds a bit pretentious doesn’t it? Anyway, I’m the artist.’ We shook hands.

  ‘I’m Nathan Sutherland.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Ambassador!’

  ‘Nothing so grand. Merely the honorary consul.’

  ‘That still sounds quite grand. Pleased to meet you. I hope you enjoy it. So tell me, do you live here all the time?’ I opened my mouth to reply, but he turned his head to look over my shoulder. ‘Oh hell, I’m sorry but my agent’s waving at me. He’s probably worried I’ve forgotten my speech or something. I’m going to have to run. We’ll talk later, okay?’ He gave my arm a squeeze, and ambled off.

  It felt a bit odd cruising a lap of the crowd without a glass in my hand, but I did my best. I spotted someone I vaguely recognised, an elegant grey-haired man in his late fifties in an expensive camel coat. The British ambassador. I walked over.

  ‘Good morning. William Maxwell, I presume? I’m Nathan Sutherland.’

  ‘Ah, our famous honorary consul. Pleased to meet you.’ A deep, rich brown voice that could have been acquired at the same shop as the camel coat. ‘I don’t think we’ve spoken before, Nathan. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Nearly six years now. Only two of them as consul.’

  ‘That explains it. It would have been my predecessor who came up for the last Biennale. You’re very lucky to live here. I’m very jealous.’

  ‘Well, Rome must be lovely too.’

  ‘Oh it is. But it’s chaotic. It’s so wonderful to get away from the traffic. I really must try and come up more often. Are you busy?’

  ‘Not so much. The usual things. Lost passports, stolen property. Nothing terribly serious ever happens.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  I knew what he meant, and gave a little smile. ‘You heard about that then?’

  ‘British consul rescued by man on motorcycle whilst attempting to stop a valuable work of art falling into the Grand Canal. Yes, it did rather make the news.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He smiled and patted me on the back. ‘So, do you know anyone else here?’

  ‘No one at all. My partner met the curator once.’

  Maxwell discreetly pointed his thumb over to the main doors – still closed – where a little man in horn-rimmed glasses was in animated conversation. He had the look of a slightly flabby Dmitri Shostakovich.

  ‘That’s him?’ I said ‘Vincenzo Scarpa? That’s the demon curator?’

  ‘Don’t be fooled’, said Maxwell. ‘He punched someone in the face on live TV only a few months ago.’ I whistled. He continued. ‘The chap he’s speaking to – the older one – is Gordon Blake-Hoyt. Affectionately known as GBH.’

  ‘Oh him. I’ve heard of him. Works for The Times , or someone like that. Hates anything modern, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s him. The two of them seem to be getting on rather well, don’t they?’

  Indeed they were. Scarpa’s hand was resting on GBH’s shoulder, and the two of them were laughing. They paused for a moment, as a third man joined them. Paul Considine. Then they started sniggering again, as if at some private joke that he was not privy to. Considine was trying to smile, but looked awkward and embarrassed. It was evident he was trying to join in with the conversation, but the others seemed studiedly bored by his company and paid him little attention. Eventually he gave up and wandered off, shaking his head.

  ‘And who’s that?’ asked Maxwell.

  ‘Now that’s our artist. Paul Considine. We’ve just met, but I’m afraid I don’t know very much about him.’

  ‘Me neither. Only what I’ve read here.’ He brandished a copy of the press release. ‘These things never really add much, do they? At least this one’s written in English. I do wonder about some of them.’

  I gave a watery smile. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I get asked to quite of lot of these sorts of things. I expect you do too. Never quite sure what to make of them. Still, the best part of the Biennale is— ’

  ‘—the vernissage .’ We both laughed.

  ‘Ah, it seems as if something’s happening.’

  A photographer was moving through the crowd, gently manoeuvring people into position outside the entrance. I found myself in the second row next to Shostakovich’s chubbier double. I smiled at him as if to say, ‘Isn’t this terribly exciting and a bit embarrassing at the same time’ but he didn’t even meet my gaze. Without a word, he grabbed the shoulder of the man in front of him, pulled him back, and took his place in the front row next to Gordon Blake-Hoyt. My new companion turned to me and silently mouthed the word ‘wanker’ as he briefly flashed the corna behind Scarpa’s head. I grinned and gave a little nod, and then the photographer was telling us all to hold still and smile. A few snaps, and then a guy with slicked-back hair and wearing a pin-striped suit walked out of the front row and turned to greet us.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, signore e signori . Ambassador,’ he nodded respectfully. ‘Honoured guests. Thank you for your patience. I’m not going to say too much. We’ll be going in in just a few minutes’ time – some of you have seen it already, for the rest of you I’m sure you’ll think it’s been worth the wait. But in the meantime I’d just like to introduce my dear friend Paul Considine.’

  There was a ripple of applause but nothing seemed to be happening. I looked to my left. Considine was staring into space, oblivious to everything. The woman to his left took his arm, and whispered in his ear. He shook his head, as if to clear it, stepped forward and turned to face us.

  His friend smiled at him. ‘Just a few words, Paul.’

  Considine cleared his throat and half raised his hand. ‘Erm, not much to say really.’ He spoke quietly and I strained to hear exactly what he was saying. ‘It’s just brilliant to be here. Thanks to the British Council. Thanks to Lewis – Mr Fitzgerald – my agent here. For all the work he’s done. And for being a great friend. It’s fair to say I couldn’t . . . No, fair to say, I wouldn’t be here without him.’

  His voice was cracking. He took a few deep breaths and continued.

  ‘It’s been difficult at times. It’s difficult for me to be an artist at times. Sometimes we forget, that when we create something . . . when we put something out for people to look at, we give them the power to hurt us. So in a way, that’s what this whole piece is about. It’s called “Seven by Seven by Seven”. It’s all in the title.’

  He stopped again. The air was thick with embarrassment. In front of me, Blake-Hoyt and Scarpa were whispering to each other. I stared at Lewis, trying to catch
his eye. For God’s sake, just step in and say something, please. But then Considine seemed to rally a little and gave a half-smile. ‘Anyway, thanks to all of you. I hope – well, I just hope you like it. It means a great deal to be here. And I’m very proud, and very happy. Thank you again.’ He gave a little bow and waved to the group of black-clad acolytes. ‘I think we can open up then?’

  Two of them walked forward and pushed open the great double doors.

  Scarpa shook hands with Blake-Hoyt, patted him on the cheek and, without so much as a glance inside, headed off in the opposite direction.

  The rest of the crowd streamed in. Before I entered, I turned back to look at Considine. He was standing by himself, staring into space and looking utterly, terribly alone.

  Chapter 3

  I immediately understood the reason for the ‘no children’ rule.

  Glass. Glass everywhere. Great vertical sheets of broken glass, glass spikes, broken mirrors, powdered glass underfoot. Only a thin line of tape on the floor served as a barrier to the spectator.

  I struggled to remember how the pavilion had looked on my last visit, two years ago. It had been a more conventional gallery space then, divided up into white cubes. Now it had been completely remodelled into one gigantic, single room. Two glass staircases, on opposite sides, led to an upstairs gallery, three narrow glass-floored corridors overlooking the central area.

  I made my way upstairs, a little unwillingly. I’ve never been good with heights, but that wasn’t the problem. It was the effect of feeling oneself suspended in the air above a valley of jagged, broken glass. The safety barriers – glass themselves, and a little lower than I’d have liked – provided no real feeling of security. One wall was lined with seven glass scythes. Another with seven swords. Another with seven daggers. It was simultaneously one of the most beautiful and terrifying things I’d ever seen.

  As I looked down, the mirrors cast back distorted, broken reflections of my face. I rested my hands on the (glass) railing, closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I felt someone’s hand clap me on the back and I choked back a scream. I turned around, ready to let rip.