Julius impatiently, getting into the boat.
‘No, I’m not. Her Italian isn’t good enough. I’ll call on you. In a week.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Julius said. ‘I’ll be round tomorrow with Godscalc. I forgot to tell you. Father Godscalc is here.’
‘ Is he?’ said Gregorio.
‘Is he?’ said Nicholas. ‘We must try to keep him in business.’
He waved them off and walked back to the glasshouse rather slowly. Undeniably, Julius had had the last word.
Chapter 6
D URING THE DAYS that followed, the act of watching Nicholas vander Poele became a popular Venetian pastime. Among the watchers, no doubt, were those who wished him no particular good. The remainder were divided among those who were captivated by his energy, his person, or his habit of making himself the centre of a welter of bloodshed.
He gave them plenty to look at, even though he was equally skilled (as his colleagues discovered) at evaporating when he wanted no witnesses. They saw him (he had his own two-oar barchetta by now) being swept along this canal or that, usually with his manager or some other colleague beside him. They saw him cross St Mark’s Square at noon with a column of retainers and emerge from the Palace having, so rumour said, paid for his Venetian privileges, including his house, with a loan which would give the captain-general a few peaceful nights.
They saw him on foot, always accompanied, running up and down bridges and along footpaths in many different quarters: by the quays, or among the network of workshops where the weavers were, and the craftsmen in carpentry. He was seen coming out of a rope-walk, and going into a sugar refinery. He was interested, it seemed, in rare books.
And people, of course, visited the Ca’ Niccolò. It was said that he had brought strange things from Cyprus – weaves of silk and patterns of carpets of a kind rarely seen – and was investing money in having them copied. It was said that, in between selling his cargo, he was buying many things, of which the cheapest was hemp seed. It was said (but the Collegio didn’t confirm) that he had acquired an island north of Murano, and imported all that was necessary to erect on it the world’s finest glasshouse. It was said that he was spending ducats in the style of a prince, and much of it on entertaining. This last, Gregorio could endorse.
He had been half-prepared for this phenomenon: the correspondence from Cyprus had foreshadowed it. Translated into physical terms, the shock of one man’s vitality had brought the building to life. Now, as well as the crammed hours of talk and travel, he found himself executing the role of a banquet-manager.
He and Margot, of course, had entertained, although not on this scale. It was his job, as well as his pleasure. His weakness was poetry, but he was fond also of music, and had found himself a master who would teach him the finer points of the fiddle and psaltery. They were acquainted with painters and writers and had a circle of friends with whom they played cards and took wine, as well as the grander circle of clients who would come, now and then, to sit in their courtyard and listen to some new composition, and whom they would attend on some formal, slight occasion in return.
He knew, of course, that many of those same noblemen had land and interests in Cyprus, and that their higher involvement was or had been with Nicholas. This was borne out by the frequency with which Nicholas disappeared into their homes. Most of them lived near the Rialto, having the money and the mercantile interests to justify it. The social life of the Bank lost Nicholas periodically to the Loredani and the Corner and the Bembi, to the Contarini and the Zeno. Sometimes Gregorio and Margot were commanded to accompany Nicholas, even though it was not entirely sure that they had been invited.
The homes so treated generally belonged to merchants with young, lively wives, and especially those living in matrimony with the three
‘No, I’m not. Her Italian isn’t good enough. I’ll call on you. In a week.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Julius said. ‘I’ll be round tomorrow with Godscalc. I forgot to tell you. Father Godscalc is here.’
‘ Is he?’ said Gregorio.
‘Is he?’ said Nicholas. ‘We must try to keep him in business.’
He waved them off and walked back to the glasshouse rather slowly. Undeniably, Julius had had the last word.
Chapter 6
D URING THE DAYS that followed, the act of watching Nicholas vander Poele became a popular Venetian pastime. Among the watchers, no doubt, were those who wished him no particular good. The remainder were divided among those who were captivated by his energy, his person, or his habit of making himself the centre of a welter of bloodshed.
He gave them plenty to look at, even though he was equally skilled (as his colleagues discovered) at evaporating when he wanted no witnesses. They saw him (he had his own two-oar barchetta by now) being swept along this canal or that, usually with his manager or some other colleague beside him. They saw him cross St Mark’s Square at noon with a column of retainers and emerge from the Palace having, so rumour said, paid for his Venetian privileges, including his house, with a loan which would give the captain-general a few peaceful nights.
They saw him on foot, always accompanied, running up and down bridges and along footpaths in many different quarters: by the quays, or among the network of workshops where the weavers were, and the craftsmen in carpentry. He was seen coming out of a rope-walk, and going into a sugar refinery. He was interested, it seemed, in rare books.
And people, of course, visited the Ca’ Niccolò. It was said that he had brought strange things from Cyprus – weaves of silk and patterns of carpets of a kind rarely seen – and was investing money in having them copied. It was said that, in between selling his cargo, he was buying many things, of which the cheapest was hemp seed. It was said (but the Collegio didn’t confirm) that he had acquired an island north of Murano, and imported all that was necessary to erect on it the world’s finest glasshouse. It was said that he was spending ducats in the style of a prince, and much of it on entertaining. This last, Gregorio could endorse.
He had been half-prepared for this phenomenon: the correspondence from Cyprus had foreshadowed it. Translated into physical terms, the shock of one man’s vitality had brought the building to life. Now, as well as the crammed hours of talk and travel, he found himself executing the role of a banquet-manager.
He and Margot, of course, had entertained, although not on this scale. It was his job, as well as his pleasure. His weakness was poetry, but he was fond also of music, and had found himself a master who would teach him the finer points of the fiddle and psaltery. They were acquainted with painters and writers and had a circle of friends with whom they played cards and took wine, as well as the grander circle of clients who would come, now and then, to sit in their courtyard and listen to some new composition, and whom they would attend on some formal, slight occasion in return.
He knew, of course, that many of those same noblemen had land and interests in Cyprus, and that their higher involvement was or had been with Nicholas. This was borne out by the frequency with which Nicholas disappeared into their homes. Most of them lived near the Rialto, having the money and the mercantile interests to justify it. The social life of the Bank lost Nicholas periodically to the Loredani and the Corner and the Bembi, to the Contarini and the Zeno. Sometimes Gregorio and Margot were commanded to accompany Nicholas, even though it was not entirely sure that they had been invited.
The homes so treated generally belonged to merchants with young, lively wives, and especially those living in matrimony with the three
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