The Bellini Card by Jason Goodwin

“Whatever they say, madame, it was true only of the lancers.”
    She gave him an almost tender look. “The lancers.”
    “You were telling me about the pattern on the floor,” he said uncomfortably.
    “The Sand-Reckoner’s diagram,” Carla said. “It has other names—this one, from Archimedes’ effort to calculate the size of the universe.” She smiled. “Now you know—and here’s your coffee.”
    Palewski took the grappa, downed it, and replaced the glass on the tray. He drank the coffee standing, as she did. There was barely a stick of furniture in the salon.
    “Barbieri told me you were hunting in Venice for something rare.”
    I found you, Palewski thought. Aloud he said, “Yes. I mentioned Bellini, and he laughed at me, just about. Said we’d have to steal it.”
    “Steal it? A respectable man like Count Barbieri?”
    “It sounded like a joke.”
    She gave a wan smile. “I didn’t know the count was capable of a joke where money was involved. But Bellini? I admire your ambition, signore—but I doubt you will succeed.”
    “Perhaps not. It was just a rumor. I was acting on impulse.”
    “Yes, Signor Brett. That I can believe.”
    “You divined as much from my fencing, madame.”
    “Perhaps before. It was the way you accepted my challenge. After all, you came here expecting to have coffee with an old lady,” she added with a laugh. “I’m glad you gave me a bout. It was—gallant of you. I hope you will come back. I practice every morning, at this time.”
    Palewski bowed.
    “But come tonight, as well,” she said, holding out her hand. Palewski brought it to his lips. “Seven o’clock. And Count Barbieri will be here. You never know, signore, he may have stolen you a Bellini already.”

 
    T HE Croat was getting worse: his moods, his withdrawals, were becoming more frequent. Even his products were less reliable. In a year or two, Popi considered, he might be useless to him.
    He saw it finally: the shadowy figure of a man in a top hat standing at a window overlooking the Grand Canal.
    Drawn obviously from life—what of it the Croat ever saw. Nobody had worn top hats in Canaletto’s day.
    Popi brought his index finger up slowly so the Croat could see and pointed at the offending image.
    “Change the hat,” he said. He did not think that after all this time he would need to say, or do, any more.
    The Croat did not even glance at the picture. He simply stared at Popi with an expression of sullen disappointment.
    “Change the hat,” Popi said slowly. “Then we varnish the pictures. And then, my friend, two bottles.” He held up two fingers.
    The Croat looked at the fingers, then for the first time at the picture. It was agreed.
    Popi’s jaw worked. Two bottles—if he kept his side of the bargain the Croat would be incapacitated for a week. But at least Popi would have something to sell the American. He couldn’t afford to wait.
    “Take this one through to the studio,” Popi said.
    The Croat lifted the painting down and carried it into the back room, where Popi kept his paints and varnishes.
    Popi sat down at his desk and began to compose a letter to S. Brett, connoisseur. A meeting really ought to be arranged, perhaps—if Signor Brett thought it convenient—sometime next week.
    Next week, when the varnish would have hardened on his Canalettos.

 
    P ALEWSKI went home to change his shirt and spent a few minutes in front of the mirror with his elbows out and his hands by his chest, flexing his torso from side to side.
    “Psha!” he exclaimed aloud. “You’re an idiot, Mr. Brett!”
    There was a note on the table below the mirror. It was from Ruggerio, regretting that he was unable to accompany Signor Brett that day. He suggested various places he might like to visit on his own—none of them, Palewski noted with amusement, likely to involve much outlay of cash—and the possibility that they might visit the Murano glassworks together the following day.
    “The Murano