“Estimated market value?”
“How does a hundred million sound?”
“Not as sweet as two hundred,” replied Chiara. “Or two fifty, for that matter.”
“In that case, I’ll need a couple of heavy hitters.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A Modigliani would be nice.” Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe a Van Gogh.”
“How about a Renoir?”
“Why not?”
“Cézanne?”
“A fine idea.”
“You should probably give your girlfriend a Monet, too. Nothing moves the needle quite like a Monet.”
“Especially a Monet with a murky provenance.”
“Yes,” agreed Chiara. “The murkier the better.”
* * *
For the next ten days, Gabriel was the first member of the restoration team to arrive at the church each morning and the last to leave. Typically, he granted himself two brief intermezzi, both of which he took at Bar al Ponte. Bartolomeo, on a windblown Wednesday, quite unexpectedly raised the subject of Gennaro Castelli, the much beloved counterman at Bar Cupido.
“He’s wondering why you haven’t been stopping there lately. He’s concerned you might be angry with him.”
“Why would I be angry at a barman?”
“He didn’t go into specifics.”
“And anyway,” said Gabriel, “how does he even know who I am? I’ve never told him my name.”
“Venice is a small town, Signore Allon. Everyone knows who you are.” Bartolomeo indicated a platter of tramezzini. “Tomato and cheese or tuna and egg?”
Gabriel returned to the church to find that Adrianna Zinetti had rearranged his work trolley and stolen his copy of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden string quartet, a piece she loathed. She surrendered the CD that evening during the vaporetto ride from Murano to the Fondamente Nove. As they walked past Bar Cupido, she smiled at Gennaro Castelli through the glass.
“Friend of yours?” asked Gabriel.
“I should be so lucky. He’s quite luscious.”
“Signore Luscious has a thing for my wife.”
“Yes, I know. He told me.”
“And you, of course, told Chiara.”
“I might have,” Adrianna admitted. “She found it quite amusing.”
“What are young Gennaro’s intentions?”
“Harmless, I’m sure. He’s terrified of you.”
“He should be.”
“Come on, Gabriel. He’s the nicest guy in the world.”
Gabriel saw Adrianna to the door of her apartment building in Cannaregio, then walked to the Rialto and caught a Number 2 to San Tomà. Over dinner that evening, Chiara did not speak the name of her not-so-secret admirer from Bar Cupido, despite the apologetic text message she had undoubtedly received from Adrianna minutes before Gabriel’s arrival. Instead, she requested a progress report on the altarpiece and, satisfied with Gabriel’s update, suggested he take Raphael to his math lesson the following afternoon.
“I’m rather busy at the moment.”
“You’re nearly finished, Gabriel. Besides, I think you’ll find it interesting.”
The lesson took place in a study room at the university, where Raphael’s tutor was a graduate student. Gabriel sat outside in the corridor with Irene, listening to the murmur of voices within. His son, having already mastered basic algebra and geometry, was now wrestling with more advanced inferential and deductive concepts. Though Gabriel understood little of the material, it was obvious that he had somehow sired a genius. His pride was tempered by the knowledge that minds such as Raphael’s were prone to disorders and disturbances. He was already troubled by his son’s profound remoteness. His thoughts always seemed to be elsewhere.
During the walk home, the boy declined Gabriel’s invitation to discuss what he had learned that afternoon. Irene walked a few paces before them, pausing every now and again to jump into a puddle.
“Why is she doing that?” asked Raphael.
“Because she’s eight.”
“It’s a composite number, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
