The Secrets of Casanova (44 page)

Finally, he arrived before an old structure that matched the
address
on his appointment letter. The plainness of the exterior, he knew,
disguised a refined interior. The peculiar way in which the houses were constructed also meant that the stairs blocked light from the sky, even now at midday. It was therefore customary to provide a lighted lantern, which Jacques now spied at the bottom of the steps.

After climbing a number of staircases, he knew the only door
would be at the top. His breathing grew heavier with each turn. Was it the exertions or the chilly air, Jacques wondered? To speak the truth, he was uneasy.

Making his way up the final staircase, he took in several heavy breaths and, steadying himself, knocked. The door creaked open.

“Chevalier Casanova? Welcome.”

Jacques frowned at the title before stepping through the
darkened doorway. A hand relieved him of the lantern.

Jacques immediately took in the large room. There was one exit
only—an impressively carved door at the far end. Ornate sconces
illuminated the bright orange walls; on each wall hung a massive vase brimming with flowers. The high ceiling was festooned with gaily-colored silks, each billowing freely above the marbled floor. He noted a low table at one side of the room, while at the opposite side, draped across an ottoman, were crimson velvet robes with furbelows and a hat sparkling with a rosette of diamonds. Overstuffed pillows strewn around the room completed the impression of a sultan’s seraglio. Jacques perceived ostentation and wondered whom this patrician endeavored to impress.

“I shall also take your cloak, Chevalier,” said the leathery-
looking manservant. “And sword.”

“I prefer to wear my cloak, and I will retain—” Jacques reached
behind his back for his dagger.
It’s not on its hanger! I forgot it at
Tomaso’s
.

“I shall keep my sword,” Jacques said anxiously.

“A sensible man must,” answered a smooth voice.

For a moment, Jacques thought he recognized the masculine
voice.

He directed his interest to the speaker, who entered from the far door. The black silk hood and mantle of Carnivale covered the man’s head and shoulders, while his face was hidden under a mustachioed mask. A long tabarro in scarlet—a color denoting nobility—stretched to the floor and was half thrown open, revealing a well-turned calf,
then velvet breeches, doublet, and ruff. Jacques knew and
recognized the comic character of Capitano, insolent braggart and vainglorious
bully who, when acting upon the stage, is rattled by the mere rustle of leaves or cowers when a fellow character simply strikes a
menacing pose.

Jacques’ insides churned.
What passes?

“Again, welcome, Chevalier,” Capitano said. With two clicks of his fingers, he caught his servant’s attention. “Your services will not be required this afternoon, Dandolo.”

“Illustrissimo, si. Yes, illustrious one,” the servant replied. He
bowed and left.

Suddenly, every pore in Jacques’ skin burned hot. Red hot. “
Illustrissimo, si
!”
Are these Esther’s murderers
?!

“I welcome you on behalf of the Most Serene Republic,”
Capitano said.

Jacques slowly slid his hand to the hilt of his smallsword before executing his most stylish bow.

“Captain, with humbleness I ask—do I present myself to Zorzi Contarini dal Zaffo?”

“Your letter specified
your
attendance. It did not, however, say dal Zaffo would attend you.”

Jacques’ mind raced to figure the game.

“I’ve taken great pains to have a delectable feast prepared,” said the captain. “I do hope you’ve not eaten your main meal.”

“No.”

“Do you like this room?” roared the host as he took on the
personality of Capitano, showing off his fit and trim physique and twirling the mustache on his mask. Not waiting for Jacques’ answer, he paraded to a sidewall and pulled on a short cord. A turntable rotated out of the wall, full with a dozen dishes. “This convenience,” he pointed to the device, “means we may dispense with servants so
that we may discuss the business at hand.” He stepped toward
Jacques. “Please take this covered tureen and put it at my place setting on the table. I shall bring us a casserole.” He gestured for Jacques to sit on a pillow at the low table.

Jacques glanced at the front and rear doorways, then with one eye on his host, he sat.

The captain removed a bottle of wine from the turntable and walked to the table. “It was my prestige and influence that resulted in your summons today, Jacques Casanova. If you thrive at this preliminary interview, the Inquisitori de Stato is amenable to my recommendation.”

I now know the man behind the mask
. Jacques placed a hand on the
table and abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “I
remind you that I’m a true Venetian who never forgets or forgives a slight.”

He succeeded in remaining stoic while the captain removed his tricorne, twisted his Capitano mask to the back of his head, removed
his bautta and tabarro. “May I pour you a glass of wine?” asked the
moon-faced man with the aquiline nose. “It is, I assure you, an excellent Scopolo.” A sparkle flooded his piercing blue eyes as he leaned toward Jacques. “I regret I have no Spaniol to offer today as I did in our first meeting.”

Jacques remained calm when he recalled the humiliating slap he had months ago received. He stared at the man who had given him that slap and made certain that Cavaliere Michele Grimani took the first sip of wine.

BIDING HIS TIME, JACQUES
obliged his host by recounting
inconsequential anecdotes, a favor that was shortly returned.

Two glasses of wine and several dishes later, Cavaliere Grimani, eyes gleaming in the candlelight, came to his point. “I’m prepared to tender a position, a worthy position, to you. It comes with generous
remuneration. And a significant title: chevalier. I tried that
appellation on you minutes ago. How do you find its fit?”

“Until one knows the true
size
of the position, its fit is both too small—and too large.”

“Let me remove all suspense. My proposition is one of agent. For
Venice.”

“Agent? You mean spy.” Jacques coddled his glass.

“Did I say ‘spy’? That is your unsophisticated description. Allow
me to elucidate,” Michele Grimani said, pouring Jacques another
glass. “My memory even now recollects the phrases of Jacques
Casanova’s prison escape letter. ‘I beg the Inquisitori de Stato to return my good name and my honor. For Venice is my heart and my home.’”

Grimani sniffed his glass. “Moving words,” he said. “The
position I offer should suit to perfection a man with those sentiments.”

“What are the terms of the position?”

“One limitation only. But of little concern to a man of your bent. You are allowed to travel anywhere in our Serene Republic but not outside its borders.”

“My spying would be done only within Venice?”

Grimani nodded and took a drink.

Jacques impulsively blew a breath toward the ceiling and
watched the swags of silk flutter. “And I would report to the Council of Ten?”

“Not precisely.”

“To you, then?”

“To me alone.”

Jacques pushed his wine glass to the side.
Things are amiss, but I’m sorely put to unravel the whole of it. In the meantime, I must try to keep him off balance
.

Michele Grimani’s fingers drummed the lid of the tureen.
“Venice is on an uncertain course
.
She teeters on the precipice—”

“As must your prized family.”

Grimani reddened. “As I was saying, one nation or another
might topple Venice. You’ve already accomplished an invaluable service for the republic by …”

Jacques leaned across the table toward his host, whose eyes now
were blank. “To what invaluable service do you refer, Cavaliere Grimani?”

Grimani drew a breath to speak. His lips parted. Not a syllable sounded.

“Michele Grimani, it’s true I love Venice exceedingly. But it is truer still that I shall never be bound to one man’s will. I will never answer solely to you for the fate of the republic.”

Grimani’s lips stretched thin and stiff, distending his moonish face. Without a blink, he slowly edged the tureen toward Jacques.

The high, lean sound of the scraping dish grated Jacques’ ears. He arched away from the table as the tureen reached its position in front of him.

The Cavaliere’s blue eyes turned spiteful. “Many of us labor for the republic. I have toiled an entire lifetime for Venice. Even your Spanish valet has performed a service for Venice. Petrine was loyal
to Jacques Casanova when Casanova could pay him. When
Casanova
could not pay him, Petrine became loyal to my wage.” Grimani
extended a finger, pointing to the tureen. “Lift the lid.”

Jacques cautiously removed the tureen lid. A gleam of gold
struck his eyes.

He lapsed back into his chair, ears ringing.

“My snuffbox.”

“Petrine, you see, was in my employ early. On my orders, he removed the box from your possession at your brother’s in Paris.”

Jacques’ brain reeled.
Deceived by Petrine. It’s true!

“You are to be lauded. You’ve been summoned to Venice
because you—and your lackey—have been for me a tool, have provided an invaluable service, one that will insure the survival of the Republic of Venice.”

“I ask anew,” Jacques stammered. “
What
service to the
republic?”

“This I foresaw,” Grimani crowed. “I told myself neither you nor any of my other pawns would recognize the richest potential.” He let
out a rude laugh. “Oh, I may as well explain. Your treasure,
scapegrace! Your treasure! As I suspected long ago, and as you have now
proven
, the man—the god we call Jesus—did not rise from the dead as the Church of Rome insists. No! When He died—as all men do—his corpse was preserved and hidden. Who can guess for what purpose? Well, it’s enough for me to declare that, in and of itself, the corpse of Jesus the Nazarene exists. Exists. Earthbound! Hah.”

“But you did not know where?”

Grimani nodded. “For years my family had possessed bits of
information about the secret: I surmised there might be a vast
amount of money as well as the actual corpse. But like others before me—
yes, scores of others over the centuries—I could not piece together
the clues.
I knew, for example, that Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance
minister a hundred years ago, was bound in an iron mask for withholding an immense secret from the king. But what knowledge, what exact clues Fouquet possessed, eluded me as it had eluded the king himself.”
Grimani took a breath. “I knew, too, that the Church had for
centuries suspected the existence of Christ’s dead body—here on earth. And the Church was willing to commit heinous crimes to obtain that boring corpse and dispose of it.”

Jacques showed confusion.

“You don’t understand?” Grimani cackled, his face growing
purple with annoyance. “The corpse that I’ll now possess—“

“
You’ll
possess—?”

“Why, I need only threaten the Pope—threaten—to expose the fact that the divine Christ did not ascend to heaven as the Church maintains. What choice will the Pope of the Roman Catholic Church
have but to bend to my every wish? Hah, what choice?” howled
Grimani with a pernicious fury. “I see you wonder at my intent? Well … because the Pope has influence with every Catholic monarch in
Europe, each royal throne will subtly bow to my will—and help
sustain a triumphant Venice for another thousand years.” A grotesque expression hung on the man’s face. “You must admire my plan. You, too, yearn for Venice to thrive.”

“Not by these means.”

“By any and all means. Especially by employing the discovery of a lifetime. Of a dozen lifetimes. Hah. The Grimani family has sought to unravel this riddle, this secret, for three hundred years or more. And I alone am the one to succeed.”

“You have not yet succeeded.”

“I will direct Venice on her path to glory, the Grimani family name will reside in the Golden Book for another five centuries. Soon it shall be whispered that I am the power broker of Europe, and Cavaliere Michele Grimani—
my name
—will be eternally acclaimed for restoring Venice.” Grimani smiled with cloying sincerity. “I’m so proud I must twirl the mustache of my Capitano mask.”

“The Church will not sit idly by.”

“The Church of Rome has a formidable, ferocious arm. Yes, they will try to kill me. But I’m well-prepared to deal with its might.”

“I digest your game. I’ve unknowingly served you. Now to buy my silence about the discovery, you arrange a position for me so that I may protect you, to keep you alive, to support your despicable activities.” Jacques glanced at the snuffbox on the table before him, then eyed Grimani. “But why spare me? I’ve solved the riddle and discovered its treasure. You now might easily rid yourself of me.”

“My sentiments precisely.” Michele Grimani slapped the table. His smile dissipated. “But, I thought: parasites may be useful in particular situations. As bodyguards or as spies, for instance.”

“And you ordered Petrine—”

“He removes the treasure and corpse from where you
discovered it even as we speak. He will hide it where I command.”

Blistering indignation coursed Jacques’ veins.

Grimani leaned back in his chair, smiled scornfully, and raised
his glass in a toast. “Petrine is to be applauded. A former actor,
applauded. How apropos.” He sipped his wine in satisfaction. “For relatively straightforward tasks, I relied on him. But as you must certainly recognize, Petrine is not to be trusted unconditionally. He was to silence Esther for me, but when at the crucial moment he lost his head, my personal valet was forced to initiate the—admittedly—unpleasant chore of eliminating her. Which, to my displeasure, I witnessed.” Grimani sighed. “After Petrine completes his work for me, he must be forfeited. Truly, I don’t trust a man motivated solely by the clink of coins, especially a man of his sort, of his station.