A glance at my watch told me that it was almost twelve-thirty. ‘Right, then, Oscar, it’s lunchtime.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and headed down the steps. When it comes to food, his comprehension is second to none.
8
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
Oscar and I received a warm welcome from Valentina and her daughter, both of them wearing businesslike aprons. We sat around a fine old wooden table at one end of the long kitchen, and I was delighted to find that this room was also air-conditioned. The temperature outside had been steadily climbing, and Oscar wasn’t the only one who was panting by the time we got inside. I spared a thought for the hordes of tourists struggling to take in the sights of this unique city under these conditions. I couldn’t see a thermometer, but I felt sure that the temperature outside had to be well into the thirties by now.
I was relieved to find that lunch was less copious than the meal I had had with Alice last time. Considering that I was going to be staying for three days, this was probably for the best, unless I was considering buying a whole new wardrobe. I sat at one end of the table, with Diego at the opposite end with his son, Guido, beside him. Valentina didn’t bother with antipasti and produced a steaming bowl of pasta. Pasta comes in all shapes and sizes, and this variety looked like fat spaghetti, almost the thickness ofdrinking straws. She told me that this was a local speciality calledbigoli, and she served italle vongole– with clams – in a rich, brown sauce. She very kindly asked whether I thought Oscar might like some, and he nodded before I did.
I was introduced to Gabriella, Valentina’s daughter, who looked as though she was in her late twenties. She was a cheerful-looking woman who told me that she worked for the Venice Tourist Board and she very quickly monopolised the conversation at table. In answer to a query from me, she reeled off a long list of festivities and festivals that took place here in Venice in the course of the year. These ranged from the world-famousCarnevalein February to a mind-boggling variety of historic regattas. At the mention of these, Diego, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table, tucking into his pasta, suddenly perked up.
‘My boy, Guido here, is taking part in the September regatta as part of a four-man gondola crew.’
I looked at Guido with interest. ‘You’re a gondolier?’ He was probably only about twenty, but he had broad shoulders and strong forearms – no doubt a prerequisite for any gondolier.
He nodded. ‘I’m still a trainee, but I’ve almost finished, and, if all goes well, I’ll get my licence in time for the regatta.’ He went on to tell me about the complexities of the course he had to follow – over and above the practical test of boat handling – including the history, art and culture of Venice, and even a smattering of important words and phrases in a number of different languages. I wondered cynically whether one of these important phrases might be,Sorry it’s so expensive.On my way up from Florence in the train, out of curiosity, I had googled,How much is a private gondola ride?and the answer had been as much as a hundred euros for half an hour. On this basis, it looked as thoughbeing a gondolier paid a whole lot better than being a private investigator – but my job was probably less tiring on the arms.
After the delicious pasta, Valentina served a local speciality: salt cod and polenta. Polenta, made from maize, has never ranked particularly highly on my list of favourite dishes, but this was different and exceptional. She explained that the dried cod, preserved in salt barrels the old way as it had been back in the days before refrigerators, had been soaked in milk for hours to soften it and remove the saltiness, then mixed into a smooth paste with olive oil and served on top of the polenta. I couldn’t fault it and Oscar’s eyes opened wide as he, too, was served a generous portion. I had brought a supply of dried dog food for him – occupying almost half my bag – but if he was going to be fed like this, I felt sure I would be taking quite a lot of his normal rations back home again.
I hadn’t forgotten my errand to collect the glass vase for Virgilio, so I told them that I had to go back into town after lunch and asked how to get off the island.
Diego was quick to offer to help. ‘I can drop you into town in the launch or, if you want to be more independent, you can take the little boat. The outboard motor is electric, and I can give you the key and show you how to start it. It’s dead easy. Where are you going?’
‘I have to meet somebody at Caffè Florian in Piazza San Marco at three. Do you know it?’
Valentina and her daughter looked impressed. ‘Nothing but the best for you. Caffè Florian is famous the world over.’
This sounded good – and no doubt expensive.
Diego looked less impressed. ‘There’s nowhere you’re allowed to moor up near there, so it’ll be best if I take you in the launch, drop you off and pick you up again.’ He shot me a hint of a smile. ‘Even Venice has parking restrictions. I have to collect a package for Miss Graceland, as well as a couple of cases of fine wines from a wine merchant – Miss Graceland insists on giving her guests the best.’
This also sounded good.
Mary joined in. ‘I’ll come too, if you don’t mind, Mr Armstrong. Not to the café, but I haven’t been inside St Mark’s Cathedral yet, so I can check that out while you have your meeting, and then I’ll come back in the launch with you again. Is that all right?’
I gave her a smile. ‘Of course it is, and please drop the “Mr Armstrong”. My name’s Dan.’ I glanced around at the others. ‘And that goes for all of you.’
After a couple of fresh apricots and a strong espresso, I went back to my room, where I spent the next hour or so checking out the list of guests that Alice Graceland had given me.
Desmond Norman’s Wikipedia page told me he had just hit eighty-five, and the photo on the page didn’t do him any favours. With his mop of white hair and his wrinkled face, he looked every one of his eighty-five years and maybe a bit more. Maggie McBride, on the other hand, although allegedly sixty-two like Alice, was photographed in a selection of very revealing gowns, dripping with gold, and she looked twenty years younger than her real age – at least from a distance. Alastair Groves, the theatrical agent, was a fit-looking man in his mid-seventies, while the photo of his wife, Sandra, reminded me of Maggie Smith’s countess character inDownton Abbey– a real doyenne, dripping with gold and jewels and with a supercilious expression on her face.
Wilfred ‘Freddie’ Baker was a mere forty-three years old. He was described as a wunderkind, the youngest ever director of nofewer than three Oscar-winning movies. I couldn’t find any mention of his girlfriend, Antoinette Latour, but I had a suspicion that I would find that she was younger and prettier than him. That appeared to be the way it worked in Hollywood.
Jack Sloane, the casting director and discoverer of movie stars, was a big man – both in height and girth. He was seventy-five years old and he, like Desmond Norman, hadn’t aged well. Unlike Alice Graceland, he evidently hadn’t discovered the elixir of eternal youth and, from the colour of his cheeks, I had a feeling his blood pressure was probably through the roof.
A photo of Greg Gupta clearly showed his Indian heritage. He was a slim man in his early fifties, with a fine head of black hair. Another man with a fine head of suspiciously dark hair was Gupta’s partner, Carlos Rodriguez, the well-known director, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor who plays Zorro. Like many of the other guests, he was also past his seventieth birthday.
Setting aside my iPad, I took Oscar for a little walk around the garden and spotted Diego deadheading the roses in a flower bed. He looked up as I approached.
‘Ready to go, Dan? It’s half-past two and it’ll take at least fifteen minutes to get to San Marco.’
‘Yes, thanks. Are you sure it’s convenient for you if we go now?’
‘No problem. As I said, I have to go into town anyway. I’ll call Mary and meet you at the launch.’
He headed back across to Mary’s accommodation while Oscar and I wandered over towards the main entrance. The massive gate was open and we descended the ramp to the jetty and stood there, looking around. I had put Oscar on his lead and I kept a tight grip on my end of it just in case he were to considerdiving in, but he seemed happy to stand there and sniff the gentle breeze. I was born and bred in London, and my experience of the sea is pretty limited. It felt totally alien to find myself in this environment where the roads are canals, the only way to get about is by boat, and people live on islands.
