says Santurini indifferently. ‘Tomorrow late morning you’ll find
Domenico Lalli on the Piazzetta.’
‘Fine,’ replies Antonio with relief, ‘but how will I recognise
him?’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Red Priest. He’ll recognise you
alright!’
His business finished, Antonio makes for the door. As
quick as a flash Santurini shoots from his chair and blocks the exit.
‘Before we take our leave of one another, Maestro, a small gesture of
appreciation would surely be in order?’ Vivaldi feels himself
shrinking. But why should he be afraid of the old scoundrel?
Santurini is watching him with a smile as wide as an old lion that
knows his prey can no longer escape him. ‘Why, yes, of course,’
says Vivaldi, producing his purse. He never has much money on
him because his father always takes care of such things. He feels
with thumb and forefinger for a lira coin and lays it in the grubby,
open palm before him. Santurini tosses the coin playfully in the air
and catches it. ‘That’s one!’ he says, staring Vivaldi in the eyes. The
smile is gone. Antonio hesitates momentarily then finds another
lira.
‘There we are, Signore, and many thanks!’ He pushes aside
the man’s still outstretched arm, impressed at his own
performance. Behind him he hears Santurini guffawing like the
devil in a recurring nightmare. The priest starts to run, taking the
stairs two at a time, his heart bouncing madly. Only once he is
safely on the street does he look round and take in a great gulp of
air. Never ever again will he set foot inside that theatre.
The canal seethes with ships, all fighting to secure the best place
on the quay to unload their cargoes as fast as possible. The
southerly breeze feels pleasantly cool and the air is full of the cries
of mariners from the water mixed with a symphony of quayside
voices. Snippets of many languages, most prevalent among them
the broad dialect of the Venetian gondoliers and the men who,
swearing and shouting, are busy loading and unloading the ships.
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