Philip Gwynne Jones was born in South Wales in 1966, and lived and worked throughout Europe before settling in Scotland in the 1990s. He first came to Italy in 1994, when he spent some time working for the European Space Agency in Frascati. Philip now lives permanently in Venice, where he works as a teacher, writer and translator. He is the author of the Nathan Sutherland series, which is set in contemporary Venice and which has been translated into several languages, including Italian and German.

PRAISE FOR THE VENETIAN GAME
BY PHILIP GWYNNE JONES

‘He puts not one foot wrong with his topography and knowledge’

– Jeff Cotton, Fictional Cities

‘A crime book for people with sophisticated tastes: Venice, opera, renaissance art, good food and wine . . . I enjoyed all that and more’

– The Crime Warp

‘The Venetian setting is vividly described and Gwynne Jones’s good, fluent writing makes for easy reading’

– Jessica Mann, Literary Review

‘Gorgeous escapism with stacks of atmosphere and double-cross’

– Sue Price, Saga magazine

‘A civilized, knowledgeable, charming antidote to the darker reaches of the genre, full of entertaining descriptions of the city . . . Lovely. Makes you want to book a flight to Venice straight away’

– N J Cooper, Bookoxygen.com

Also by Philip Gwynne Jones

The Venetian Game
Vengeance in Venice
To Venice with Love: A Midlife Adventure

Constable

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Robinson

Copyright © Philip Gwynne Jones, 2019

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-47212-972-7

Constable

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

For Mum and Dad, with love.

It took me many years to find la strada giusta.
Thank you for your patience.

La commedia è finita!

(The drama is finished!)

Final line of Ruggero Leoncavallo’s I Pagliacci

Chapter 1

Napoleon Bonaparte elbowed me out of the way as he strode along the Calle Caotorta. Hand thrust into his greatcoat, he scattered pedestrians to his left and right with the same insouciance with which he had once disposed of the most powerful armies in Europe. Only his bicorne hat, slightly askew and with a label jutting out from beneath the brim, indicated that this was a rather more modern ‘Attila to the Venetians’.

I raised my hand in protest and made to call out but the Little Corporal was soon lost in the fog. Federica placed her hand on my arm.

‘Don’t make a scene, tesoro.’

‘Gah!’ I threw my hands in the air. ‘Bloody tourist.’

‘You were a tourist yourself once, caro mio. And not so long ago either.’

‘I know, I know. But I never went around pushing local people out of their way as they went about their business. I swear it’s people like that who are causing more damage to this city than the original bloody Napoleon and— I’m ranting again, aren’t I?’

She nodded.

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s your birthday, Nathan – try and have a nice time.’

‘I am having a nice time, I promise. I’ll have a nicer time once I have a spritz inside me.’

She took my arm in hers, and patted my hand. Then she jabbed me in the ribs.

‘Ow!’

She didn’t break her stride. ‘This is my treat, remember? Do try and be grateful.’

I stopped, and gave my ribcage an exploratory rub. Then I smiled. ‘I am. Really. And I am excited. But Carnevale just makes me a bit . . .’ I ran out of words and settled for a grumpy little rumble that Gramsci would have been proud of.

Fog was lying thick upon the city, and Napoleon had long since disappeared into the mist by the time we emerged into Campo San Fantin. ‘Spritz?’ I suggested.

She looked up at me, quizzically. ‘Really? I thought you’d be wanting to head straight in. To make the most of the experience.’

‘I would. But it has to be said, you get rather sad little measures inside. It’s fine to be there and people watch. But all the people you’re watching are doing the same thing. Looking at a sad little glass of prosecco and wishing they’d gone to a proper bar for a proper drink.’

She laughed. ‘And I thought it was all about the music.’ She steered me into the Bar al Teatro. As we opened the door, the heat and light hit us, as if we were moving from black and white into Technicolor. Napoleon had beaten us to the bar, and stood flushed of face with a small glass of red wine in one hand. The rest of the space was packed out with impossibly pretty young women in domino masks, and brooding ragazzi in cloaks and tricorne hats.

I stared at the mass of young people that separated us from our next drink.

‘I hate Carnevale,’ I said.

‘Well, don’t.’

‘It’s just it’s this horrible, artificial . . .’

‘. . . and tacky appropriation by tourists of a traditional Venetian event . . .’

‘Exactly! And another thing is . . .’

‘Or,’ she squeezed my hand, ‘is it just nice people coming to Venice, dressing up and having a nice time?’

‘Oh.’ I looked down at her. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Am I being grumpy again?’ She nodded. ‘It’s only because I care.’

‘I know you do, Nathan. I see it all the time. You care more than the Venetians.’

‘It’s just that – I don’t really mind, you know, but the city just gets so damn busy.’ I checked my watch. ‘We’ve only got twenty minutes and we’re not even going to get to the bar—’

‘—in time.’ She finished my sentence for me. ‘Spritz al bitter?’ I nodded. Somehow she’d managed to steer us through the crowds.

Napoleon finished his glass of wine and stared across the bar at me. Then he nodded, and gave a half-smile, as if to indicate that we should let bygones be bygones, before thrusting his right hand inside his greatcoat and striding forth in search of new worlds to conquer. Or maybe Josephine.

Fede and I clinked glasses. She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, tesoro.’

‘Thank you, cara. I’m a lucky man, you know?’

‘I do know.’

‘I mean, it’s not as if it’s a significant birthday.’

‘Significant?’

‘Doesn’t have a five or a zero in it.’

She laughed, and kissed me again. ‘Well then. Happy insignificant birthday, darling.’

‘Do you know, if I’d been born just twenty-four hours later, I’d have shared a birthday with Tony Iommi?’

‘Who?’

‘Tony Iommi. Guitarist with Black Sabbath. Less than the standard complement of fingers. You know?’

She shook her head. ‘You were out with Dario last night, weren’t you?’

I smiled. ‘Is it so obvious?’

‘So – given it’s not Tony of Black Sabbath – who do you share your birthday with?’

I shook my head. ‘Ah, I was hoping for Roger Waters. Actually, no, I think Dario was hoping for Roger Waters. I’d have been fine with Bach. Wagner. Monteverdi even. Anyway, I had my new intelligent phone and we looked it up and—’

‘And?’

‘Yoko Ono.’

Fede fell silent for a moment. Then, ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously, yes.’

‘But that’s brilliant!’

‘Really?’

‘Of course it is. Much cooler than someone from Black Sabbath.’

I must have looked cross, but then she smiled and placed a finger on my lips and shushed me. Then I smiled too, and we clinked glasses again.

‘So tell me about tonight.’

‘I’ve told you about it.’

‘Tell me again. I wasn’t listening the first time. All I know is that it’s important to you.’

I placed my spritz on the counter. ‘Monteverdi. Four hundred and fifty years. L’incoronazione di Poppea. Lockwood. Baldan.’ I looked to my left and then to my right. There was just enough room to pick her up and spin her around, before I kissed her full on the lips. ‘Best birthday present ever,’ I said.

‘I’m glad. Even if you’re making a scene. But tell me more.’

‘It starts here. All of it. Oh yes, sure, people had written things that you might define as opera lirica before. Hell, Monteverdi had done it himself. But there’s something different about Poppea. There’s a drama to it. A real, proper sense of drama. And, of course . . .’ I paused.

‘Of course?’

‘The bad guys win. I kind of like that.’ I paused to drain my spritz and set it down on the counter. Then I checked my watch. ‘We should go.’

Fede grabbed my wrist and turned it over to look at the time. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’ Then she looked at my face and smiled. ‘But you’ll get into a state if we don’t leave immediately, won’t you?’

I nodded, and smiled apologetically.

‘Okay, let’s go. I do want this to be perfect for you, you know?’

We elbowed our way out of the bar, as gently as we could, and out into the campo. The cold hit us, but only for a moment, as we stepped out the few yards towards La Fenice. We made our way up the steps, and I smiled as I reached for the tickets within my coat pocket. Lockwood. Baldan. Poppea. And then my eye fell upon the strip of paper plastered across the poster for the night’s performance. I stopped in my tracks.

Fede gripped my arm. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.’ I raised my hands in front of my face and rested them against the poster. Then I gently thudded my head against them. ‘No, actually, I do believe it. Because this just happens every bloody time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s cancelled.’ I drew myself upright, and took a deep breath. I was, genuinely, trying not to cry. ‘Every time. Every time I’ve tried to see her. Every time she’s cancelled. I’m sick of it.’

Fede rested her hand on the small of my back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, caro. I’m so sorry. It’ll still be good, won’t it?’

I nodded. ‘Oh, it will be. Might even be better. I’d just like to see her, you know. Just once. Isotta Baldan. She’s kind of a legend.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Fede steered me through security, where our tickets were scanned, and up the stairs to our box. ‘It’ll still be good,’ she repeated.

I sat down and looked around me. It was a better seat than I’d had in years. I usually found myself standing, or hidden behind a pillar or, on one memorable occasion, sharing a box with a sociopathic murderer.

‘Arcangelo Moro?’ Federica was following my thoughts.

I stiffened, and then my shoulders dropped and I laughed. ‘Yes.’

‘In his grave three years now.’

‘I know. Still, I should be grateful to him in a way.’ I squeezed her arm and smiled at her. ‘That was the scariest opera I’ve ever been to. But he had the best seats. Definitely the best seats.’

‘Best I could do, caro. I’m sorry, I don’t have the same resources as a corrupt art thief.’

‘It’s fine.’ My voice was distracted as I stared at the ceiling. ‘It’s absolutely brilliant.’

‘So.’ Fede paused. ‘We don’t have your favourite singer tonight.’

I shook my head. ‘She’s not my favourite singer. Not at all. It’s just – well, she’s Venetian so this would have been a big deal for her. Monteverdi in his anniversary year. You know?’

‘I understand. But she’s young, isn’t she. There’ll still be plenty of time.’

‘I’m not sure. They say her voice is going.’

‘They?’

‘The music press.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘What do I think?’ I must have sounded surprised.

‘Yes, what do you think?’

I was aware of a certain note of challenge in her voice. ‘I think it’s a shame I’ll never see her at her best. Even if her voice isn’t what it was. She’s a good actress. And . . .’

Fede didn’t say a word, but just nodded as if I should continue.

‘. . . and . . . well, she’s very pretty.’

‘Pretty?’ Fede raised an eyebrow.

I gave up trying to pretend. ‘Beautiful.’ I said.

‘Beautiful but unreliable. It would never have worked, Nathan.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but she shushed me. ‘That’s a joke, you know? So tell me about Mr Lockwood?’

‘Lockwood. Thomas Joshua Lockwood, to be precise. I’ve got any number of recordings by him. A few with Isotta Baldan for that matter. There’s nobody who knows Monteverdi better.’

‘There we go then. At least he’s here.’

‘Probably cancel, given my luck,’ I grumbled.

‘Stop that.’

I sat down, and rested my elbows on the padded balustrade. I looked up at the pinky-blue ceiling, and then around at the other boxes, which were already filling up. And then I felt the tension draining from my shoulders. It was beautiful, chocolate-box, fake, imperfect. I didn’t care. Isotta Baldan or no Isotta Baldan. This was Poppea, on the 450th anniversary of the birth of Claudio Monteverdi, conducted by Thomas Joshua Lockwood. I grinned, and leaned out into the auditorium in order to get a better look. Then I turned back to Fede.

‘He used to be a monster you know? I saw him once, back in the UK. In Cardiff, St David’s Hall. We were both much younger then, of course. Difference is, I’d come down from Aberystwyth on the bus and he’d probably been driven in or flown in, I don’t know. Anyway, he was conducting The Magic Flute for Welsh National Opera. And it was the best thing I’d ever seen, and I don’t even like Mozart all that much. It was one of those evenings when I kept checking my watch, just to reassure myself there was still plenty of time left to go. So I hung around the stage door afterwards. I didn’t have anything for him to sign. Not really. No CDs or anything. I suppose I had my programme, but it wasn’t about getting a signature. I just wanted to say thank you. And then . . .’

‘And then?’

‘He just pushed me aside. I don’t think he was even trying to be rude. He just didn’t acknowledge that I was there. As if the little people didn’t count. Pushed his way past, and into his car.’

‘Not a nice man, then?’

I shook my head. ‘Not in those days. There were terrible stories about him. About how you had to stand in line to hate him. He was powerful enough to make careers and break them. I think there are a number of ex-wives. And then—’

‘Then?’

‘He seems to have changed. Apparently he’s positively cuddly now. I don’t know why. Like I said, I haven’t kept up with the music press. Shh, here he comes.’

The orchestra – on stage, rather than in the pit – had finished tuning up, and Thomas Joshua Lockwood walked on. He’d aged since I last saw him. His hair had thinned, and his features had softened. Previously he’d looked stern and ascetic, whereas now he had the look of a friendly and well-fed owl. He wore a dark green crushed velvet jacket with ruffled shirt cuffs that gave him the aspect of a superannuated gentleman spy.

The musicians struck up the prelude and I realised how the staging was going to work. Instead of dividing musicians and singers between pit and stage, they were to share the same space. Perhaps it was a statement on the indivisibility of music and word in the lyric theatre. Or perhaps it was just a bit cheaper. It didn’t matter.

Fortune, Virtue and Love made their way to the front of the stage as they argued over who had most influence in human affairs. I liked to think it was Love. I’d be prepared to make a case for Fortune. I certainly hoped it wasn’t Virtue.

The three goddesses left the stage and made way for Ottone, lamenting his hopeless love for the perfidious Poppea. Well-enough sung and acted, but not so much so that I felt the need to check out the artist in the programme. What I really wanted was to see Poppea so I could compare her with Baldan. Shockingly, I felt my mind wandering away from the stage.

I took a look around the auditorium. Packed out, of course. I looked down at those in the stalls, and felt a little envious of their perfect view. However good a box might be, the view of the stage – from the sides at least – was invariably a little compromised as you needed to turn your neck for a proper view. An evening of Wagner, therefore, risked a seriously cricked neck.

I tried to drag my attention back to the stage, but there was something about the audience that didn’t seem quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, as my eyes darted around, and then it hit me. There was no one in the box directly opposite. I took another look around. There were no other vacant seats that I could see, and so the empty box stood out like a missing tooth. Four seats with a perfectly good and uninterrupted view. I thought about how many times I’d attempted to save money by booking seats with a restricted view, and how many times I’d ended up with my nose six inches from a pillar. Then I thought of how much money Fede must have spent on the tickets, and felt guilty for not paying attention. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze, as I dragged my attention back to the stage.

Nero was sung by a countertenor blessed with a beautiful voice and – equally importantly – a splendidly sleazy and sweaty aspect. Perhaps not physically convincing enough for his younger, sexier Poppea, but he had the charisma to pull it off. I took a quick look at my programme, my eyes straining now that the lights had been lowered, trying to make out the name of the singer playing the prospective imperatrice of Rome. Sartorelli. Maria Giulia Sartorelli. Very pretty. Lovely voice. Good actress. Excellent in almost every respect, and, yet, she was no Isotta Baldan. I tried to suppress a sigh. It didn’t matter, I told myself. Well, okay, it did. Just a bit. But I wasn’t going to tell Federica about it. It had been a lovely surprise when she’d told me where we were going, and I wasn’t about to spoil it. Nevertheless I felt my attention wandering, yet again.

The box opposite was briefly illuminated by a shaft of light from the corridor. Some late arrivals. Two people, one of whom was wearing a hat and dressed in a long coat, or cloak. Strangely, they chose not to sit in the front row, but behind where the view would necessarily be restricted. Presumably they were expecting friends. Very noble of them not to grab the best seats for themselves, I thought.

On stage, Seneca and Nero were at daggers drawn, a scenario fated to end badly for the elderly sage. I shook my head, angrily. I was wasting the evening. Federica touched my cheek, and looked at me quizzically. I smiled back at her. I was determined to enjoy the evening, if only for her sake.

We reached the end of the first act. And if the evening thus far had not been quite as perfect as I might have hoped, it had been nonetheless splendid. The lights in the auditorium did not come up, as expected, but remained dimmed. We sat in semi-darkness as the singers, the musicians and, finally, Lockwood left the stage.

There was a smattering of applause, but Lockwood turned to the audience and held his hands up in a placatory gesture, shushing them. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he might have given a little smile. The old Lockwood would have reacted in fury to anything as barbarous as applause spoiling his little coup de théâtre. The new one did nothing more than gently wave his hands, as if he were an elderly primary school teacher admonishing a favourite but over-excited class.

He gave a little bow – there was no disguising the smile this time – and turned to leave the stage. Then he stopped and stared out once more at the audience. No, more than that. He was staring at the box opposite ours. Then he shook his head, wiped his hand across his forehead, and walked off-stage.

I fumbled in my jacket for my opera glasses. Chunky and heavy, I’d bought them on holiday in Russia, years ago, where I’d assumed their weight meant they were strictly reserved for Soviet military use. I always brought them and never used them. I fiddled with the focus as I stared across at the box opposite.

The figure in the coat, or cloak, and hat was at the rear of the box, but on his feet, with his right arm raised. He held something in his hand – an envelope, perhaps, or a book – which he waved slowly from side to side. I twirled the dial, straining to see, and gave a start. There was something terrible about the face, something grotesque.

‘What’s the matter, Nathan?’

‘Nothing.’ I fiddled again with the dial, but the figure had gone. There was nothing to be seen except a rectangle of light, where the door to the corridor was open. I looked back to the stage, but Lockwood was nowhere to be seen.