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3
Harry’s Bar
Standing beneath a cascade of scalding water, drained of desire, Gabriel rinsed the last traces of Chiara from his skin. His clothing lay scattered at the foot of their unmade bed, wrinkled, a button ripped from his shirt. He selected clean apparel from his walk-in closet, dressed quickly, and headed downstairs. As luck would have it, a Number 2 was nudging against the pier of the San Tomà stop. He rode it to San Marco and at three o’clock sharp entered the intimate confines of Harry’s Bar.
Julian Isherwood was pondering his mobile phone at a corner table, a half-drunk Bellini hovering beneath his lips. When Gabriel joined him, he looked up and frowned, as though annoyed by an unwanted intrusion. Finally his features settled into an expression of recognition, followed by profound approval.
“I guess Chiara wasn’t joking about how you two spend your lunch hour.”
“This is Italy, Julian. We take at least two hours for lunch.”
“You look thirty years younger. What’s your secret?”
“Two-hour lunches with Chiara.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You look as though you’ve been . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What, Julian?”
“Restored,” he answered after a moment. “You’ve removed the dirty varnish and repaired the damage. It’s almost as if none of it ever happened.”
“It didn’t.”
“That’s funny, because you bear a vague resemblance to a morose-looking boy who wandered into my gallery about a hundred years ago. Or was it two hundred?”
“That never happened, either. At least not officially,” added Gabriel. “I buried your voluminous file in the deepest reaches of Registry on my way out the door of King Saul Boulevard. Your ties to the Office are now formally severed.”
“But not to you, I hope.”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” A waiter delivered two more Bellinis to their table. Gabriel raised his glass in salutation. “So what brings you to Venice?”
“These olives.” Julian plucked one from the bowl at the center of the table and with a flourish popped it into his mouth. “They’re dangerously good.”
He was dressed in one of his Savile Row suits and a blue dress shirt with French cuffs. His gray hair was in need of a trimming, but then it usually was. All things considered, he looked rather well, except for the plaster adhered to his right cheek, perhaps two or three centimeters beneath his eye.
Cautiously Gabriel asked how it got there.
“I had an argument with my razor this morning, and I’m afraid the razor got the better of me.” Julian fished another olive from the bowl. “So what do you do with yourself when you’re not lunching with your beautiful wife?”
“I spend as much time as possible with my children.”
“Are they bored with you yet?”
“They don’t appear to be.”
“Don’t worry, they will be soon.”
“Spoken like a lifelong bachelor.”
“It has its advantages, you know.”
“Name one.”
“Give me a minute, I’ll think of something.” Julian finished his first Bellini and started in on the second. “And what about your work?” he asked.
“I painted three nudes of my wife.”
“Poor you. Any good?”
