Part 11 (1/2)
The boatman had already understood that his pa.s.senger knew Venice almost as well as he. The boat shot forward at a good rate under the bending oar, and in twenty minutes Aristarchi was at the entrance to the ca.n.a.l of San Piero and within sight of Beroviero's house.
”Easy there,” said the Greek, holding up his hand. ”Do you know Murano well, my man?”
”As well as Venice, sir.”
”Whose house is that, which has the upper story built on columns over the footway?”
”It belongs to Messer Angelo Beroviero. His gla.s.s-house takes up all the left aide of the ca.n.a.l as far as the bridge.”
”And beyond the bridge I can see two new houses, on the same side. Whose are they?”
”They belong to the two sons of Messer Angelo Beroviero, who have furnaces of their own, all the way to the corner of the Grand Ca.n.a.l.”
”Is there a Grand Ca.n.a.l in Murano?” asked Aristarchi.
”They call it so,” answered the boatman with some contempt. ”The Beroviero have several houses on it, too.”
”It seems to me that Beroviero owns most of Murano,” observed the Greek. ”He must be very rich.”
”He is by far the richest. But there is Alvise Trevisan, a rich man, too, and there are two or three others. The island and all the gla.s.s-works are theirs, amongst them.”
”I have business with Messer Angelo,” said Aristarchi. ”But if he is such a great man he will hardly be in the gla.s.s-house.”
”I will ask,” answered the boatman.
In a few minutes he made his boat fast to the steps before the gla.s.s-house, went ash.o.r.e and knocked at the door. Aristarchi leaned back in his seat, chewing pistachio nuts, which he carried in an embroidered leathern bag at his belt. His right hand played mechanically with the short string of thick amber beads which he used for counting. The June sun blazed down upon his swarthy face.
At the grating beside the door the porter's head appeared, partially visible behind the bars.
”Is Messer Angelo Beroviero within?” inquired the boatman civilly.
”What is your business?” asked the porter in a tone of surly contempt, instead of answering the question.
”There is a rich foreign gentleman here, who desires to speak with him,” answered the boatman.
”Is he the Pope?” asked the porter, with fine irony.
”No, sir,” said the other, intimidated by the fellow's manner. ”He is a rich-”
”Tell him to wait, then.” And the surly head disappeared.
The boatman supposed that the man was gone to speak with his master, and waited patiently by the door. Aristarchi chewed his pistachio nut till there was nothing left, at which time he reached the end of his patience. He argued that it was a good sign if Angelo Beroviero kept rich strangers waiting at his gate, for it showed that he had no need of their custom. On the other hand the Greek's dignity was offended now that he had been made to wait too long, for he was hasty by nature. Once, in a fit of irritation with a Candiot who stammered out of sheer fright, the captain had ordered him to be hanged. Having finished his nut, he stood up in the boat and stepped ash.o.r.e.
”Knock again,” he said to the boatman, who obeyed.
There was no answer this time.
”I can hear the fellow inside,” said the boatman.
The grating was too high for a man to look through it from outside. Aristarchi laid his knotty hands on the stone sill and pulled himself up till his face was against the grating. He now looked in and saw the porter sitting in his chair.