Ascension by Gregory Dowling

Author:Gregory Dowling
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781250108531
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

18

I made my way to western Dorsoduro. Perhaps the nephew could throw some light on his uncle’s personality, even if only through family hearsay. For my purposes any extra titbits of information might be useful.

I found the cheese shop near the church of San Nicolò dei Mendicoli; this area of the city has its own definite character, which can be summed up in one word: fishiness. Everything in the area is permeated with the tang of fresh and not-so-fresh fish. The alleys that slope down to the lagoon are lined with glistening tangles of fish-nets; everywhere you look are barrels and chests either crammed with squirming heaps or coated with the silverily gleaming evidence of their passing. The streets themselves are slippery with sloughed scales and oily innards.

The inhabitants, whether bearded fishermen, busy traders or sharp-tongued fishwives, mostly appear to wear clothes of a squamous consistency, and the children, who weave in and out of the crowds like darting minnows, all seem to be playing elaborate games with oyster shells and crab claws. The accent is different, with a rising intonation and truncated syllables, almost as if one were hearing the voices through water. The separate nature of this area of the city even has official recognition, with the local population being allowed to elect their own “doge”, usually a leading fisherman, who is received by the Doge himself in the ducal palace after his election. I imagine that fastidious Doge Pietro Grimani washes his hands thoroughly after greeting his piscatorial counterpart.

The cheese shop was in a quiet street close to the church, and the owner had decided to do his best to combat the overwhelmingly marine atmosphere by hanging a number of pungent goat-cheeses around the doorway. It almost worked. I entered the shop and breathed in the rich crumbly odours with pleasure.

“Sior, can I help you?” came a voice from behind the counter. Leonardo Mantovan, as I knew him to be called, was a small man in his mid-thirties; he wore no wig but pulled his thinning hair back in a neat pigtail. He had a vaguely harassed look; maybe that came from trying to sell cheese to fishermen. In any case, there was nothing to indicate that he was the nephew of a nobleman who lived in a palace on the Grand Canal.

“Sior Mantovan?” I said.

“That’s my name,” he said. “And whom do I have the pleasure…” He did not finish the question; he allowed it to fade away into inaudibility, like a crumbly ricotta in your fingers. I noticed that he did not have a Nicolotto accent. But then I remembered that he had grown up in Cannaregio, after his mother had left the family home.

“My name’s Alvise Marangon,” I said. “I hope you won’t mind my troubling you with some questions about your uncle.”

“Which uncle?” he said, giving me a sharp look.

“Your maternal uncle,” I said.

“Ah. Well, I’ve never spoken a word to him in my life. And why are you interested?”

“I’ll be quite honest,”

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