The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,116

by a wide-brimmed hat. He gave Johann a wave.

“Dimmi, èquesta la gondola del Signore Barbarese?” asked Johann in broken Italian. He’d tried to learn some of the language over the last few weeks. His voice sounded strangely thin in the fog, as if the darkness was swallowing it up.

The gondolier nodded silently, and Johann climbed into the boat. There was only one bench seat in the middle, covered with red velvet. Everything else was painted a dull black, even the oar. They set off the moment Johann sat. The gondola glided through the oily water and past the many palaces whose black silhouettes blocked out the sky.

It started to drizzle; icy drops of water ran down Johann’s face as the gondola silently moved through the night. The gondolier didn’t say a word, and the only sound came from the occasional slapping of the oar. A few times they passed other boats going in the opposite direction that, like theirs, carried a lantern at their bow. They were small dots of light in the fog, like stars in a sea of darkness.

A few hundred paces before the doge’s palace, they left the Canal Grande and turned into a small side channel that led to a stately three-story building. It was richly decorated with mosaics and frescoes in a strange style, as if from a time before Christianity. Only one window high up was illuminated. The poles in the water bore the roaring lion that Johann already knew; a stone pier and a gate formed the entrance to the first floor. The gondola docked; the gondolier remained silent.

Johann rose and climbed out. He walked up a few slippery steps and reached an inner courtyard. A deathly silence lay over the place, and Johann was confused. This was supposed to be the palace of a Venetian councilman—where were the guards and the servants? The walls were crumbling, the frescoes looked faded; the corners were covered in cobwebs and the floor with dust. Had the gondolier taken him to the wrong house? Or could this be a trap, for whatever reason?

Johann was about to turn back to the quay when he noticed a servant in golden livery standing in a small alcove. He was a tall Moor and reminded Johann of Mustafa—probably because he was just as silent. He’d been standing still as a statue, but then he lifted a candelabra with white wax candles and walked ahead of Johann. A wide set of stairs with worn marble steps led to the upper stories. Johann reluctantly walked past lugubrious portraits of men who all shared a certain resemblance with Signore Barbarese. Between the portraits hung paintings of landscapes and Bible scenes; to his growing wonder, Johann noticed that some of the paintings had been hung upside down, while others were covered with black cloth. This house was becoming stranger by the minute.

Signore Barbarese was waiting for him in the corridor of the house’s top floor. He wore a black jerkin that looked as old as the furnishings. It had a high collar and was cut very low on the chest. His leggings were so tight that his legs looked like those of a giant spider. He also wore the glasses, even though the hallway was dimly lit. When Johann approached the Venetian, the man spread his arms as if Johann were a long-lost son.

“How good of you to come,” said Barbarese, dismissing the servant with a lordly gesture. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, but I was, um . . . busy. But now you’re here.” He gestured toward the expensive damask wall hangings and portraits in the corridor. A chandelier cast the paintings in an eerie, flickering light. “So many beautiful pictures,” said Barbarese enthusiastically. “They were painted by Gentile Bellini, a good friend of mine. Have you heard of him?”

Johann shook his head.

“What a shame—he’s a true master in his field. Although a while ago, an artist named Dürer visited Venice, and I like his work, too. Apparently he comes from Nuremberg.” Barbarese sighed. “It’s a shame hardly anyone gets to admire my paintings. My wife died young and we weren’t granted any children. Yes . . . I’m afraid the long line of Barbarese ends with me.” He raised a thin finger that looked oddly animallike in the twilight of the candles, like a claw or a feeler.

“Our line can be traced back all the way to the first refugees who found a new home on these islands almost a thousand