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“ Buongiorno , Signore Allon. And how are you this day?”

“Not well, I’m afraid.”

“Are you under the weather?”

“No, Father Giovanni. It seems my wife is angry with me.”

“Again?” The priest gave a sigh of resignation. “What have you done now, my son?”

“It’s cumulative at this point, Father. Therefore, I have no hope of forgiveness.”

“Perhaps I might have a word with her.”

“I’d leave well enough alone, if I were you. Chances are it will only make matters worse.”

The old priest escorted Gabriel into the murky half-light of the basilica. Eight radiating chapels ringed the soaring octagonal central nave. The view of one of the chapels was obstructed by a shrouded scaffold.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” said the priest, and vanished into the gloom.

Gabriel slipped through a gap in the tarpaulin and climbed the scaffolding to his work platform.

For now, his supplies were limited to a flask of carefully calibrated solvent, a package of wooden dowels, and four bags of cotton wool—enough cotton wool, he reckoned, to remove the dirty varnish from approximately half of the enormous canvas.

Three months was the estimate he had given the Venetian cultural authorities, with another three months to execute the required retouching.

He might have managed to complete the restoration in a timelier fashion were it not for the fact that the basilica, one of Venice’s most prominent tourist attractions, would remain open to the public for the duration of the project.

It was not, for any number of reasons, Gabriel’s preferred method of working.

He switched on a pair of standing halogen lamps, casting a harsh white light over the surface of the painting, then wound a swatch of cotton wool around the end of a dowel.

It was his habit to listen to opera or classical music while he worked—with an old portable CD player, a faithful companion during countless restorations past—but present circumstances forbade it.

He dipped his first cotton swab in solvent and twirled it gently over the wing of the radiant white dove near the top of the canvas.

The soiled varnish dissolved at once, exposing Titian’s masterly brushwork.

“ Buongiorno , Signore Vecellio,” said Gabriel quietly.

“And how are you on this fine morning? Not well? I’m so sorry to hear that.

Is your wife the problem, or has your child incurred the wrath of the doge by attempting to organize a march to protest the combustion of fossil fuels?

What are fossil fuels, you ask? Perhaps another time, my old friend. It’s a long story.”

Gabriel discarded the soiled swath of cotton wool and fashioned another.

He fell into the familiar rhythm of his craft— dip, twirl, discard.

.. dip, twirl, discard —and by 9:00 a.m., when the doors of the basilica were thrown open, he had managed to clean a rectangle of canvas measuring about twenty by thirty centimeters.

Before long he heard the squeak and shuffle of shoes over the marble floor, and by ten o’clock there was a persistent multilingual din of conversation.

He persevered until ten thirty before switching off the lamps and descending the scaffold.

As he emerged from behind the tarpaulin, a woman who spoke English with a British accent attempted to engage him in conversation.

He feigned an inability to speak her language and, smiling apologetically, set off across the nave.

Outside, he stood on the steps of the basilica and inhaled the first cool, dry air of the season.

On the opposite side of the Grand Canal, hidden away amid the luxury shops lining the Calle Larga XXII Marzo, were the business offices of the Tiepolo Restoration Company.

He rang the firm’s general manager and asked if she was free for coffee.

“Sorry, darling. But I’m unavailable. ”

“For how long?”

“The foreseeable future.”

“And what if I were to grovel?”

“I might consent to having a drink with you later.”

Gabriel crossed the wooden bridge spanning the Rio della Salute and set off toward Caffè Poggi, a quaint little bar near the Accademia.

It was his second visit to the establishment, but the proprietor greeted him as though he had been coming there every morning for years.

They exchanged pleasantries and banalities about the state of the world while Gabriel drank two coffees and devoured a cornetto filled with sweet almond paste.

“How goes the Titian?” the proprietor asked suddenly.

“How did you know?”

The proprietor indicated the display of Italian newspapers. “I read about it in Il Gazzettino , Signore Allon.”

“The Titian goes quite well.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I imagine so,” said Gabriel, and went into the street.

He took his time walking back to the basilica and arrived to find a line of tourists stretching from the doorway.

It was the late-morning rush, the busiest part of the day.

Fortunately the doors would close at noon and remain shuttered for three blessed hours, during which time Gabriel would have the place to himself.

Better to delay his return by a few minutes, he thought, than to deal with the disruptive noise of the crowds.

And so he continued along the fondamenta to the observation point at the tip of the Punta della Dogana. Perhaps a half kilometer to the east, across an expanse of sparkling water, was the magnificent church of San Giorgio Maggiore. Even Gabriel, a jaded Venetian, never tired of the view.

For several minutes it was his alone to enjoy.

Eventually two tourists appeared—Americans, newlyweds apparently—and prevailed upon him to take their photograph.

He posed them with Maggiore in the background and snapped the picture.

The woman was on the left side of the image, her husband the right.

Gabriel thought the photo rather good, though it was marred slightly by a dark mass floating on the surface of the water near the man’s outer shoulder.

He reframed the image, tapped the shutter icon, and surrendered the phone.

The young Americans stayed another minute and then departed.

Alone once more, Gabriel searched the white-flecked waters of the laguna for the object he had seen a moment ago.

The dark floating mass, whatever it was, was gone.

***

There was a water taxi idling along the quay outside the basilica. Gabriel told the pilot about the object he had seen in the laguna , and the pilot, who spent fourteen hours a day navigating the waters of Venice, assured him it was probably nothing.

Gabriel handed the pilot a hundred euros. “Why don’t we have a look, just to be sure?”

“If you wish, Signore. It’s your money.”

Gabriel stood at the pilot’s shoulder as he eased away from the quay and headed toward Maggiore. “Here,” he said after a moment. “This is where I saw it.”

“There’s nothing, Signore.”

“Put your engine in neutral, please.”

Frowning, the pilot did as Gabriel asked, and the sleek wooden vessel slowed to a stop. The pilot searched the waters off the port side, Gabriel the starboard. Seeing no sign of the object, he ducked into the passenger cabin and headed aft.

“There!” he shouted. “There it is.”

It had resurfaced about thirty meters from the taxi’s stern. Gabriel rejoined the pilot as he engaged the inboard engines and came slowly about. But the object, visible a moment earlier, had once again disappeared from view.

“It’s probably just a plastic rubbish bag, Signore. The laguna is full of them.”

“Do you have a boat hook on board?”

It was a retractable model, four meters in length when fully extended, with a scratch-resistant plastic hook.

Gabriel probed the waters off the starboard side of the vessel until he made contact with something heavy and sodden.

After several failed attempts, he managed to snare the object and guide it gently toward the surface.

The pilot fumbled for the handset of his radio as a human corpse, bloated and partially decomposed, floated into view.

“Don’t,” said Gabriel as he drew the phone from his pocket. “I’ll take care of everything.”