The Confessor

stood up. Tiepolo said, "You won't let me down, will you, Mario?"
    "A friend of Il papa} Of course not. Ciao, Francesco. See you in a couple days."
    AN AIR of desertion hung over the old ghetto--no children playing in the campo, no old men sitting in the cafe, and from the tall apartment houses came no sounds of life. In a few of the windows, Gabriel saw lights burning, and for a fleeting instant he smelled
    meat and onion frying in olive oil, but for the most part he imagined himself a man coming home to a ghost town, a place where homes and shops remained but the inhabitants had long ago vanished.
    The bakery where he had met with Shamron was closed. He walked a few paces to No. 2899. A small sign on the door read comunita ebraica di venezia. Gabriel rang the bell, and a moment later came the voice of a woman over an unseen intercom. "Yes, may I help you?"
    "My name is Mario Delvecchio. I have an appointment to see the rabbi."
    "Just a moment, please."
    Gabriel turned his back to the door and surveyed the square. A moment stretched to two, then three. It was the war in the territories. It had made everyone jittery. Security had been tightened at Jewish sites across Europe. So far, Venice had been spared, but in Rome and in cities across France and Austria, synagogues and cemeteries had been vandalized and Jews attacked on the streets. The newspapers were calling it the worst wave of public anti-Semitism to sweep the continent since the Second World War. At times like these, Gabriel despised the fact that he had to conceal his Jewishness.
    A buzzer finally sounded, followed by the click of an automatic lock giving way. He pushed back the door and found himself in a darkened passageway. At the end was another door. As Gabriel approached, it too was unlocked for him.
    He entered a small, cluttered office. Because of the air of decline hanging over the ghetto, he had prepared himself for an Italian version of Frau Ratzinger--a formidable old woman shrouded in the black cloak of widowhood. Instead, much to his surprise, he was greeted by a tall, striking woman about thirty years old. Her hair Was dark and curly and shimmering with highlights of auburn and
    chestnut. Barely constrained by a clasp at the nape of her neck, it spilled riotously about a pair of athletic shoulders. Her eyes were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. Her lips looked as though they were attempting to suppress a smile. She seemed supremely aware of the effect her appearance was having on him.
    "The rabbi is at the synagogue for Ma'ariv. He asked me to entertain you until he arrives. I'm Chiara. I just made coffee. Care for
    "Thank you."
    She poured from a stovetop espresso pot, added sugar without asking whether he wanted any, and handed the cup over to Gabriel. When he took it, she noticed the smudges of paint on his fingers. He had come to the ghetto straight from Tiepolo's office and hadn't had time to wash properly.
    "You're a painter?"
    "A restorer, actually."
    "How fascinating. Where are you working?"
    "The San Zaccaria project."
    She smiled. "Ah, one my favorite churches. Which painting? Not the Bellini?"
    Gabriel nodded.
    "You must be very good."
    "You might say that Bellini and I are old friends," Gabriel said modestly. "How many people show up for Ma'ariv}"
    "A few of the older men, usually. Sometimes more, sometimes fewer. Some nights, the rabbi is alone up there in the synagogue. He believes strongly that the day he stops saying evening prayers is the day this community vanishes."
    Just then the rabbi entered the room. Once again, Gabriel was surprised by his relative youth. He was just a few years older than Gabriel, fit and vibrant, with a mane of silver hair beneath his black fedora and a trimmed beard. He pumped Gabriel's hand and appraised him through a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses.
    "I'm Rabbi Zolli. I hope my daughter was a gracious host in my absence. I'm afraid she's spent too much time in Israel the last few years and has lost all her manners as a result."
    "She was very kind, but she didn't say she was your daughter."
    "You see? Always up to mischief." The rabbi turned to the girl. "Go home now, Chiara. Sit with your mother. We won't be long. Come, Signor Delvecchio. I think you'll find my office more comfortable."
    The woman pulled on her coat and looked at Gabriel. "I'm very interested in art restoration. I'd love to see the Bellini. Would it be all right if I stopped by sometime to watch you work?"
    "There she