Deadly to the Sight

by Edward Sklepowich

  It was the Contessa’s encounter with Nina Crivelli near the portrait of Santa Barbara in Santa Maria Formosa. Nina’s behavior had been more or less consistent until the entrance of the person who, a few minutes later, revealed himself to be Giorgio. What might this mean? What secrets might she have had from him? Or could Nina have been sly enough to deflect the Contessa’s suspicions on to Giorgio in this way? If she had, however, it hadn’t had its desired effect.

  Urbino turned his speculations to Giorgio’s presence in the church. Was he there by chance or had he been in search of Nina, perhaps to prevent her from saying anything against him? That he might have gone to Santa Maria Formosa to protect the Contessa from Nina was not inconceivable, except that Urbino felt himself resisting the idea. He took note, once again, of another one of his blind spots. He wasn’t well disposed toward Giorgio and might be too willing to think ill of him. How much of this was because of Habib’s obvious admiration of the boatman was not clear in his mind.

  After leaving the Oratorio, Urbino went to the Lace School a short distance away. A sign announced that the museum was closed for repairs until March. Urbino was disappointed. He had hoped that the women who sat making lace as part of the museum’s exhibits might have been encouraged to tell him a few things he didn’t already know about Nina and Salvatore.

  Out in the square again, Urbino skirted the Church of San Martino, where a fishing net was drying on one of its walls. He looked up at the leaning campanile.

  It was from here that Carolina had said Nina could have shouted out whatever secrets she knew about her for all Carolina cared, and then jumped off. Urbino agreed with the spirit, if not exactly the letter of Carolina’s comment. The only effective way to deal with blackmailers was to break the tyranny of fear and silence they thrived on.

  No sooner did he have the thought than its naivete struck him. Most people in the power of a blackmailer saw no escape except through money or murder. Carolina’s friend Bettina had paid up for the sake of her daughter’s reputation. How many other people in Burano, or even Venice, had done the same? And had some desperate person, perhaps even innocent of any crime or indiscretion, seen no choice but to remove Nina from the scene completely? And had the lace handkerchief been his, or her, way of showing that her mouth had been stopped forever?

  The bell sounded the noon hour. Urbino went down the Via Galuppi to Il Piccolo Nettuno.

  Two tables were set out on the pavement. At one was an elderly couple, both with white hair and elegant clothes. Muffled in scarves, but otherwise giving no sign that it wasn’t the warmest of months, they spoke enthusiastically in German. Salvatore came out with a tray of steaming plates. He glanced at Urbino, but didn’t give a flicker of recognition.

  Inside, only one table in the far corner was occupied. A thin woman in her seventies, wearing a faded blue shawl, sat alone. A plate of pasta and a half-filled bottle of wine were in front of her. She nodded to Urbino, and returned to her meal.

  Urbino seated himself at the same table he and Habib had lunched at a few weeks before. Low voices came from the kitchen. He ran his eye over the menu. He wasn’t hungry.

  Salvatore came inside. He poured more wine into the woman’s glass and brought her more bread before coming over to Urbino.

  “My regrets on the death of your mother, Signor Crivelli.”

  “Thank you, signore. Would you like some wine?”

  Urbino chose a Bardolino.

  “I’ll have a salad and a plate of the same pasta the woman over there has. She seems to be enjoying it a great deal.”

  Salvatore made a little face. It might have been a frown or an attempt at a smile.

  “Very good, signore.”

  He nodded and walked into the back of the room. He appeared to be steady on his feet today. Perhaps now that his mother was dead he was drinking less. This possibility was quickly driven from Urbino’s mind, however. In one of the mirrors he caught a glimpse of Salvatore raising a small bottle to his lips, then thrusting it into the deep pocket of his apron.

  Urbino had known that he wouldn’t be likely to have much conversation with the man other than whatever was natural between a waiter and a customer. Surely Salvatore knew about his relationship with the Contessa and, even more to the point, his reputation as an amateur sleuth. On both counts he wouldn’t be receptive, whether or not there was good reason to suspect him in the death of his own mother. He had already had enough meddling in his life. It would be natural for him to resent any more.

  There was another way of arguing it, however, Urbino reminded himself. If Salvatore were guilty, he would probably be inclined to put Urbino off the scent by being friendlier, to both him and the Contessa. Instead, he was doing the opposite.

  And it was also possible that, with his mother now dead, resentment had faded. In its place there could be regret that he hadn’t been a better son, even if he had deserved a better mother. Even Urbino, who had often been told by his own parents and others that he was a good son, had suffered his own peculiar kind of guilt when they had both died in an automobile accident. Urbino had seen too many ways that grief could manifest itself, and in the most unlikely of people, to feel secure about easily identifying its true expression. He—

  “Urbino, how nice to see you!” Regina Bella broke into his thoughts. She wore one of her stylish outfits. She looked as if she had lost weight since Frieda’s party. “I hope you’re enjoying the meal? Why only salad and pasta? You’re not still ill, I hope? What brings you here? Are you alone, or is Barbara somewhere? And Habib?”

  Her questions came so thick and fast that at first he could do little more than smile and nod. She was filled with nervous energy.

  He asked her to sit down.

  “Just for a few minutes,” she said. “Would you mind if I smoked?”

  She lit up a cigarette and seated herself. But the next moment, she was up again to greet five French tourists, whom she escorted to a large table in the back.

  When she returned, they chatted briefly about Burano and a project to drain its canals. Then he mentioned that he had visited Carolina Bruni. Regina stiffened and colored. She stubbed out her cigarette, and made a joke about the woman’s voice.

  Salvatore came to clear the table. Urbino ordered a coffee.

  “Salvatore is back at work, I see. It’s good to return to a regular schedule after a bereavement, if one feels up to it, of course. Considering that his mother had her heart attack right here, though, I thought he might have some reluctance.”

  Regina followed Salvatore with her eyes as he went into the kitchen. Before she brought them back to they glanced down at the floor a few feet from their table.

  “It’s the way he wanted it. I suggested that he take more time off. You’ll have to excuse me, but I want to catch the next boat.”

  “I have the Contessa’s boat. Giorgio could drop you anywhere you like. You’d get there much quicker.”

  “That’s all right.” She got up. “You enjoy your coffee. Have some of the tiramisu—on the house. Nella made it this morning. Ciao!”

  Urbino decided against the dessert, but he lingered over his coffee. A few more customers came in. Salvatore was busy. Although there weren’t many tables, it was a lot of work for one person. Nina had frequently helped. In the light of her death, Il Piccolo Nettuno would see some changes, but not, Urbino suspected, the kind that the old lace maker had hoped for, if she had lived.

  A few minutes later, when Salvatore was outside, Urbino walked toward the back of the room, feeling slightly disoriented by the mirrors. He entered the kitchen.

  It was small and cluttered, and filled with a pleasant mixture of food aromas. A back door led into a courtyard, which was connected to the Via Galuppi by a narrow calle.

  Nella, a small, rounded woman in her forties, was spooning tomato sauce into the middle of a plate of rigatoni. He introduced himself and thanked her for the meal.

  “But you didn’t eat much, signore.”

  �
��It’s still a little early for lunch for me. I’ll save the tiramisu for the next time.”

  “I’ve already wrapped you up some. Salvatore was going to bring it to you.”

  She reached for a bag tied with red ribbon on the counter by the courtyard door. Next to the bag was a stiff-brimmed white cap.

  “You can return the bowl the next time.”

  “How kind to wrap it so nicely when you’re busy like this. You must miss Nina Crivelli’s help. There’s a lot to be done, with just you and Salvatore.”

  “Don’t forget Signorina Regina. We manage.”

  Footsteps approached the door. It was Salvatore. A distinct scowl marred his good-looking, but haggard face. His eyes fixed on the cap for a few seconds, then looked away.

  “Here.” Nella handed him the plate of pasta. “I gave the signore his tiramisu. Enjoy it, Signor Macintyre. If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare the risotto.”

  Urbino was now eager to return to the motorboat. Salvatore, however, took a long time to bring him his bill and return his change. When he was about to leave, he was further delayed by one of the French tourists from the back of the restaurant, who called him over to their table. She excused herself and said that she recognized him from the photograph on his biography of Proust. She had it with her. He signed it and chatted with them for a few minutes, hoping he didn’t show his impatience to leave.

  By the time he reached the motorboat, Giorgio was standing at attention in his white cap and dark blue jacket. A slightly mocking smile seemed to curve his well-formed lips.

  19

  The next day was bright and sunny, and Urbino and Habib made an outing to Murano, where Habib wanted to do some sketching. Urbino left him at the Ponte Vivarini, while he wandered around the island, stopping in the Glass Museum and the Basilica of San Donato, which held vivid memories of his first case. For most of the time he kept thinking about what he had learned on Burano yesterday. It had been a great deal, and he was trying to sort it out.

  For the last hour of his ruminations, he sat at a cafe near the Ponte Vivarini and idly watched Habib go about his sketching. Habib was so caught up in his work that he didn’t even notice. When Urbino rejoined him, he proudly showed his sketches of the bridge and the Palazzo da Mula a short distance away. They were quite good.

  Before they went for lunch at Urbino’s favorite trattoria on the island, they stopped by Bartolomeo Pignatti’s glass factory on the Fondamenta dei Vetrai.

  Ten minutes later Habib was watching Pignatti with childlike wonder as he went about his art. The glassmaker was like some muscular priest officiating before a tabernacle of fire and making all the ritualistic gestures that would help him fashion a precious offering. Even his occasional grunts and mumbled words and phrases suggested scraps of mysterious prayers and supplications. Urbino followed the man’s movements with his own fascination as the iridescent lump of molten glass at the end of a long tube began to swell from the force of Pignatti’s lungs.

  Eventually, with the application of pincers, spatula, and the artistry of the maestro, a shape emerged. Urbino, who had spoken a few quick words to Pignatti after they had discussed the Palazzo Uccello’s damaged chandelier, was able to recognize it before Habib.

  “A squirrel!” Habib said.

  Squirrels, along with cats, were his favorite animals.

  Pignatti placed the little glass animal in an oven to cool.

  “He’s making you a whole family. We’ll pick them up when we finish lunch.”

  20

  Urbino was finishing dinner that evening when the telephone rang. It was the Contessa. He was alone in the Palazzo Uccello and looking forward to an evening of quiet reflection. Habib had gone off to see Jerome shortly after they had returned from Burano and had said that he wouldn’t be back until late.

  “I had success with Corrado,” the Contessa said with a thrill of excitement in her voice.

  Corrado Scarpa, the Contessa’s friend, had a connection with some of the police officials at the Venice Questura. Over the years Urbino had benefited from information he had passed on. Yesterday afternoon, after returning to the Palazzo Uccello, Urbino had asked the Contessa to look into a few details. He hadn’t filled her in yet, however, on all he had learned.

  “I told him I needed to settle some questions in my own mind since I was the one who found Nina Crivelli’s body. I said that I keep telling myself that if only I had got there earlier, I might have saved her. I doubt if he believed me, but he agreed to read the reports and talk to Dr. Rubbini. There’s no doubt she had a massive heart attack. No evidence of anything else, except a bruise on the back of her head, caused by her fall. She died almost instantly. From what can be estimated, less than an hour before I found her. A local couple left the restaurant with Salvatore and the cook at nine-thirty. He locked up. Nina must have arrived shortly after to clean.”

  “What about the lace handkerchief?”

  “The medical examiner’s report mentioned it only to say that it couldn’t have been in any way the cause of death and that she probably had a coughing fit before the attack that killed her.”

  “But it doesn’t quite make sense. The handkerchief was part-way in her mouth.”

  “But not stuffed into it. Horrible idea!”

  “Maybe it had been, but it had come out somehow.”

  “Or because of someone.”

  “Was any medication found on her?”

  “No, but it seems it wouldn’t have saved her anyway because of the severity of the attack.”

  “And there was no autopsy,” Urbino reminded her as well as himself, “so no one would know if there were traces of any medication in her body.”

  “But Dr. Rubbini confirms that she had a long-standing heart problem, and that she was taking medication for it.”

  “And Regina Bella?”

  “Rubbini praised her. She often accompanied Nina on her visits. Salvatore couldn’t be depended on. Carolina Bruni was right. Regina tried to make sure that Nina had her pills with her all the time. She even went to the pharmacy to get them.”

  “Did Nina take her condition seriously?”

  “It appears she did. She was determined to do everything and anything to keep herself alive and well as long as possible. Rubbini said it was for Salvatore’s sake.”

  21

  Because of his investigation into the Nina Crivelli affair, Urbino had put aside his Women of Venice project. After his conversation with the Contessa, he went to the library and started to sort through his notes on the book. He often found that by keeping one part of his mind at work on something unrelated to a troubling problem, another part was freed to attack it.

  He read through some material on the Contessa Isabella Teotochi, who had kept a literary salon at the Palazzo Albrizzi in the San Polo quarter. Teotochi, whom Lord Byron had called the De Staël of Venice, was one of his and the Contessa’s favorite figures, but this evening he couldn’t concentrate on her or any other aspect of his project. His thoughts kept returning to the lace maker.

  He took down his books on lace making and Venetian lace, and started to page through them. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but he felt that the information and illustrations might put him in a receptive frame of mind. Accounts about mermaid’s lace and the collar made for Louis XIV out of white human hair and Cencia Scarpaiola, who had once been the only person alive to know the secret of punto in aria, amused and informed him. It wasn’t until he came across a definition of lace in one of the books, however, that he felt he had found something of relevance: Lace, a slender fabric, made of thread, incorporating holes as an intentional part of the design. The fact that it was the definition by a woman named Earnshaw made it all the more interesting, because of the name’s association with passion, death, and betrayal. Emily Bronte’s tragic heroine, Catherine Earnshaw, was one of Urbino’s favorite characters.

  Urbino smiled to himself. It didn’t take too much of a stretch of his imagination to realize
that this definition uncannily described his own method of sleuthing. The fabric he was threading was indeed slender, even delicate, and there was no question it was full of holes. Whether he could make these holes a part of the design remained to be seen. More likely, the holes, this time around, would make no design possible, and would only contribute to the disintegration of what he was working so hard to achieve.

  He checked his wristwatch. It was a few minutes before ten. Habib was out with some friends from the language school. He decided to take a walk.

  Before he left, he telephoned Frieda and mentioned that he had something that was hers.

  “That’s strange. However did you find it?” she said in a puzzled tone.

  “Find it? Carolina Bruni gave it to me.”

  “Carolina Bruni?” Frieda repeated. “But I don’t—oh, of course, Tristan und Isolde. No, no, you don’t have to bring them here. Tomorrow morning at eleven? Caffè Quadri? Bye-bye!”

  Out in the damp night air, Urbino walked first as far as the Rialto Bridge, deserted of its shoppers, but not of tourists in the form of an elderly French couple. They were standing in the middle of the bridge where Urbino had stood a few weeks before. They too were looking out at the broad nighttime expanse of the Grand Canal, over which a mist was starting to thicken.

  From the Rialto landing, he took the local vaporetto to the Salute stop. Only Urbino and an old woman got off. The Salute’s snowy cupolas and towers loomed above him, but he didn’t linger. He walked past the wide steps of the church and down the fondamenta on the Grand Canal side to the isolated Punta della Dogana.

  He never tired of the view. It had been his destination the other night, when his walk, unlike now, had been haunted by the sense that he was being pursued. Tonight things were different. He felt that he had overreacted before.

  The Punta della Dogana was where the Grand Canal, the lagoon, and the Giudecca Canal met. On his right floated the small island of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its Palladian church quietly gazing at the excesses of the Doges’ Palace and the Basilica across the water.