Urbino went to Habib’s studio. His satchel was lying on the divan. Inside was a photograph of a smiling Habib and two of his fellow students. Urbino recognized them as French girls whom he and Jerome hung around with. The picture had been taken in Verona, probably by an itinerant photographer who had an instant camera. Above their heads Urbino could make out Juliet’s balcony.
On the table were Habib’s passport, his Italian residency card, and his identity card from the language school, which he had forgotten in his haste. He carried them with him almost all the time. It was a habit he had formed in Morocco where any policeman could arrest you if you didn’t have them—or even if you did, as Urbino too well remembered from the time he had managed to avert this from happening in the Fez medina.
It made him nervous to think of Habib being out of the house without them, even here in Italy. As an American, Urbino had never become accustomed to the need to carry around his own residency card all the time.
He checked his wristwatch. Habib had been gone almost half an hour.
What had he meant about showing Urbino something and everything being spoiled? When he had stormed out of the house, it had been with an aim in mind. And, Urbino realized, a destination.
He telephoned the Contessa. She picked it up on the second ring.
“Giorgio’s address? You know the building, don’t you? In the Calle Convertite right off the Fondamenta Pescaria. But why do you want it at this hour? Are you—”
“I’ll explain tomorrow.”
He scribbled a hasty note to Habib on the off chance that he might return while Urbino was out. He put Habib’s documents into his cape pocket and left the Palazzo Uccello.
It wasn’t far to the Fondamenta Pescaria, which was along the Cannaregio Canal. He took the quickest route, which someone inexperienced with Venice like Habib would have considered the back route. It would gain him perhaps five minutes.
As he emerged on the embankment from beneath the Sottoportego del Ghetto, a blue police boat with its light flashing was visible in the canal. He hurried in its direction. Two policemen were leading Habib, handcuffed, to the boat.
“Sidi! Please help me! I did nothing wrong! He was dead when I got there. Giorgio is dead!”
As the policemen helped Habib into the boat, he threw Urbino a wild and desperate look. Unlike the time in Morocco, Urbino knew that nothing he might say to the policemen, in any language, would get them to release him.
PART THREE
PUNTO IN ARIA
1
On the second morning after the scene on the Fondamenta Pescaria, Urbino bought a copy of Il Gazzettino from the kiosk on the Strada Nuova. The events on the edge of the ghetto had occurred too late to reach the paper yesterday morning.
But Urbino didn’t open the newspaper in the middle of the busy thoroughfare, tempted though he was. He was on his way to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. He would wait until he and the Contessa could read it together.
The past two days had been almost total confusion. The police were detaining Habib on suspicion of the murder of Giorgio. It was feared that if he were released before the full investigation was completed, he would escape to Morocco.
Urbino had failed, despite the services of one of the best lawyers and the intervention of Corrado Scarpa, to secure Habib’s release. He hadn’t been allowed to see or speak with him, or even send him a note.
Luigo Torino, the lawyer, said that Habib was being treated in the same manner as the other prisoners, which was intended to be a consolation. Urbino was tortured, however, by the thought of Habib locked away in a cell that he imagined not much more comfortable than the ancient ones attached to the Ducal Palace.
Three policemen had come to the Palazzo Uccello yesterday afternoon and gone through Habib’s possessions. Urbino had opened the cabinet with the spare key. Nothing inside had looked even remotely suspicious to Urbino, but the policemen had taken away letters, photographs, a small appointment book, and, for some reason, Habib’s language school notebooks.
Urbino was oblivious to the scene around him on the Strada Nuova. He returned greetings from friends and shopkeepers mechanically. He almost upset a table of socks displayed for sale, and collided with several people walking in the opposite direction.
Weary, distracted, he dropped into a chair in the Contessa’s morning room and opened the newspaper. He found the piece on Giorgio’s murder on the first page of the Venice news and read it out loud:
BOATMAN MURDERED IN CANNAREGIO
Signor Giorgio Fratino, 28, of Venice and formerly of Naples was found bludgeoned to death in his apartment in the Calle Convertite on Thursday evening. Dr. Franco Brilli, the medical examiner, pronounced Signor Fratino dead on the scene at 12:17 A.M.
Signor Fratino had been a resident of the city for the past eight months and was employed as boatman and chauffeur by the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini. Before moving to his quarters in the Calle Convertite, he occupied rooms at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini.
Residents of the area reported hearing an altercation. A suspect, Habib Laroussi, a Moroccan national of 24, was restrained by two of the residents of an adjoining apartment and subsequently arrested. He remains in police custody.
Commissario Gemelli of the Venice Questura did not wish to comment on the investigation except to say that all proper procedures were being followed in their attempt to determine what brought Signor Fratino to his untimely end.
It was the Contessa who broke the silence after he finished reading.
“They would have to mention my name twice. I’m sorry,” she added. “That’s a terrible thing to say. How’s Habib doing?”
Urbino stared at her and shook his head slowly.
“The Moroccan embassy still hasn’t sent anyone up from Rome. Habib in prison! It’s inconceivable!”
The Contessa patted his hand.
“We’ll get him out soon.”
“If I could only see him! He probably thinks I’ve abandoned him.”
“Stop this nonsense! He knows you’re doing whatever you can. Here, have some coffee.”
Urbino declined. His nerves were already in a terrible state.
“I’ll have some anisette.”
He poured himself a generous portion.
“Who do you think killed Giorgio?” the Contessa asked.
“All I know is that it wasn’t Habib, and that whoever did, probably also killed Nina Crivelli.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing Gemelli of that. Be prepared for what he’ll say. That you’re blind to the truth. That you’ve lost a proper sense of proportion. That you’re grasping at straws. You—”
“How easily all that comes off your tongue! I have no doubts about what he’ll say. Gemelli and I have been on opposite sides of questions before, and once or twice it was because of your own interests, don’t forget! Now I have something at stake.”
“Don’t let it carry you away. Try to keep some kind of proportion.”
For the second time the Contessa mentioned his danger of losing a sense of proportion. It was good advice, of course, but even as he took it in, he feared that, although so short a time had passed since he had seen Habib hustled off by the police, he was already too far down the road to stop himself. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted to. His need to believe in Habib was a rock that he clung to.
He tossed down the remainder of his anisette.
“I have to be going. I’ll call you after I see Gemelli.”
“Why don’t you come for dinner? Even better, why not spend the night, or as long as you like? Your room is always waiting for you.”
She sighed, for she must have been reminded of the last time he had slept in the room. It had been during a house party when the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini had been buffeted by the terrible storm and one of the other guests had been murdered.
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
He gave a hollow laugh.
“Don’t you think I’m used to it?”
“Th
ings are different now.”
“Yes, well, at any rate, I don’t think I’ll be wandering around the Palazzo Uccello like some pathetic soul.”
2
But that was exactly what he did when he got back home. He roamed through the rooms, feeling oppressed by all the objects that used to give him so much pleasure. He sank into an armchair only to get up a few moments later. Natalia watched him silently with a sad look on her face whenever his steps carried him into the kitchen.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat a full lunch today any more than yesterday, she was preparing his favorite fillings for tramezzini. The scent of baking pancarré, however, gave him more pain than pleasure, for he remembered how much Habib delighted in the little sandwiches. He told Natalia he would eat in the library.
He went to Habib’s studio. The Arab diva stared down at him with a vaguely melancholy look. Under a chair were Habib’s slippers, at odd angles to each other, where he had kicked them off. They seemed to speak of the abruptness with which he had been snatched away from safety.
Urbino picked them up to add to a suitcase of clothes and other items he would bring to the Questura for Habib. He could hardly remember what he had tossed into the first one he had entrusted to Torino.
On a little table was the family of glass squirrels that Pignatti had made for Habib. Two of them had fallen on their side. Urbino straightened them.
As he was leaving the studio, a large book lying on the floor and partly concealed by the drape of the cover of the divan, caught his attention. It was the German-English dictionary from the library. He bent down to retrieve it and exposed a large manila envelope behind it. The flap of the envelope was unsealed. Inside was a folder with several sheets of paper. Without examining the sheets, he took the envelope and the dictionary to the library.
On the refectory table was a tray with a plate of tramezzini. There was also a pitcher of fresh orange juice, which Natalia believed was a cure for everything from a headache to liver ailment. He doctored the pitcher with vodka. He knew he should keep a clear head for his meeting with Gemelli that afternoon, but he also needed to get through the intervening hours as well.
Inside the folder were several sheets of unlined paper covered with German writing in a large, sprawling hand. He took a shrimp-filled sandwich and started to read. It was slow going at first, both because of the handwriting and also because of his less than firm grasp of German.
He had no doubt he was reading something that Frieda Hensel had written. It was in the manner of some of her other tales. He made a rough translation into English in his mind as he read, stopping often to look up unfamiliar words in the dictionary. He realized that his loose and inexact translation didn’t do justice to Frieda’s haunting style. The story went something like this:
In a kingdom of ice and snow, the young prince ordered all the mirrors destroyed. “From this time forward,” he announced, “let other people be our mirrors.”
The guards went throughout the kingdom smashing mirrors large and small, and threw the fragments into a deep well in the mountains. No guard, not even the most trusted, was allowed to seek out the mirrors in the palace.
The prince himself went through all the three hundred and sixty-five rooms, for each had its mirror, large or small, round, oval, square, and rectangular. He broke all of them, except one. This mirror had stood in the nursery since before he was born. He would take it out to sea and send it to the dark depths where every fish is blind.
He bid a sad farewell to his ailing father and held up the last mirror in the kingdom to show the old man his reflection.
“Go, my son. I will be dead before you return.”
No more, no less than three days’ journey in the kingdom’s mightiest ship brought the prince to the enchanted spot. While the captain and the crew watched in silence, the prince dropped the mirror off the stern into the steel-blue waters.
No sooner did it slip beneath the surface than a storm began. The ship was hit by gales from the north. Stones of ice fell on the deck. It was seared by the hot, dry winds of the south. Sand collected in the furled sails.
Little by little the ship was driven toward the black magnetic rocks feared by all seafarers. The captain, a brave and experienced man, threw his turban into the sea and said that they must all now make their peace with God.
The magnetic rocks pulled all the nails, one by one, from the ship, and added them to thousands and thousands of others. The sailors were tossed into the sea as the ship fell apart. Everyone was drowned except the prince.
He was tossed by the wind and carried by the waves for three days and three nights. He lost all sense.
The prince awoke to find himself on an island of golden sands and green trees. He ate bananas and dates, and drank the milk of a coconut, and then fell asleep.
He awoke to see a ship sailing toward the island. At first his heart leaped at this timely rescue. Then he climbed to a treetop and concealed himself among its leaves.
The ship anchored. Seven slaves emerged, each with a silver shovel over his shoulder. They stopped beneath the prince’s tree and began to dig until they uncovered a little door. They opened it. Seven more slaves came from the ship, burdened with all manner of foods and spices bursting from sacks and piled high in baskets. Even chickens and sheep were among the bounty they carried to the door and down into the ground. Then came furniture, and carpets, and robes and slippers. All disappeared through the door.
Out of the ship emerged an old man with a long, white beard. Beside him was a boy of great beauty, with smooth cinnamon skin and the eyes of a gazelle. This boy, who possessed the grace and innocence of a young animal, enchanted the prince. He was seized with an uncontrollable love. The concealing leaves of the tree, brushed by a warm breeze, didn’t quiver any more than he did himself.
The prince watched with all his senses keen as the old man and the boy disappeared through the door and into the earth.
And then the procession from the ship to the door was reversed. The slaves returned, empty-handed, and the old man slowly made his way on board, but not with the beautiful boy. Slaves covered the door with dirt once more. The ship departed.
Within moments the prince was clearing the door of earth and lifting it, not even feeling the effort. A spiraling staircase, encrusted with seashells and coral, carried him downward, then downward still.
There a large, oval chamber blossomed before him. It was as richly decorated as the palace in the kingdom of ice and snow. No space was unadorned. Carpets lay three deep on the floor, and tapestries of sylvan scenes hung from the walls. Books and musical instruments, embroidered ottomans and golden candelabra, were in lovely disarray. Braziers wafted the scent of myrrh and bergamot and ambergris. From the lofty ceiling on a chain of gold hung a censer, also of gold, out of which licked blue, orange, and violet flames.
Nowhere was there a mirror.
In the middle of the oval room, seated on a divan of ebony, with a canopy festooned with flowers, and surrounded by candles and a rich variety of fruits and sweets, sat the boy holding a jewel-encrusted fan. His large dark eyes flared up in fear. He fell backward against the cushions
“Do not fear me, beautiful young man,” said the prince in a whisper. “I have been brought a long distance to rescue you from this death beneath the earth. I give you love more precious than water in the desert, or the sun in my kingdom of ice and snow. You will be my friend forever.”
“I see by your gentle voice that you mean me no harm,” said the boy. His voice was like a liquid. “Come sit next to me.”
The prince did as he was bid. He soon was drinking in at closer sight the boy’s gentle beauty.
“You are mistaken, good sir,” continued the boy. “I have been brought here not to die, but so that I might live. I am the only son of a rich jeweler. When I was born, a soothsayer told him that a prince would kill me after he threw a mirror into the sea and survived the wreck of his ship. For sixteen years he kept me hidden from the
world. But then, three days ago, he heard that such a man had approached the edges of our kingdom. He brought me to this place, which has been awaiting me since the year of my birth. The prince will not be able to find me here. In forty days my father will return. All will then be well.”
Upon hearing this story, the prince, who had always believed in soothsayers, cursed them silently for their lies and foolishness.
“My dear boy,” he said. “No one could ever be so cruel to one so beautiful. I will keep you company for all the forty days, and when they are passed, you will come to my kingdom to be my friend and my heir.”
And so the prince and the boy stayed together until the fortieth day. The prince served the boy the most delicious foods. Lamb and pine nuts. Duck in pomegranate sauce. Salads of oranges and dates. Olives and preserved lemons. Rose-flavored apples and cakes of honey. He bathed him in perfumed waters. And every night he slept with him in the canopied bed to show his love and protection.
The day arrived on which they eagerly awaited the coming of the boy’s father and the beginning of their life together above the earth. The prince bathed the boy as had become his treasured habit, and carried him to the divan. He presented him with his favorite lime-pistachio sherbet.
After a honeyed nap, the boy wished for some watermelon to eat. The prince climbed on the bed to get the knife hung on the wall. At that moment the boy, in his playfulness, tickled the leg of the prince.
All control was lost because of this sweet mischief, and the prince fell on top of the boy and drove the knife straight through his heart. The boy died in the arms of the prince.
The prince became mad with grief. He tore his garments and cursed the workings of fate. When the old jeweler arrived with his retinue, he found the prince as motionless as the boy he was clasping in his arms.
Frieda had written two lines after this, but they had been crossed out and were undecipherable.
Urbino felt chilled. He poured himself another drink.
Deadly to the Sight Page 18
