In the past his judgment had been good precisely because it had been detached. On one occasion, however, his fear of losing his special relationship with the Contessa had put him dangerously off the scent. Now he was being tested much more rigorously.
He had often been accused of being distant and cool. “You’re above it all,” an artist friend had once half-joked. “Sitting there in your palazzo and carrying on all these intellectual exercises. Your blue needs a bit of the red to warm and humanize it.”
But not too much of it, a voice in his head warned him as the boat approached the landing on the Fondamenta Nuove.
15
“You’ve got a lovely view,” Urbino said to Beatrix and Marie. He had come directly to their apartment from the vaporetto.
“A lovely view, yes, if you like a memento mori,” the plainfaced Marie said. A small brimless hat with a tiny white feather perched on her head. Its violet color matched her trim little suit. “A sight to die for.”
The cemetery island, with its brick wall, cypress trees, gate, and some of the higher tombstones, was visible in the near distance.
The two women occupied furnished rooms that looked out on the lagoon. Scattered liberally among all the mismatched, broken-down furniture and hanging from doorknobs, curtain rods, and pegs on the wall was a jumble of masks and hats. An entire wall of the adjacent bedroom was devoted to an assortment of masks, one of which looked eerily like Salvatore, except that it was painted a virulent shade of green. It hung next to the plague doctor that Beatrix had surprised Urbino with on her visit to the Palazzo Uccello.
“And there’s a good chance we will do exactly that, my dear, unless we leave soon,” Beatrix said. “Die, I mean. See Venice, and die. That is the saying, I think.”
Her tall form was wrapped in a crimson dressing gown, giving her an even more regal look than usual.
“See Naples, and die,” Urbino said from the window.
“At least it is warmer there. This apartment is always ice-cold.”
She gave an exaggerated shiver.
Urbino took one more look out at the broad lagoon and then down at the boat station a short distance from their building.
“How’s Habib?” Marie asked.
“Holding up fairly well, but you can imagine what it’s like for him.”
“I prefer not to,” Beatrix said. “Oh, be careful!”
She snatched away a cream-colored felt hat from the cushions of the armchair as he was about to seat himself. She placed it on top of an empty vase.
“Everything will be straightened out soon,” Marie said. “It is a big mistake.”
“Of course,” the Austrian woman put in quickly. “He’ll be painting his impressions of Carnevale in a few weeks. He can do sketches of us all in our costumes for the Contessa Barbara’s ballo in maschera!”
Urbino took a sip of the steaming coffee Marie had fixed.
“So many of us are affected by these sad and violent events,” Marie said in her quiet voice. “You, and poor Habib all locked up. And Barbara. She brought Giorgio all the way from Naples to be murdered here in Venice.’
“Nonsense, my dear!” Beatrix shot out. “Barbara is not responsible. And it is Giorgio who is dead. Our sympathies must go for the dead and not just the living.”
“The dead are past their troubles,” Marie said firmly. “May Giorgio rest in peace, and his murderer be found, and punished severely.” She looked up at Beatrix from beneath her hat. “We all will be happier then.” She took a sip of coffee. “I feel sad for the young lady from the restaurant.”
Urbino perceived a powerful will in the smaller woman that he hadn’t noticed when he had first met them at Frieda’s party, and also a simmering resentment.
“Do you mean Regina Bella?” he asked.
Beatrix, who was still standing up, gave another shiver, and put her coffee cup down. She hugged herself more closely as she walked around the room. Marie followed her movements as she answered Urbino’s question.
“Yes. I saw her with Giorgio. From the window. They were down on the embankment. From the way she looked at him, I think she had feelings for him.”
“You are too romantic,” Beatrix said. “I have always said so.”
Something sharp and cold glared from her blue eyes. She drew herself up to her full height.
“There are worse things to be. My father—he was an English teacher, monsieur—he was very romantic, more than my mother.”
She had a look of satisfaction. Beatrix stiffened as if Marie had probed at some tender, private spot known only to them.
“Your imagination is sometimes silly, my little one.”
“Laugh as much as you wish. She who laughs last, laughs the loudest.”
She turned away from her companion, who was now standing beside a small table stacked precariously with books. On the top was a large, thick volume on Venetian china. Urbino had a copy of it in his library.
“In any case,” Marie went on, “I saw the two of them down there not once, but twice. I would have drawn Beatrix’s attention to it if she had been here, but she has been leaving me alone for hours.”
“It is only because you do not want to come with me.”
“We know what the truth is, Beatrix.”
Despite Urbino’s growing discomfort at being a witness to the apparent discord between the two women, he was noting it with particular attention.
“Speaking about romantic men like your father,” Urbino said, “Wagner was blasting from the Casa Verde this morning. Frieda couldn’t hear the bell.”
“She will go deaf one of these days,” Marie said.
“She is already a little deaf.” Beatrix gave Urbino a sidelong glance that seemed to be crafty. “If not, she would have heard the man who was following her.”
“Perhaps the man—or the woman—wasn’t following her, Beatrix dear. He—or she—could have been waiting and watching for her, like a big black spider,” the milliner said. The white feather in her hat shivered in the draft.
“Your imagination is flying again, my—oh!” Beatrix cried out as she bumped against the small tale and sent the books tumbling to the floor.
She replaced the book on Venetian china on the table, with the others on top of it in a more secure pile.
“It’s lucky that Frieda wasn’t harmed,” Urbino said. “It was dark and she was in a remote place. Muggings usually happen around San Marco, and during the tourist season. They’re rather rare at this time of the year, and in this quarter.”
“She was being followed by someone from this neighborhood,” Beatrix said as she straightened up from her task and tightened her robe.
“Why do you say that?”
“All the neighbors see her come and go, go and come. And Marie and I, we are very obvious living here in this building with all Italians. In my opinion, Frieda caught the attention of someone. This person thought she carried a pile of money with her. Everyone must know the fortune we are paying to be frozen to death! They must think we have money to burn for the heat! If we have money, so must she. It is simple, yes?”
Beatrix’s explanation, delivered with nervous energy, sounded more than a little elaborate to account for the attack on Frieda.
“Birds of a feather collect together,” she added with a flourish.
“You mean flock,” Marie corrected. “The man—or the woman—didn’t take her money. She was bringing something to you, Monsieur Urbino.”
“Something to show me.”
“She was mysterious about it. I think it was one of her stories.” Marie’s eyes slid in Beatrix’s direction. The Austrian woman was examining the clasp of her bracelet. “Writers are as thick as thieves,” Marie went on when Urbino said nothing. She delivered this idiom with a self-satisfied smile on her round face.
“Writers are often quite the opposite.”
He got up and returned to the window.
“Here’s the number twelve from Burano pulling in. Isn’t that Salvatore fr
om Il Piccolo Nettuno? Yes, I believe it is.”
Fortunately neither of the two women came to look over his shoulder. None of the disembarking passengers was Salvatore.
“You must be familiar with the people going back and forth to Burano. Does Salvatore keep to a regular schedule?”
Beatrix was staring at him as implacably as the green mask on the bedroom wall.
“Marie and I do not spend our time looking out the window.” She started to collect the coffee cups and place them on a tray. “You will excuse us, please? We have to meet an old friend who is passing through town.”
She gave Marie a look that seemed to dare her to disagree.
16
Early the next morning, while Urbino was still in bed, Torino telephoned him.
“I’ve been removed as Habib’s awocato.”
“Removed?”
He came fully awake.
“I’m afraid so. The Moroccan embassy has appointed one of their own lawyers. I’m giving him a briefing this afternoon when he comes up from Rome.”
“But what does this mean for Habib?”
“For one thing, it means that the Moroccans are considering this a very serious matter, as of course they should. It’s even possible that it could be to Habib’s benefit. A show of diplomatic force and all that.”
“But he said he wasn’t treated well by the official the other day.”
“They might have one way of dealing with him, and another way of dealing with the Italian police. That’s diplomacy. Their main concern is their own image and standing. To that extent they’ll do everything they can for him. Don’t worry about that. Of course, you realize how this directly affects you and Habib.”
“How is that?”
“Your visit yesterday will be the first and the last one. You won’t see him again until his trial—or until he’s released, and that could be a long, long way off. The Moroccans are going to be very sensitive on the issue of your relationship with him. My professional advice is to keep a low profile, almost nonexistent. I’ll try to find out how he’s doing. I may even be able to get some messages through, but remember that we don’t want to do anything that makes his situation worse, either in the prison or before the law.”
“Of course not.”
There was a longish pause. Torino cleared his throat.
“Habib asked me to give you a message. It doesn’t matter, not now that you won’t be able to see him anyway, but …”
Torino trailed off.
“What is it?”
“Yesterday afternoon he told me that you shouldn’t visit him anymore. I’m afraid he was firm about it.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“There are some other things you should know,” Torino rushed on. “They’re not good. Corrado Scarpa called me late last night. It seems that Giorgio Fratino’s sweater and trousers were disarrayed in a manner that might have been the result of a struggle—or something else. His trousers were pulled partway down. There were no signs of recent sexual contact of any kind, however.”
“Habib said something about Giorgio’s clothes. What was it?” Urbino searched his mind for the exact words. They seemed very important. “They were ‘all messed up and—and out of the right place,’ is what I think he said. I should have asked him to explain, but I didn’t. You see, he wasn’t trying to hide anything. He said that to you, didn’t he?”
“Something like that, but I wish I had the opportunity to ask him some specific questions about it. I’ll pass it on to his new lawyer. And now brace yourself for some worse news.”
Urbino’s heart sank even further.
“How worse can it get?”
“Judge for yourself. The Substitute Prosecutor has learned that Habib was arrested four years ago in Tangier and detained for two weeks. He attacked a Spaniard on the beach. Habib went into a rage when the Spaniard accused him of stealing his wallet. They had met each other in the medina. There seems to have been some brief intimacy between them. Fortunately, the Spaniard dropped charges, and Habib seems to have had a friend who pulled some strings for him from Rabat. He has no record, and it’s not clear how the Substitute Prosecutor found out, or how he intends to use the information, but you can be sure he’s going to do his damned best.”
“Habib does have a temper,” Urbino said in a quiet voice, “especially when someone confronts him. The more innocent he is, the more violent he can become. It’s his sense of honesty and justice.”
He had already told Torino all this, but he needed to say it again.
“Well enough,” Torino said, “but it means he can go from being innocent to being guilty of something serious if he lets himself go. I’ll be as much help to the new lawyer as the Moroccans will let me. But don’t get too down. I’ve saved some good news for last. Marino Polidoro came out of his coma last night. The police asked him a few questions but he’s still very weak. I’ve persuaded his nephew to let you see him briefly. Don’t ask me how I pulled it off. Just get over to the hospital before he changes his mind. Ciao.”
While having a hasty breakfast, Urbino tried to absorb what Torino had told him. Habib seemed even farther away from him now, and in even greater danger. The fact that he didn’t want to see him kept troubling Urbino, but he refused to consider it in any way that put Habib in a bad light. Instead, he pushed it into the already crowded room of unanswered questions.
Fortunately, there was something more pressing to give his attention to. He telephoned the Contessa and arranged to meet her at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini in half an hour. They would go to the hospital together to see Marino.
17
Marino Polidoro’s deformed body was covered up to the chest with a crisp white sheet. Various tubes connected him to plastic bags on an infusion stand and to a mobile monitoring unit. His face was ashen beneath a head bandage.
His eyes, however, were lively as they moved back and forth between Urbino and the Contessa.
“He can’t speak very loudly, and only a few words at a time,” his nephew informed them.
Handsome and vigorous-looking, he couldn’t have been more of a physical contrast to Polidoro, even in the best of health.
“Did you see who it was who broke into the shop and attacked you?” Urbino asked Polidoro.
Polidoro moved his head slightly from side to side on the pillow. His thin lips started to move. Urbino and the Contessa leaned closer.
He uttered a word, which was almost indistinguishable.
“Naso?” Urbino repeated. Nose, Urbino thought to himself. What could that mean?
Polidoro’s eyes were closed. He nodded with an effort. Then he started to speak again. What Urbino thought he heard was cozzi or pozzi. Conflicts or wells. Which did Polidoro mean, and what was its significance?
“What did you say, Marino? Cozzi or pozzi?”
Urbino enunciated each word clearly.
Polidoro nodded again.
A nurse came into the room and checked the dials on the monitor, and looked at the plastic bags on the stand.
“That will have to be enough, Signor Macintyre,” the nephew said. “Perhaps you can come in a few days when he has more of his strength.”
“Just one more question, please.”
Before the nephew could protest, Urbino said to Polidoro, “I know you visited Nina Crivelli on Burano. Did it have anything to do with Giorgio, the Contessa’s boatman?”
Polidoro repeated one of the words he had said before, the one that had sounded like naso to Urbino. Now Urbino wasn’t so sure.
Urbino and the Contessa had coffee in the cafe across from the hospital. The equestrian statue of Colleoni in the middle of the square, with its powerful image of a past age of forceful action, seemed to mock Urbino’s confusion and hesitancy. It would have been an appropriate time to tell the Contessa what he had learned since they had last talked things over. He wasn’t ready for that, however.
“I didn’t hear any more clearly than you,” the Co
ntessa said.
She had been staring at him silently from time to time as soon as they had sat down. It was obvious that she knew he was keeping things to himself.
“But I have faith in you. You’ll make some sense of what he said. You’ll make some sense of it all.”
What he caught in her voice was not so much a note of encouragement, however, but one of consolation.
18
Urbino turned his back on the scornful gaze of Colleoni and walked to the Piazza San Marco through the gray morning. The Contessa, sensing his need to be alone, had taken the boat back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini.
The chill air did nothing to clear his mind. It was still a confusing swirl. He stepped into the Basilica. The great church was empty, except for a scattering of tourists, one lone worshipper, and a man behind his easel. He seated himself in one of the wooden chairs.
The darkness and dampness of the church suited him, almost as much as it did on summer afternoons when he slipped inside to escape the hot light of the Piazza. He stared up at the vaults and into the various niches where the curved, mosaic figures against their golden background seemed to beckon and greet him familiarly. This morning they seemed a strange and impossible combination of the molten and the angular, the hollow-eyed and the observant, the faded and the brilliant. In all directions, his eye was being benevolently tricked.
He walked slowly over the uneven, undulating floor, both looking and not looking around at all the richness, both thinking and not thinking about all the things he had learned since the Contessa had found Nina Crivelli’s body. He visited every corner of the church, and then began his circuit again.
He paused this time behind the young man at his easel. He had set it up outside the Baptistry. His painting was flat and dull, despite everything that he had to inspire him. Urbino was reminded of Habib’s paintings that glowed with primitive life, although, perhaps wisely, Habib had never attempted to capture the Basilica.
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