Farewell to the Flesh

by Edward Sklepowich

  If Hazel knew about the money found on Gibbon, she would most likely see it as further proof of how little he had been interested in her own. Unless, of course, she had given it to him herself and already knew about it.

  “It was Berenice,” the Contessa said as she slipped back onto the banquette. “She’s not feeling well, poor thing. Probably another bad night at the hotel.”

  Urbino quickly told her about the incident on the traghetto. The waiter brought over a fresh pot of tea and another Campari soda.

  “All along you obviously knew she wasn’t coming!”

  “I had no idea! She was upset at first but she seemed fine by the time I left her.”

  “Poor Berenice.” She laughed. “I know I shouldn’t be laughing but her experience on the traghetto reminds me of when she fell into the Cam. Were there any good-looking young men around who might have caught her eye? Other than you, I mean? That’s what happened on the Cam. All this good-looking boy had to do was take his straw hat off to her and she was lost. She waved, she stood up and called something to him—and she was lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “What do you call it when a person falls into a river from the exuberance of her own emotions? She was passionate about so many things. We used to think it was because she was American. We had a lot of laughs about it.” Her face suddenly clouded. “Berenice’s appearing out of the blue like this after all these years wasn’t the best thing that could have happened to me—not with another birthday coming up. I’ve been resenting her a little—resenting her for remembering so much, even more for reminding me of so much. I know it’s wonderful to have old friends, people you’ve shared so many things with, who remember how you once were, but it’s also unsettling. Sometimes I feel as if I want to forget most of it—or remember it only when I’m all alone. I’m not in search of lost time, not like your Monsieur Proust, by any means! I treasure my past but I like to keep it in a chest I can open from time to time when no one else is there. Quite frankly, if someone else brings up the past I feel so abominably old!”

  Urbino was touched by his friend’s admission but thought he would use a little humor to distract her as she had tried to do earlier with him.

  “I’ll have to remember all this and be sure never to mention anything much before last week.”

  “There’s no need of that, caro. The main reason I like you so much is not because of your indisputable charm and delightfully un-American ways, your refined sensibility and intelligence, your love for our serene city—need I go on and on?—but because, quite simply, you are a relatively recent friend. You didn’t know me in my first prime—and that’s comforting, believe it or not!”

  Her smile seemed a pledge to her feelings about him—as long as the two of them, he assumed, didn’t reach a point when his memory would be able to go upstream for decades and decades.

  “Berenice was probably thinking of the Cam when her things fell into the Canalazzo,” the Contessa went on. “After it happened, she was always afraid it might happen again. We don’t change all that much down through the years although she has changed considerably in appearance. She wasn’t blessed, poor thing, with good genes and bone structure.”

  The Contessa tilted her face toward Urbino on the pretext of looking over his shoulder at the group of eighteenth-century men and women on the other side of the Chinese salon, managing to display her flat planes and sharp angles as a silent commentary on her evaluation of her friend.

  “She wants to see us both later,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “Tonio is coming too. I suggested the Ca’ da Capo. Shall we say about eight-thirty, caro?”

  22

  Urbino declined the Contessa’s invitation to go back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini directly with her, have a light dinner, and wait there for Berenice Pillow and Tonio Vico. After she left, he called the hospital from the upstairs phone and learned that Lubonski was still unable to have visitors but that his condition had improved slightly.

  He struck out for the Fondamenta Nuove, each step taking him farther from the turmoil of the Piazza. It was cold but clear. So far there had been relatively good weather for Carnevale except for several rainstorms, but an icy bora could blow down from the north with little warning.

  When he reached the Fondamenta Nuove, he looked out into the lagoon, searching the sky over Murano for some sign of a change for the worse, but it was cloudless, the waters calm. On an impulse he hurried to catch the boat about to leave for San Michele, the island of the dead and the site of the mortuary where Gibbon’s body would have been brought and where it probably still was. He frequently went to San Michele to think, far away from any distractions except the grim silent ones of the island.

  Ten minutes later as he walked through one of the campi of the cemetery, crowded with its tombstones and mausoleums but empty of everyone except himself, an attendant or two, and a few women in black coats visiting the graves, he wondered why Berenice Pillow wanted to see him along with the Contessa. Was she including him because of his rescue of her pocketbook on the traghetto?

  He left the main part of the cemetery for the walled Orthodox section where Diaghilev, Stravinsky, and many other Russians and Greeks were buried. Diaghilev’s grave had one of its mysterious, lone ballet slippers as it always did. Were these slippers left by the same person or by different pilgrims to the famous ballet producer’s grave? He had never seen anyone leaving a slipper. It was one of Venice’s little mysteries—and one that he really preferred not to solve. It was more romantic without a solution.

  After leaving Diaghilev’s grave he went to another of his favorites, this one of a Russian woman named Sonia—there was no last name—who had died at twenty-seven. Her grave was dominated by a life-size, lifelike reclining white marble statue of the young woman. Fresh red roses had been placed in the curve of her arm.

  Urbino knew he was sentimental when it came to death. The Contessa, who avoided the topic and the cemetery island whenever and however she could, thought she had a better name for it. She called it morbid. But Urbino was comforted by the sight of well-tended graves, of the bereaved making their visits, leaving their flowers and tokens, and avoided thinking of how few of these people there were compared to the thousands of forgotten dead. He had often tried to decide whether he would prefer being one of those who were remembered or one of those who did the remembering, as if the choice were up to him. It was like trying to decide between being the beloved or the lover, except in this instance death hadn’t yet made its great separation.

  On the boat back to the Fondamenta Nuove, Urbino wondered if Gibbon had returned Hazel Reeve’s love. He had no reason to doubt it—no good, substantial reason—but only his own impressions of the man and the negative things he had heard about him. Nor could Urbino accept Hazel’s apparent belief that Gibbon had had no interest in her money, even though she had said that he always had plenty of money and even though three thousand pounds had been found on his body.

  Precisely because such a large sum of money had been found on Gibbon, Urbino couldn’t shake the conviction that the money had been ill-gained in some way. As he had said earlier to the Contessa, photographers were in a perfect position to blackmail someone. Whom might Gibbon have blackmailed? Xenia Campi had said that on the day of his death he had taken pictures of her until she had asked him to stop. But the list of possibilities certainly didn’t end with Xenia Campi, who, in any case, would have been hard-pressed to come up with three thousand pounds or its equivalent in lire.

  It was quite possible that Gibbon had been in the Calle Santa Scolastica to take incriminating photographs. He might very well have been blackmailing some of the men who frequented the area. Urbino wished he had access to Gibbon’s photographs. They were in the hands of the police now. What chance did he have of convincing Gemelli to let him look through them?

  As Urbino stepped off the boat, he remembered what the Contessa had asked him at Florian’s—whether it was possible that Hazel had not
loved Gibbon but hated him. Hadn’t Urbino thought that there were interpretations of her emotional state other than grief? The Contessa, as she often was, might be right. He might not be seeing things clearly at all. Impartiality was something he strove for in his biographies. It was absolutely necessary. This didn’t mean he didn’t have his biases—as Gide had said, they were the very props of civilization—but he tried to be aware of them.

  Urbino made an effort to empty his mind of all his confused—and confusing—thoughts as he walked slowly back to the Palazzo Uccello. When he turned down the Salizzada degli Specchieri, he thought about the vendors of mirrors who had given this alley, as well as another one near San Marco, its name. Mirrors were invented in Venice by the glassmakers of Murano, and ones of every shape and size, of every quality and design, could be found throughout the city. Many elderly men and women even had small mirrors, similar to the rear-view mirrors on cars, attached outside their windows so that they could see what was going on in the calle or campo below. Each of these little mirrors provided its owner with secret views of a city whose back canals, dead ends, covered passageways, concealed gardens, and tortuous, narrow alleys made Venice almost synonymous with secrecy itself.

  A few moments later, as Urbino was walking past the baroque, theatrical facade of the Church of the Gesuiti with all its triumphant angels and gesticulating saints, something seemed to be suggesting itself to him. He didn’t know what it was yet but he did know that he owed it to having set aside conscious thoughts about Gibbon’s murder and musing, instead, about the city he had made his home.

  Urbino started to walk faster, anxious now to return to the Palazzo Uccello.

  23

  When he let himself in, Natalia was standing at the top of the stairs. Lines of concern marked her matronly face.

  “Thank God you’ve come home, Signor Urbino.”

  “Is something the matter, Natalia?”

  “Everything’s fine, signor—I mean all your things are fine—but the police—”

  She broke off and looked at him helplessly.

  “What about the police, Natalia?”

  “Commissario Gemelli called about three and again at four. I told him I didn’t know where you were or when you would be back. He asked if a woman was here. I don’t know what name he said but I told him I was the only woman here. Then about an hour ago two of his men came—”

  She was all out of breath and sank down into the chair at the top of the stairs.

  “What did they want?”

  “They wanted to know if you were here. When I said you weren’t, they wanted to come inside. I didn’t know what to do but I said that you would be back soon and they should come back later. I hope I didn’t do wrong, Signor Urbino. Maybe I should have let them in.”

  “You did fine, Natalia. This is surely no affair of yours. Don’t worry.”

  He didn’t even know what affair it might be of his but if Gemelli had called twice and sent some of his men over within a four-hour period, he was sure to find out soon.

  As if on cue the phone rang, but it wasn’t Gemelli. It was the Contessa.

  “Urbino, what’s going on? Commissario Gemelli was here at the Ca’ da Capo just a few minutes ago looking for you. I told him you were probably at home—or on your way there. He went to Florian’s first. Whatever is this all about?”

  “I don’t know. Natalia just told me that Gemelli called here several times and sent some of his men over. I’ll give him a call as soon as I hang up.”

  Instead of calling the Questura right away, however, he fixed himself a whiskey and got ready to take a shower. He knew he should get in contact with Gemelli but he needed a few minutes to collect his thoughts. As he was stepping into the shower, the doorbell rang. By the time he had thrown on his robe again and gone out into the hall, Gemelli was hurrying up the staircase ahead of two of his men. His face was set in a determined expression.

  Before he said anything he took in Urbino’s black robe.

  “I think you know why we’re here, Macintyre.”

  “All I know is that you’ve called several times and sent your men here. The Contessa da Capo-Zendrini just told me that you went to see her.”

  “So you don’t know why were here? Didn’t your domestica tell you?”

  “She said something about a woman but she didn’t know who this woman was, she didn’t remember the name. I have no idea.”

  This wasn’t completely true but there was no sense in complicating things if he was wrong—or implicating himself if he wasn’t. His heart was starting to race in fearful anticipation.

  “Since you say you have no idea, I’ll tell you,” Gemelli said drily. “We’re looking for Signorina Reeve.”

  “Hazel?”

  Although this was the name he had expected, it still took him by surprise.

  “I believe that’s her Christian name, although she’s not on a first-name basis with the Questura. This is an official visit, in case you didn’t know.”

  He indicated his men, then gave another glance at Urbino’s robe.

  “I was going to call in a few minutes,” Urbino said lamely. “I wanted to take a shower first to clear my mind.”

  He should have realized it was the wrong thing to say before he said it, but he felt confused and at a distinct disadvantage standing there half dressed in front of the uniformed Commissario and his men.

  “Is she here?”

  “Here? Of course not. I haven’t seen her since about ten last night.”

  “It appears, Signor Macintyre, that you were the last person to see her.”

  For one heart-stopping moment Urbino thought Gemelli was going to add “alive.” It showed how confused he was. Hadn’t Gemelli just asked if Hazel was with him at the Palazzo Uccello?

  “And it also appears that Signorina Hazel Reeve”—he emphasized her first name—“might not have spent the night at Porfirio Buffone’s. In fact, he can’t even say for sure if she came back after going out with you. We’d like to know how you and Signorina Reeve spent the evening—and perhaps the night.”

  Urbino asked Gemelli to wait a few minutes while he went to dress.

  24

  After the Commissario had left, Urbino took his interrupted shower and called the Contessa. She picked up after only one ring.

  “That was fast. You must still be home.”

  “Sitting here with my second whiskey.”

  “Whiskey! It must be serious. What did Gemelli want?”

  “He wanted to know about Hazel Reeve. It seems she’s disappeared.”

  The Contessa’s immediate response was silence. Her considered one, after a few moments, was “I told you that woman meant trouble for you.”

  She hadn’t said exactly this but he supposed she had implied it—and obviously she had been thinking it since he had first mentioned Hazel Reeve.

  “She’s the one who’s in trouble, Barbara—one way or the other. I was the last person to see her as far as Gemelli knows. From the time I said good night to her in the Campo San Barnaba last night, she seems to have dropped from sight. Neither Porfirio nor his maid has seen her since yesterday evening when we left together for the Montin. Her bed doesn’t seem to have been slept in.”

  In a rush, knowing that he had to tell her what he hadn’t told her earlier at Florian’s, he described the strain that had developed between Hazel and him near the end of the evening, how remote and preoccupied she had become, declining to have him walk her back to Porfirio’s and striking out alone in the general direction of the Accademia Bridge and the Piazza San Marco.

  “The Questura is checking the hospitals and the hotel registers,” Urbino continued. “Gemelli has his hands full—what with Hazel’s disappearance and Gibbon’s murder. To make it worse, he said that London might be sending down two men to help with the investigation into Gibbon’s death.”

  “That’s unusual!”

  “It is, especially since Gibbon doesn’t seem to have any immediate family wh
o might be putting on pressure. I suppose it could be Hazel’s doing, although she didn’t say anything about it. Her family has some prominence.”

  He quickly filled the Contessa in on Hazel’s family background.

  “It would be more than a little embarrassing,” Urbino went on, “for these men to come down and learn not only that Gibbon is dead but that another British subject—the woman engaged to marry the murdered man—has disappeared and the police can find no trace of her.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “Maybe she got ill,” he said without conviction. “She might have fallen. She could be in the hospital.”

  “In that case the Questura should know soon.” She paused. “You don’t think the obvious possibility is the answer, do you?”

  Urbino knew this had to be faced. He had been avoiding thinking about it, so etched in his mind was the image of Hazel disappearing into the crowd.

  “That whoever killed Gibbon has done something to her,” he said.

  Little relief came from saying it, from getting it out in the open. He took the Contessa’s silence for an acknowledgment of the gravity—and the sad logic—of his fear, but when she spoke he realized he had been mistaken.

  “That’s not what I meant, Urbino.” She said it gently. “You’re not seeing things clearly. A man is murdered—a man who refused to sign a prenuptial agreement—and then the woman disappears only a few days later. You can be sure that Commissario Gemelli can see what this might mean.”

  She paused, giving him the opportunity to complete her thought. To do it, however, would have been to betray not only Hazel but his own strong conviction—or was it only his hope? He waited. The Contessa took in and expelled her breath before going on. When she spoke, she gently couched her suspicion in the conditional.

  “She could have been involved in Gibbon’s murder and she could have disappeared because of it.”

  The way she had tentatively expressed her suspicion provided him with an escape as well as suggested yet another possibility.