The Veils of Venice

by Edward Sklepowich

  This latter comment, though Oriana had thrown it out in so evidently a jocular manner, gave Urbino a brief pause, as his mind ran over again the question of what had triggered Gaby’s agoraphobia. Had it been a delayed reaction to the death of her parents and her brother, who had left the house one day together, never to return, freezing her with fear of the world outside the Palazzo Pindar? Or had there been a hidden event in her life that she was still managing to conceal with the same kind of care she gave to the collection?

  ‘But you don’t know of anyone either of them was interested in?’ Urbino asked Oriana after a few moments.

  ‘Maybe it’s a matter of the principle I mentioned. Those you hear least about …’ she trailed off.

  ‘What about Ercule?’

  ‘For as long as I can remember the only romance he’s ever had has been with his books and his dreams.’

  Urbino got up and stood in front of the windows, taking in the scene across the stretch of water again, and then switching his attention to San Giorgio Maggiore on his right. As it always did, the island and the church made him feel calm. He told Oriana about the secret engagement between Ercule and Nedda after Achille’s drowning. When he turned around, she was staring at him in disbelief.

  ‘Nedda and Ercule! Surely you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Only if Nedda was deceiving Natalia, and I see no sense in that.’

  ‘Now you’ve told me something! Whatever was the attraction? They’re oil and water.’

  ‘It’s hard to know what attracts people. It’s often a mystery.’

  ‘A mystery, yes, that’s what Nedda and Ercule being engaged is. But you say it was right after Achille drowned. It could have been a way of dealing with the loss. And Ercule also lost his parents.’

  ‘Yes.’ Urbino watched a car ferry making its way toward the Lido. ‘What did you think of Achille?’

  ‘Achille was exceptional. He could have been the savior of that whole family if he had lived. He had everything! Looks, intelligence, generosity, a great sense of humor. Don’t look at me in that way! There was never anything between us. Nedda threw herself at him. But I don’t think he was in love with her. I could sense it from the way he behaved when he was around her. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he had been planning to break off the engagement. Maybe because someone else was in the background. I have nothing specific to base it on. Just my instinct for these things.’

  After leaving Oriana, Urbino went to the Basilica San Marco. On this late afternoon, the church’s vast interior was dim. The rich amber light of the hanging lamps, similar to the one in Ercule’s salotto but smaller, made all the gold and colored stones glow darkly. A small group of tourists was walking slowly around, most of them looking up at the mosaics that covered the vaulting and walls but only a few noting the ones underfoot. Three worshippers sat in the pews near the Madonna of Nicopeia in the left transept. Urbino went to the altar that held the tenth-century icon that was venerated because it was believed to bring victory. Like so much else in the church, it had been stolen from Constantinople.

  He said a prayer, asking for a victory different than the ones that devotees used to beseech the Madonna for – not a victory of guns and swords against a martial enemy but one of wits and patience against someone who was doing everything to hide from confrontation. And a victory accomplished before not too much more time had slipped away.

  Urbino spent several minutes gazing at the Pala d’Oro behind the high altar. Some of the cloisonné enamels of the golden screen, which was encrusted with precious gems, had been looted from Constantinople. The enamel of the Empress Irene, which was the one Urbino always seemed to be drawn to rather than the religious ones, communicated some of its serenity to him.

  Urbino could understand why Ercule was drawn to the Basilica. It was not hard to imagine that you were in Byzantine or Ottoman Constantinople. Ercule had said that he would get to Istanbul ‘by hook or by crook.’ Perhaps, the Basilica’s history of thefts – starting from the seventh century when St. Mark’s relics had been stolen from Alexandria – emboldened the strange little man. How far would he go to achieve his dream of leaving Venice and getting to Istanbul? As far as theft? Or even farther?

  When Urbino returned to the front of the altar, he described Ercule to the attendant, a middle-aged man in a blue suit. ‘I wanted to meet him here this afternoon.’

  ‘You are too late, signor. He comes in the morning and leaves before noon.’

  ‘I didn’t have a meeting set up. But I know he comes here often.’

  ‘Four, even five times a week.’

  Urbino got the impression that the attendant did not know Ercule by name, even though he was a familiar figure to him.

  ‘But always early in the day, as I said. Quiet as a mouse, and always by himself. Sits just staring around. Sometimes I think he has fallen asleep, but he doesn’t, as far as I have seen. Sometimes he scribbles in a book. He likes to look at the Pala d’Oro and go in the Treasury. I don’t have him pay.’

  Urbino’s eye went to the entrance to the Treasury beneath a curving Moorish arch. He was sure that all its Byzantine gold and silver work contributed to Ercule’s dreams – as well as his determination to get to Istanbul at all costs, since its precious objects had been plundered from Constantinople.

  Twenty minutes later, after making inquiries in San Polo, Urbino located the Turkish café that Ercule frequented. It was tucked away in a narrow calle behind the Campo San Polo. It was hardly larger than Ercule’s parlor, which it slightly resembled with its divans, cushions, prints of Istanbul, and nargilehs. A young man in a corner seemed half asleep as he smoked a water pipe.

  Urbino ordered a cup of Turkish coffee and a small plate of baklava. He described Ercule to the owner, a thin, dark-haired man with a quick smile who was sitting behind the cash register.

  ‘You mean Signor Ercule. He comes two times, three times a week,’ he said in heavily accented Italian. ‘He was here an hour ago. A very nice man, Signor Ercule, isn’t he, Rosella?’ he said to the blond woman who had served Urbino.

  ‘Very nice. He loves Istanbul.’

  ‘Like you, my dear. But he doesn’t talk as much as you do,’ the owner added with an affectionate smile. He turned back to Urbino. ‘He just likes to rest and sip his coffee. Sometimes he has a glass of raki. He is always alone, but he does not seem to mind. Would you like some raki, signor?’

  Urbino politely declined but asked for another cup of coffee and some baklava to take home with him for Natalia and Gildo.

  When he returned to the Palazzo Uccello, the contessa telephoned to tell him that everything had been cleared for her to visit Mina tomorrow morning. Her voice thrilled with excitement and anticipation. He hoped that nothing would happen tomorrow to disappoint her.

  The next morning, Urbino left the Palazzo Uccello early. He needed to talk to some people. First on his list was Teresa Sorbi, one of the seamstresses who had worked for Olimpia. Oriana had telephoned him the previous night with her address in the Santa Marta district.

  Urbino walked to Santa Marta by way of the Ponte dei Scalzi. Even though the bora had ended, it was as if the city were now emitting, in damp icy waves, the Siberian chill it had absorbed yesterday. The feeble winter sunshine could do nothing to warm it.

  Santa Marta, which never found its image perpetuated on a postcard, was one of the most cheerless areas of the city. Cranes, warehouses, and cars encroached upon its dreary housing estate of low, uniform tenements. It always came as a shock to tourists who wandered there. If they used their cameras, it was to record how sadly different the quarter was compared to most others of the city, where even dilapidation was romantic and picturesque.

  But it had some claim to Urbino’s heart, because in one of the dismal apartments had lived an old woman, an invalid now long since dead, who had provided Urbino with an important clue in solving the murder that had taken place in the summer of Eugene’s other visit.

  Teresa Sorbi’s building,
sorely in need of a new coat of paint, was in the middle of one of the rows of tenements. A line of frozen washing swayed back and forth in the wind.

  Teresa Sorbi, a plump, brown-haired woman in her fifties, answered the bell on the first ring. Urbino recognized her from Olimpia’s funeral. He was about to introduce himself when it became clear from the expression on her face that she recognized him. She broke out in a big smile. ‘Signor Macintyre! Come in out of this terrible cold. I have some hot coffee.’

  Teresa’s small living room was clean and bright. Urbino seated himself in an armchair after the seamstress had removed a pile of neatly folded garments that gave off a fresh scent.

  She eased her rounded figure down on to a small sofa. So great was the power of association that Urbino, knowing her profession, was reminded of a pincushion. In fact, it was not hard to imagine her with rows of common pins in her mouth as she pinned a hem.

  ‘You’ve come about Olimpia, God rest her soul, and about that poor creature Mina Longo. I know that you like to find out the truth about things.’ She mentioned the old woman, her former neighbor in the next row of tenements, who had helped Urbino in his previous case. ‘She was proud that she was able to help you. She said you were very kind.’

  ‘She was a good woman.’ He paused. ‘You’re right. I’ve come to see you about Olimpia and Mina Longo.’

  ‘Let me tell you right away that I don’t think that girl killed Olimpia. I told the police that, and so did Rosa.’

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘Rosa Custodi. We were at the funeral together. We both worked for Olimpia. We both could tell what kind of girl Mina is. Sweet and gentle. Nothing could have riled her up to kill Olimpia like that. Olimpia was like a mother to her.’ She averted her eyes. ‘Well, almost like a mother, Mina being so young and all. I told the police that Olimpia had been robbed – robbed and murdered. Look at the way they keep their front door open! Olimpia would have done anything to protect her money. She had money troubles.’ Teresa gave Urbino an embarrassed smile. ‘And that meant that Rosa and I had money troubles. To do her justice, she always paid us everything in the end. I don’t know what will happen now. We both have money coming to us.’

  ‘I’m sure she kept records.’

  ‘Oh, she kept very careful ones, always at her desk scribbling in a book and collecting receipts.’

  ‘You’ll get your money, but it may take a while. Did her business bring in a lot?’

  ‘Not that I could see. She didn’t have many customers even though she did good work. You could show her a picture of a dress from a magazine, and she could make a pattern without any trouble. And she made original designs. I think her luck was changing with the work she was doing for the theater people. She was excited about it. We had a little party in the workshop when she signed the contract. Mina was there.’

  ‘Did you ever see Olimpia arguing with her sister or her brother? Or maybe Apollonia Ballarin and her children?’

  Teresa nodded.

  ‘Both Rosa and me did. It was with the son of Signora Ballarin. About six or seven months ago – I am not sure exactly when but it was the summer – he came up to the workshop. Olimpia took him out on the staircase and closed the door. But just the same we heard what they were saying. Olimpia said that he was making a fool of her. She warned him to stop. He just laughed and said that she was too sensitive. As for the other people in the house, I hardly ever heard a peep out of them.’

  ‘Did you notice anything different about her on the day of the murder?’

  ‘She seemed nervous. But she also seemed excited. Maybe it was more excitement than nervousness, I don’t know. When Rosa and I left to go home for lunch – it must have been about one fifteen, because the two of us were finishing up some work – she wished us a good appetite and said she would see us later.’

  ‘Did she usually stay in the workshop during lunch?’

  ‘I can’t say. She never left before we did, and she was always there when we got back.’

  Teresa started to cry, weeping large, thick tears that slid down her cheeks. She dabbed them away with the sleeve of her dress.

  When she had recovered her composure, they spent several minutes talking about Olimpia’s business affairs. Teresa gave him the names of two women who had been regular customers of Olimpia. ‘They both live in the Campo San Polo. They’re neighbors.’

  Urbino wrote the women’s names down in his pocket notebook.

  ‘She had others, but I don’t know their names. Most of her customers were old enough to be her mother. I think they were being faithful to her family.’

  Teresa didn’t have the addresses of Olimpia’s other customers, but she had Rosa Custodi’s.

  ‘She lives on Sant’ Elena.’ Sant’ Elena was a quarter in the far eastern section of the city. ‘Let me see.’ Teresa searched around in the drawer of a cabinet. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She took a small piece of paper from the drawer and read off the address.

  Urbino took a water taxi from the Zattere to Sant’ Elena. Rosa Custodi’s apartment was on the second floor of a modern block of flats.

  ‘Yes, yes, Signor Macintyre. I know who you are,’ Rosa said in a raspy voice after Urbino had introduced himself. ‘Teresa telephoned me.’

  Rosa, who appeared to be in her late fifties, was as tall and thin as Teresa was short and plump, with long silvery gray hair that accentuated her sharp features. Her living room was barely heated and sparsely furnished, with not much more than a sagging sofa, two wooden chairs, a round chrome table, and a small cabinet that held a television set.

  She confirmed what Teresa had told him – that Olimpia had had financial problems, that Mina was a gentle soul, and that the two women had never argued in her presence. She provided almost the same account of the argument between Olimpia and Alessandro and seconded Teresa’s impression that Olimpia had looked nervous on the day of her murder.

  ‘And not only that day,’ Rosa clarified, ‘but also a few days before, too. You can’t help noticing each other’s moods when you work closely together. But she never confided anything in us. Maybe she thought we wouldn’t understand the kind of problems a woman like her had. But Teresa and I had no bad feelings against her. Live and let live.’

  ‘Did you ever hear any argument between Olimpia and someone else in the family other than Alessandro Ballarin? Or with anyone else?’

  Rosa nodded. ‘Last July, around the same time as her argument with him. Teresa was sick. Her feet swell up in hot weather. When I was coming up the stairs after lunch, I heard shouting. A woman’s voice – not Olimpia’s – was saying over and over again that she was sorry. Olimpia said in a louder voice, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me after everything I’ve done for you,” or something like that. She started to sob. I was shocked. Olimpia never showed much emotion. I was too embarrassed to go into the workroom and I didn’t want them to find me standing on the stairs as if I was snooping. I wasn’t! I could not help it if I was there when they were arguing, could I?’

  She paused. It was clear that it had not been a rhetorical question.

  ‘No,’ Urbino said.

  ‘I respect other people’s privacy. I continued up the staircase, but I sneezed. My allergy was bothering me then. Olimpia knew. When I went into the workshop, Olimpia was standing with another woman by the doors that went out to the veranda. She was younger than Olimpia, but not as young as Mina. Maybe thirty-five, but no more than that. The woman was wearing a green dress that Olimpia had made a few weeks before. I went over to my table and pretended I was sorting through my work. The woman left a few minutes later after the two of them whispered together. I never saw the woman again.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Blond, pretty, but she didn’t look healthy. She was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. She was at Olimpia’s funeral. Sitting next to a woman who was wearing a purple poncho. I didn’t think that was very respectful. I could tell it was a lover’s quarrel. Things are even
harder on those people than they are on us. I kept sneaking looks at Olimpia the rest of the afternoon. She had no more tears but she sighed once or twice. I never told anyone else about the whole thing, not even Teresa. It was because I felt so sorry for Olimpia.’

  After leaving Rosa Custodi, Urbino took the waterbus to the San Zaccaria stop. It was a few minutes past noon. He might have time to make one more visit before the lunch hour and the siesta.

  What Teresa had said about the argument last summer between Olimpia and Alessandro had been tugging at the edges of his mind. Olimpia had accused him of humiliating her and had threatened that if he did not stop his behavior – whatever it had been – she would take some action against him.

  Alessandro was one of the people in the Palazzo Pindar he knew the least about. This was not saying much, considering that each of them seemed to exist behind a veil that provided only indistinct glimpses and understanding. Although the veils were different in each case, what they shared in common was that they were made from the same eccentric Pindar material. If Urbino could only see some of the Pindars more clearly, it would expose someone else in the family as well. For Urbino was convinced more than ever that Olimpia’s murder was a family affair. Because of the Pindars’ relatively limited contacts with the world outside the house, there were few leads to follow beyond the family. He kept being thrown back on their relationships with each other.

  If he could find out more about Alessandro, it would be a help, if only to remove some of the layers that were obscuring him – and could be obscuring another family member along with him.

  The main things – almost the only things – he knew about Alessandro were his apparent devotion to his mother and his woodcarving.

  Urbino had no idea whether Alessandro had worked with a master woodcarver or whether he was self-taught. There were several wood craftsmen in Venice who sold their sculptures in their own shops. One of the shops wasn’t far away, near the Campo Sant’ Angelo, in the general area of the Palazzo Fortuny.