‘But why would someone break into our apartment?’ Giulietta persisted. ‘I just don’t understand.’
‘There are people who read obituaries to find out when relatives will be out of the house for the funeral. It’s a time when they know they have a better chance of not being interrupted. It’s a good time for robbery.’
But Urbino believed there was more to it than that.
Fifteen minutes later Urbino was at the locksmith’s shop. The locksmith was familiar with the building although he wasn’t the one Albina had once engaged. He knew the owner of the building, who lived in Mestre.
‘Let me give him a call,’ he said. ‘Can’t just go and change the locks of another man’s building.’ He softened his words with a smile.
The owner had no objections after the locksmith explained that a friend of the Gonella sisters would pay for all the work and supply keys to him and all the tenants.
The locksmith promised to take care of things as soon as his assistant returned. He would put in the best locks he had.
Urbino set off toward the Caffè Da Valdo. It was the kind of hot, cloudless day that would become much hotter and more humid as the hours passed. Urbino felt a little fatigued, even slightly dizzy, perhaps because of the way he had been abruptly awakened and had hurried out of the Palazzo Uccello.
The streets were congested with tourists who seemed in a convivial mood despite the heat. Venetians, surrounded by their heavily laden baskets and carts from the morning shopping, stopped and talked with each other. The cafés were filled, both inside and at the pavement tables. Children wove and bumped through the crowd on their scooters and tricycles.
An anachronistic element in all the gaiety was a tall, thin figure walking down the Calle Toletta toward Urbino. It wore a black tunic of gauzy cotton, a wide-brimmed black hat over its ears and hair, large black-framed glasses, and a gold-painted mask with a long pointed beak over the nose and the mouth. The figure carried a wooden stick in his gloved hands and moved slowly.
Someone was choosing the height of summer to parade around in the carnival costume patterned after the protective uniform worn by plague doctors in the Renaissance. A piece of medicinally soaked cloth, whose fumes supposedly safeguarded the doctor, had been customarily placed in the cone of the nose. The stick was used to examine the victim’s sores at a safe distance.
Most of the tourists around the figure found it a source of amusement and enjoyed being tapped by the stick. Two children ran around the figure, teasing it to tap them, but always dodging away when the stick started to descend. As the grim figure passed Urbino, it tapped his shoulder three times in quick succession. A group of Spaniards burst into laughter.
Urbino smiled although he felt a rush of irritation. Despite all his commitment to logic, he had been infected by superstition at an early age. He had never been able to eradicate it and doubted he ever would. And since moving to Italy it had gained in strength. It was yet another one of his many inconsistencies.
As Urbino watched the plague doctor move at a somber pace past him toward the Campo San Barnabà, the image of Konrad Zoll walking slowly under the arcade past Florian’s appeared before his eyes – Zoll, the afflicted and dying man, being helped by his companion, Luca Benigni.
Urbino had said to the contessa on that afternoon that at least the sick man had someone to look after him. He wondered how many people had been reluctant to get close to Zoll because of his disease, even if it hadn’t been a communicable one. How many of his friends and acquaintances, even his family, had treated him with the equivalent of the plague doctor’s stick? Many people failed the sick, sometimes only because they didn’t want to be reminded of mortality.
By the time Urbino approached the Accademia Bridge, the streets had become even more engorged. He fought his way over the bridge into the small Campo San Vidal and past the wrought-iron gates of the Palazzo Barbara. He sought refuge for a few minutes in the main courtyard of the Music Conservatory. It was a large, open space beneath tiers of loggias. No aria or sonata spilled from any of its open windows as was often the case; this morning the building was silent. However, he remained for a few minutes and contemplated the stone statue of a robed and veiled woman, who clasped a book against her breast. For this was the reason he had stepped into the courtyard today, to look at the statue. Or was it to consult it? With Urbino’s inexpugnable and, it seemed, ever-growing superstition, he had come to regard the mysterious statue as a kind of Sphinx. Except that this Sphinx did not propound riddles to him but instead seemed to encourage answers to ones that were troubling him. Nothing like this happened now, however, and, somewhat disappointed, he went into the Campo Santo Stefano.
The grand square, lively as usual, was a pleasant open space in one of the busiest parts of the city. Children played around the statue of Niccolò Tommaseo, atop whose head sat an immobile pigeon. A young couple stood by the statue devouring one pastry after another from a paper bag with the name of a well-known shop in the nearby Calle del Spezier.
By the time Urbino entered the calle that led into the Campo Sant’Angelo, he was beginning to feel the closeness of the air more than he had yet that summer. Ten minutes later, overheated and slightly nauseous, he was lucky to find an outside table at Da Valdo.
A waiter – one of those who had been at Albina’s funeral – gave Urbino a warm greeting and took his order for a large bottle of mineral water.
The Campo Sant’Angelo had a lot to recommend it. Lined with lovely palaces and not overwhelmed with shops and cafés, it was more peaceful than most other squares in this area. It was near a vaporetto stop of the same name, and the ornate Palazzo Fortuny, with its museum dedicated to the revolutionary Spanish couturier, was only a few minutes’ walk away. In addition, it provided a good view of the listing campanile of Santo Stefano – and especially from the tables outside of Da Valdo.
Most of the other patrons around Urbino were tourists, enjoying the sunshine, snapping photographs, chatting on their mobiles, some of them enthusiastically describing the scene for family and friends back home. At one table a smiling, middle-aged woman sat methodically writing out postcards, and with a fountain pen, no less. Urbino’s heart went out to her. Here was someone he could identify with.
Inside the café, a different crowd made up the scene. Except for a couple sitting by the entrance and paging through a Guide Bleu of the city, the clients were Venetians, and most of them older men. Some were playing cards in the back by the bar. Others were engaged in a loud discussion about the new glass bridge that the engineers were having such a hard time constructing over the Grand Canal.
A tall, dark-haired man in his early forties leaned against the bar near the cash register. Urbino recognized him as Valdo, the proprietor. Urbino’s waiter said something to him. A few minutes later Valdo carried the bottle of mineral water and a glass out on a small tray to Urbino. He placed the glass on the table and poured some water.
‘You’re the American,’ he said. ‘The one who lives in Cannaregio. I’ve seen you around. Never in my place, though.’ He gave Urbino a quick, short look from under his dark eyebrows.
‘My loss so far,’ Urbino said. ‘You have a nice place. Very well-situated. It pleases both the tourists and the locals.’
‘Thank you. Business is good.’ He glanced around at the tables, all of which were occupied. ‘You were Albina’s friend.’ He put the bottle of mineral water on the table. ‘I couldn’t come to the funeral. We’ll all miss her.’ Valdo stared at Urbino for a few moments. ‘Not because of the work she did. She was a good woman.’
‘She was.’
‘Is there anything else you’d like? It’s all on the house.’
Urbino thanked him and said that the water was all he needed at the moment. He excused himself to take a long, fatigue-lifting draft.
‘I have a question or two, though, if you don’t mind,’ Urbino said as he set down the glass. ‘About Albina. She forgot her house keys here the night she died. She eit
her was on her way to get them when she died or she was returning home with them. I was wondering if you or one of your waiters found any keys. It’s one of those details her sister would like to have resolved.’
‘As a matter of fact, I did find some keys. The next morning. Wait a second.’
Valdo returned a few moments later carrying a nondescript metal ring with two large keys and a much smaller one.
‘This must be them. I found them on the shelf by the door. I had no idea they were Albina’s or I would have returned them. I figured a customer left them. I put them in the cash register for safekeeping.’
Urbino took the keys and examined them. The big keys were old and scratched, and the small key, almost delicate, was slightly bent from twisting in a lock.
‘Would you mind if I returned these to her sister? Assuming they’re Albina’s, that is. If they’re not, I’ll bring them back, and you can return them to the cash register in case their rightful owner shows tip. Another thing,’ Urbino said as he pocketed the keys, ‘did Albina ever complain about being harassed by anyone – any passer-by or customer – when she was cleaning up at night?’
‘That’s a strange question. Albina told me that you investigate crimes. Do you think someone hurt her?’
‘Someone might have robbed her after she fell in the calle. Her apartment was broken in to. That’s why I asked about the keys. I thought that someone might have taken them from her.’
‘Well, you see that the keys were here all that time. And to answer your question, signore, she never said anything about being bothered in any way while she was working here. My café has never had any problems. We’re a peaceful little place. You see that woman over there?’
He indicated a short, stout woman in front of an easel. She stood about twenty feet away in the square. Urbino hadn’t noticed her before. There were so many amateur painters at this time of the year everywhere in the city that it was easy not to notice them after a while. They became part of the scene they were rendering.
‘Women like her are always painting my place. It’s very picturesque.’
Urbino agreed.
Feeling a little more energetic than he had earlier, Urbino went to Florian’s after speaking with Valdo. Because of his familiarity with the city, however, he was able to avoid, at least for a little while, the main calli teeming with tourists being funneled into the Piazza San Marco.
He made a detour behind the Teatro La Fenice along a route which he seldom took. The small alleys and canals held an almost secretive, unknown look for him. As could so quickly and easily happen in Venice, he felt a dampness descend on him that, given his earlier and still lingering indisposition, had him shivering. When he reached the Campo San Gaetano, he stood in the sunshine to warm himself. He gazed up at the theater that had been carefully and lovingly restored after a recent, devastating fire. He reminded himself that he should arrange with the contessa to get opening night tickets for the new season for the two of them and Claudio.
Ten minutes later, after passing through the busy piazza, Urbino was standing at the bar in Florian’s. He ordered a glass of mineral water with a twist of lemon.
Florian’s bar was small and compact, and bustled with waiters. It provided him with a good opportunity to ask some questions about Albina.
But no matter whom he spoke with – whether it was the waiters, the manager, or one of the dishwashers who emerged from the kitchen for a few moments – Urbino got the same response. Albina had been a hardworking, cooperative woman who had won the hearts of the staff and been a favorite of the patrons. She would be missed.
After finishing his water, he climbed the staircase by the entrance to the foyer between the restrooms, with its little table, plate of coins, and chair. The attendant was tending to one of the clients in the ladies’ room. Urbino had always thought that an establishment like Florian’s should have finer restrooms than the small, cramped ones they had.
When the attendant, who had been at Albina’s funeral, came out into the foyer, he asked her about Albina. She had only good things to say about her. And she assured him that Albina had never had problems with any of the patrons.
Most people were usually reluctant, at least at first, to speak ill of the dead, but Urbino didn’t believe that this was the case with the attendant or with any of the other Florian employees downstairs. Perhaps some understandable idealization was going on, but what he was hearing about Albina was what he believed to be true, based on his own contact with the woman. But even a good woman – and perhaps, in certain circumstances, especially a good woman – could unintentionally provoke violence in someone else if her goodness, her very being, represented a threat.
After leaving Florian’s, Urbino went about two errands unconnected to the dead woman.
The first took him to see a friend. This was Rebecca Mondador, an architect he had met when he was involved in the original renovations for the Palazzo Uccello.
He took the vaporetto from the San Marco stop to San Tomà. The boat was so full that he had little chance of finding a spot in the stern, and even if he had succeeded, he would have had to go through the closed cabin. On a day like this it would be stifling. He took a position on the port side by the pilot’s cabin. Here he could get the benefit of the breeze made by the boat’s movement up the waterway. He still didn’t feel completely well.
Urbino was relieved to escape from the boat when they reached San Tomà. He couldn’t help but wonder what Goethe would think if he had been dropped into the city today and seen the thousands who flocked to it; Goethe, the man who had spent three and a half weeks making his slow way here from Carlsbad. In those days travel was only for the privileged few, and a grand tour wasn’t something accomplished in a whirlwind of mad consumption.
Urbino only hoped that the city, which Goethe had said could only be compared to itself, would survive all of the indignities and invasions its beauty encouraged, but on days like this, during high season, he had his doubts.
Rebecca’s modern offices were off the Campo San Tomà.
‘Of course I know the place,’ she said after he had described Konrad Zoll’s apartment. She spoke perfect, although accented English. ‘That palazzo is one of the best on the Canalazzo, as you surely know yourself. It’s been kept extremely well. I looked at the apartment once myself when it was on the market. Far, far beyond my means, even if I had five lifetimes. Yes, the estate agent who handled it back then has retired, like your friend said.’
‘Could you recommend someone who could handle a resale?’
‘With or without commission? For myself, I mean? Just kidding.’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘I think I know someone suitable.’
She mentioned an estate agent in San Polo and wrote her name on a sheet of headed stationery.
‘She’s very good,’ Rebecca said, ‘and she speaks pretty good English. That should be a plus.’
As he was leaving, Rebecca mentioned Albina’s death.
‘I regret I couldn’t be at the funeral. I had an important meeting in Milan. Sad way for her to go, all alone like that in the middle of the storm. Heart attack, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what they say.’
A quizzical look came over Rebecca’s small, pointed face. She knew Urbino’s reputation as a sleuth. In fact, she had helped him in some small but vital ways. Before she might ask him any questions, he thanked her and left.
At this early point he wasn’t ready to confide his speculations to anyone other than the contessa, nor would it be wise.
Urbino had less immediate luck with his second errand.
He stopped in several small hotels in San Polo and Santa Croce to see if he could find a reasonably priced room for Maisie Croy, the watercolorist, but all the places were booked solid into mid-September.
As he stood outside a pensione near the Piazzale Roma, he decided that he would try some places in Castello, even though this meant that he would have to go to the farther end of the city. The Castello – or
at least the working-class quarter of it, rather distant from the Piazza San Marco – was usually the last to fill up.
If there hadn’t been some urgency in Croy’s need for a room, he would have put off going until the next day. But after refreshing himself with a granita di caffè, he took the vaporetto, this one even more crowded than the one before, to the Arsenale.
From there he walked along the broad embankment along the lagoon to the Via Garibaldi, the broadest street in the city, lined with shops, cafés, and restaurants. Moving slowly from the Bacino in the direction of San Pietro di Castello on its own little island, he was turned away at one establishment after another. He was tempted to seek out a shaded bench in the nearby public gardens but kept pressing on.
When he was walking through the street market below the Canal of Sant’Anna he was becoming discouraged. He reminded himself again that this was the height of the summer season. But then he remembered a small pensione in an alley to the left of the canal. It was unlikely to be fully occupied, given its remote location. Few tourists ventured this far up the Via Garibaldi and access from the other direction was blocked by the mass of the Arsenale. Two elderly sisters owned it. In fact, it was called Le Due Sorelle. But the last time Urbino had had any contact with the pensione had been more than ten years ago. He had no idea if the place or the sisters were still in existence.
He was therefore pleased for himself, Maisie Croy, and, of course, the sisters themselves when he found the two women in the restaurant attached to their pensione, looking vigorous and not much older. One of them was preparing a lunch of tripe. The smell, particularly on a day like this and given the way that Urbino had been feeling, was far from appetizing. The other sister was sorting through napkins at one of the tables. She recognized him and responded to his enquiry enthusiastically.
‘But of course, signore!’ she said, standing up. ‘We have a room, our best, for as long as your friend needs it. Breakfast is included, and as you see, we have a restaurant with home-cooked meals for a very reasonable price. Come.’
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