Frail Barrier

by Edward Sklepowich

  Hollander occasionally asked him a question about one of the buildings, canals, or bridges. What soon developed was a pleasant rhythm of long periods of silent observation and much shorter ones of explanation of the passing scene. And in this manner they reached the Rialto Bridge, draped in red banners and lined with tourists.

  By this time the water had become thick with gondolas. Seven passed them in a row.

  ‘Ciao, Venezia! Ciao Venezia! Ciao! Ciao! Ciao!’ The tourists clapped and chanted the refrain along with the singer, a stout man in his fifties, and to the accompaniment of an accordionist.

  People waved to Urbino and Hollander from the parapet of the bridge. They entered beneath the high structure where the sound of the gondola’s passage was softly echoed against the stone. When they emerged, they took in the scene of the animated diners in the arbor restaurants and the people strolling along the quays and crowding the vaporetto stops. Up above the crowded pavements, the painted shutters of the wide windows had been thrown open, and gave them glimpses of high ceilings, ornate Murano chandeliers, and rich interiors in which occasional figures and moving shadows could be seen.

  Hollander had a rare and admirable quality, at least from Urbino’s point of view. He could remain silent and still, and not make the other person feel uncomfortable, and he seemed in no way uncomfortable himself. After leaving the Rialto behind, there was a long interval of silence that corresponded to the stretch from the white marbled Palazzo Grimani on one bank to the Palazzo Balbi, with its two obelisks, on the other.

  ‘This is where the finishing line of the regatta will be,’ Urbino pointed out. ‘Between the Palazzo Balbi and the Ca’ Foscari. A floating stand for the judges is set up. It’s called the machina. This is where Napoleon watched a regatta. He stood on the balcony of the Palazzo Balbi.’

  ‘So we’ll be following an imperial tradition on Sunday.’

  Urbino smiled.

  ‘And it’s interesting also that Balbi is the last name of Gildo’s rowing partner – Claudio Balbi,’ Urbino said. ‘He’s a waiter at Florian’s. Barbara and I think that he resembles your stepfather’s friend Luca Benigni. You might have been struck by the resemblance if you’ve ever seen him at Florian’s.’

  ‘They say that each of us has a double. No, I don’t believe I’ve even noticed him. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have seen the same resemblance. Here, have some more.’

  Hollander poured champagne into Urbino’s glass.

  ‘Thank you,’ Urbino said. ‘It’s very good. My stomach has been bothering me,’ he added, putting another element in place for their trip to Torcello. ‘The champagne has settled it a little.’

  ‘That’s good. This Balbi, the waiter, is he related to the Balbis of the Palazzo Balbi?’

  ‘I doubt it – or if he is, it’s very distant.’

  When they went past the Ca’ Foscari, Urbino drew attention to its Venetian Gothic façade.

  ‘It’s the seat of the university,’ he said. ‘Benigni’s sister told me that he was a student here.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Hollander said as he looked at the building. But since he said nothing more, it was unclear whether he was referring to Urbino’s comment or the frieze of putti with the Foscari coat of arms.

  After a few minutes Urbino broke the silence.

  ‘I expect Gildo and Claudio to make a good showing in the race. They’re both fine rowers.’

  Hollander shifted his attention to the poop, where Gildo seemed to be moving them without difficulty down the waterway.

  ‘He’s certainly doing this in fine form,’ Hollander observed. ‘So what changed your mind about giving him a rest?’

  ‘He changed my mind, in a fashion. He said it would be better for him to spend some time rowing the gondola before the regatta.’

  ‘And who were you to argue? Who are we to argue, I should say. This is really splendid. I enjoy taking everything in like this. It’s so peaceful. It encourages meditation.’

  Urbino interpreted Hollander’s comment as a polite suggestion that they have less conversation. Urbino had more than made up for his own earlier quietness by saying a lot, perhaps even too much. For the rest of their ride down the Grand Canal, he only spoke when Hollander asked him a question. These questions were few, and always about the scene before them. The silence between them seemed particularly pointed as they passed beneath the dark Gothic windows of Zoll’s apartment. Across the water, the terrace of the Gritti Palace, filled with patrons, was brightly lit.

  When they were going past the Salute, Urbino suggested that they have a nightcap at Harry’s Bar. Hollander agreed, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed.

  But the place was crowded on this summer night, with four tables occupied with noisy groups from the film festival.

  Their time together at Harry’s was an anticlimax to their gondola ride down the Grand Canal. Hollander did most of the talking, and told Urbino about two prospective buyers for Zoll’s apartment, one an American couple, the other a Milanese businessman.

  The men parted in the calle outside Harry’s, with the expectation of seeing each other on the morning of their outing to Torcello.

  Ten

  At ten the next morning Urbino decided to drop by and see Romolo Beato at his studio. It was only a few steps from the Zattere near the Church of the Gesuati. In front of the entrance to his building a black-clothed figure had prostrated itself on the pavement, a large, black kerchief concealing the face, a dirty hand extended upward for a coin. It was difficult to determine whether it was a man or a woman. They were appearing with more and more frequency throughout the city. Urbino dropped some coins in the hand before ascending the staircase. He received no acknowledgement. Many people found the figures frightening because of their anonymity and the way they remained in a suppliant position for hours in the same place, never, it seemed, raising their head. But Urbino was certain that they somehow observed everything that was going on around them.

  Romolo’s studio, which was on the third floor, was simple, clean, and uncluttered, as befitted the man himself – or at least the man beneath all the changes Perla had made in his lifestyle and attire during their five years of marriage.

  When Beato had graduated from the Conservatory, he had enjoyed modest success in Naples and Rome as a tenor soloist. He had also performed in Barcelona and Düsseldorf in touring ensembles. But for the past twenty years, except for occasional local performances, most of them nonprofessional, he had devoted himself to vocal teaching and coaching, and he was one of the best.

  Romolo had just finished with a student and had ten minutes before his next one.

  ‘Urbino, how nice! Have you come to improve your tenor?’

  The portly Romolo was dressed in a flattering peach-colored shirt and gray trousers. His thick white hair had been recently cut.

  ‘Maybe someday. There are so many things I’d like to improve and develop, or learn for the first time. Botany, Chinese, carpentry – I’ve got a long list.’

  ‘So little time, yes, but don’t become discouraged. You’re still young. Sit down.’

  They seated themselves on a small sofa that provided a view through its tall windows of the line of buildings and churches on the Giudecca.

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  He indicated a pitcher and glasses on a table by one of the windows.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? Perla adds a herb or tincture or something to it that’s supposed to make it more soothing to the throat. Let’s say that it doesn’t do any damage. Not that I know of, anyway.’

  Romolo was looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his round, open face, evidently curious about the reason for this unexpected visit.

  ‘I’ve come about Claudio.’

  Romolo visibly flushed and glanced away from Urbino momentarily toward the window.

  ‘Claudio? Is something the matter?’

  ‘That’s what I thought you might help me with. I saw him yesterda
y. He wasn’t looking well. He’s brooding about Albina. I’d feel remiss if I didn’t ask you if you had noticed anything during his lessons. The voice reveals a lot.’

  ‘Even more than you think.’

  ‘When I saw you before you went to Padua, you said he was progressing well. That was the night Albina died.’

  ‘The only time I’ve seen him recently was at the funeral. Of course he wasn’t in control of his voice, but there was a tremendous amount of emotional pull in it. He’s always had a problem of using his air correctly, and we’ve been working on his approach to the high notes. He’s a little afraid of them. He had a lesson scheduled two days after the funeral, but he never came.’

  ‘I’m worried that he might be wearing himself out between his grief over Albina and his practice for the regatta.’

  ‘Grieving can be a problem, but as far as physical exercise is concerned, it’s the best thing for him – or for his voice. Vox sano in corpore sano. If your body isn’t healthy and strong, your voice won’t be either.’

  ‘It’s lucky for your students, then, that they have Perla.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  A shadow of annoyance crossed Romolo’s face.

  Urbino gestured toward the pitcher and glasses.

  ‘Her special tinctures and herbs.’

  ‘Oh, I see! Ha, ha! Yes, Perla and I are a good team.’

  The door from the hallway opened and a stout young man entered.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Antonio.’

  The student went over to the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water.

  ‘I’ll leave you to your student, Romolo. Keep up the good work.’

  ‘You, too.’

  Urbino wondered what work of his Romolo had in mind. It seemed that this would be an excellent opening to mention his book about Albina, partly as a way of showing Romolo that he interpreted his comment as referring to his biographies and not his sleuthing. Romolo listened with interest and observed that it was a good idea and an excellent way of remembering the dead woman. He said that he had a few things that he’d be happy to pass on to Urbino.

  ‘Let’s get together after the regatta,’ he said, ‘at our place.’

  He promised that he would tell Perla about Urbino’s project.

  But Urbino had the opportunity to do this himself a few minutes later when he met Perla on the landing below Beato’s studio. She was carrying one of her shop’s small bags.

  ‘Getting your tenor strengthened?’ she said with a smile. She looked cool in a lime green dress. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders.

  ‘Romolo said the same thing.’

  ‘That’s what happens after you’ve been married for a while. You start to think and say the same things.’

  ‘There are a lot of things worse than that.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t reached the familiarity breeds contempt stage. We’ll skip that one completely, if you don’t mind. So tell me, is it guilt that brings you here to Romolo’s studio?’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘You’re the kind of fair-minded person who would be consumed with it. You pay my shop a long overdue visit, and now you’ve done the same with Romolo’s studio. That’s very considerate of you – and very clever.’

  ‘You’ve caught me. But I came for a good reason. It’s for Claudio’s sake.’

  Perla flinched almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Claudio? Is he here?’

  She looked up in the direction of the closed door of Romolo’s studio.

  ‘No, but I wanted to ask Romolo how he thought Claudio was coping with things. Albina’s death, I mean. What I was hoping to hear was that he was keeping to his lessons. I know how important his singing is to him, and if he can focus on that, I think it would be a big help.’

  ‘He has the regatta to take his mind off things.’

  ‘True, but that has its own share of worry.’

  ‘Well, I hope Romolo was able to put your mind at ease.’

  ‘Not really.’

  What might have been alarm, quickly controlled, widened Perla’s brown eyes.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not his fault,’ Urbino said. ‘It’s just that he said he hasn’t seen Claudio since before Albina died. It seems he canceled his last lesson and apparently hasn’t rescheduled.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s fine.’

  ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘Me? No, not since the funeral, and I don’t go to Florian’s as much as I used to.’

  ‘He’s been taking some time off from Florian’s recently.’

  ‘How good for him. But excuse me. I have to get moving. I want to drop this off.’

  She indicated the package.

  ‘Something to make the water more beneficial for the singers?’

  ‘So Romolo told you? Yes, that’s what it is.’

  Before Perla could dash up the stairs, Urbino mentioned the book on Albina and how Romolo had said that the three of them would get together after the regatta.

  ‘We’ll have a whole evening of remembering her,’ Perla said. ‘Ciao!’

  As Urbino approached Ca’ Foscari, the main seat of the university, after leaving Romolo’s studio, he kept his eye alert for any of Benigni’s obituary notices. He didn’t see any.

  He passed through the Gothic doorway into the courtyard with its covered wellhead and stone staircase, and went into the building’s androne. The palazzo’s large ground-floor hall that extended to the water entrance, where the Grand Canal sparkled in the sunlight on the other side of high glass doors, had been renovated from its original Gothic style. It was now a serviceable, soulless space. He searched a bulletin board, but he didn’t find Benigni’s death notice.

  He went to the window of the portineria, with its computers and video cameras, and asked what floor the Department of Art History was on.

  He was told that it had moved to another location closer to the Zattere. The man took out a small map and pointed out the palazzo, which was next to the Church of the Ognissanti.

  Fifteen minutes later Urbino was in the entrance hall of the building examining a wall plastered with posters and notices. He must have looked a little disoriented, for a middle-aged woman with straight white hair in a blunt cut came up to him. She was carrying a pile of art books.

  ‘Excuse me, signore, may I help you?’

  He explained that he had come on behalf of the sister of one of the art students.

  ‘Luca Benigni. He died recently. She – we – want to be sure that his colleagues and teachers know about it. I thought there was a notice here, but I haven’t found it, not so far.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Luca.’ Her voice rang with a depth of feeling. ‘There was a notice on the board, with his photograph. There was another one in the neighborhood somewhere. The one here must have been removed.’

  ‘You knew Luca?’

  ‘He took my lecture course on Giotto. Why not tell his sister to put up another obituary in a few weeks? The returning students will have a chance to see it. And please give her my condolences. He was a nice boy and quite intelligent. He did an excellent project about the Scrovegni Chapel.’ The Scrovegni Chapel, which had a beautiful and historically significant fresco cycle by Giotto, was in Padua. ‘I didn’t see much of him during the last academic year, though.’

  ‘He was taking some time off. He had a friend who was ill.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Signor Zoll from Munich. He contributed books on Islamic art to our library and came to some of my lectures. I heard that he’s very ill. He paid us a visit in April. He didn’t look well. Do you know how he’s doing?’

  Urbino told her that Zoll had died at the beginning of the month, about a week before Luca.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, but I can’t say that I’m surprised.’ She gave Urbino her card. ‘As soon as we get another obituary, I’ll see to it personally that it stays up long enough to give people a good chance to see it. And I’ll put up something ab
out Signor Zoll. He was very well liked. Please give my condolences to his relatives.’

  After leaving the building, Urbino walked around the neighborhood, first in one direction, then another, looking for the other death announcement that the professor had seen. This quarter was on one of the routes between the Zattere and Claudio’s apartment near San Tomà. It was a likely area for him to have seen the notice.

  Urbino eventually gave up his search. He saw a lot of graffiti, but no obituaries for anyone. The second storm had battered the city after Clementina had put up Luca’s. In all likelihood, it had blown away or, as had happened at the Department of Art History, it had been removed.

  ‘How did your ride with Hollander go?’ the contessa asked Urbino that afternoon at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. They were in the salotto blu, a small, comfortable room whose furniture, art, and bibelots reflected the contessa’s sensibility. She had returned to Venice with Ausonio a few hours earlier to prepare for the Torcello outing tomorrow.

  ‘It was a nice evening. He’s looking forward to the Torcello trip and meeting Ausonio. Where is Ausonio? I’d like to say hello.’

  Urbino started to move from the mantelpiece.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. He’s in the conservatory. Once he gets involved in there, you have to drag him out physically. He’ll have a long list of what we’re doing wrong with the plants.’

  Ausonio was a fanatical amateur botanist, someone Urbino admired, given the fact that he wished he knew more about botany himself. The contessa had one of the best private conservatories in the city. A horticulturalist from Padua made regular visits. She had kept it more or less the way it had been before she had married the conte. Whenever Ausonio visited, he was full of criticisms and recommendations.

  ‘I hope things go smoothly tomorrow,’ she said, straightening a cushion beside her on the sofa.

  ‘Even at this time of year Torcello will be rather quiet. Not like Venice anyway, or even Murano and Burano. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I am worrying! And it’s not about Torcello. It’s about you! The more I think about this trip, the more I feel that you’re making me complicitous before the fact or something like that.’