But as soon as he saw the old man buried among the cushions of his calculated divan, Urbino instinctively knew he was safe. This didn’t mean that Armando hadn’t informed Possle about Urbino’s tour of the house, but that, if he had, Possle was going to do all he could to give no sign of it.
If Urbino had wanted to seek comfort by confessing after being accused, he wasn’t going to find it here. No, everything about the recluse that Urbino absorbed in the first few moments of being in the gondola room told him that if Possle knew anything, he would utter at most, an almost diabolical, “I accuse you, I accuse you of nothing!”
Urbino’s feelings as he seated himself were further complicated by his host’s physical appearance on this occasion. Although he was decked out in his customary red satins and purple silks, his face beneath the purple headscarf looked more pinched and drawn than usual. One hand trembled slightly but all too evidently. Urbino hoped that all these signs didn’t presage an attack that would snatch Possle away before he might get the information he needed.
Perhaps this fear and the realization that he was safe from Possle if not from Armando emboldened Urbino to seize the moment and try to gain the advantage. He sat patiently until Armando came with the Amontillado and left, all the while listening to Possle’s long anecdote, delivered in his tremulous voice, about how one of Peggy Guggenheim’s dogs had once become lost in the Ca’ Pozza.
When Possle finished, Urbino leaned forward in his armchair and said, “Do you really think we need to go through the motions today? We both know what’s on our minds—the Byron poems. Why pretend? Once you’ve shown your hand, there’s no use in covering it up again.”
“An even more apt metaphor than you think.”
All the wrinkles broke out on one side of Possle’s face as he gave his half smile. The other half, by contrast, remained disconcertingly smooth.
He had been fingering his crystal atomizer. The scent of the special potpourri hung heavy in the air. He thrust the atomizer back among the cushions.
“Very well,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve given some thought to my revelation.”
“Not only thought”—Urbino aimed for as neutral a tone as he could manage—”but also some action.”
“And what might that have been?”
“Let me say that I know about an Armenian named Mechitar Dilsizian.”
“You’ve gone to San Lazzaro degli Armeni, just as I thought you would,” Possle said, with a self-satisfied air. “Good for you.”
Urbino was annoyed. Once again, Possle spoke as if Urbino had no secrets from him, almost as if he somehow had an insidious influence over what Urbino did or didn’t do.
“I know that this Dilsizian had Byron poems in his possession twenty years ago”—Urbino drew out the words—“or poems he claimed were written by Byron.”
“Oh, they were. They are! And you have little doubt yourself. Why else would you be so excited? You’re trying to conceal it, but it’s clear to me.”
“I know that Dilsizian and his son died in a boating accident off the Lido,” Urbino went on, controlling his rising irritation. “You were on the boat and so was Armando and his sister, Adriana. She drowned along with them.”
Urbino was sweating. The room seemed hotter this afternoon.
“You must be careful that Armando never hears you speaking about his sister,” Possle said. “Her memory is sacred to him. I hardly mention her, and especially not at this time of the year.”
Urbino looked in the direction of the sala.
“So Armando makes you uneasy,” Possle said. “Yes, he could be standing right outside the room. Such a quiet man, Armando. Would you take this, please?”
He held out his porcelain cup. Urbino got up and took it, using the opportunity to take a closer look at Possle’s face. It was yellow and waxen. His eyes glittered feverishly behind their large glasses.
Urbino reseated himself and put the cup down on the table.
“I know what you’re thinking about all this,” Possle said. “Mechitar Dilsizian had the Byron poems, and now I have them. Mechitar and his son drowned, and so did Adriana,” he added, whispering the woman’s name, his eyes sliding toward the open door. He took a long pause during which he seemed to collect his energy from an increasingly depleted reservoir. “Only Armando and I survived,” he went on. “And now I have the poems. Do you think such things are worth killing for? Mere words on paper, even if they’re Byron’s?”
In Urbino’s experience people sometimes killed for far less. And the fact that Possle had been the one to bring up murder alerted him. He could be trying to put him off the scent.
“So the poems you say you have—”
“The poems I have,” Possle interrupted with quiet emphasis.
“So these poems are the ones Dilsizian had in his possession before he died?”
“Not right before he died or even when he died. The way you phrase your question makes a link between my having the poems and his accident. I’m no fool. They were in my possession before that sad event.”
“And how did that come about?”
“You sound skeptical. Are you a gambling man? Roulette? Baccarat? Poker?” One of Possle’s eyes started to twitch. He pressed a finger against it. “I don’t think so, but I am. I had a gaming room in this house in those days. Mechitar Dilsizian was an obsessive gambler.”
Father Nazar had said the same thing.
“Do you see now why your comment about having showed you my hand amused me?”
“Are you telling me that Dilsizian lost the poems to you in a gambling game?”
“Don’t look surprised. Fortunes and dukedoms used to change hands in the Ridotto in the old days.” Possle was referring to the former gaming house near the Piazza San Marco. “Dilsizian considered himself luckier at baccarat than he was. In the end all he had left to bet were the poems.”
Urbino wasn’t prepared to accept this convenient explanation.
“If you’re wondering if there was a witness to the affair,” Possle said, regarding him with a crooked little smile, “I give you my Armando.”
“I’m wondering a great many things. Like how the poems came into Dilsizian’s hands to begin with.”
“A most interesting story. They were passed down from generation to generation in his family. Byron had many Armenian friends, and at least one Armenian lover. Dilsizian claimed that this woman, very beautiful, who lived in the Calle degli Armeni and is now mere dust, as we all must come to, was the original owner of the poems.”
“Are they love poems?”
“Pazienza! Don’t ruin everything now.”
“Do you have copies of the poems? Photocopies?”
“Only the poems themselves. And they’re in very good condition.”
Possle fell silent. His breathing became shallower. He closed his eyes but after ten or fifteen seconds they fluttered open.
“Was I asleep?”
“If you were, it was only for a few moments.”
“Moments can seem like an eternity, and an hour can seem like a moment or two, when I drop off like this.” He had a perplexed look on his face. “Sometimes when I close my eyes I see so many people from the past, as clear as you are to me now. Sometimes I even see them when my eyes are open. They seem to be staring at me. I’m speaking of the dead, of course. And they don’t always look as young as they were when they died, but old, very, very old.”
His eyes traveled to the mirror on the other side of the room. He couldn’t see himself in it from where he was, but he stared at it as if he could.
“The dying man looks into the mirror someone holds in front of him and he says, ‘Farewell. We won’t be seeing each other any more.’ That’s not from Byron, Mr. Macintyre, if you’re trying to figure it out. But I can’t remember who said it. Someone I knew a long, long time ago, I think.”
Urbino was trying to think of what to say to bring Possle back to the poems when Possle gave a sigh and resumed, in a less tired and resigned voice, “I h
ave a statement from Mechitar, Mr. Macintyre, a statement that swears the poems are mine beyond any question or dispute. Properly signed by two witnesses. Armando and”—he glanced toward the door and lowered his voice—“Adriana.”
Very convenient, Urbino thought, trying to keep his expression impassive: a mute, dedicated employee and his dead sister.
“What do you want of me?” he asked Possle.
“I know what you want of me, Mr. Macintyre. You want the poems. If I had a more suspicious nature, I’d say that you’ve wanted them from the time you started besieging the Ca’ Pozza with flowers.”
“I had no idea—”
“Perhaps. But you wanted something from me nonetheless, and now I have something to offer.”
“To offer?”
“To sell. I give you the first option. Isn’t that what it’s called? I give it to you and the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.”
“The Contessa?”
“I’m aware that you don’t have the kind of money that such a treasure would cost. However, the Contessa’s wealth is almost legendary, as is her generosity, especially when it comes to you.”
“She’d never agree.”
“Are you sure? Not for your sake? Not to see your career advanced?” Possle raised his hand to his chest and pressed it against the red silk of his shirt. “You could shake off quite a bit of the reputation of the dilettante that you’ve accumulated over the years. Urbino Macintyre, the man who discovers unpublished poems by one of the world’s greatest writers. The man who writes a brilliant scholarly introduction. Don’t be overly scrupulous. The rewards are all yours, and you won’t have to turn over a cent.”
These remarks seemed to take whatever reserve of energy Possle had left. He dropped back against the cushions of the gondola. He had said what he wanted to say. Everything was out in the open now. The poems were Urbino’s for a price, and the price was one that only someone like the Contessa could afford. It was all so simple, so neat.
Suddenly, in the silence that had fallen between them, a woman’s shrill laughter, muffled but unmistakable, seemed to emanate from beyond the drapes and closed shutters of the room. The laughter stopped. A few moments later the woman broke out into a song that was at first indistinguishable. Then he recognized it as the Countess Almaviva’s aria, “Pour, O love,” from The Marriage of Figaro, as the countess prays for the restoration of her husband’s love. Even more feeling suffused the voice than when Elvira had sung the lullaby in the cemetery, and the choice of an aria indicated a range and interest that Urbino would never have associated with the grieving woman.
The aria came to an abrupt end. Laughter broke out again, then there was silence.
Possle was staring at him. It appeared that he hadn’t heard anything.
“You have nothing to say, Mr. Macintyre? Is it because you’re already contemplating what’s going to come your way?” Possle’s tongue darted out and ran over his lips. “It would be a suitable arrangement for all of us. The Contessa would do a good deed for her good friend, you would get the poems, and I would get the money. I’ve never paid much attention to money. There always seemed to be so much—until recently. I’ve left affairs like that in Armando’s hands. But the coffers must be replenished. The poems mean nothing to me, but the money they’ll bring me—bring us—means a great deal. Would you mind giving me some water?”
Urbino poured water from the carafe into one of the goblets. He got up and handed it to Possle.
Possle drank down a large portion of the water. Some of it dribbled from his mouth and spattered against his silk shirt-front. He handed the goblet back to Urbino.
“If I’ve been silent,” Urbino said, after reseating himself, “it’s because I’m surprised that you’d think the Contessa would involve herself with something, poems or whatever, that came into your hands in such a way. Something that might not even be yours to legally sell.”
“Are you so sure of that? And do you have such a low opinion of your place in her heart, not to mention of your ability to persuade her of things she might not be completely eager to do? As I said, Mr. Macintyre, this is not the time for scruples. I—I—”
He put a hand to his chest and coughed. His face looked more yellow than before. “Could you give me a little more water please?”
Urbino poured some more water into the goblet, got up, and gave it to Possle, who drank it and handed the goblet back.
Urbino remained standing. He had a better view of Possle amid his cushions, the cushions that might very well conceal the poems.
“That’s a little better.” Possle wiped his mouth. “As I was saying, consider my offer. Speak to the Contessa. “I—”
He stopped and gave another cough. “I prefer that the poems end up in your hands, Mr. Macintyre. I have a fondness for you, believe it or not. We’re not all that different. And we’re neither fish nor fowl, living away from our own countries. But have no illusions. If the Contessa won’t buy the poems, I’ll find someone who will, and they’ll be out of your hands forever. Speak to her. I’ll give you until the first of April. That’s eleven days from now. I’ve always been lucky on April Fool’s Day. Perhaps we both will. Have the Contessa come here with you at the usual hour. It will be a pleasure to have her inside these walls for the first time.”
Possle seemed to gauge the effect of all this on Urbino, who tried to keep his face from registering any interest.
“So speak with her. Make her understand how important it is to you—to both of us. She’s a woman of sense as well as sensibility. I believe you do her an injustice in assuming she wouldn’t jump at the chance of helping you.” Possle’s words were coming more slowly. “And it will gladden my heart when I see her come through that door with you. But if she doesn’t, you will be coming for your last visit.”
“If you could just let me see them.” Urbino struggled to banish the eagerness from his voice and, distressed by his own behavior, nonetheless could not refrain from looking down into the cushions. “It would—”
He broke off. He smelled something burning and felt heat against his lower leg. The next second he was slapping against his pants leg that had started to smolder from being too close to the flame of one of the candles placed on the floor beside the gondola.
“My God, Mr. Macintyre, please be careful!” Possle was visibly alarmed, but he tried to make a joke: “I don’t want something happening to you just when we’re so close to getting our prizes.”
“I’d advise you to be careful, Mr. Possle,” Urbino said, with a touch of irritation. “These candles might be atmospheric but they’re dangerous, as you see.”
“You’re right, of course, but I—I find some things difficult to give up. I’m sure you understand.” He put a hand to his chest as he had before. “I—I’ve become so accustomed to them, you see, and—”
He broke off and threw both his hands up in the air in an almost violent gesture. He was seized with a spasm of coughing. His body thrust itself up from the cushions. Urbino had a vision of his prize slipping away from him.
One of Possle’s hands was wildly searching for the purple cord. Urbino grabbed it and gave it a sharp tug. More quickly than seemed possible, Armando entered the room but without any appearance of haste, his arms with their scarred hands close to his sides.
The cadaverous man went over to Possle, who was still coughing. As he bent over him, he threw Urbino a malevolent glance. It also held, on this occasion, a trace of uneasiness.
Urbino mumbled a quick farewell. When he looked back over his shoulder, Armando was lifting Possle out of the gondola like a doll.
65
That evening after returning to the Palazzo Uccello, Urbino felt his usual malaise after these encounters with Possle, but it soon intensified. He had an onslaught of chills and fever and an intense headache. The slight burn to his leg, which he salved with a cream, increased his discomfort. When the doctor came, he diagnosed the flu.
Urbino spent the next few days sleeping as much
as possible. He missed Habib and his therapeutic tisanes brewed from herbs brought from Morocco. The Contessa wanted to stop by, but he insisted that she stay away. Her final conversazione was next Thursday, less than a week away, and he didn’t want to risk her getting ill herself.
He couldn’t keep himself, however, from thinking about Possle and Byron, about Armando and what he knew or didn’t know about his own intrusion into Possle’s quarters, and about what he might or might not have told Possle about it.
Urbino realized how things had changed since he had first dreamed of getting into the Ca’ Pozza. Back then—had it been only as recently as a few weeks ago?—he had been fired with a desire to hear the man’s anecdotes. Now he had more pressing concerns. He wanted to gain possession of the Byron poems. That they existed he no longer had any doubt. Possle was showing Urbino a way for him to get his hands on them, but he feared that the price demanded, and not necessarily one of money, would prove much too high to pay.
Despite the doctor’s firm diagnosis, it was only natural that Urbino linked his illness with Possle and the Ca’ Pozza, since he always felt strangely drained after his visits.
It also occurred to him that there could be something in the Ca’ Pozza itself that made him ill. He retreated from this somewhat superstitious thought into a more disturbing one about the Amontillado. It wouldn’t be difficult for Armando to put something into his portion. What he would accomplish by this was perhaps what Urbino was enduring now, a period of confinement to the house and the inability to make another foray into parts of the Ca’ Pozza.
When he was almost well again, he made another reservation at Harry’s Bar for the next day, Wednesday, March 27. He informed Emo through Gildo.
One merciful aspect of Urbino’s convalescence was that he wasn’t once visited by his dream of Possle and the fire, a circumstance unusual in itself.
66
Still weak the next evening, Urbino took the vaporetto to Harry’s Bar for his rendezvous with Demetrio Emo. This time Emo, dressed in a sober black suit that might have been left over from his days as a priest, was waiting for Urbino at one of the tables against the wall on the ground floor. He had a Bellini in front of him. From the flushed look on his large face, Urbino could tell that it wasn’t his first.
The Last Gondola Page 22
