The Last Gondola

by Edward Sklepowich

  Urbino went to the library where he poured himself a drink. He sat in an armchair that gave a view of one of Habib’s paintings of Morocco. The Contessa had honored it by hanging it in the corner devoted to her collection of travel books, some of them dating back to the seventeenth century. The painting showed an alley in the Fez Medina, re-created last winter from Habib’s nostalgic imagination. Its swirl of primary colors, movement, and emotion made no distinction between the human figures and the cafés, shops, and houses that seemed alive themselves. Urbino sat staring at it, considering the way it erased any line between the public and the private and how different this was from Possle and the Ca’ Pozza or, for that matter, from Urbino himself and his own Palazzo Uccello.

  He then went over what had just happened in front of the Ca’ Pozza. The Contessa had been shaken. He wished he had told her that he had seen something, but he had only seen the empty windows staring back at him. If he had lied to her, she would feel better now. He drank the rest of his drink and left the library.

  He climbed the broad staircase to the next floor and knocked on the door of the Contessa’s boudoir. “Barbara,” he called out quietly. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Her voice sounded very far away.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you. I’ll need to rest if I’m going to be any use at Clementina’s. The performance took everything out of me.”

  “I think you saw something in one of the windows. What was it?”

  The silence was so long that he thought that she wasn’t going to respond. When she did, it was in a firmer voice. “I wish I had seen something, caro, that’s the problem. I didn’t see a single solitary thing. And you didn’t either. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Not tonight. Never. Excuse me, caro. I want to get as much rest as I can before I go to Bologna tomorrow. Good night.”

  72

  At two o’clock the next afternoon, a Friday, Urbino rang the Cipris’ doorbell on the Lido.

  The artist appeared, his thick white hair in disarray, but otherwise looking as dapper as usual in a bright blue cravat and tweed sport jacket. He couldn’t conceal his surprise at seeing Urbino.

  “It’s you, Signor Urbino. It was a pleasure to see you yesterday at the Contessa’s concert. Brilliant, it was! Most brilliant!”

  “Yes, it was,” Urbino agreed.

  He looked over the painter’s shoulder into the parlor. Hilda’s chair was empty.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I had some business today on the Lido. I thought I’d stop by and ask your wife to autograph her book. The poems are very good, and I’m sure that if my German were better, I’d be even more impressed. She carried me back to the time of Byron in Venice.”

  He took Hilda’s collection of Byron-inspired poems from his pocket.

  “I had it with me at the concert yesterday, but she wasn’t there. I do hope she is all right.”

  “She was feeling poorly.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ll come back some other time. Give her my good wishes.”

  Urbino started to put the book back into his pocket. He sensed that Cipri was aware that Hilda’s autograph was only a pretext for his visit.

  “No, it’s all right,” the painter said. “I’ll take it to her. She’s resting but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind being disturbed for a second. Would—would you like to come in?”

  “That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to intrude. If you’re sure it wouldn’t trouble your wife, I’ll be gratified to have her autograph, and then I’ll leave and not take up anymore of your time.”

  “As you wish. She’ll regret not being able to see you today. Perhaps some other time when she’s feeling up to it. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Cipri indicated a chair beside the door and left.

  As soon as Cipri was out of sight, Urbino went over to the table where he had noticed the sketches of Hilda. They were still there, as well as the pens and pencils and the Italian-German dictionary. The keys, however, were nowhere in sight. Urbino wondered how significant it might be that the table held everything that it had held not much more than a week ago, everything except the keys.

  He seated himself in the chair by the door.

  Cipri returned a few minutes later with Hilda’s book. The painter opened it. Hilda Krippe was written in bright blue ink on the title page.

  “She was most pleased,” Cipri said.

  Urbino thanked him and put the book in his pocket. What he probably had was an excellent forgery of Hilda’s signature.

  “By the way,” Urbino said, as he was about to leave, “since my last visit I’ve become interested in someone you mentioned. It’s the foreign gentleman who used to stay at the Ca’ Pozza. He was Armenian. There’s an interesting relationship between Venice and Armenia. I thought I might write a short book about it.”

  “I see. I suppose that would be interesting.”

  Cipri’s smooth, pink face became impassive.

  “Did you know that he drowned with his son in the same accident that Adriana drowned in?”

  “He did? I didn’t know. I never had much to do with him except for the few times I saw him at the Ca’ Pozza.”

  Urbino would have expected Cipri to show more shock and surprise at learning about Dilsizian’s death in the same accident that had killed Adriana.

  “That’s too bad. But when you did see him there, did you notice what kind of relationship he had with Armando? Were they friendly?”

  “As I said last time, Armando is devoted only to Possle.”

  “And the memory of his sister.”

  “If you say so. I wouldn’t know. I never see him.”

  73

  After leaving the Cipris’ apartment, Urbino hired a water taxi to take him the short distance to San Lazzaro degli Armeni. He hadn’t set up an appointment with Father Nazar or any of the other friars, and there was no scheduled tour today.

  As he climbed on to the pier of the monastery island, where the driver would wait for his return, the stillness around him was comforting. He went down the empty path and across the silent courtyard in front of the low, brick buildings. Not even the cry of one of the island’s peacocks broke the quiet.

  The friar who answered the door was very accommodating. He recognized Urbino’s name and spent a few moments praising his book on the Minolfis, a family of restorers. Urbino explained that he needed one of the books printed by the monks for his research and hoped he might buy it at the bookstore even if it might be closed. The friar conducted him past the printing and typesetting hall, inactive at this hour, to the bookstore. Father Nazar was nowhere in sight.

  The friar tried to interest Urbino in some large, colored photographs of the Ca’ Zenobio degli Armeni that he said he had taken himself many years ago. The building had formerly been the seat of the Armenian College and was now used for commercial and private functions. To please the man, Urbino selected three of the photographs, and then searched for the book on Armenian national costumes that he had glanced through on his last visit.

  “I’ll take this, too,” he said, when he found it.

  “An excellent choice.”

  Ten minutes later as the motorboat was taking him across the lagoon to the quay in front of the Piazza San Marco, Urbino paged through the book until he found the color plate he was interested in. It was a photograph of a pretty woman in an embroidered and ornamented dress, silver belt, and headdress and veil.

  Urbino stopped in at Florian’s. As he had a drink at the bar, he tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle that were Samuel Possle, Mechitar Dilsizian, and Lord Byron. He didn’t have much success. He then telephoned Corrado Scarpa. There was no help from him either. He had not yet been able to locate the boating accident report. If and when he did, he would have it delivered to Urbino immediately.

  74

  “Why, thank you, Signor Urbino,” Benedetta Razzi said at ten-fifteen the next morning. She took the
tiny fan of marbleized pink paper. “It’s even nicer than the one you brought last time. My little ones will love it.”

  “You said that they didn’t have many fans. When I passed the shop, I knew what I had to do.”

  Razzi continued to examine the fan.

  “I’ll put it right by my senorita,” she said. “Senoritas love fans.”

  “They do. But perhaps it would be more suitable with this other doll.”

  He indicated the refined figure in an embroidered pink dress displayed on one of the tables. When he had been here before it had been beside her on the love seat. A pillbox hat draped by a white veil gave it an exotic look.

  “Of course,” Razzi agreed. “The colors of the fan and the dress go together perfectly.” She placed the fan next to the doll. “There!”

  As she eased herself into the sagging love seat, she gave him an amused look from beneath her false eyelashes. She was wearing the same black dress with black sequins, but today she had added a necklace of pearls.

  “I think you have a soft spot in your heart for that little lady. I’m jealous. You brought the fan especially for her.”

  Urbino seated himself in the armchair across from her. “You’ve discovered my secret, signora. I must admit that I find that doll intriguing. Her costume, I mean. It’s Armenian, isn’t it?”

  “How clever! Armenian, yes. I had to look up the country on a map. I had never heard of it before. It’s near Turkey.”

  He waited.

  “A gentleman gave it to me, a kind gentleman just like yourself. He came from Armenia.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  “He was my tenant in the San Polo building. Oh, that was many years ago. He had a strange name. I can’t remember it. Ah, but his face, Signor Urbino! His face! I’ll never forget it. And even if I did, I have a photograph.”

  “You do?”

  “Bring me that album from the table over in the corner.”

  Urbino fetched the large, worn book.

  Razzi started to turn the pages slowly. She alternately smiled and frowned as she looked at the photographs. After a minute or two, she stabbed at one photograph with her finger. “Here he is, and here’s me, too, all those years ago.”

  She sighed and handed him the album.

  A color photograph, poor in quality, of three people, was on the page.

  Razzi, who appeared to be in her forties, was dressed in a brown fur coat and matching fur hat. She was recognizable for her large, expressive eyes. Next to her was a tall and sharp-featured man in a moustache and pointed beard.

  On the other side of Mechitar Dilsizian was an attractive young woman in a gray dress and small black apron. She was almost as tall as the Armenian. On her head was a gray cap. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “You see how hard his face was, but he had a kind heart. He gave me the doll a few days after this picture was taken. He moved away and went to Switzerland or Austria or someplace like that. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  Urbino was tempted to tell her about Dilsizian’s fate, but if he did, it would reveal his deception to the woman. Instead he asked who had taken the photograph.

  “His son. He was sweet, too. The face of an angel!”

  “You’ve always been elegant, signora. Who is the girl with you?”

  Razzi took the album back and closed it. “That’s crazy Elvira. She wasn’t crazy then. She wasn’t even married.”

  “She seems to be dressed in a uniform of some kind.”

  “In those days she was a maid—for Signor Possle and some other people. Maybe she took the apartment after her husband died to be close to him. She seemed to have a crush on him, so much older though he was.”

  Urbino absorbed this in silence. Then he asked her what Elvira’s relationship with Dilsizian had been.

  “Who knows? I wouldn’t put anything past her, then or now. She’s a schemer. She managed to get into my building, didn’t she? And she’ll be there for life—her life, I mean—unless I can get her out some other way!”

  75

  “A gentleman left this for you, Signor Urbino,” Natalia said, when he returned to the Palazzo Uccello after speaking with Razzi.

  She handed him a large manila envelope. Urbino immediately knew what it was. Corrado Scarpa had found the accident report.

  He took it to the library, where he poured a glass of wine, then seated himself in the old leather armchair.

  The envelope contained several photocopied sheets covered with script and typewriting, signatures, and official stamps. He read through them once quickly, then a second time more carefully.

  Possle, Armando, Adriana, and the Dilsizians had gone out in a sailboat they had rented in Burano. The sailboat was a topo, a type of vessel originally designed as a fishing boat but now used by the Buranelli, with a motor, as a cargo transport. Their topo, however, didn’t have a motor but only a sail.

  The unusually mild weather for mid-March must have encouraged the group. Mechitar had been in control of the boat.

  When they were near Chioggia, a short distance from Venice, violent gusts had started blowing from the north. They had decided to head back to Burano.

  But when they had been off the Lido and within sight of the Lungomare Marconi, the weather had turned even worse. Mechitar had lost control of the boat. According to Possle’s and Armando’s affidavits—the mute had written his own account in response to questioning—the whole party had been tossed into the sea. The only witness among the five about what happened from this point on was Armando. Possle was knocked unconscious when the boat hit him in the head. Armando managed to secure him to the capsized boat. Armando then looked for the others. Mechitar was trying to save his son as they thrashed around in the water. They both disappeared beneath the waves. Adriana was nowhere in sight. Armando swam a short distance from Possle and the boat in search of her. He didn’t find her.

  The report also contained the testimonies of a middle-aged couple who were on the Lido bird-watching. While the woman ran to call an emergency number, the man witnessed the drama through his binoculars. From what he could see, everything had unfolded just as Armando had described, except that he added one detail. He had seen Adriana slip beneath the waves as the capsized topo had passed over her.

  The bodies of Mechitar and Zakariya had been found three hours later, washed up on the shore of the Lido.

  Adriana’s body had never been found.

  It was time to make a trip to the Villa Serena in Florence. Urbino made some telephone calls and managed to get an appointment to meet the director the next afternoon.

  76

  After dinner Urbino telephoned the Contessa in Bologna to see how she was doing. She spoke in a calm and almost emotionless voice, and spent most of the time telling him about Clementina, who was fortunately out of danger. He told her that he hoped she was taking care of herself as well, and left it at that for now. Although he had no intention of keeping silent about her strange behavior after sounding the bell of the Ca’ Pozza, as she had vehemently told him he should, he didn’t want to speak about it over the telephone.

  “I’ll be back late tomorrow night,” she said, “but there’s no need to call, caro. I’ll be going straight to bed. We’ll all be losing an hour of sleep.”

  Tomorrow was March 31 when the clocks were turned ahead one hour for summertime.

  “I won’t bother you. Give Clementina my love, and have a safe return.” But he couldn’t say good-bye without adding, “Possle is expecting us on Monday.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  77

  At ten o’clock that night Urbino, wrapped in his cloak, took a walk, but he was determined to keep his steps away from the Ca’ Pozza. He would rather contemplate it tonight in its absence. It would be more real and palpable this way and less able to exert its baleful influence.

  Fog had made a stealthy invasion of the city during the past few hours. It transformed the few people he met into mysterious, faceless
figures who reminded him of the silhouette he had seen against the window of the Ca’ Pozza more than a month ago.

  He crossed the iron bridge into the Ghetto and wandered beneath the tall buildings, his mood darkened by the sad associations of the place. Invariably it had this effect on him even on a warm, sunny day, let alone on a night like this. The stones seemed to bleed from the wrongs of the centuries, and he could easily imagine the generations obliged to wear their bright-colored but far from gay hats and confined behind walls and locked gates.

  But tonight the story of the Abdons temporarily displaced this long, tragic history in Urbino’s thoughts. He considered the series of premature, violent deaths that had begun with those of the mother and father in the fire and that might not yet have come to an end.

  He turned away from the sad, empty streets in the direction of the Grand Canal, where the fog was thicker. Walking past the closed shops and kiosks and beneath shuttered windows, Urbino unrolled Demetrio Emo’s story about the Abdon family. He added what he had learned on his own. It was a tale of sudden death and madness—or if not madness, then certainly severe emotional disturbance.

  Was there any apparent explanation for Adriana’s condition as there was for Armando’s muteness? Urbino could understand if she had suffered a breakdown after the deaths of her mother and father, but according to Emo it hadn’t been that way. She had been ill before then. And yet Urbino believed that there was a close connection between her illness and the fire that had killed her mother and father, and had almost claimed the life of her brother and possibly hers as well.

  Emotional imbalance was often a mystery. There wasn’t always a convenient cause to make one feel more comfortable about it. Sometimes madness just dropped down over a person, it seemed. Perhaps this had been poor Adriana’s fate, but, one way or another, Urbino didn’t think he would ever know.

  But other things he was sure he would know, and soon, to flesh out what he strongly suspected. When he went to the Ca’ Pozza in a few days, with or without the Contessa, he would find out whether he was right or not.