‘But why did Sebastian send the article?’
‘Because of Nick Hollander. Since Sebastian asked me to invite Hollander to the regatta party, he thought it might be nice if I invited Zoll, too. Hollander is Zoll’s stepson – rather he was his stepson. No, not because Zoll is dead,’ she said before he could ask for clarification. ‘Hollander’s mother and Zoll divorced five years ago.’
‘His ex-stepson, then.’
‘Yes. The way you have an ex-brother-in-law from your divorce. And I assume they must have been close the way you and Eugene are. Sebastian would never have suggested that I bring them together if they hadn’t been.’
Urbino, who knew the contessa’s young cousin was capable of this and more, remained silent. He had traveled through Morocco a few years before with Sebastian. The trip had turned out to be disastrous. They had parted company in Fes.
‘But I still don’t know how you found out that this Zoll is dead.’
‘Sebastian called this morning. Hollander told him. And that’s where you get involved.’
‘Me? How?’
‘By going to see Hollander and offering our condolences. He’s staying at the Gritti Palace. I would do it myself if I weren’t up here.’
‘He didn’t leave after Zoll died?’
‘Not according to Sebastian.’
‘I guess the dark young man with Zoll was Hollander.’
‘Apparently not. He’s not dark and he has hardly a hair on his head, according to Sebastian. Try to see him later today or tomorrow. Perhaps he can come up to Asolo this weekend. The both of you. I’ll ring him. He could use a change of scene. Venice in August isn’t the best place to be when you’re grieving. He’ll be welcome here.’ Once again, this time as if on cue, the parrot uttered its remarkably human-sounding ‘Ciao!’ in an even more welcoming tone. ‘And even if he doesn’t come, I’d like you to come. I’ll show you the article Sebastian sent.’ The contessa sighed. ‘Poor man. He was so vigorous-looking such a short time ago.’
Urbino was reviewing his conversation with the contessa when a knock sounded on the library door. It was Natalia, his housekeeper and cook.
‘Gildo would like to speak with you, Signor Urbino.’
The smile on Natalia’s round face was not for Urbino, although she liked him well enough. It was for Gildo, who was her pet. Ever since the young man had started to work as Urbino’s gondolier a year before, she had taken him under her wing. She delighted in bringing meals to his self-contained apartment by the water entrance and looking after him in every other way she could.
The young man stood behind her. He was slim but muscular from his exertions at the gondola oar. His good-looking face, glowing with health, was open and ingenuous.
The plump Natalia reached up to tousle his reddish-blond curls before she returned to the kitchen.
‘I was wondering if you will need me for the rest of the day, Signor Urbino.’
‘You know that I didn’t even want to go out in the gondola this morning.’
Urbino spoke in Italian, as he did in most of his dealings with Italians. He seldom ventured for long into the Venetian dialect, however. He hadn’t mastered it as well as the contessa.
‘Yes, but, as I told you,’ Gildo said, ‘it was good exercise, with the qualifying competition coming up tomorrow.’
The next day, in the waters off Malamocco on the Lido, the gondolino rowers who had applied to the municipality would be having the last of the rigorous competitions that would determine which teams would participate in the regatta.
‘Nonetheless, Gildo, after tomorrow I want you to give all your attention and energies to practicing for the regatta itself.’
‘We must take one thing at a time, Signor Urbino!’
‘Well, whatever happens tomorrow, Natalia and I – and the contessa – are already proud of you and Claudio. You tell him that for us.’
‘You can tell him yourself. He’s downstairs. He wants to see you about something anyway.’
Claudio was sitting by the window that opened on to the canal, looking through a boating magazine.
After the three of them had chatted about the upcoming competition, Claudio said, ‘I was wondering if I could borrow Callas’s Hamburg Concerts. They’d be a good way to relax before tomorrow.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Urbino said. ‘No problem.’
Gildo made an exaggerated frown.
‘You’re strange, Claudio. All that opera stuff – oh, excuse me, Signor Urbino,’ Gildo added quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that you’re strange.’
‘What a disappointment!’
This only discomposed the young gondolier more. He looked back and forth between Urbino and Claudio.
‘I’m sorry, Signor Urbino. Of course you are different. Everyone knows that. But – but you are strange in a good way! Yes! In a good way!’
Urbino laughed. He patted Gildo on the shoulder. ‘Now you’ll have to explain to Claudio how he’s strange in a bad way! I’ll get the Callas for you, Claudio.’
After giving Claudio the recording, Urbino went to the kitchen. Natalia was bustling around preparing lunch. He was pleased to see that it was something light, an insalata mista and prosciutto crudo with melon.
‘I hope you’re not putting too much pressure on those two boys.’ She gave him a quick look over her shoulder as she washed a plate. ‘You know how much Gildo wants to please you, and Claudio is always doing things for other people and not himself.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve made it clear that even if they don’t get selected for the regatta, they’ve already succeeded in my eyes. They don’t have to win anything.’
Natalia made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a harrumph.
‘Sometimes you say things without saying them,’ she observed.
Urbino, who couldn’t dispute the truth of this, remained silent. He smiled to himself. Here, within less than a quarter of an hour, Gildo and Natalia had pinpointed two of his qualities: his eccentricity and the way he often communicated both more and less than his spoken words.
‘And who knows?’ Natalia pursued. ‘If Gildo strains himself, he won’t be able to ferry you around like a doge in that gondola.’
Natalia had never approved of the contessa’s gift, although she didn’t seem to realize that her beloved Gildo would never have come into their lives without it.
‘And how would you feel if you were responsible for spoiling Claudio’s beautiful voice?’ she threw in for good measure.
Urbino started to slice the melon. Natalia took the knife out of his hand.
‘Thank you very much, but remember how you cut your finger with the zucchini last winter and had blood all over my kitchen. If you want to help, just let me do what I have to do.’
She sliced the melon with a few deft strokes of the knife.
‘And if anything happened to his voice, you can be sure that Albina Gonella would be angry with you, gentle soul that she is. He goes to her house and sings for her and her sister.’
‘That’s very kind of him. By the way, do you know what café Albina works in in addition to Florian’s? I’d like to stop by tonight and see what her working conditions are. I might be able to find her a full-time position somewhere.’
‘That would be wonderful. Her boss at the café keeps asking her to do more and more work. You’ll see with your own eyes what she has to put up with. She cleans up at Da Valdo. She starts around ten thirty.’
The café was in the Campo Sant’Angelo not far from the Fortuny Museum. It would make a pleasant walk this evening. Urbino thanked Natalia and left her to her work.
A few minutes later Urbino called the Gritti Palace and asked for Nick Hollander. He was connected with him in the bar.
‘Yes? This is Nick Hollander.’
It was a precise British voice.
‘Hello, Mr. Hollander. This is Urbino Macintyre. I’m a friend of the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini, Sebastian’s cousin.’
If it hadn’t been fo
r the murmur of voices, the tinkling of glasses, and the light music in the background, Urbino might have thought they had been cut off.
‘Ah, yes, Mr. Macintyre. Sebastian speaks of you often.’
‘How is he doing?’
‘Very well. He’s in Scotland for the summer with Viola.’ Viola was Sebastian’s twin sister. ‘They so much would like to be here for the contessa’s party.’
‘It’s unfortunate they can’t make it. Barbara would love to see them. It’s been almost four years.’
That had been on the occasion of another of the contessa’s parties, during which there had been a murder at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. Sebastian was sure to have mentioned this to Hollander.
‘I hope I can compensate a little for their absence,’ Hollander said after a few moments. ‘I’ll tell her what they’ve been doing these days.’ He gave a strained chuckle. ‘Well, not quite everything. You know Sebastian and Viola.’
‘Not as well as I’d like to.’
This was far less than truthful, for the Neville twins hadn’t particularly impressed him, least of all Sebastian. But if Urbino knew one thing, it was that our world would crash down around our heads if we didn’t lie half the time. Social lies. Little white lies – whatever you called them, they were necessary. But if they made his social life easier, they made his biographies and his sleuthing much harder. He had to spend many long hours sorting out the white lies from the much darker ones.
‘How is the contessa? I look forward to meeting her.’
‘She’s well. She’s looking forward to meeting you, too.’
Urbino was about to mention the contessa’s invitation to Asolo when embarrassment rushed through him. He hadn’t mentioned the death of Hollander’s ex-stepfather! It should have been one of the first things he said. He rectified his oversight immediately.
‘But forgive me for going on like this about relatively trivial things, Mr. Hollander. I meant to give my condolences on the death of Konrad Zoll as soon as I got you on the line.’ It seemed best to refer to Zoll by name rather than by his former relationship to Hollander. ‘It was thoughtless of me.’
‘Not at all. Thank you. Did you and the contessa know my stepfather?’
Urbino, grateful to Hollander for having settled the issue of how to refer to Zoll, wondered whether his dropping of the ‘ex’ indicated the closeness of their relationship.
‘We never had that pleasure. We only recently learned that a man we saw walking past Florian’s in July was your stepfather. He was with a young man who was very attentive.’
Urbino waited for Hollander to identify his stepfather’s companion, but there was silence.
‘He made a deep impression on us,’ Urbino continued, ‘especially on the contessa. He looked so ill. We admired him for being out, considering his condition.’
‘Leukemia. He was diagnosed only six months ago.’
Urbino, whose greatest fear was illness, contemplated what it must have been like for Zoll.
‘This might not be appropriate, Mr. Hollander, considering your recent loss,’ he said, ‘but perhaps we can meet for a drink tomorrow or another day – at your convenience, of course.’
Hollander assured him that there would be no problem. They arranged to meet the day after tomorrow at five in the afternoon on the terrace of the Gritti Palace.
After lunch, a tenor voice singing one of Mozart’s lieder filled Urbino’s library as he lay on the sofa. Serena, the cat he had rescued from the Public Gardens several years ago, was nestled between his legs and giving a low, deep purr.
One particular song got Urbino’s attention because of his interest in Goethe. It was Mozart’s musical version of Goethe’s poem ‘Das Veilchen,’ the story of a violet that fell in love with a shepherdess only to be trampled beneath her feet. It was a delightful piece, beautifully put to music and nicely interpreted by the tenor.
When the Mozart ended, he went to the dark-wood ambry in the corner. The small, enclosed cupboard contained neither alms nor chalices, however, although one of the latter stood on a nearby table, draped with a seventeenth-century lace cover. The ambry had a secular function these days that nonetheless bore a similarity to its original ecclesiastical purpose since it served as his liquor cabinet. He withdrew a wine glass and poured himself some chilled Prosecco.
When he stretched out on the sofa again, Serena promptly found her previous spot. He opened his Goethe to where Tischbein marked his place. He reread Goethe’s initial impressions of Venice during his negotiations of the labyrinth of the city. Like Urbino, the German writer had enjoyed finding his way in and out of the maze by himself, believing that his manner of experiencing things personally was the best. After a while, Urbino put the book down on his chest.
One of Goethe’s ideas lingered in his mind as he lay on the sofa.
Goethe, whose vision had been renewed during his weeks in Venice, believed that the eyes are educated by the objects it is accustomed to look at from childhood onwards. According to Goethe, Venetian painters had enjoyed the great good fortune, because of the glories that their eyes had been formed on since childhood, to see the world as a brighter and happier place than most people did.
As for his own eye, Urbino thought, hadn’t it been formed – or rather re-formed, reconfigured – since moving to Venice?
He arose from the sofa and went to one of the windows from where he was accustomed to refresh his eye with the Venetian scene. He leaned on the broad marble sill, being careful not to disturb the pots of red geraniums.
It might be a small portion of the whole Venetian scene but it was representative. A calle led into a small open area where bright sunshine cut oblongs into the dark shade.
A covered wellhead with its worn relief of cherubs and garlands, which had belonged to the Palazzo Uccello in the seventeenth century, stood in the middle of the little square. A brindled cat sat on the well, soaking up the sunshine.
A bridge raised its humpback over a narrow canal on the other side of the square where a low-lying sandolo, recently repainted bright blue for the upcoming regatta, rocked in the wake of a passing delivery boat. Steps, green with moss, led from the side of the bridge down to the water.
The surrounding buildings were rose-colored and in that state of dilapidation that is graced by being called picturesque.
One of the buildings had an inverted bell chimney emerging from its tiles and curved, wrought-iron balconies with rows of flowers and ivy. On the roof of another building perched a wooden terrace, an altana, where in former years Venetian women would sit to bleach their hair, aided by a concoction of powdered Damascus soap and burned lead. Now the structures, like the one on the roof of the Palazzo Uccello, were used for far different purposes, such as drying laundry and airing clothes and blankets, although Urbino’s own altana was also a welcome retreat made almost pastoral with its abundance of plants.
As he remained at the window, shouts and laughter echoed against all the stones, magnified somehow by the water. They could have come from a few feet away or from a greater distance, so unusual are the acoustics of the city. A few seconds later two children raced down the calle and over the bridge with a soccer ball, followed at a more sedate pace by their mother pushing a baby carriage. Walking backward when she reached the bridge, she pulled the carriage up the steps as she was obliged to do dozens of times a day as she went about her errands. An elderly man coming from the opposite direction helped her negotiate the steps down the other side.
Two women emerged from the calle. Their dark gray dresses and scarves identified them as nuns from the nearby Convent of the Charity of Santa Crispina. They leaned down to admire the baby and chatted with the mother before continuing over the bridge.
Neighborhood figures drifted into the square, stopping to exchange greetings and gossip. Two tourists half carried, half dragged suitcases from the calle beneath Urbino’s window. Bewildered and exhausted, they accosted a white-haired woman, a vendor at one of the kiosks along the Li
sta di Spagna. After they showed her a piece of paper, she pointed in the direction from which they had just come.
Urbino could spend hours looking out of the library window or, in fact, any of the windows in the house. The contessa had once joked that one of his next presents would be a very modest one. It would be nothing more than a little pillow, though nicely embroidered, she promised, the kind that elderly women leaned on from their windows as they watched and gossiped and dozed.
He was about to turn back into the room when a thin woman in a green dress and a gondolier’s hat, from which wisps of metallic-looking red hair escaped, emerged from the calle on the other side of the canal. She was struggling with a bag over her shoulder, a pack on her back, and a case in her hand. She was the woman on the Dorsoduro bridge whom he had observed earlier from the shelter of his felze, the painter who had been so good-natured with the man who had accidentally knocked down her easel.
That she was now in the Cannaregio district was not unusual. One of the delights of Venice was its smallness, hardly bigger than Central Park in New York City, and you were always meeting people you knew or strangers who soon became familiar figures.
The woman paused in the middle of Urbino’s bridge – for so he thought of it – and looked along the length of the canal, first in one direction, then in another. She proceeded down the steps into the little square, and started to divest herself of her burdens. When they were all on the ground around her, she stroked the cat.
She surveyed the buildings that enclosed the square, giving a few moments of attention to each in turn, until her gaze fell upon the Palazzo Uccello. Urbino drew back from the window so as not to be seen, but not so far that he could not continue to see.
The woman stared at the building. Urbino had become accustomed to the attention that the Palazzo Uccello, with its stilted arches, marble facings, and pointed extradoses, received. Its seventeenth-century imitation of the Veneto-Byzantine style was often pointed out by tour guides and sketched by architecture students. He had once heard one of the tour guides explaining to a small group gathered on the bridge that not only had the building been built by an eccentric, reclusive bachelor in the seventeenth century but it also was now owned by one.
The Last Gondola Page 30
