Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  Anna resolved to return to the station and make a phone call to the count’s palazzo. Maybe Margo could direct her to the nearest vaporetto dock and meet her there.

  “Anna, is that you?” erupted a familiar voice from the gloom.

  “Margo? Really? Of course it’s me,” Anna said as Margo reached out and embraced her.

  Margo was thinner than Anna had remembered; she could feel the delicate bird bones of Margo’s back. The savvy dark eyes and the mirth that played around her full, soft lips hadn’t changed. Nor had the gleaming jet-black hair, dramatic brows, and fair complexion. Margo’s taut skin still could hardly contain her lively spirit and abundant appetites.

  “I’ve been searching for you for more than an hour. I knew it wasn’t like you to take a later train without calling. I was so worried I ended up checking with the police. They sat me down with a detective who asked a bunch of questions about you. What the hell happened?”

  “They dragged me into the police station, where a Detective Biondi bullied me,” Anna said, her voice shaking. “I fit the description of a woman fleeing a murder scene last night.”

  “How awful! I read the local rag religiously; nothing’s been reported. And a murder would make headlines, there’s so little crime here. A stolen wallet and the bribes, the tangenti, of course.” Margo shook her head. “But I don’t understand why the police went after you. You just arrived from Switzerland for God’s sake. How was it?”

  Anna looked away.

  “Anna, tell me you weren’t here! I swore up and down to that Biondi that you were in Zürich last night. I even threatened to write a piece on Italian police brutality featuring him and his department terrorizing innocent tourists.”

  Anna groaned. “I arrived yesterday. I needed to take care of something.”

  “Where did you stay? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “In some seedy hotel—everything was full. I had to face a . . . situation alone. It was too embarrassing.”

  “But lying to the police? How long do you think your story will hold before Biondi comes after you like an angry bull? He’ll think I was in on it, too.”

  “I’m so sorry you got pulled into this.” Anna pressed Margo’s shoulder. “I may have a few days. There was a huge crowd at that masquerade ball.”

  “What ball?”

  When Margo’s words were drowned out by a loud throbbing, she arched her neck and scanned. “We’d better run for this boat. There’s plenty of room. We might not be so lucky when the next one pulls up.” She gave Anna a quick glance. “You look beat.”

  Margo clicked her tongue a few times before grabbing one of Anna’s bags, a sure sign she was nervous. That made two of them, Anna thought.

  They ran forward and wedged themselves into the waiting throng, the vaporetto jolting the floating dock as its motor strained into a higher key. The two women clambered aboard and freed themselves from the nucleus of passengers hurtling toward the seats.

  “Let’s nab a spot outside where we can talk,” Margo said. As they crammed onto a bench near the prow, she turned to face her friend. “Tell me everything,” she said calmly.

  Anna buried her head in her hands. “You can’t repeat this, not even to Count Favier.”

  “I wouldn’t before talking to you. But we may need his help.”

  “I lied to Biondi because I was scared, and I don’t trust him.”

  “But why?”

  “Remember early this year when I was so excited about going to Milan to give a talk at that conference?”

  “Yep. Boring stuff, nice location.”

  “I met someone there. Jack and I were talking divorce, so what did I have to hold onto? This Italian was an older man, very bright, charming, accomplished, a count from Venice who owned a bank and invested in art—like a Renaissance man, I thought. We had a fling. I regretted it once I found out more about him.” Anna fingered a button on her raincoat. “Someone killed him last night.”

  “What? Where?”

  “At the Belvedere Hotel. Biondi showed me a picture of him lying in his own blood.”

  Margo gave Anna a soft hug. “That must have been terrifying. A foreign country, the police, and a man you had slept with—murdered. Are you all right?”

  “In shock, I think,” Anna murmured. “They have an artist’s sketch of me. Not perfect, but it’s pretty damn good. That’s what they used to pick me up. I had stupidly followed Sergio to the ball at the hotel.”

  As they left Santa Lucia station behind, a cool mist cloaked the resting place of the last doge and lingered beyond the School of the Dead.

  “Sergio? Don’t tell me. You don’t mean Sergio Corrin?”

  “You knew him?”

  “I met him at the big party he and his wife, Liliana, gave a few years ago, during Carnival. Count Favier invited my cousin Angela and me. How strange.”

  Was the world really this small, Anna wondered, or was it just Venice?

  “Go on.”

  “Sergio wooed me, showed me around Milan and gave me all his attention—for four days. During that time, I found out later, he took some pictures of me, of us.”

  “Where?”

  Anna’s gaze wavered. “In his hotel suite—”

  “Like naked in bed?”

  “After a lot of Champagne.” Anna recalled seeing the two photos of her, of them together, on the caffè table. Along with another surprise—the picture of the confidential file lying on her hotel nightstand, smuggled out of the archives at work, in preparation for her speech. She should never have brought it to the conference.

  “When did it end?”

  “Before I left Milan. I had even been thinking I could end up leaving California for him. But my flight got canceled, and I returned to the hotel. I was window shopping, strolling along Via Monte Napoleone, and there he was, kissing another woman from the conference. What a fool.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “I looked him up in a directory when I got home, a Who’s Who in Italian finance, which said he was married, with a wife and two kids. Should’ve mentioned that he was an inveterate skirt chaser.”

  “I could’ve found that out for you. What made you want to see him here in Venice instead of just forgetting all about him?”

  “I hadn’t spoken to him in months. In Milan, when I told him what a sleazebag he was, he just laughed and said he might send something to my boss and get me in trouble. At first I thought he was joking. But then he called me in the spring and told me about the photographs. I asked him to give them back, and he refused, although he didn’t say why he wanted them. All these months later, he happened to call me a few days before my flight. Once he heard I was coming to Venice, he pleaded with me to leave Zürich early and meet with him. I figured that if he really had any photos, he’d had a crisis of conscience and I’d get the pictures back. I still thought he was just an awful womanizer.”

  “What happened?”

  “He threatened me. It turned out that he’d been biding his time so that he could use me in an even worse way when he needed to. I’ll leave it at that. He wouldn’t give me the pictures, and I gave up and left the caffè. Later on, I realized I had to try again. I tracked him to the ball he said he’d be attending, but I chickened out. I didn’t even approach him.”

  “How did he threaten you? What did he want?”

  “It’s better for you if I don’t say.”

  “I can make an educated guess.”

  “It’ll have to remain just that.”

  “He could have made copies of the photos and still used them later.”

  “Maybe he hadn’t. Anyway, he’s dead now.”

  “Yes, and you’re in a hole with Biondi making book on you.”

  “Tell me about it.” Anna pictured Biondi in a gray office, sifting through a mountain of clues. “How much influence does Count Favier have?”

  “Enough to slow Biondi down, not to stop him. Speaking of the count, I couldn’t get you in his palazzo. He
has too many houseguests: me, my cousin Angela, and more. Once our vacations are over, his home will be empty. But I found you a cute little pensione, only ten minutes away, near La Fenice opera house. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Staying with all of you would have been great under happier circumstances. I’ll need the phone and fax at the pensione to deal with my office.”

  “Will you be working?”

  “Digging. I’d better figure out a way to prove I’m innocent.”

  “Well, we have a few options, including marching back to Biondi and leveling with him. As bright as you are, you’re no match for a detective on his home turf.”

  “Not a good idea. First, I’d get canned from work once he tells my boss about me and Sergio.”

  “He was that bad?”

  “Worse. Second, how do you know Biondi wouldn’t take the easy way out and just pin the murder on me?”

  “I don’t. But he doesn’t have much evidence.”

  “Who’d care about this American woman he’d say was crazy with jealousy? It’d be a quick solution, and he might get a promotion.”

  “Nah, you’re just one of the leads he’s following, Anna. You’d never go to jail, because we’d find you the best attorney in town if need be.” Margo squeezed her hand.

  A sweater sleeve, sticking out of her suitcase, caught Anna’s eye. As she turned to tuck it into the zippered bag, she spotted a trim, middle-aged man in a dark jacket averting his eyes, as if he had been staring at her and wanted to melt back into the crowd. Was this happenstance or had Biondi put a tail on her? She noted the man’s features as he intently studied the buildings lining the canal: steel-gray hair, high forehead, protruding ears, sharp nose, small mouth, shorter than the German women chatting next to him in a knot. He was wearing a neutral expression. She’d better keep an eye on him, she thought, not that she could do much about it.

  “What’s the matter?” Margo asked.

  “Those creeps,” Anna said. “They must have searched my luggage—totally illegal. Of course they didn’t find anything.”

  “What an ordeal,” Margo said, squeezing Anna’s hand again.

  Anna glanced sideways at the man. He had slid closer but was looking away. She chewed her lip. “Let’s take a break, and you can tell me about Venice, as if I’m the tourist I had hoped to be. What’s that building?” she asked, pointing to an unfinished-brick church façade, their view quivering under the heavy breath of the vaporetto.

  “That’s San Marcuola. Behind it lies the old ghetto, probably the first in the world.”

  “Here in Venice? Never would have guessed.”

  “People still sail right on by it and never know. In the fifteen hundreds, the local Jews and the banks they owned were forced to move into the old foundry area. The foundry, or ghetto, was horribly cramped, ringed by canals. Jews could come and go during the day, but they had to wear clothing that identified them, and the gates were locked at night. When Napoleon invaded, the gates were torn down.

  “I’m doing research on Venice for a series in the San Francisco Chronicle. Behind all the gaiety is a lot of tragedy. At the end of the sixteenth century, when almost ten percent of Venetian women were prostitutes, the Council of Ten was at the height of its power, spying, punishing, killing anyone who appeared to be an enemy of the state. Neighbors anonymously ratted on each other, stuffing pieces of paper into the mouths of stone-lion mailboxes.”

  The bow spray shimmered in the lights as the boat dug into an obstinate wave. Anna pulled her raincoat tight. “Biondi would have had a field day.”

  “Don’t give him more power than he already has,” Margo said.

  “This unique place and its history are not logical,” Anna said. “Talk about opposites. How can the Venetians have tolerated living in a police state, yet in such a loose society? Were all their escapades a flight from reality?”

  “That’s what fascinates me about Venice,” Margo said. “It’s full of contradictions.”

  The vaporetto made its crooked way down the Grand Canal, the throaty growl of its engines filling the air. Past the angels of San Stae, the boat stopped again, only to groan, tear away from the illuminated buildings, and head into the blackness once more. Each stop was a luminescent island in the dark. The boat was a needle, threading the glowing pearls of an enormous necklace. Did the necklace grace the throat of a vibrant and beautiful woman or that of a trollop, painted and decayed? Venice’s enveloping night cloak made it impossible to tell.

  Looking at Anna in the light streaming from a nearby palazzo, Margo arched one eyebrow before asking, “Are you feeling better about Jack?”

  “I’m not reconciling.” Anna recalled their last day together, when winter’s overcast skies seemed to never end. No bellowing drunken rants from him, just a stupor, this one courtesy of the whisky bottle hidden in the piano. She had failed to count precisely how many bottles she had discovered over the past six years. It didn’t matter, since that was the day she counted the last one. She threw her clothes and some belongings into her car and drove off for the last time, she swore. Never again would his tears and cries persuade her to come back. She had promised herself to sever their insane cycle of breaking up and making up. However much they had tried, they could never get back to their bright beginnings. She had started divorce proceedings after returning from Milan and would be retaking her maiden name by the end of December.

  “Is he still calling you?” Margo asked.

  “I hang up every time. How could I ever trust him again?” Anna shook her head, recalling Jack’s bleating voice. “He’s getting the message.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to try marriage counseling? Jack seems lost without you.”

  Anna sighed. “Did he lobby you? Ask you to put in a good word?”

  “Don’t know if I would phrase it like that,” Margo said.

  “You remember the old Jack, before he allowed his failures to change him. So do I. He got plenty of second chances. He’s out of them now. Frankly, I just think he’s feigning caring about me to get a better settlement.”

  “Sounds harsh.”

  “I devoted myself to him for fifteen long years. Now I need to think of me. Listen, I can’t rehash all of this right now, on top of Sergio and Biondi and everything else, or it’ll push me right over the edge. Let’s just enjoy the scenery, shall we?”

  “We’ll pick it up when you’re calmer.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. She’s like a pit bull, Anna thought. Jack must have cried on the phone to her and all of a sudden, he’s the wronged party. Margo should know better.

  “Look to your left,” Margo said. “Centuries ago that palazzo was covered in gold.”

  Gold? Anna could hardly imagine the ostentation and expense as she drank in the delicate columns at the water’s edge, the ancient balconies and pointed arched windows, the detailed carvings, like the lions with their flowing manes. The walls’ intricate weave of geometric patterns, their textures rising and falling in the wavering light paid everlasting homage to the influence of the East.

  “Don’t trust the water here,” Margo said, her words competing with the thump of the engine. “It can seem serene; Venice is called La Serenissima, after all. But the sea can rise quickly, like today, overflowing the sidewalks. And some days are much worse. Maybe we’ll take a boat by the Lido. When the tide is right and the sea is calm, you can make out underwater ruins of the old Malamocco. Torn from its roots eight centuries ago, like some little clump of beach grass, and swept out to sea. Gone.” Margo snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

  Anna squinted at the black waves and shoved her hands in her pockets. Undertows, tidal waves, storm surges, death by drowning—these had always terrorized her. She was not sure if it was an early memory or an old dream, but she clearly recalled the feeling of weightlessness. Of floating face down in dark water, too weak to raise her head. Of holding her breath until her lungs ached. Then being pushed up from below, tumbling into the air.
r />   “Are you cold?” Margo asked, wrapping an arm around her.

  “Just thinking.” Anna leaned into her friend.

  “You know, in a way, all of Venice is a beach,” Margo mused. “The city is like a set of sandbars only a foot and a half above the canals. The water floods courtyards and campi, the small plazas. It backs up through drains and leaves rusty puddles, or worse. The sea can get anywhere it wants.”

  “I hope I’m not sleeping on the ground floor. I’d hate to drown in my bed.” Anna gave a grim chuckle.

  Off to their right, she glimpsed waves strengthened by the boat’s wake, invading a marketplace, not pausing at the stone sidewalk barriers but accelerating into the shallower depth, like tiny tsunami landing, careening every which way, into the locked stalls with their canvas awnings, against the ancient columns, the force of each little wave eating imperceptibly into the stone. One day, after the battering of countless waves, the fingerprints, the footprints, and all that man had created here would be wiped clean, crumble away, and be swallowed by the sea, she feared.

  They veered under the Rialto Bridge, its grand arch jutting above the water, the shops on its back shuttered for the evening, a huge hanging banner waving in the wind. Pizza parlors and canal-side restaurants hugged the bridge’s stony flanks. The dampened voices of lone patrons skipped on the water like thin and distant melodies.

  Lights illuminated finely detailed buildings with sculpted balconies. Graceful arches framed timbered ceilings. As they floated past Islamic windows, the light from multicolored Murano chandeliers glimmered. Anna caught glimpses of airy blue frescoes, smiling angels, resplendent velvet tapestries. The past persisted.

  “Most of the palazzos were born in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when noble families enjoyed a huge influence,” Margo said. “Some of them have been beautifully maintained.”

  “But there are sad ones, too,” Anna pointed out, spying a silent abode in the shadows. Alongside the favored palazzos lurked their dark, ignored sisters, the city’s abandoned children, tilting into muddy solitude from which they could never be extracted.