Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  “Merely a history of Venice.” Joining them, he gazed at his proud script and repositioned the pen. “From the beginning, the sea protected her from the waves of barbarians invading the Italian peninsula. She existed against all odds. Today is not very different. Our isolation saved us from the tyranny of cars destroying the rest of Italy. Venice is a city where the human voice can still be heard instead of that infernal macchina racket.”

  Alessandro studied everyone gathering round. “Anna, in these bookcases there are many valuable letters and, how do you say, manuscripts, of Venice past.” His voice grew vibrant. “I catalog them now, hundreds of years afterward. Even the Cultural Council of Venice has researched here.”

  “Who are they?” Anna asked.

  “An organization working to restore old buildings and churches,” Pablo told her. “I was active with them when I was consul here in Venice.”

  Alessandro drew his hands through his hair and proclaimed, “All the birth, marriage, and death certificates of my family are kept in this library. I sit with Nero many times, tracing my past, feeling time flowing in my veins, through the bloodlines of the Faviers.”

  Steering the group into a broad corridor, Alessandro paused at a marble console covered with sets of smooth plaster hands. “These are a Favier family tradition. This is my friends’ favorite section of the library, I think. After they visit, the maid always has to rearrange them. See how refined the women’s hands are. Graceful. Well-shaped palms.” He halted. “Here is Mamma,” he said, caressing an ivory hand with long, tapered fingers. “As a child, I remember her combing my hair, embracing me. She is gone now, of course, with all the others.”

  Alessandro took Anna’s right hand and examined her palm, squeezing the fleshy parts. Relieved that he did not hold her earlier comments against her, she put up with it.

  “I remember my grandmother’s hands,” Anna said, slowly extricating hers from Alessandro. “They were always busy, cooking for us, mending, fluttering when she spoke.”

  “How about your mamma’s hands?” Angela asked.

  “Both my parents died when I was young.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Angela said.

  “That was a long time ago.” Anna tried not to dwell on feeling alone in the world. What was it now, five years since she had last seen the glow of twin urns at Woodlawn Cemetery? She had come to the conclusion that even if she spent her whole life trying, she would never unearth any more than she already knew about her parents. The probability of success approached but never touched zero, like in some of her mathematical constructs. She struggled to hold onto that reasoning as she dug her left thumbnail into her forefinger. “Beyond my grandparents, my roots go back to anonymous ancestors.”

  “America is like that,” Margo said, “a break as wide as the ocean from what went before. The place where you go to get another chance.”

  That only works if you have the strength and perspective to map your future, Anna mused, or else you get stuck in the eddies and just relive the past.

  “Signore, you are the living bridge between yesterday and tomorrow,” Alessandro said. “Nature is stronger than you are. Who knows what is willed to you by the ancestors? You cannot flee and remake yourselves again; no one can run that fast.”

  “As almost always, we agree, Alessandro,” Pablo said, moving closer to him. “Perhaps el Perú is a lot like the Old World. It is hard for my people, my country, to change, to escape from the Conquest and tragedy. But when one like me comes to power—”

  “Yes, but first, let us enjoy the Favier history.” Alessandro smiled. “We start with scenes from Venice of old, then the family portraits.”

  As he conducted them into a side room with huge seascapes covering the walls, Margo and Anna lagged behind.

  “Ecco, the battles where my family was distinguished,” Alessandro said. “The painting to our left is the Battle of Lepanto, where Sebastiano Venier and Don Juan of Austria fought the Turks. A huge victory.” He nodded. “Over there is the Fourth Crusade, led by our blind doge, Enrico Dandolo—a sad time for Constantinople, and in many ways for Venice. In front of us is the Battle of Chioggia, Vettor Pisani’s triumph against our enemies, the Genovesi, led by Pietro Doria. Ah, what a great admiral Pisani was.”

  “This is so boring,” Margo whispered to Anna. “Let’s go find the Book of Gold, and we can talk.” She pulled Anna through a marble-framed doorway and across a green terrazzo floor, past a grand antique mirror, whose nine sections, secured by gold florets, offered divergent, wavering reflections as they walked by.

  In the far corner of a paneled room lay an imposing book on a stone pedestal.

  “Is this—?”

  Margo, already turning the velvet cover, said, “Yes, the marvelous Libro d’Oro, a record of Venetian nobility through the centuries. The VIPs. They ended up with all the power. Look how many entries Alessandro’s family has.” She turned the gilt-edged pages with reverence. “Two doges, a procuratore of St. Mark’s, a member of the Council of Ten, a senator. You know, both parents had to be noble for their children to be listed. Napoleon burned the book when he conquered Venice, but copies, like this one, survived. Now—”

  “Please! We need to get down to business while we can! How can we piece together who might have killed Sergio, and oh, by the way, clear me?” Anna pictured Detective Biondi standing on the station steps in his Armani suit, basking in the adulation of the press as he announced that he had captured the murderess, Anna.

  “Right.” Margo turned toward the rosewood file cabinets lining an anteroom. “There’s a bunch of great material right over here, some of which could involve Sergio. I helped Alessandro catalog hundreds of pages when I was writing a story on Venetian cooking and lived nearby. We’ll also need access to any recent news articles, like in a library or a newspaper office.”

  “Good. How about pretending that you’re reporting on Sergio’s murder for the Chronicle—maybe, I don’t know, contrasting it with an American killing? We’d interview people who knew Sergio. Pump them for info. I could tag along as your assistant.”

  Margo pursed her lips. “Let me think about that.”

  “Don’t take too long.”

  “Well, to start, his friends will be surprised that a US paper is interested in covering his murder. So we’ll have to be convincing.”

  “Plus, we can’t attract the attention of the murderer.”

  “There are people in town I trust, people I’ve known for ages,” Margo mused. “I guess I can set up a few appointments.” She sighed. “Those five tough years with my ex-husband will finally yield something good.”

  “I’ll dig into Sergio’s financial transactions through my office back home and see what I can turn up there. I know I’m asking a lot with all of this, but please, stop broadcasting what I do for a living. If people ask, just say I work with numbers for the government.”

  Margo’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry—I only told Angela. She surprised me with her questions.”

  The sparkle of a gilded picture frame on an adjacent wall drew Anna’s gaze to a black-and-white photograph of five adults with San Giorgio Maggiore in the distance. She recognized a youthful Pablo, a brunette Yolanda in a floppy hat and holding a baby, Sergio with an arm around her shoulder. She didn’t know the men on the other side of Pablo. The shorter, round-faced one with bowtie and glasses gave a smile so wide it looked as if he were in love with the camera or whoever was holding it. The taller fellow with longish, straight hair and close-set eyes peered ahead sullenly. “I recognize Pablo and Sergio, but who are these other men?” Anna asked.

  “The serious-looking one I don’t know. The guy with the glasses is Dudley. You’ll meet him tomorrow at his garden party.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Must be Pablo and Yolanda’s son.”

  Anna scrutinized the photograph, pondering the relationships and what the intervening years may have brought. “Notice how Sergio is cozying up to Yolanda? How like him.” She sho
ok her head. “Well, shall we join the others?”

  “Hold on,” Margo said, staring at a bit of paper protruding from a carved-wood cabinet. “What’s this?” She yanked open the drawer and, by the light of a wall sconce, read in a hushed tone:

  Caro Alessandro,

  Vedo la tua faccia tra le nuvole e ascolto la tua voce nella canzone suonata dalle campane. Il tocco del vento di scirocco mi eccita. Ci incontriamo questa sera, alla solita ora alla Dogana.

  —A.

  6 settembre 1954

  Margo shook her head. “I can’t believe this. It’s a love letter.”

  “I didn’t catch part of it.”

  “I’ll translate.”

  Dear Alessandro,

  I see your face in the clouds. I hear your voice in the songs of the church bells. The touch of the Southern wind excites me. Let’s meet tonight at the same time at the Customs House.

  –A.

  September 6, 1954

  Just then, voices of the group intruded from a far room. Angela was saying, “It’s amazin’. After all this time, I still recognize that room.”

  “A few of the birds look different in this painting,” Pablo commented.

  “You have a discerning eye,” Alessandro told him. “Those years in the jungle at the Manu clay lick with your macaws and blue-headed parrots made you an expert.”

  “The red velvet bed with its curved columns and canopy remind me of the altar at St. Peter’s,” Yolanda said. “Do you really sleep there, Alessandro, with those angels on the ceiling looking down at you?”

  “Why, yes. They protect me and make sure that I am very, very good.” He chortled.

  “I like the wooden cradle,” Angela said. “Why is it at the foot of the bed?”

  Alessandro didn’t respond.

  As the group progressed, their voices became garbled, and like the tide, finally receded, leaving Anna and Margo alone in the fresh-washed silence.

  “Should we be snooping in here?” Anna asked.

  “How else are we going to find anything out? This note’s not from Gabriella, Alessandro’s wife, that’s for sure. Plus, he was married back then.”

  “Why would he keep a love letter in an unlocked cabinet?”

  “He only lets a few people into this part of his home, ones he really trusts. He saves and files everything. This was probably tossed into the middle of God knows what. He’s a multimillionaire pack rat who’s living in the past but with a history so rich, it could launch a thousand stories. And I could write them.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. Not without his permission, right?”

  “I’m awfully tempted.” Margo’s eyes shone. “What the—” she said with a start, interrupted by heavy panting.

  Anna stifled a laugh, glancing at Nero. “We may as well give up now, the dog has found us.”

  “Nero, Nero, dove sei?” Alessandro’s voice erupted like a faraway volcano. “Margo, Anna, we miss you. Where are you?”

  “Uh oh,” Anna muttered.

  “He’ll be furious if he catches us.” Margo clicked her tongue a few times before folding the letter and shoving it into her bra. Stooping, she tried to push the gaping drawer shut, but it refused to budge.

  Having witnessed Alessandro’s anger once already, Anna feared its gale force. She shook her head. “Forget it. Let’s get out of here and go find them, or go to another room.”

  “It’s too freaking late,” Margo said as the sound of footsteps grew close. She tried shoving the drawer, then rocking it upward but the age of the wood and Venice’s moisture conspired against them.

  Anna fidgeted with her bracelet as she knelt beside Margo. She considered diverting Alessandro, using the dog as a decoy. “Maybe—”

  All of a sudden, Margo lifted the drawer and finally thrust it into place.

  “Aha!” Alessandro said behind them. “Here you are. What are you two doing down there? This is a private area.”

  “My earring,” Margo said, presenting her profile to Alessandro. “I lost it somewhere while we were looking at the Book of Gold.”

  Alessandro fell to his knees, searching, as Margo deftly pulled the gold loop from her right ear and slipped it into her skirt pocket.

  “No. It is not here,” Alessandro said. “I send Gaetano or a maid. Do not worry. They will find it. But come now. You are missing the best part.”

  “That Book of Gold is just fascinating,” Margo said, sounding excited as Alessandro whisked the women to a far room where they joined the huddle in front of another interior view of the palazzo.

  “I cayn’t understand how they look beautiful here and so gaudy in the United States,” Angela was saying, admiring the vermilion velvet curtains in the painting. “I sold a portrait with this same old-fashioned color just last month.”

  “The fabrics, their brilliance, their luxury are bound to our past,” Alessandro replied, taking his place in front of the canvas as if picking up his cue. “They speak of Venice’s glory, her trade routes to the East. Her empire of spices and silks.”

  “Ay, sí, and lovely to touch,” Pablo said. With half-closed eyes, he fondled a velvet wall hanging of deep forest green. “Have any of you ever stroked the pure, fine wool of the vicuña, the best wool in the world? It was used for the clothing of royalty in my country.”

  “We will leave you and your vicuña now and proceed.” Alessandro pinched Pablo’s arm playfully as he moved into an adjoining room. “Up there is the start of the portrait series,” he said, nodding toward a long row of canvases. “Doge Favier is the man with the beard—yes, we had a doge in our family, who ruled in the year twelve hundred. He is followed by Giuglielmo Favier, a procuratore of Saint Marks.”

  Angela took a tottering step in front of the others. “Alessandro, what is that painting at the far end there, all wrapped up in black?”

  After a strained silence, Alessandro replied, “It is mine. My wife. My family.” He slowly shook his head. “I cannot bear to see what I lost.” He closed his eyes tightly for a moment before turning to her. “The velvet cloth will be removed upon my death, when this palazzo becomes the property of my city. Sometimes I pray that day comes soon.” Alessandro’s lips drew back to reveal pale gums. “My friends, I am getting old and tired. Why do you not return to the main room for more coffee? I must go now and rest a little.”

  Watching Alessandro, Anna felt his sorrow. He was the last of the Faviers, she realized. All the pomp and proud history of his family would end in dust. He would never hold the hands of any grandchildren, never witness their growth or their joy. She had taken desperate measures, and so far, she had failed to avoid his fate. The thought haunted her.

  After coffee, Anna and Margo took a stroll along the narrow canal. Clouds obscured the sun and a sudden burst of rain pelted down on them. Retreating to the covered entrance of the palazzo, Margo said, “I didn’t know he would take us near the family painting. I should’ve warned Angela. And you, too. I’m sorry. Don’t ever mention the gondoliers again.”

  “But why? And what happened to the rest of his family?”

  “I’ll explain later. It’s incredibly painful for him. I need to get back and see if I can cheer him up. Pablo’s prescription drugs don’t always do the job.”

  “When can we tackle the rest of the library?”

  “Let’s try later tonight. If Alessandro’s up to it, he’s going to Asolo this evening. In fact, everyone has something planned, even Angela; she’s going to visit another art dealer. I’ll call you around eight.”

  Walking back to Pensione Stella, Anna could not shake her sense of impending doom. First learning of Sergio’s murder, then of the count’s family tragedy, whatever it was. Back home, she had analyzed her share of mysteries, applying logic to deduce their resolutions. She excelled at her job of fishing in an ocean of data for criminals lurking in the depths. But here, she felt logic could only go so far. Now she was enmeshed in the fabric of tragic, interlocking histories of Sergio Corrin and Count Favier. If she pul
led on the strands, she was not sure where they would lead.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a gondola sliding past a golden palazzo. The gondolier’s song skimmed along the stucco walls lining the canal, his vibrant vocals growing soft, then muddy before fading into nothingness, reminding her of the sounds heard underwater.

  A Tenuous Connection

  Monday, late afternoon

  Anna had the pensione clerk dial her office and connect the call to her room. Seeing the hotel’s antiquated technology, she shook her head in disbelief before shifting her thoughts to Leslie and what she would say to her boss without lying or making things worse.

  When Anna picked up the ringing phone, her assistant, Brian, was on the other end.

  “How’s bella Italia?” he asked. “Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you this soon.”

  “I wish I could say relaxing. Instead, it’s confusing. Say, Brian, can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, whaddya need?”

  “I’ve bumped into something questionable here. Look for any accounts belonging to a Sergio or Liliana Corrin, of Venice, Italy. No known aliases. Also, for any accounts that a Banco Saturno has in New York or elsewhere. Run my algorithm on all activity. Find out everything you can about that bank, its ownership, and where it has offices or investments around the world. It’s an exclusive, private banking institution, so probe in the locations where money sloshes around and disclosure rules are loose. You know the drill.”

  “Of course the search won’t yield details on his lira accounts back in Italy or other non-US accounts. Should we contact Italian authorities?”

  Anna marveled at Brian’s usual efficiency. “Not yet. We need to know what we can surmise from our side first.”

  “Okay. This’ll take me awhile.”

  Examining the results from a broader net could be painstaking. Her brief inquiry before leaving San Francisco had shown that Sergio’s bank, Banco Saturno, regularly received funds from nondescript-sounding companies through Granite Bank, its correspondent bank in New York City. The companies were located in San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles, Vancouver, and New York. Fedwire transfers were typically split for further credit to one of three different account numbers at Saturno, belonging to investment companies, two with French names, one with a Spanish name.