Surviving Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  Luigi asked, “Did you grow up on scooters in China?”

  “No, I am Siberian. Dirt bikes are the main transportation where I grew up. Very rugged terrain. Here with roads, a Siberian three-year-old would be a better Vespa driver than anyone in Rome.”

  With that, Nuur shot through a slim opening, and Luigi feared for his elbows as they flew between the mirrors of the trucks and limousines stopped on the bridge over the Tiber. They hurtled toward a side Vatican gate where Roman police stood guard on the outer perimeter and Vatican police were visible inside. Luigi had to grip the monsignor with his thighs and bear-hug him when the brakes brought them to such an abrupt halt that he felt the back wheel leave the road.

  Nuur greeted the police who were already lifting the gate for them. A nun wearing a serious expression and an old-fashioned wimple approached them with a clipboard. “Monsignor Nuur, I see you have found the Venetian detective…Lampani?” She made a little tick on her sheet and nodded. “Detective, you are welcome to join us in mourning Count Verona.” She choked up on the last word.

  “All of Venice mourns with you,” he said. “Count Gabrieli Verona was a great man.”

  She nodded and waved Nuur on, and Luigi almost ripped the monsignor’s coat from his shoulders as the front tire came off the cobblestones. They accelerated straight for a dark slit in the block stonework of a building, which looked too narrow for them. Lampani clenched his teeth and fought the urge to jump off the back of the little rocket as they slid into the frosty darkness, stone brushing close to them on both sides. Nuur let off the throttle, but the downward slope of the stone pavers carried them silently at a high rate of speed. They entered a drainage tunnel between Saint Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel. Nuur didn’t turn on his headlamp, and within moments he braked to a stop.

  “From that little flight of steps, we can watch the guests of honor and His Holiness move to the chapel if you like.”

  “No, it’s too cold. Can we get into the chapel now?”

  “I know a back way. Have you there in no time.”

  True to his word, within minutes they were in the Sistine Chapel and had an excellent vantage point of everyone’s comings and goings.

  “Give me the lay of the land,” Luigi whispered to Nuur.

  “The choir will be there, the count’s casket will be brought to that draped platform, the Verona family will be in that front row, the College of Cardinals will fill that section, those two sections are for world leaders, this area just beyond us is for important Venetian guests like the gentlemen you arrived with, and the public will be on the other side of those railings.”

  “I assumed there would be a bullpen for the press.”

  “Never.”

  “You can’t keep the press out of something like this.”

  Nuur gave him a pitying look. “There is no free press in Vatican City. We are sovereign.”

  “But the news eats up everything that happens here.”

  “We have our News.va staff. They’re responsible for capturing news and disseminating it to the media in conjunction with the Holy See’s press office.”

  “Where are their cameras?”

  “There, there, there, and there.” He pointed at pillars and the chandeliers.

  Luigi watched as the choir filed in with white robes fluttering and the big space began to fill up. The Verona contingent was at the head of the crowd that stretched out the doors.

  “Look away so you can say truthfully that you didn’t see. I’ve got to take my first photo.”

  “I can tell you who those women with the Veronas are. Ippy is la contessa’s secretary, very capable, been with her for years. Next to her with the severe brunette bob, impeccable coat, and fierce boots is Gina, la contessa’s new protégé, and then Raphielli Scortini.”

  “Sitting with the Veronas?”

  “Sì, la contessa insisted she be allowed in the family section.”

  “A clear message that she doesn’t blame the wife for her husband’s acts.”

  “You know la contessa?”

  “As much as any Venetian knows a Verona. I tried to convince her and her late husband that Salvio was alive and dangerous. She stopped speaking to me as I continued investigating Scortini’s crimes. She’s been in mourning, but I don’t know that she’s warmed up to my efforts, which she interprets as meddling. She’s unbelievably private for someone so approachable by the masses.”

  “She is formidable yet loving. Like steel wrapped in kindness and a disarming scent of hibiscus.”

  Luigi chuckled at Nuur’s apt rundown. “Exactly.”

  “Do not get me wrong, I love Juliette.”

  “What are people saying about Giselle Verona’s absence?” Luigi asked.

  “Everyone knows about the attempts on her life and that la contessa is keeping her safe.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No.”

  Luigi watched as world leaders entered, and he could see the grief on the faces of the presidents of America and France, and the Prime Ministers of England and Australia. Finally, the public pressed close as the first strains of “Il Mio Signore e Mio Pastore” began to swell from the organ. The choir stood and began to sing.

  The coffin approached on the shoulders of the pallbearers, and Luigi noticed that among them were Vincenzo and Leonardo Trentori. Ivar Czerney, the Verona’s Ukrainian houseguest, followed using a cane instead of his usual walker. His stubby little wife, who’d cracked Salvio in the head with her shoe last fall, was conspicuously absent. Perhaps she was with Giselle? The College of Cardinals flocked behind with black crepe scarfs fluttering around the necks of their red robes. They looked devastated.

  Next came the widow, Contessa Juliette Verona, her face and hair draped with a black mantilla, holding hands with Pope Leopold XIV.

  After parking the coffin, which Luigi noticed had been borne on a hydraulic lift—no chance of stumbling and dropping a Verona—the pallbearers sat in the family pew with Vincenzo next to Juliette, and the cardinals moved past the family in a line and all appeared to be saying the same thing.

  “Some are taking Juliette’s hand, but others are specifically reaching for Vincenzo.”

  “Ah, sì. I personally would seek out Vincenzo’s hand. His father’s touch was indescribable, and I would want to see if the son has the same power.”

  “Power?”

  “We do not talk about it, but I will tell you. It is love. It comes off the Veronas like…well…it heals is the best way I can describe.”

  They watched an intense-looking man in a charcoal suit with grey hair cut in a military style. Luigi read the look on the man’s face. He was repelled by Juliette and Vincenzo.

  “Who’s that guy? He’s moving to the outside of those three cardinals.”

  “Hierotymis Karno, head of Ecclesia Dei.”

  “Secret service? He’s avoiding the Veronas.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Personally, he makes me feel like a rabbit…”

  Luigi turned and gave him a questioning look.

  “…and he is a badger about to flush me out of my warren…into the blinding sun…to be shot.”

  The pope delivered a eulogy and broke with tradition by finishing with, “And while I do not weep for Count Gabrieli, for his soul is in heaven with our father, I weep with his brothers and sisters on earth. I rend my garments for the terrible loss of one of our greatest gifts…a treasure…” He ripped one of the sashes draped at his neck and sobbed in front of the people packed into the chapel and outside in the cold morning sun watching on Vatican news monitors. Then came a high-pitched keening as everyone let loose their grief and sobbed. It was as if it was contagious, and white tissues appeared before everyone’s faces. Luigi had never experienced anything like it, a physical feeling of heart-breaking sadness being cathartically released. He scanned the room and spotted one man with dry eyes. Hierotymis Karno.

  That evening a very differe
nt scene played out in Venice’s Little Church. Luigi had been trying to dry off after being soaked in the icy downpour outside. He was just inside the entryway, dripping on the floor mats, when Raphielli arrived with Alphonso Vitali and the look-alike cousin Zelph, who was probably the smoothest liar Luigi had ever questioned.

  “Detective, it was good of you to come,” Raphielli said.

  Zelph gave him a collegial nod. “Getting a look at the funeral attendees, Luigi?”

  “Perhaps you three have reconsidered your version of the events at the palazzo on the night of Guiseppe’s murder.”

  “Reconsidered?” Zelph seemed nonplussed and then looked around as if just noticing where he was. “The place is empty except for those little nonnas who look like they prefer funerals to a night at the movies. Nobody’s gonna come pay respects to Salvio.”

  The first group of builders arrived and walked straight to the font of holy water, touched their foreheads, made the sign of the cross, and failing to see the widow behind the two massive Vitali men as they passed, they walked up to Salvio’s coffin. From their hand gestures, it looked like they were cursing him and letting off a little steam, stopping shy of actually spitting on the church floor.

  Luigi turned to see two short women arrive, decked out in such elaborate mourning regalia it was as if they were spoofing classic funerary attire. They looked like two stocky funeral barges.

  “Uh-oh, here they come,” Raphielli sighed.

  “You don’t have to speak to them,” Alphonso said reassuringly. “They won’t make a scene in a church.”

  Luigi asked, “Who are they? Distant Scortini relatives?”

  “My mama et nonna. We’re estranged.”

  “She calls them the Dour Doublet,” Zelph said to provide color.

  The women ignored Luigi and gave the stink eye to the Vitalis as they butted their way over to Raphielli.

  “What are you doing, practically naked at your own husband’s funeral?” They gestured at her ankles in black stockings, which were visible below her tasteful calf-length dress. “You look like a cheap piece of goods. Where’s your mantilla?”

  Raphielli ignored them and moved off to greet Marco Falconetti.

  The nonna squinted at Luigi and treated him like an usher. “We are the head of the family now, where does the family sit?” Up close, she was quite hairy, and her face was as wobbly as gelatin panna cotta. Luigi found this interesting. Raphielli had Cardinal Negrali and two old battle-axes who all considered themselves the head of her household. He wondered if any of them had said as much to her. He wondered if this pair could steam roll over Negrali.

  Alphonso extended a hand to the Dour Doublet. “Let me show you your place.” He walked them to the center of the front pew where they sat down, and Luigi could see they instantly regretted it because they were forced to stare at the dead man everyone hated and everyone else was arriving behind their backs. The builders, who now had spotted Raphielli, were paying respects to her. Luigi listened to the streams of condolences: “I’m here for you”, “If there’s anything you need”, and a couple of “You’re better off now he’s really dead” comments.

  The Dour Doublet almost abandoned their places to come hobnob with Mayor Massimo and Elene Buonocore. Then Domina, the prima ultima interior designer appeared, turning heads as she shook the rain off her silver raincoat like she was in the movie Flash Dance. Domina was accompanied by an A-list movie star who stood talking to Raphielli and the Vitalis just long enough to make the Dour Doublet grip the back of their pews like children forced to sit in a time-out.

  When reporters arrived, the two old monsignors appeared from the shadows and ejected them.

  Luigi signaled to get Alphonso’s attention. “Can we talk for a moment?”

  “Certamente.”

  They walked slowly along the wall as he said, “Alphonso, I’m gonna solve these murders, and you’re gonna help me.”

  “Of course.”

  “At this point, you’re either with me or against me.”

  “I’m with you.” Alphonso’s big brown eyes widened. “I’m just here to keep Raphielli safe. You’re the one who told us she’s still in danger.”

  “She is. She really is. Why won’t you tell me what happened at the palazzo?”

  Just then, Cardinal Negrali ascended the steps high above the pews. A crack of lightning illuminated the windows, and a muffled roar of thunder came from outside as the lights in the old electric sconces flickered, momentarily leaving the place in gloomy candlelight.

  “We’ll speak later,” Alphonso said and went to lead Raphielli to her seat up front. Luigi and Zelph followed.

  Raphielli turned around, scanning the church, and the gave a strangled yelp. Pointing at the door, she screamed, “Stop that man! That man in black!”

  There was a flash, another tremendous boom of thunder, and the lights went out. Zelph clutched Raphielli to his massive chest as Alphonso raced down the candlelit aisle. Luigi ran, too. By the time they burst through the door onto the storm-swept campo, the man had disappeared. The press had gone off to write their articles somewhere indoors, and turning in all directions, Luigi and Alphonso found they were alone in the downpour. Whoever Raphielli had seen was gone. Luigi and Alphonso splashed across the campo to check out a dark underpass that someone fast could have made it to but found it empty.

  “We just chased a man in black from a funeral.” Luigi was shaking his head. “Don’t tell anyone we just did that. They’ll assume we’re idiots.”

  Alphonso scanned the shadows. “She’s been seeing men in black for weeks now. Ever since Salvio attacked her this fall she’s suffered from post-traumatic night terrors and paranoia.”

  “You saying she’s suffering from PTSD?”

  “I am, but she’ll get over it. She’s more resilient than she looks.”

  “I don’t believe she’s paranoid, she’s in real danger. She and the Veronas are still being hunted by whoever Salvio hired…and they wear black...and they hate Catholics.”

  Giselle was on the phone with Fauve catching up on local gossip in Gernelle and Aiglemont when Fauve got practical. “We’ve completely lost track of Spratman, so you two’ll be at the abbey for a while. What are you gonna do for fun? Carolette asked me to see if you need her to send the honey wand.”

  Giselle rolled her eyes. “No need for that. But can you have Selma pack up my Nyakio skin products and toss my Bunny Balm into a bag? It’s dry and windy here, my skin and lips are chapping. I’ll coordinate Daniel getting the bag from you. Oh! And will you or Selma find my science fair notebook? I want to make some solar panels to lower the monk’s electric bills here.”

  “No problem. Guess they won’t let you make one of your dangerous sculptures there.”

  “You guessed right.”

  “What about the one you were working on? Is that benign enough? I could bring those supplies.”

  Giselle felt cold as she pictured her last sculpture. “Mon Dieu! No!”

  “Okay, okay, just asking.”

  “I mean, holy shit! Immure to Madness was a vision I had of someone flailing while drowning inside bars.”

  There was a big intake of breath before Fauve’s spooked voice came back. “Gabrieli? Impossible! You had that vision years ago.” She gasped again. “You can see the future!”

  “I certainly don’t want that to be true.”

  “Well, hey, you were building a cage and Gabrieli didn’t drown in a cage.”

  “The whole underside of Verdu Mer is a metal grid work. He was surrounded by underwater pilings when he drowned…was murdered.”

  “Merde, that’s eerie.”

  They sat in silence for a moment or two, both thinking, then Fauve said, “I can have Selma pack up Markus’ box of supplies and bring that as well. He must need something artistic to do, too.”

  “That’d be great. Those ornaments he makes would make lovely Christmas gifts for the chapel here. Can you deliver everything to that warehouse Danie
l told you about in Brussels? He can pick the boxes up.”

  “Will do. Does Yvania need us to bring anything?”

  “Nah, she’s blissed out working on the cookbook she’s co-writing with Juliette. The ingredients here are rocking her world.”

  Hiero Karno sat at his desk making notes. Funeral attendees were ripe for pumping after a good cathartic cry. He’d avoided touching Vincenzo, just as he’d always avoided touching Gabrieli. In the past, when Ecclesia Dei operatives had come into contact with the late count, plans had been ruined and campaigns that took years to set up unraveled in minutes.

  Hiero thought about the girl at Juliette’s side, Gina. He was a sucker for pearly white teeth and exquisitely cut clothes. That one had a knife-edge to her seams, hem, and her hair. Even her body seemed to follow the same line. The way she smelled aroused him on a primal level.

  He pushed aside the fantasy that threatened to unfurl and reached for one of the scrolls on Marcion of Sinope. The cat and mouse chase that the church had played with the Alithiníans was quite a romp through history. They’d almost exterminated this Venetian nest of Alithinían water vipers back in 1355. For the first time, Ecclesia Dei operatives had suspected the Scortini family of being Alithinían, along with Filippo Calendario, one of the Scortini’s architects, who was working on the Doge’s Palace. Apparently, the new governor of the islands wanted a palazzo to rival those of the founding family, the Veronas, and the founding builders, the Scortinis.

  Ecclesia Dei operatives had made their move, ordering the Doge to put Calendario to death for treason, a demand he wasn’t happy about because it delayed work on his palace. But the rest of the plan went sour because that same day the black death struck il Veneto, and for months it swept through the islands killing people in almost every household. Nothing but plague masks and shrouded figures were seen out-of-doors, making it impossible for Ecclesia Dei to track down the Alithiníans. Notes made by the head of Ecclesia Dei surmised that the Alithiníans fled when Calendario was seized and had escaped the islands by lying still in boats pretending to be dead bodies. Hiero thought it was as good a guess as any.