Farewell to the Flesh (23 page)

But it was unlikely that anyone would believe that the ill Lubonski had gone all the way to the Calle Santa Scolastica to kill Gibbon. As the Contessa had said in reference to Stella Maris Spaak, the other semi-invalid of the Casa Crispina, it was “impossible,” wasn't it?

4

Giovanni Firpo was waiting for Urbino by the elevators when he came out of Lubonski's room. There was a strained look on the little man's face that hadn't been there earlier.

“Could I talk with you for a few minutes, Signor Macintyre?”

He led Urbino to the end of the hall to a room with a few chairs, a sagging sofa, and a table littered with magazines. No one was in it. He closed the door behind them.

“I just heard that Porfirio is dead. I think there's something you should know. It's about Xenia Campi. When you asked me about her yesterday, I didn't think this was important. You wanted to know if I had seen her the night of the English photographer's murder. As I told you, I didn't, but I saw her yesterday in the Piazza with Porfirio. Just the two of them. They were in the corner by the bank. I couldn't help overhearing as I was going by. They didn't notice me. She was threatening him.”

“What did she say?”

“She said he would have a fall and that she would be there to see it!”

5

From the café across from the hospital, Urbino first called Mother Mariangela and tried to allay her fears about how the death of Porfirio might affect the convent and the Casa Crispina. He didn't think it wise to tell her about Lubonski's role in Porfirio's death. Before hanging up, Mother Mariangela said that Mrs. Spaak would like to see him.

Next Urbino called the Contessa.

“I have a lot to tell you, Barbara, but I don't have the time now. I'd like some information from you though. Tell me about Xenia Campi.”

“Because of her dislike for Porfirio? But Porfirio was killed accidentally, wasn't he? Or have you come across something else?”

“Later, Barbara. Just tell me about Xenia Campi now.”

The Contessa sighed with impatience.

“All right but I'll expect a full accounting later. Xenia Campi and Ignazio Rigoletti were married for about twenty years before they divorced. She was a seamstress. They had only one child, a son. He was killed in a car crash on the autostrada on his way to Milan. There was fog, and a bus bringing tourists to
Carnevale
hit him. He was burned to death. The girl he was with was thrown from the car and survived. It was about ten years ago. There were some terrible pictures of it in the paper. You might have seen them.”

Urbino hadn't, but he had known about the crash. Were the particulars of her son's death the reason why Xenia Campi seemed to see fiery auras around people and why she was so passionately against
Carnevale?
How had she reacted to the graphic photographs of the crash? And how did she feel about the girl who had survived, whoever she might be?

“At about the same time, Porfirio was trying to get them and another family out of his building,” the Contessa went on. “They didn't have the money or the energy to fight him and moved out six months later. They found a room in the Castello but their son's death tore them apart. Eventually they got a divorce. She went back to her maiden name but insisted on the ‘Signora.' That's when she started to say she had visions, could see the future, although always a bad one. You must have noticed her around the Piazza then.”

“I saw her for the first time at a Biennale. She was handing out flyers by the boat landing.”

“As I've said before, she has some sense. Much of what she says about Venice and the Biennale is true, as far as I'm concerned. If she were less extreme, people would pay more attention to her.”

“How does she support herself?”

“The sisters take hardly anything. Rigoletti gives her a bit of money now and then.”

“Did Porfirio feel any guilt over what he had done?”

“Not that he ever showed. He was happy to have his thoroughly modern apartment and his photography.”

Urbino thought the Contessa was about to give him more details about Porfirio, but after a moment's pause, she asked, “Have you seen Miss Reeve yet today or is that one of the things you're concealing from me?”

“I haven't seen her. I assume she's at Porfirio's.”

“Are you still not suspicious,
caro
, that the young lady has been so eager to tell you things about her private life?”

“I don't think ‘eager' is the word to describe what she is, Barbara.”

“I've made you cross but it's only for your own good. You need a woman's point of view, and as a woman—as a woman who is also your dear friend—I tell you that you might be putting yourself in a position to be deceived. It could ruin any chance you have for getting to the bottom of this business. I'm curious about something,
caro
. Does your Miss Reeve expect reciprocity?”

She drew out the syllables of the last word almost comically.

“What do you mean?”

“Does she want to know about you, too? Have you told her things about yourself?”

“Very little. She did ask me some things about my parents and about my life in New Orleans before I came here.”

“And it was like pulling teeth for her, wasn't it, the poor dear? I know just what she must have gone through! It was years before I got your whole story, and I'm still not sure I know all the important parts! I'd be absolutely furious if I found out that she knew even one tenth of the little I've been blessed with. Oh, she's a crafty one, your Miss Reeve—and also Gibbon's Miss Reeve and Tonio's Miss Reeve! Maybe even Porfirio's Miss Reeve! Very crafty! And only another woman can see the extent of it!”

6

Little Stella Maris Spaak was sitting in the room's only chair, dressed in a dark-blue pants suit. Fluffy childlike pink slippers, similar to the ones her daughter wore, were on her feet. She didn't look as well as she had a few days ago. Her face was flushed and her breathing was a little labored. Urbino detected an occasional wheeze that sounded like the cooing of a dove. Her machine squatted on the floor next to the bed and her medications were scattered over the night table.

He sat self-consciously on the edge of the bed that was covered with magazines, clippings anchored by scissors, and a paperback biography of a movie queen of the thirties and forties.

Mrs. Spaak didn't spend any time on small talk.

“It's about Nicky. No, he isn't here at the Casa Crispina now. He and Dora went shopping and are eating out at a restaurant. I wouldn't have had a chance to talk with you like this if he were here. You're a son, of course, Mr. Macintyre. You know how sons want to protect their mothers from the time they're little boys. And mothers want to do the same for their children, of course. It's even more natural. But once I'm gone there's not going to be anybody who will look after them the way I do. Not even if they marry. Dora came close to marrying two years ago but the young man—he was a doctor at the hospital—broke off their engagement. As for Nicky, he could marry if he wanted to. But even if they have a husband and a wife, they still won't have a mother.”

She shook her head slowly.

“A mother always worries about her children, Mr. Macintyre, is always looking for ways to help them through life. I feel Nicky needs me now, needs me to take you aside like this and talk to you. It's not going behind his back,” she was quick to assure him, “even if I wouldn't be able to talk to you like this if he were here. I know my son well, maybe more than most mothers know their sons. Ever since he was a little boy he's told me almost everything that has happened to him. When he was away at college, he called me at least once a week and wrote me every single day. Do you know what that means, Mr. Macintyre? Every single day! He wanted to include me in his life. I know that he couldn't tell me everything, of course. He needed to keep things to himself—for his sake and for my own sake, he thought. But compared to your average son, you could say he told me just about everything.”

Mrs. Spaak paused. Urbino didn't know what to say or even if he should say anything.

“He still feels it's necessary to keep things from me, and it's only the way it should be. He's a young man now.” Urbino was happy to see that Stella Maris Spaak at least made this concession. “But if he's trying to protect me and doing some possible harm to himself, then, in that case, I can't allow it, can I, Mr. Macintyre?”

“I wouldn't think so, Mrs. Spaak.”

“There you are. It's for his own good that I tell you. But you needn't tell him that I told you anything.”

The concealment, deception, and even self-deception woven through the fabric of what Stella Maris Spaak was telling him struck Urbino as touching, pathetic, and typical of the majority of love relationships, whether or not loves of passion. Where was the love that existed without them?

Urbino believed he knew at least part of what Mrs. Spaak wanted to tell him about her son. It might be kind if he indicated he already knew, but he didn't want to reveal anything that would be better kept from her. He smiled to himself. The trouble with concealment and deception was that they reproduced themselves. The instinct to protect other people with benevolent deception was a strong one, especially when you knew that the person preferred it that way and would most likely reciprocate.

So sure was he of what Mrs. Spaak had on her mind, however, that he decided to say something.

“It's about your son's walks after you're in bed, isn't it?”

She sat back in her chair, showing the soles of her slippers more fully.

“How do you know?”

“Your son told me when I spoke with him last week. He didn't want you to know that he leaves you alone at night.”

“Leaves me alone! Now isn't that just like a son! That's what I was talking about. I know he goes out late at night, and not because Dora told me either, because she didn't. I figured it out on my own.” She nodded her head proudly at powers of divination that might rival those of Xenia Campi. “It doesn't bother me at all, but it bothers him to think I might know about it. Dora is always here to look after me. She's the nurse and not Nicky!” she added with a little laugh. “I'm so happy he told you about his walks, Mr. Macintyre. It makes it easier for me and it shows that my Nicky understands that it might put him in a bad position not to tell certain things. You're a sophisticated man, Mr. Macintyre. I saw that right away. You speak Italian so well, you live here in such a famous and beautiful city. Someone told me that you live in a palace. Is that true?”

“It's called a palace, Mrs. Spaak, but it's probably no bigger than your house back in Pittsburgh.”

She first looked disappointed, then skeptical, but she didn't pursue the point.

“A man like you, Mr. Macintyre, wouldn't judge my Nicky. You have a good heart. You can't hide a good heart, not from a mother, even if it isn't your own mother! You should be able to find some way to have Nicky confide his secrets in you. I can tell he trusts you, that he likes you.”

Urbino doubted this. His impression of Nicholas Spaak was that the American considered him a nosy intruder, someone not to be trusted with a lie, let alone the truth.

“I'm not formally educated myself but I read a lot. Nicky has always bought me books, and sometimes I'll even read his, the ones he might not think are proper for a mother. I know what the world is like even if I've spent most of my life in Pennsylvania. I love my son and I love him no matter what. Some of us are born one way and others a different way. People should stop blaming the mothers. Not that my Nicky has ever blamed me for anything. Even if I had something to do with—with making him that way, there's still nothing to be blamed for. After all, there's Michelangelo, Tennessee Williams, that Russian composer with the long name. I understand my Nicky and I'm proud of him. He's mine forever. That's the way mothers feel about their children.”

She coughed and turned her face aside as she took out a handkerchief and expectorated into it.

“Maybe if Nicky were to tell you about himself,” she continued, turning back to Urbino, “and it could be handled so that it didn't seem as if I knew. The problem, Mr. Macintyre, is that I'm worried about the rumors I've been hearing here at the Casa Crispina. The Campi woman has been spreading them. She says that everyone knows that Mr. Gibbon was murdered in a place that—that men like to go to and that the police know just the kind of person they're looking for. I could tell it upset my Nicky. So you see, Mr. Macintyre, if he isn't honest with someone about certain things it might look very bad for him. The police would think the worst!”

Mrs. Spaak left little for Urbino to say. He told her that he would see her son as soon as possible.

“And not here at the Casa Crispina if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Macintyre. Somewhere else, maybe your palace. That would be nice. Tonight would be fine, I'm sure.”

“Why don't you tell your son to meet me at Harry's Bar tonight at seven, My place is a little difficult to find.”

Mrs. Spaak seemed disappointed.

“I suppose that's all right, But don't breathe a word of our little talk. The important thing is to get him to tell you the truth. It has to come from him.”

Urbino was relieved to be able to leave Mrs. Spaak with the feeling that, despite her apparent need for concealment and deception, she still had some belief in the truth.

7

As Urbino was leaving the Casa Crispina, the elderly nun who was reading
Oggi
at the reception desk said that the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini had called and wanted him to call back. He could use the phone at the desk.

“I would like to see you here at the Ca' da Capo about five,” the Contessa said.