Frail Barrier (17 page)

Perla colored slightly.

‘I suppose you're right. I'll have to give her my condolences.'

At the counter Perla wrote out a detailed description of the herbs and their properties on a sheet of violet-colored paper. When she finished and slipped it into the bag with the herbs, the honey, and the wrapping paper, she said, ‘You've been filled with information today, Urbino. But that's your forte, isn't it? Why did you come here to tell me all this sad news? I mean in addition to coming for your gout?'

She put a bit of emphasis on the name of his ailment.

‘I thought you'd like to know about it before Barbara's party. The German's stepson will be there. He's friends with Barbara's cousin.'

‘This is like one of those connect the numbers games! Giulietta's doing them whenever she's not working one of her crossword puzzles. When you walked in, I had no idea I'd know so much before you went out again.'

Neither of them pursued the topic of the deaths of Zoll and Benigni, and for the next few minutes Urbino listened to Perla extol the virtues of his purchases. She had said many of the same things earlier, but he listened patiently.

He was about to thank her again and leave when the door from the
calle
opened. It was Romolo. He looked weary and troubled, but his face lightened when he saw Urbino.

‘Isn't this a surprise! I hope it isn't a professional visit. But I don't think so. You're looking fit.'

‘Romolo darling, you know very well that people don't come to me only when they're ill. They come to prevent themselves from
becoming
ill. Urbino
is
fit. He just needs a little help to remain in good condition. Isn't that true, Urbino?'

‘Very true. By the way, Romolo, I hope that everything went well in Padua. I didn't have a chance to ask you at the funeral.'

‘Padua?'

Perla became suddenly still.

‘Yes, Padua, my dear.' She emitted a high, sharp laugh. ‘You remember Padua? Rocco, your son? Your nasty tenant?'

Romolo gave his wife a look that was almost venomous, but it was so brief that Urbino wasn't even sure that he had seen it.

‘Oh, Padua was fine,' he said. ‘Rocco's doing very well, thank you. And I managed to accomplish a great deal. Who knows what would have happened if I had decided to stay here. Perla was right to insist that I go.'

He kissed his wife on the cheek.

‘And as soon as Urbino leaves, my dear, I'm going to insist on something else. Gingko, sage, and spirulina for your memory! You're much too young to be having these lapses.'

Seven

A ten-minute walk along three canals and over two bridges through heavy rain brought Urbino to the
locanda
where the contessa and Nick Hollander were lunching.

It was on a small, quiet canal with moored boats, most of which were covered with tarpaulin because of the weather. It had iron balconies with pots of flowers and iron-grilled lower windows. A four-sided lantern with the name of the establishment – lit on this dark summer afternoon – graced one side of the door. A tourist stood outside huddled under an umbrella, reading the menu displayed in one of the windows. The
locanda
, which had only seven simple rooms, was well known for its food, and it was always booked. Urbino hadn't even bothered to ask if a room might be free when he was searching for a place for Maisie Croy.

The owner, an attractive older woman, greeted Urbino warmly. He left his shopping bag and his umbrella in an alcove by the entrance. She led him to a small room to the left of the main one. It had a fireplace, which, though it wasn't working on this summer day, added a cozy note. The contessa and Nick Hollander sat at a table in the corner. On the walls around them, as in the rest of the restaurant, were paintings – water-colors, charcoals, and oils of Venetian scenes along with portraits and modernist paintings suggestive of Picasso, Matisse, and Chagall. The
locanda
was one of those places that Maisie Croy had hoped her original hotel in Dorsoduro would be, for many of the paintings had been given in exchange for lodging and meals.

‘You timed it perfectly!' the contessa said. ‘We're ready for dessert.'

‘Hello, Urbino.' Hollander looked fresh and rested. He was dressed in a gray suit with a dark blue open-necked shirt. ‘Barbara and I were just talking about you.'

Urbino sat down.

‘In Morocco they say that it means I'll have a long life. I hope so.'

‘A long and healthy one, Urbino. Don't forget that,' the contessa said.

Hollander nodded.

‘I told Barbara how helpful you were with the estate agent. Thanks so much.'

‘You're welcome. Have you spoken with her yet?'

‘Yes. She's coming to look at the apartment tomorrow morning. She's already familiar with it, she says. It seems to be well known. She was very encouraging.'

‘I'd like to see the apartment, Nick,' the contessa said. ‘And before you start to sell any of the things your stepfather collected or send them off to Germany. Urbino says there's a beautiful Longhi. And an Abraham-Louis Breguet! Who knows what other treasures there are! Surely you're having someone make an inventory and evaluation?'

‘Fortunately, my stepfather left good records and accounts. He was very organized.'

‘I have no doubt he was,' the contessa said. ‘I'm sure you know what you're doing, Nick. If I want you to keep everything – all the things and the apartment itself – it's because I'm selfish, you see. You would have a pied-à-terre in Venice. You like boating so much, and well, Venice
is
on the sea.'

‘Venice wouldn't work for me. Not the way it has for you and Urbino. Or the way it did for my stepfather, at least for as long as he could enjoy it.'

They fell into silence.

‘I understand that it can only have sad associations for you now. But with time …' the contessa said gently. ‘I've had my sorrows here, but they've only made me love it more.'

The waiter came over. All three of them ordered the
tiramisù
.

‘I can tell how deeply you feel about your stepfather's death,' the contessa went on. ‘Not from anything you've said, although we
have
had a nice talk,' she added, turning to Urbino. ‘But I can see how vulnerable you are. You're fragile under it all, like the rest of us. We never know what's going to happen to ourselves or those we love, do we? Your stepfather should have had many more years to enjoy life. And his—'

She broke off abruptly, paused for a beat, and continued, ‘And his – his spirit is such a good example to us all, isn't it? Look at the way you're carrying on in that spirit, managing to enjoy yourself despite everything – well, I find that admirable! Don't you, Urbino?'

The contessa looked at him a little nervously. He wondered if she had come close to mentioning Albina's death, too, or might even not have caught herself in time as she just had about Benigni.

‘I said more or less the same thing to him when we first met.'

‘There, you see! But you do what you think is best with the apartment. In any case, you'll be welcome to stay with me whenever you're in town.'

‘Thank you. I'm glad to have made two new friends, especially at this time.'

‘Thanks to Sebastian,' the contessa said. ‘That boy manages to do some good from time to time.'

Hollander used the contessa's reference to Sebastian to bring up the topic of Morocco and Urbino's travels through the country with him. Hollander, who was familiar with Morocco, showed an interest in Urbino's anecdotes and descriptions, and particularly his story about Habib and his painting.

‘One of his paintings of Burano is in the other room,' Urbino said. ‘Not as payment for services as some of the others are. Just a gift.'

‘I'd like to see it before we leave.'

The waiter brought over their desserts.

Before they started eating their
tiramisù
, the contessa said, ‘You didn't notice, Urbino. I'm hurt. And Habib would be, too, sweet, sensitive boy that he is.'

‘What do you mean?'

The contessa tapped her chest gently in a motion that looked like a
mea culpa
.

She was wearing a necklace of cascading silver ovals. It was a gift from Habib to replace one that Urbino had bought her from Morocco. The original had been stolen from the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini under circumstances that had greatly troubled her. It was an incident that had played a puzzling role in a recent investigation that had centered on the burned-out San Polo palazzo Urbino had been standing in front of last week.

‘It looks lovely on you,' Urbino said, ‘as it always does.'

‘This necklace is very precious to me, Nick. Not only in itself, but because of its associations.'

She began to explain what she meant. The explanation, which Urbino took up after a few minutes since most of the story was his to tell, carried them through dessert as well as drinks afterward.

An hour later Urbino and Hollander were in the library of the Palazzo Uccello, sipping wine. The contessa's motorboat had dropped the two men off on its way back to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini. She was unable to join them. The first of her guests, a nephew by marriage, was arriving from Capri, and she was taking him up to Asolo for a few days.

Hollander was at the refectory table, looking through the volumes of Urbino's
Venetian Lives
series that Urbino had taken down from the shelves at his request.

‘Aren't you afraid that you're going to run out of lives?' Hollander asked. ‘Not yours – or hers,' he added, indicating Serena who was settled on the sofa. ‘But these. Browning. Ruskin. James. Proust. Mann. Byron. And what's this one?
Women of Venice
. Let me see.' He thumbed through it. ‘Veronica Franco. Desdemona. George Sand. Peggy Guggenheim. My, my! I take back what I said. This may be an inexhaustible topic.'

‘Or it may eventually exhaust me.'

Hollander got up and examined two small pastels displayed by the door. One was of a stern-looking man in eighteenth-century attire. The other was of a young woman, her hair in disarray, with one breast exposed.

‘Rosalba Camera,' Urbino explained. ‘A Venetian painter.'

‘She's one of the women of Venice you wrote about, isn't she? I saw her name in the book.'

‘Yes. She was very popular, especially among the English. These aren't among her best, and they're slightly damaged if you look closely.'

‘I'm not familiar with her. Maybe my stepfather was.'

‘The Accademia has many of her portraits, and he might have seen the collection in Dresden. Fortunately they survived the fire bombing.'

‘I prefer landscapes.'

‘And seascapes, I'm sure. I have one in the parlor. It's by a contemporary Venetian painter.'

As they were about to leave the library to see the painting, Hollander said, ‘And what are these?' He indicated a group of paintings on the other side of the door.

‘They're by Habib.'

Before they had left the
locanda
Hollander had gone to the main dining room to see the young Moroccan's painting of a bright red flat-bottomed boat from Chioggia. The paintings he was looking at now, which were of doors from houses in Burano, were vivid, like the one of the boat.

‘They're very good,' Hollander said. ‘Your Moroccan friend has a lot of talent. My stepfather might have been a help to him. He was a patron for many young artists, though mainly in Germany.'

A few minutes later in the parlor Hollander was surveying the seascape. It was called ‘Storm from the Adriatic.' It was a swirl of purples, grays, and reds. At its center were a torn white sail, a broken mast, and – upside down – one of the domes of the Basilica San Marco.

‘I like it,' Hollander said. ‘But it's disturbing.'

‘The reality of Venice. It doesn't have much defense against the sea. You've seen how these storms rush in. They do a lot of damage. Not only to the buildings but also to people. Look what happened to Luca Benigni.'

Hollander continued to stare at the painting.

‘Luca Benigni? What do you mean?'

‘I thought you knew. He was killed during that first big storm we had, the one a few days after your stepfather died. Seems as if a loose parapet stone fell from a building and hit him on the head.'

Hollander stood there and stared back at Urbino. He seemed blank, amazed, and very shaken if one were to put that interpretation on his sudden paleness and a slight trembling in one eyelid.

‘Good God! I didn't know that. What a strange way to die! I haven't seen him since the service. I thought he had gone out of town. Thank God it happened after my stepfather died.' Hollander lowered his gaze. ‘The Mediterranean has the worst storms of all, you know.'

‘Yes.' Urbino straightened the painting a fraction. ‘And speaking of storms, someone was killed in the second one we had, someone Barbara and I knew. A woman who worked at Florian's.'

‘This is all sounding more and more strange. I'm sorry to hear that. Two deaths in Venice from storms. I know that storms kill hundreds, even thousands of people at once, but it seems rather odd to me. Does it to you?'

‘In a fashion. But I might not have been clear enough. Our friend, Albina, wasn't killed by the storm. She had a heart attack, it seems. She was outside in the midst of it.'

‘It must have been frightening for her. It looked terrible enough from my room.'

Urbino made no response. After a few moments he asked Hollander if he would like another glass of wine. He declined. Hollander went over to a table and picked up an inlaid wooden box from Essaouira, then inspected a mirror from Marrakech in a painted and decorated wooden frame that was hanging on the wall above the table.

‘The story of the theft of the Moroccan necklace was fascinating,' he said. ‘And frightening. You and Barbara were in danger. It was clever how you figured things out. You have more than one talent.'