The Last Gondola (45 page)

Birds of a feather did not always flock together.

After taking the
traghetto
back to San Marco, Urbino went to one of his favorite bookshops. Recessed in a corner of a little courtyard off the Calle Lungo Santa Maria Formosa, it was bursting with books, both new and used, on long tables and high shelves in two rooms. People were sitting in the area behind the shop at round tables with plants and flowers on them, paging through books.

The owner, a genial bespectacled man, came over to Urbino when he finished with a customer.

‘We just unpacked the copies of
Regate e Regatanti
this afternoon.'

He was referring to a history of the Venice regattas. It was filled with details about the races, photographs, and brief biographies of the rowing champions since the nineteenth century, both men and women. It had a gold register of the finishing teams and unusual pieces of information about the competitions. Urbino had ordered three copies, one for himself, and one each for Claudio and Gildo.

‘I was going to call you,' the bookseller added. ‘And here are your Goethe books.'

He indicated several volumes – most of them used copies – on a shelf behind him.

‘Great. I'm going to look around awhile.'

‘Don't forget to sign the copies of your books. Some came in last week.'

Urbino browsed the shelves looking for a gift for the contessa. He was beginning to despair of finding something suitably festive to mark the occasion of another visit to La Muta when he came upon a book in French on treasure hunts organized in houses and gardens. The contessa had long talked about arranging a treasure hunt at the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini or the Villa La Muta.

As Urbino was signing copies of his books, Romolo Beato went by the shop in the direction of the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. He was too far away for Urbino to hail since the shop wasn't directly on the
calle
. At any rate, it didn't seem as if he was in a good mood. An angry expression tightened his usually friendly face. Urbino was puzzled. Two nights ago he had said he was going to spend a week with his son and do some business. Obviously he had cut his visit short.

Urbino had a second item in mind for the contessa.

Just as she knew him so well as to be able to give him the perfect gift, even when it was as outlandish as a gondola, he knew what would please her. He turned his steps to a nearby
legatoria
.

The shop, selling various kinds of paper goods and other small items, most of them handmade, was a little farther down the Calle Lunga Santa Maria Formosa in the direction from which Beato had just been coming. It had opened a year ago but Urbino had not yet patronized it, since he was a regular customer at a more established shop in San Marco. But he liked to encourage new businesses, especially ones devoted to the traditional Venetian arts and crafts, and his visit to Legatoria Foppa was overdue.

A young saleswoman smiled at him from inside the large front window where she was rearranging items in the window – address and appointment books, notepads, notebooks, stationery, letter holders, lampshades, wrapping paper, picture frames, and pill boxes, most of them made with marbled paper in various designs. There were also pens and inkwells in Murano glass.

A gentle bell tinkled as he opened the door. The shop had a clean smell. An area at the rear was set up as an artisan's workshop. A woman stood at a long table. She was in her early thirties, with large brown eyes, black hair feathered around a small oval face, and a well-shaped mouth emphasized by bright red lipstick. She was demonstrating the marbling process to five customers.

The woman, who wore a dark purple dress with restrained red embroidery around the neck, explained that the technique was more than a thousand years old and had originated in Japan.

‘Arab culture brought it to Europe in the fifteenth century,' she said in accented English. ‘After years of neglect Venice gave it a new birth when I was a child. We have many craftsmen who marble paper now – and craftswomen,' she added with a smile.

She nodded at the marbling tray on the table. Urbino drew a little closer. The entire liquid surface was spotted with yellow, red, and blue colors.

‘Earlier I dropped the colors in with a brush, each color separately. Now I pull the colors into different lines with this.' She indicated a pointed instrument that had the desired effect when she used it on the surface of the liquid. The spots became transformed into wavy lines from the top of the tray to the bottom. ‘Very carefully I bring this comb across the surface and – as you see – the marble appears.'

The tourists gave appreciative murmurs as the lines became marbled.

‘And I place a sheet of white paper on top of the liquid – like this – but I must be attentive not to let any air stay beneath.'

The small woman had muscular arms, as if she were a sportswoman or worked out regularly. And yet she placed the sheet of paper on top of the liquid with delicacy and care. After doing this, she lifted the sheet slowly. One side was completely marbled. She hung the sheet from a cord near the back wall.

After the demonstration the customers went around the well-stocked shop selecting various items. The young saleswoman was helping them. The
cartaio
, the owner of the paper shop – for this is whom Urbino assumed the woman in the purple dress was – started to clean and neaten her implements.

Urbino examined a display of notebooks. Between each empty page of heavy gauge paper was an onion leaf. The covers were in various patterns of marbled paper with strong cotton corners and bindings. He selected a small notebook in the old Venetian red flame pattern. The
fiammato
had touches of gold. During the past few years the contessa had taken up the habit of jotting down thoughts and impressions from time to time. She had filled three books of a similar size. Urbino had noticed that she had only a few pages left in her newest notebook. Urbino, who was seldom without a notebook, selected one in peacock green for himself.

The
cartaio
was at the cash register.

‘It's a very nice shop,' he said in English.

‘Thank you. It's mine. I'm Clementina Foppa.'

Urbino introduced himself and mentioned that he lived in Venice.

‘I'll tell my friends about your place,' he added.

‘Thank you. It isn't on one of the main routes. I'd be grateful for any help of that kind. Word of mouth is the best advertisement.'

The woman had a soft, melodious voice. It seemed touched with sadness.

As Foppa's assistant was wrapping the gift, Urbino's attention was drawn to an oblong sheet of paper, encased in clear plastic, tacked on the cluttered board behind the counter. It was the size of a sheet of typing paper and not marbled. It was one of the death notices that were customarily displayed in the city by members of the deceased's family. They sometimes had a photograph of the deceased, as did this one. The notices usually appeared on the front door of the dead person's residence, at points throughout the neighborhood, and at his or her place of work. He had noticed one in Cannaregio the other night during what he had called his corpse tour.

The person in the photograph looked familiar. Confusion coursed through Urbino. Surely it was a photograph of Claudio! This was impossible of course. He had just seen Claudio yesterday, alive and well in the final qualifying competition.

The photograph was a black-and-white one of a handsome young man with thick dark hair and deep-set eyes. He did indeed resemble Claudio. With some effort Urbino made out his name. Luca Benigni. He couldn't read the rest of the notice but he knew it would contain appropriate sentiments about the deceased, a list of survivors, the date of death, and the place and time of the funeral.

Sometimes photographs of the dead were taken years, even decades before, but this photograph was not one of this kind. For it looked as if it had been taken as recently as three and a half weeks ago when Urbino and the contessa had been at Florian's.

For the man in the photograph was the one who had been so solicitous of the ailing Konrad Zoll as the two men had walked under the arcade.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Edward Sklepowich

Cover design by Elizabeth Connor

ISBN 978-1-5040-0135-9

This 2015 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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