Death in a Serene City (20 page)

Urbino was left standing in front of the closed door, listening to Cavatorta's footsteps receding down his hallway, presumably back to a bed as rumpled as he was.

12

“I never heard of any theft, no,” the Contessa said later that evening on the phone, “but I didn't know anything about her paintings to begin with either, you might recall.” Obviously it still hurt that Maria hadn't confided in her. “When was the theft?”

“Around the time of the flood, sometime between then and whenever Cavatorta left the priesthood.”

“For my own peace of mind I'd like to know exactly when it was. Maybe there's a good reason why I don't know anything about it. Alvise and I were up in Geneva at the clinic right after the flood—in fact, Sister Veronica came up with us for several days, which might also explain why she didn't say anything about a theft. I'll try to find out. You've been asking enough questions these last few days. For a foreigner to have asked even half as many in the days of the Council of Ten would have got him thrown straight into the
Piombi!
”

“You don't mind asking around?”

“It's not my intention to ‘ask around,' as you put it. As for minding, I might even enjoy conducting a discreet little inquiry of my own—sounds so much better put that way, doesn't it? And who knows,
caro?
Maybe I'll find out why there are so many things everyone else seems to know that I don't have the vaguest notion of!”

“One thing I'm sure you do know about is Sister Veronica. Could you refresh my mind on her circumstances?”

“Her circumstances? She's a sister of the Charity of Santa Crispina.”

“I mean her history.”

“You mean her secular history, I assume, before
la vita nuova?
But she renounced all that when she took the veil.”

In light of the changes in the Church over the last two decades and the freedom enjoyed by Sister Veronica, the Contessa's expression had more than a whiff of Victorianism.

“I know her father was a glassblower,” Urbino said, “but not much else.”

“There isn't much else,
caro
. When her mother died she went to live with an aunt in Naples for five or six years until she was eighteen, then she helped out in her father's shop for a while. After he died she sold the factory to his apprentice and entered the convent.”

“And has been living happily ever since as a nun?”

“It would seem so.”

“Why did she wait until her father died to enter the convent?”

“He disapproved.”

“And she disapproved of him.”

“So you do remember something else after all! Down in Naples she used to fantasize that her family was descended from the Doges. Her aunt did everything to encourage it. She didn't have much fondness for her brother-in-law. Sister Veronica grew up disliking everything to do with glass and glassmaking but she was only an impressionable young girl then.”

“An impressionable young girl who eventually found her way to the convent.”

“Nothing like a Saint Augustine turnabout, if that's what you're thinking. She didn't have much of a distance to go. She's less inclined to talk about her good points than her faults, but I'm sure that however impressionable and confused she might have been, she was also devout. But why are you so interested in Sister Veronica?”

“No particular reason except that she didn't seem comfortable with the topic of Beatrice Galuppi.”

“And should she have been? Despite all the changes since Vatican Two, most of which we both lament, don't forget that Sister Veronica remains a nun—something that Beatrice Galuppi never was!”

Rather than ask her any more questions, this time about Cavatorta, and risk getting her even more riled, Urbino mentioned Bellorini's frames and soothed her with his admiration for them.

13

FORTIFIED the next afternoon by a substantial lunch and half a liter of wine at the Montin, Urbino went to the Europa e Regina.

He approved of Voyd's choice. The hotel, in two adjacent baroque palazzi across from the Salute, was one of those places in the city probably closest to most people's image of Venice of the Grand Canal. It was where he himself had stayed during his early visits and when he had needed a change from his bare
pensione
room near the train station while the work was being done on the Palazzo Uccello. He approached the hotel's little
campo
through the narrow alley angling off toward the Grand Canal from the main route to the Piazza. The only sounds were the muffled ones of his own footsteps and the water traffic on the Grand Canal.

He had a drink in the bar before going up to Voyd's suite. A reserved Kobke led him through the foyer to the large sitting room where reflected light from the Grand Canal played over the ceiling, walls, and antique furniture. The Salute gleamed tantalizingly beyond the terrace doors as if within touching distance.

Kobke went through a door on the far side of the room without a word. Suddenly Urbino heard a light laugh and looked in its direction.

“Down here, Mr. Macintyre.”

The writer was reclining on a sofa placed to the right of the terrace doors. It was diagonal to Urbino, and Voyd's body seemed misshapen because of the angle. It was as if the man's head, impressive enough when its owner was erect, were gigantic, dwarfing the rest of his body. Beneath it were several cushions which contributed to the peculiar effect.

“I don't blame you for preferring the Salute to this sad sight.” He gestured down at his reclining figure. “Before you make yourself comfortable, why don't you pour us some sherry. Everything's ready there on the sideboard. Then you can take this chair here. Just remove that notebook and all those papers.”

After getting their sherries, Urbino went to the uncomfortable-looking great armchair with a high back. It was covered with a morocco notebook and loose sheets of paper with spidery handwriting. He gathered the sheets and put them on top of the notebook, then looked for a convenient place to lay everything.

“Just put them down on the floor. Christian has been reading to me from Quinton's material. A sad duty but an interesting one. Poor Quinton still had a lot ahead of her to judge by what I've been reading—or rather what I'm having read to me of late. Even holding a book is an effort, you see. It's my back, an old bicycle accident that flares up from time to time. It's made these indolent periods a regular part of my life. I sometimes think I should live like a latter-day pasha on low sofas with hundreds of little embroidered cushions around me.”

A woman's laugh sounded from behind the door Kobke had gone through.

“That's Adele, Quinton's niece. She seems to keep finding scraps of her aunt's writing and insists on bringing them over herself. I'm beginning to think it's less for the sake of security than to see Christian. He's quite a charming fellow.” He paused long enough to give Urbino the opportunity of saying something, then went on. “Let me be honest, Mr. Macintyre. I know why you're here. Oh, I know you're a polite young man and would have come eventually, sometime next week perhaps when you realized I was about to leave before the madness of carnival. But here you are now, still much later than I wished but earlier than you would otherwise have been.”

Voyd raised the sherry to his lips, careful not to spill any on the crisp white front of his shirt. Once again woman's laughter was heard, followed by Kobke's accented voice, the words indistinguishable.

“Don't look so surprised, I'm not psychic. That's one thing I haven't been accused of although—who knows?—it might do my writing some good. It certainly had an effect on Yeats's work. But no, I owe my information to none other than Benedetta Razzi, none other than that extraordinary woman. She might find her way into one of my stories although I'm afraid I might have to tone her down to make her credible. But I believe we had a conversation—a very brief one—about such things that morning about two weeks ago in the Piazza San Marco.” He gave Urbino an amused smile. “Yesterday afternoon—before I threw my back out again on the Accademia Bridge—I visited the good woman. She has a key to a locked room at the Casa Silviano. It seems that keeping a locked room, ostensibly for the use of the owner of the apartment, is some way of circumventing the rent control laws here. One of the clerks downstairs explained it to me. I thought there might be something in the room for me, more manuscripts or whatever, but Signora Razzi assured me it was impossible. One of the conditions of Quinton's rental was that she didn't have the use of the room, didn't even have access to it in an emergency. In the course of my visit with her—with her and her
bambole
, that is—she mentioned that you had been there earlier. I think she wanted to impress me with her full social life.”

“And she mentioned that I asked her some questions about Maria Galuppi. You see, Mr. Voyd, after Maria Galuppi was murdered, her son came to the Palazzo Uccello on two—”

The writer waved his hand.

“Don't underestimate me, my friend. I don't know you very well but I know you well enough. There's no need to either apologize or explain. Your secure little domain, your refuge, your sanctuary—call it what you will—has been quite rudely invaded and you must have things back in order—or at least make a valiant attempt. It's a most natural desire. Like Venice we all need to protect our frail barriers.”

Voyd took another careful sip before going on.

“So when you called this morning I got to thinking. There's not much else I can do in this pathetic state. I remembered our last meeting at San Gabriele after the Patriarch's service. I told you and the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini that Quinton had an interest in Maria Galuppi, that she had written me of it several times, and that I suspected that Quinton's friendship wasn't all that selfless. My poor dead friend, like all us other scribblers, was always on the lookout for material, for inspiration, for a germ that might become a story or—wonder of wonders!—even a novel. It seems I was right about that. Quinton wasn't without an ulterior motive in befriending Maria Galuppi. We writers must often plead guilty to such things, even when it comes to those closest and dearest to us. Just think of all the material that vampire Scott sucked out of poor, tortured Zelda!”

Voyd would probably have shaken his head in bemused admiration if his condition had allowed it.

After a few uncomfortable moments earlier, Urbino was beginning to appreciate the writer's volubility. It was making things easier for him.

“Why do you say you were right in assuming Margaret Quinton had a literary interest in Maria Galuppi?”

Voyd pointed to the sheets and notebook Urbino had removed from the armchair.

“I base it on the best evidence there is: Quinton's Venice notebook. Those other sheets don't pertain. She wrote them in Florence before she came here. Christian and I got through them late last night and started on the notebook. She mentions Maria Galuppi a few times along with other material more interesting to me. I assume there must be more entries about the old woman in the rest of it.”

Urbino looked down at the morocco notebook. He had an urge to pick it up and start reading.

Voyd smiled.

“Nothing would make you happier than stealing away for a few hours with poor Quinton's notebook. Am I right?”

Before Urbino could answer, the door Kobke had gone through earlier opened and a pale, angular young woman came in tentatively, followed by the Dane. She looked different from the person Urbino remembered from Quinton's funeral. Then she had seemed plain with only youth to recommend her. Now she was almost pretty, with a quick smile and inner glow.

“Adele, this is Urbino Macintyre. You might remember him from your aunt's funeral.”

“Of course I do. You were with the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.”

“We were just talking about your aunt, Adele. I was telling him about her Venice notebook, how fascinating it is.”

“You're a much better judge of that than I am, Clifford. That's why Aunt Margaret put you in charge of her literary affairs. She knew I'd never have been able to sort out the wheat from the chaff. I just glance through the things before passing them on to you.”

“But I'm sure you'll read it all eventually, my dear. At least when it's published, as it certainly will be. Her public is interested in just about everything she's done.”

“What is Mr. Macintyre's interest in the Venice notebook?” Kobke asked, looking coolly at Urbino.

“Did I say he had one? I don't believe I did, Christian, but as it turns out, he happens to be most interested.” He turned his head slightly so that he could see Adele Carstairs better. “As I was saying, Adele dear, your aunt's public will clamor. Oh, yes, will they ever clamor!”

“You've impressed that on me on enough occasions, Clifford, which is why I rush over whenever I discover the slightest scrap, even if it's a laundry list.”

“Ah, dear Adele, is that why you've been such a bustler between the Danieli and here!”

She blushed and looked away.

“I really must be going,” she said. “I'm meeting some local ladies for tea at Florian's and some others later for dinner. They're taking me under their wing, I think, because of Aunt Margaret's love for Venice.”

“Would those invitations still be forthcoming if they knew what you've said about Venice?” Voyd asked with a mischievous grin.

“That was a long time ago, Clifford.”

“It was hardly a month ago, as I recall.” He winked at Urbino. “She'll forgive me if I repeat what she said, with the understanding that it goes no further. We wouldn't want to compromise these teas and dinners with local ladies of prominence. Adele—ages ago, as she believes—called this fair city of yours abhorrent, green, and slippery. The phrase is original with D. H. Lawrence, of course, but I assure you her delivery made it very much her own!”