The Veils of Venice (10 page)

The entire effect might have seemed more humorous to someone other than Urbino, who sometimes wore, while at home, pointed
babouche
slippers and a skullcap that he had acquired during his long stay in Morocco.

Urbino offered his condolences for Olimpia's death.

‘We're managing, me and Gaby. Now we are only two. Many people believe that no one dies before his time, but it is difficult to accept. She died too young.' Ercule was about three or four years younger than Olimpia had been. He moved into the
portego
. ‘This way.'

He led Urbino across the draughty room. Its two long walls were flanked with dark wood chairs and covered with classical frescoes and heavy mythological tapestries. The cold seeped up through the worn carpets through the soles of Urbino's shoes. A large Murano chandelier, missing many of its pieces, dominated the room and cast strange, flickering shadows on the walls and the ceiling. Maroon velvet drapes were drawn across four tall French doors opposite the staircase. The doors gave access to a small courtyard below them.

The room had a somber air of happy, prosperous lives once lived in it but now pone forever.

‘Right through here.' Ercule opened a door at the end of the
portego
.

Ercule stepped aside. Urbino entered a large room where a fire crackled in a bronze fireplace. The air held a musty odor mixed with the aroma of sandalwood and sweet, acrid smoke. From the ceiling hung a cylindrical ottoman-style mosque lamp that shed a dusky light over colored tiles, tortoiseshell, and mother-of-pearl.

‘
Hos geldiniz
!' Ercule said. ‘“Welcome” in Turkish!'

Pillow-strewn divans, ottomans, carved Rococo armchairs, antique wooden screens, a tall freestanding candelabra, a backgammon table, and a single-stem nargileh created intimate areas. Turkish rugs were layered on the floor. One wall, in front of which a tall brass incense burner emitted a plume of smoke, was inlaid with worm-eaten dark woodwork. A mandolin, similar to the one in the collection, lay against the cushions of a divan.

In his eclectic outfit, Ercule looked completely suited to the room's furnishings. Together, they seemed to compose the personality of their owner.

‘You've created quite an environment for yourself.'

Ercule's round face beneath the Doge's bonnet glowed like a bright, full moon. ‘I raided the collection years ago. Gaby would never let me near any of the things now, though you never know! I have my eye on a few of them.'

‘If you can't get to Istanbul, this is certainly an excellent second-best.'

‘I'll get there, by hook or by crook, and I won't care what happens to this place, love it though I do.'

By ‘this place,' Urbino was not sure whether Ercule meant the Turkish room or the whole Palazzo Pindar.

‘All I need is money. I'll say goodbye to Venice. I'll sail away in a boat. A boat it must be.' Ercule closed his eyes behind their round, gold-rimmed glasses. He smiled as if he were contemplating a vision of Istanbul's domes and minarets seen from a boat.

‘Dreams are important to have,' Urbino said.

‘Not just important to have.' Ercule's blue eyes opened wide. ‘But also to get rid of! I want the reality. And I'll get it!' He gave Urbino a sharp, assessing look. ‘You might be able to help me. But please sit down.'

After removing his cape and his scarf, Urbino seated himself in an armchair by the fire. Beside him was a divan that was awash with a sea of books, brochures, and catalogues. From what Urbino could see, most of them dealt with Turkey, Istanbul, the Ottoman Empire, and Islamic culture. As Urbino was placing his briefcase down on the floor, his eye was caught by a large book with a worn leather cover. He picked it up. It was one of the volumes of Sir Richard Burton's translation of
The Arabian Nights
.

‘A first edition,' Ercule said. ‘But I have only one other volume. Let me make us some coffee.'

Ercule went to a cupboard and took out a small metal pot with a long handle. He measured coffee into it and poured in water, and then placed the pot over some of the lower flames of the fireplace. Soon the aroma of coffee filled the air.

‘Here we are.' Ercule put a tray down on a small table beside Urbino's armchair. It held two small cups with thick, midnight black coffee.

Urbino took a sip of his coffee. It was delicious. ‘How might I be able to help you?'

‘A silly idea of mine. You're spending time in the museum. You can't help but be with Gaby. Gaby is the museum and the museum
is
Gaby. You might put in a good word for me.'

‘A good word?'

‘About the collection. The house. If we sell them, we'll make enough money to do what we want to do.'

To do what
you
want to do, Urbino thought, but he did not say it. What he did say was, ‘But what would become of Gaby? She hasn't been out of the house for years,'

A far lesser consideration – but one, nonetheless – was the disruption it would mean in the lives of Apollonia, Eufrosina, and Alessandro. But Ercule could point out that they had their own house to return to.

‘It would be good for Gaby!' Ercule said with more enthusiasm than sympathy for his sister's condition. ‘It would be the push she needs.'

This had been Olimpia's opinion, as she had expressed it to him and the contessa. It appeared that Olimpia and Ercule had been of the same mind when it came to Gaby's condition and the best way to remedy it. Had Olimpia also shared her brother's desire that the house and the collection be sold? If she had wanted to sell, it would have aligned her with Ercule against Gaby – and possibly also Apollonia and her children. If she had been against selling, then Ercule would have been farther away from realizing his dream.

‘I'm not so sure about that,' Urbino said. ‘We should encourage her to get treatment. If things go well for her, she might be open to change. Did Olimpia want to sell?'

‘It depended on the day of the week. I could have brought her around to it. Now it's only Gaby – unfortunately.' He gave Urbino an embarrassed look. ‘Olimpia and I tried to get her to agree to sell some pieces, but the collection is like a family, she says. Everything should stay together. Olimpia didn't have any problem with parting with a few things for a good price. She was having financial troubles, but she had seemed less worried about money lately.'

‘So both you and Gaby need to agree on selling anything.'

‘Yes, since each of us owns one-half share of everything.' Ercule scratched the side of his head. ‘If any of us were to predecease the other and had no children, his – or her – share goes to the others, equally. That's how we got Olimpia's share.' A cold, congested expression had been settling on his face. ‘Poor Olimpia! Being murdered like that. And by Mina, of all people! I thought she was so gentle.' He touched the Doge's hat. ‘Olimpia made this for me.'

Ercule stood up. He placed his empty cup on the tray next to Urbino's. ‘Do you think you could help?'

‘I doubt if I have much influence with Gaby. And as I said, the best approach is to persuade her to get treatment. Then, with time, she may be able to see things differently. You'd have a healthier sister
and
your dream.'

Ercule turned his face away but not before Urbino saw the annoyed look.

‘I have two things to take us away from upsetting topics,' Ercule said with forced cheerfulness. He went over to the cupboard and reached behind a pile of books. ‘The first is this.' He lifted up a bottle. ‘
Raki
. The best grade. It's Turkish.'

He went through a small door partly concealed by one of the screens and returned a few minutes later with two glasses with ice in them. He poured generous portions of the
raki
in the glasses.

The
raki
, which Urbino was drinking for the first time, was not to his liking, any more than
grappa
or ouzo was. Ercule downed his and poured himself more.

‘The second thing is this. Let me find it.' Ercule fished around in the pile of books before finding the one he was looking for. ‘It's Pierre Loti's
Aziyadé
. An English translation.'

Loti's book, which Urbino had read years ago, was a nineteenth-century French novel about Ottoman Istanbul. It told the story of a romance between a Frenchman and a beautiful woman from the sultan's harem.

‘Listen to this,' Ercule said.

He reseated himself on the divan, and started to read long passages. He skipped around in the book, but whatever he read was about love and assignations, and rich with exotic descriptions of the old city.

After fifteen minutes, Ercule's voice started to fade away. His head, in its ridiculous but affecting ducal hat, drooped toward his chest. He looked vulnerable as he sat on the sofa, the Loti book ready to drop from his hands, his breathing slow and steady.

Urbino got up quietly, collected his briefcase, cape, and scarf, and left Ercule to whatever dreams he was having.

Late that afternoon, after returning to the Palazzo Uccello for lunch and a nap, Urbino went to a small pastry shop on the Via Garibaldi in the Castello area. The front window was filled with a tantalizing display of
baicoli, zaleti, bussolai, pignoleti
, and other traditional Venetian sweets. The aroma in the shop was delicious.

The shop was owned by an elderly couple. Urbino was a regular customer. The reason he had come this afternoon, however, was not to get his usual selection of pastries – although this was what Nicoletta started to tend to after they had exchanged greetings – but to ask her and her husband Marco about Mina.

The couple owned the building and lived above the shop. The apartment above theirs had been rented out to the cousin Mina had come to live with when she had left Palermo, where she had gone through a rebellious phase in her early teenage years.

Nicoletta and Marco, who were childless, were fond of Mina and had helped her in many small ways. In fact, it had been through them that the contessa had connected with Mina when she had accompanied Urbino to the shop. Mina had been behind the counter, helping the couple.

It was to be expected that the conversation this afternoon would turn to Mina.

‘Something is wrong with our system when a good girl like that is accused of murder!' Nicoletta said, shaking her head slowly as she placed
zaleti
biscuits in a small carton. ‘Mina wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘It must be a mistake,' Marco said. ‘We've read what was in the paper and we hear what people are saying, but we don't believe it.'

‘Neither do the contessa or I. Mina has a very good lawyer.'

‘And she has you,' Nicoletta said. She started to arrange
baicoli
in another carton.

‘Yes … Well, I was wondering if Mina ever stopped by here with anyone in the time she has been working for the contessa. I know she visits you often.'

‘At least once a week,' Marco said. ‘She doesn't forget us. But no, she comes alone. She never even came with her friend, the one who was murdered.'

‘She came once with the contessa,' his wife corrected. ‘As for her friend the dressmaker, Mina always had good things to say about her. She would never have done anything to hurt her.'

‘Has she seemed troubled in any way recently?'

‘Always as bright as sunshine. She grew out of whatever emotional problems she was having in Sicily. We never saw her depressed. These days, though, being on the Giudecca, I suppose it would be only normal for her to be depressed, wouldn't it? It's a good thing her cousin Anna isn't alive to see what the poor girl is going through. She gave Mina the love she needed. All she needs is someone to care about her.'

Seven

That evening, the contessa retired to her boudoir early, after having tried to calm herself with a game of patience, which, unfortunately, had belied its name. The pastels burning in the blue Fes urn scented the boudoir with roses. Surrounded by her well-worn books, her small Longhi paintings, and other objects dear to her heart, and with Zouzou pressed against her side on the pink brocade sofa, she sipped her chocolate as she read the memoirs of Lorenzo da Ponte, Mozart's librettist. A box of marrons glacés were within easy reach.

She had prepared the chocolate herself. This was usually something that Mina had done. The contessa did not need Mina to do it for her or to do much else. She was a self-sufficient woman, although the largeness of her staff might have indicated otherwise. But the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini needed tending after in ways that were far beyond her, even if the building had been a third or a fourth of its size.

No, she did not need Mina for all the little ministrations the young woman performed. The contessa felt this more this evening than she ever had, because what she was feeling was how much she missed Mina's company. For Mina was her companion, and now the poor girl was locked away and the contessa could not even pay her a visit.

The contessa ran her hands through Zouzou's silky fur and tugged affectionately at her long ears. The cocker spaniel gave the contessa a look from her dark brown eyes that the contessa interpreted as nothing short of the depths of devotion.

The contessa had spent the whole day at home, not even taking Zouzou out for her evening walk as she usually did, but assigning the task to one of the housemaids.

A little earlier, she had stepped out on the balcony to get some air and take in the view of the Grand Canal, washed by the white light of a frosty moon. A few dimly lit boats, with wakes like strings of pearls, gently broke the silence. Reluctantly, she had abandoned the scene and gone back into her boudoir, where a strong blaze burned in the fireplace.

She was now doing her best to absorb herself in da Ponte's account of a gambling episode at the Ridotto during carnival. But she kept feeling Mina's absence, even though the girl would have been in her own room at this time.