“Of course not.” Urbino wished he had more time so that he could comfort him but he was obliged to continue with his questions. “Is there anything else you remember? Any loud voices from Giorgio’s apartment when you were approaching it?”
“I have told you everything. I swear by God!”
“And the reason you didn’t tell me that you went to Burano by yourself those times was because of the paintings?”
“Yes. I didn’t want my good surprise to be spoiled and I didn’t want to lie to you. You asked me too many questions.”
Perhaps I should have asked even more, Urbino said to himself, or certainly different ones. He sensed that Habib was afraid of what he was going to ask him now, and what he would have to answer.
“Did you meet any of the people we know when you went there?”
“I did not meet anyone. I saw that evil old woman once, on the day before the German lady’s party. She was speaking with the art man, the one who has a twisted body. He frightens me just the way that she did!”
“Marino Polidoro. He is in the hospital. He was attacked in his shop on the night you and Giorgio were moving into Giorgio’s apartment. Was there any time then when the two of you weren’t together?”
“Oh, no, sidi, Giorgio and I were together all the time, except when he went back into the Contessa’s palace and I stayed to guard his things in the boat. You do not think I hurt that man?”
“No.”
“And Giorgio did not hurt him either!”
Urbino found his loyalty to Giorgio both touching and exasperating.
During the past few minutes the odor of backed-up sewers had started to invade the room and overpower the carbolic smell. Habib took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his nose. The scent of the cologne Urbino had packed for him wafted across the table.
“The guards and the prisoners laugh at me when I use my handkerchief. Sometimes the smell is too much worse in my room.”
This was one occasion when Urbino was grateful that the more appropriate word didn’t come easily to Habib’s lips.
“Were Polidoro and the old woman talking in a friendly way?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t want to look. She could have thrown the evil eye on me. Or maybe both of them could have done it! I am sorry to say it, but I am glad that she died. I would have been afraid to go to Burano all those days to do your paintings. It was very hard to go that time when I saw her with the art man, but I did it for you.”
“I know she wasn’t a good woman, Habib, but perhaps you will have a little sympathy for her when I tell you that I am sure she was murdered.”
“Murdered, too? Like Giorgio? Oh, sidi, now I am sure I will never get out of this terrible place. The police will find out that I was afraid of her, and then they will ask me all confusing questions about her, and—”
“Don’t worry about that. But tell me why you were so nervous about staying in the restaurant the day we had lunch there. You said it was because it was dirty, but I think it was something else.”
“I felt something bad about it! I got a cold feeling. The old woman, she was like a witch. Inside her there could have been an evil spirit. They like to live where there is a lot of food and water.” He looked down. “Venice has a lot of water. I can hear it all night long. It keeps me awake.”
Urbino knew that this wasn’t the time to try to persuade Habib from any of his deep-seated superstitions. And, he thought, there had been something bad about Il Piccolo Nettuno, hadn’t there? It was where Nina Crivelli had met her death, and the reason for her death might be directly connected with the place. It was possible that Habib, with some greater sensitivity, had perceived something that day that had been lost on Urbino.
“You saw no one else but Polidoro and the old woman?”
“I saw the young restaurant lady with the smart clothes. She was nice to me. It was one time when Giorgio brought me to Burano in the Contessa’s boat. She was very friendly with Giorgio. One morning they were together at a cafe near the language school. Many people liked Giorgio!”
“But someone did not like him very much. Someone murdered him.”
Habib held his head in his hands.
“Sometimes I get too confused with words. The police ask so many questions, and sometimes they can turn what is green into red. My head turns around.”
“I hope you’re telling them the truth, even if it’s embarrassing.”
He wasn’t emphasizing this for the sake of whoever might be listening, but because he believed it to be an absolute necessity.
“They made me say things about you and me. They asked me about Morocco. About how we met and other things.” He gave Urbino a nervous look. “About my family and my life there. Oh, there are too many things they want to know!”
“Like about your brother who drowned? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Habib looked sad and defeated.
“I was embarrassed.”
“Did you tell Giorgio?”
“Yes,” he said in a low, frightened voice.
Anger and disappointment coursed through Urbino.
“Why did you tell him?” he said in a tone, which he hoped held no reproach.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Believe me! It was easier to tell him. Forgive me.”
“It’s all right, Habib. But I need to know why it was easier.”
Habib’s brows drew together. He was silent for a few moments.
“It wasn’t because I liked Giorgio more than you. I swear to God! But—but he was always speaking about the sad problems of the poor immigrants. Like the Senegalese men who sell the purses and belts in the Piazza. He didn’t scorn them. I do not mean that you scorn them. I know that you have a good heart. You gave money to that woman by the Church of Health.” He sighed. “But—but maybe money cannot help poor Habib. Oh, sidi, it is too difficult to explain!”
He threw Urbino a helpless look.
“Did Giorgio speak to Jerome in the same way?”
“He did! Jerome told me. So you see it wasn’t just me.”
Urbino took this in.
“Please understand. I was afraid that you wouldn’t trust me if you knew about how my brother broke the law. Lotfi and I were brothers, but different brothers. He—he was braver than me.”
“You don’t need to explain anymore. But Signor Torino and I can help you only if you tell us important things like that, especially once you’ve told them to the police. Important things, and also things that you might not think are important,” he added. “For example, did you ever see a lot of photographs altogether, ones of Jerome and other young men?”
Habib’s long, dark lashes flew up in alarm.
“Photographs of Jerome and other boys?” Habib repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“Did you?”
“No. But we have many photographs, Jerome and me. The school and the police need them for our dossiers. You know that.”
“The photographs might have been in a large envelope like the one I found in your studio. The one that was pushed almost all the way under the divan.”
Habib was silent.
“Where did you get that envelope?”
“From Giorgio.”
“When?”
“The day before he—he died.”
“Why did he give it to you?”
“He asked me to tell him what the pages inside say. They are written in German. I am sure you have read them all with no trouble. I could not understand more than the first sentence, even with your big dictionary. I was very bad to deceive poor Giorgio. I said that I know German well. I was too proud.”
“Did he say where he got the envelope?”
“No. And he said for me not to tell anyone, but it doesn’t matter now, and you have already found it and read it. What does it say?”
“It’s just a story.”
Urbino checked his watch. Their time was almost up. He reached out and patted Habib’s hand. It was surprisingly cold.
“You must be strong. We both must. And remember that for every minute you’re in this prison, I am too.”
“Forgive me for saying this, sidi, but you do not look well.”
“Perhaps not, but at least I do not have a bruise like yours.” He reached out and touched the purplish area over Habib’s eye.
“Take care of yourself, sidi. We will be in worse trouble if you become sick again. You should not march over the city the way you do, especially not at night.”
“Speaking of that, did you follow me one night when I was walking near the Church of the Salute?”
“Yes, on that night and on others. You could have fallen into a canal or tripped down the steps of a bridge.” He reached into his pocket. He took out a prayer card of the Black Madonna from the Church of the Salute. “Here. Take it.”
“No, Habib, you—”
“It is your religion, sidi. I want you to keep it until—until later.”
“Thank you.”
Urbino slipped it into his pocket and got up. A moment later the stocky guard opened the door. Beside him was the sallow young man.
“I’ll come to see you again as soon as I can. If there’s anything you want or any problem you have, no matter what it is, let Signor Torino know.”
He paused at the door.
“The mother of your father’s nephew!”
Urbino’s voice resonated in the small, bare room.
Habib gave him a bright smile.
“My aunt!”
Let the police figure that one out, Urbino thought, as the guard conducted him back to the entrance.
9
The first thing Urbino did when he returned to the Palazzo Uccello was phone Torino and tell him about his meeting with Habib. The lawyer knew nothing about the death of Habib’s brother, or the envelope that Habib had got from Giorgio. Urbino described Frieda’s story, and then told him how the German woman had been mugged and had lost an almost identical envelope with photographs of young men, among whom had been Habib’s friend Jerome.
“Has she reported the incident to the police?” Torino asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I would neither encourage nor discourage her to do it. The existence of the photographs could be used against Habib.” He paused. “I get the feeling that the Substitute Prosecutor is looking at this as a crime of passion. Jealousy on Habib’s part, or some kind of rejection by Giorgio. I suspect the Questura knows something along those lines that we don’t. Did Habib tell you anything else that could be of significance? He’s been more forthcoming with you.”
“Nothing he said about Giorgio even suggested that he had any negative feelings. As a matter of fact, he even defended Giorgio when he thought I was criticizing him. And I know Habib well. He wasn’t pretending.”
“I hope you impressed on him that he shouldn’t hold anything back. This business of his brother’s death makes me uneasy. I wonder why Gemelli told you.”
“Trying to undermine my confidence in Habib.”
“Habib isn’t giving much help in that department by concealing information.”
Before ringing off, Urbino told him about Regina Bella’s apparent friendship with Giorgio and her rendezvous with him near the language school on at least one occasion.
Urbino threw on his cape and left the Palazzo Uccello.
Jerome lived somewhere in the Sant’Elena district at the far end of Venice, adjacent to the Giardini Pubblici where the Biennale modern-art show was held. Surely only a few inquiries there would lead him directly to the young man.
Urbino walked briskly through the cold, damp city toward the boat landing by Harry’s Bar. A steady stream of thoughts coursed through his mind, but they brought him no enlightenment. There was still much he didn’t know or, perhaps, was unable to see.
Within a relatively short time he turned into the Frezzeria, deserted of shoppers at this hour. Down one of the little streets on his right was the Colomba restaurant, where he and Habib had enjoyed a memorable meal a month earlier. It seemed like an eternity ago.
He dashed into Harry’s Bar for a glass of wine. He was glad that he knew no one in the smoke-filled room but the bartender. He wasn’t in any mood to socialize, and just stood at the bar for the few minutes it took him to drink the wine down.
He secluded himself in the stern of the vaporetto out of the wind, his cape wrapped around him, and watched the passing scene with almost unseeing eyes. Though it was called the accelerata, the boat moved at a pace that seemed slower than his own steps had been earlier. It eventually stopped at the Biennale exposition grounds.
When he got off the vaporetto in the Sant’Elena quarter, a young man in the Parco delle Rimembranze pointed him in the direction of Jerome’s apartment. It was on the ground floor of a modern block of flats.
Jerome opened the door only after Urbino had knocked several times.
“Monsieur Urbino, it is you,” he said in his French-accented English. He looked over Urbino’s shoulder into the hallway. “You are alone?”
“Yes. May I come in?”
Jerome hesitated, then stood aside and let Urbino in. He closed the door behind them.
It was a small room with only two chairs and a lopsided wooden table. It smelled of mold. A one-burner portable stove stood on the floor surrounded by dirty dishes and cutlery.
“Habib needs your help, Jerome. Do you know what has happened to him?”
“He is in prison,” came out in almost a whisper. His disconcertingly blue eyes were wide in alarm. “The students said it at school.”
“The police think he killed Giorgio, the Contessa’s boatman.”
“I know. It is terrible!”
“How well did you know Giorgio?”
“Only a little! I said this to the police.”
“When did you speak to the police?”
“They came to speak to me! It was yesterday. They were at the school. They brought the students and teachers into a room, one after the other. They asked many questions. But I said nothing bad about Habib. He is very nice.”
“What did you say about Giorgio?”
“He was friendly and bought me coffee. That is all. Je vous jure!”
“Did you ever give Giorgio your photograph?”
“My photograph! What is it that you ask me?”
“You must tell the truth, Jerome.”
“I am telling the truth.”
Urbino stared at him until he looked away and moved to the door.
“Please! You must go. I want no problems. Tell Habib bon courage.”
10
“I’m glad that Habib is holding up,” the Contessa said to Urbino an hour later in her salotto blu after he had told her about his meeting with Habib. “You must do the same. Never more than now do you need tea and sympathy.”
“What I really need is information. What did you learn on Burano?”
“Have something to eat first. You look frightful.”
She poured out another cup of tea.
Urbino took a small sandwich from the plate. He was surprised to find how hungry he was. He took another and ate it quickly, then drank down his tea.
“That’s a good boy. Now it’s your turn to sit back and listen. You can tell me the rest of your adventures later.”
The Contessa had gone to see Carolina Bruni.
“I endured a lot of bad singing. Fortunately, she still had enough of a voice to tell me more about Regina Bella than she told you. There’s been talk about her carrying on with someone’s husband. She’s been caught talking with him alone. Carolina’s friend smelled her perfume on him—or thinks she did. It may be nothing, but what sounds suspicious are those periodic trips to Milan. Shopping, she says, and she comes back with bags from the boutiques on Montenapoleone, but who knows? They could be stuffed with old newspapers.”
“She does have a fashionable wardrobe.”
“Not all that fashionable. She wears one expensive outfit to death every season like most It
alians.” The Contessa took a sip of tea. “I went to see Gabriela Stival again and managed to get around to the topic. She confirmed what Carolina said about the trips to Milan, but she was more doubtful about an affair. Gabriela lives only a few buildings away from Regina and has never seen anything suspicious, and it seems she’s always looking out her window.”
“Did she ever see Giorgio anywhere near her apartment?”
“Giorgio was handsome, but I wouldn’t think he was her type in other ways. It could explain the cap in the kitchen, though. Do you think she killed Giorgio?” she asked after a few moments of musing. “And Nina as well?”
“It can’t be discounted. Don’t forget that she looked after Nina’s heart pills.”
“But what was she doing around the language school? Maybe that’s a stupid question. Venice is a small place. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be there, although,” she added dryly, “her kind of shops are nowhere nearby.”
“The language school is somehow involved in all this business. Gemelli is bound to see it as something else against Habib.”
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it without any varnish. Doesn’t it make you uneasy that Habib concealed his trips to Burano from you, and also his brother’s death?”
“I understand why he did it.”
“Well, you know him better than I do. He doesn’t seem the type to hurt anyone intentionally, but he does have Mediterranean blood, remember, and it may be even stronger on the other shore. He’s frightened. He may be telling you what you want to hear, and then off you run to construct a sand castle. Trust is a beautiful quality. I just don’t want to see yours knocked down.”
“Perhaps you should be more concerned about Habib’s misplaced trust in me. I feel as if I’ve brought all of this down on his head.”
“You’re being absolutely ridiculous! And rather selfindulgent, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.” She stirred uneasily in the chair. “Perhaps, given the present state of affairs, it would be a good idea for all of us, Habib included, if I were to cancel the masquerade ball. It’s only three weeks away. We could have a simple dinner and—”
Deadly to the Sight Page 21