He stopped beneath the church campanile in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. Although he wanted to do what had to be done as quickly as possible, he nonetheless lingered for a few minutes to look at the monstrous leering head at the base of the bell tower, one of many that could be found throughout the city. As he gazed at its flat nose, grossly misshapen mouth, and protruding teeth, he didn’t see it so much as Ruskin had—as an emblem of the evil spirit to which Venice was abandoned in the late Renaissance—but as a horribly exaggerated version of Carlo Galuppi.
This must be the way the poor man had looked to the children who had followed him down the alleys and across the squares, taunting and laughing and at times throwing things. Unless the man could be cleared of his mother’s murder, this image of him as an ugly soulless monster would be remembered as yet one more grotesque in the already teeming Venetian menagerie of strange beasts.
Urbino vowed to do all he could to prevent this from happening. There was someone who, although not physically deformed, was a monster of a different kind, someone who had murdered Beatrice Galuppi, her mother, and Voyd, and had contributed to Carlo’s suicide. Of this he no longer had any doubt. This person might even have played a role in the suicide of Margaret Quinton and might not yet be finished if threatened again with the possibility of exposure after many years of careful concealment.
As he walked across the Campo Santa Maria Formosa, Urbino hoped he would be able to rip the benign mask from this person’s face and reveal the monster beneath.
7
“IN my opinion it’s a dying art,” Don Marcantonio said, “just like the priesthood.”
He looked at Urbino over the tops of his round, thick glasses to see if his little joke had been appreciated. They were in his austere parlor, where they had discussed Beatrice Galuppi a week ago. Perhaps not finding the appreciation he had hoped for in his visitor, Don Marcantonio looked behind Urbino at the lithograph of Saint Lawrence being grilled over the coals. It was a copy of the painting at the Gesuiti. Urbino’s own gaze wavered between the old priest’s face and the mallard hen and drake next to the candelabra on the darkwood sideboard.
“Young people aren’t attracted to either calling anymore,” Don Marcantonio added.
“I’m not speaking of the young people today but of thirty years ago,” Urbino explained.
The priest shrugged his shoulders.
“When you are as old as I am, you make little distinction between the youth of today and three decades ago. The same applied then. I don’t remember anyone from San Gabriele who studied glassmaking. I would have made it a point to know. We might have replaced a few glass items here and there. Sister Veronica hasn’t been much use to us in that respect.”
“I’ve seen Luigi Cavatorta about Beatrice Galuppi’s paintings.”
“Now there you have the opposite side of the coin to no vocations at all. Cavatorta should never have become a priest to begin with. His mother, God rest her soul, is to blame for that. She would get a privileged place in heaven having a son who was a priest. That’s what she thought, don’t think many of these mothers don’t! Now look what’s happened to him. Una vergogna! That’s one mother who should have been more like some of the parents around here who can’t decide if it’s worse to have a son who’s a priest, a glassblower, or a common laborer.”
He shook his head and sighed, getting up slowly. It was obvious he considered their conversation over. There wasn’t going to be any brandy or tea offered on this occasion.
“I’ve meant to ask you about your lovely ducks before,” Urbino said as they were leaving the parlor. “Where did you have them done?”
“I did them myself a long, long time ago when I had the strength for such things and for traipsing around the lagoon at daybreak.”
He stared at Urbino but said nothing more although his eyes flicked in the direction of the sideboard. Perhaps he was aware of just how disquieting it might be for others that a man of the cloth could not only kill animals but also go to not a little trouble to preserve them as trophies. In fact, Urbino wasn’t quite sure which of the two acts was more disturbing and—he had to admit—more intriguing.
When Urbino mentioned Sister Veronica as he was about to go through the outer door that Sister Giuseppina held open, Don Marcantonio frowned but there was an element of satisfaction in his voice when he said,
“She’s certainly not at Santa Crispina. Our sisters seem to be everywhere but where they should be these days.” He looked down at the diminutive Sister Giuseppina. “Murano, isn’t it, Sister? The Class Museum with her little group?”
Sister Giuseppina said nothing but she gave Don Marcantonio a look of disapproval that had the priest backing away from the door and almost forgetting to say good-bye to Urbino.
8
BENEDETTA Razzi’s building was conveniently near the boat station for Murano. The woman, dressed in a faded, floral-print robe frayed along the hem, was holding her Tyrolean doll when she answered his ring.
“I wondered when you would be back, young man,” she said as she looked up at him flirtatiously through the bristles of her false eyelashes. “Come in, come in.”
She shuffled ahead in her worn slippers and eased herself into the love seat crowded with dolls.
“Does death or suicide bring you here this time?”
“Signorina Quinton.”
“You lost interest in Beatrice and the Galuppi family?”
“Not at all. What I have to ask might have some bearing on the deaths of all the Galuppis.”
“My! It must be a very difficult question then—or a difficult answer.” She looked down at the doll cradled in her arm and said into its face, “Can we manage it, amore mio? You see,” she said, turning back to Urbino, “last night was as bad as the others. My sweethearts and I spent most of the night with open eyes. So if it’s a complicated question you have, we might not be up to it.” She set the doll down on her lap.
“I don’t mean to be inquisitive, Signora Razzi, and I certainly don’t want you to think I’m meddling in your business affairs, but I’ve learned that there was a locked room at the Casa Silviano.”
“Still is one, and always will be,” she said a bit defiantly. “That American writer told you.”
“Yes, Signor Voyd.”
She gave no indication that she had heard of Voyd’s murder. If she knew and was pretending not to, he would let her continue with her little game. And if she didn’t know, it might be best not to explain that yet another death was associated with the Galuppis and Margaret Quinton.
“What business is it of yours, this room? That was an agreement between the American signorina and me.”
Urbino hoped he looked properly chastened.
“Of course it’s none of my affair, Signora Razzi, but it’s important to know if Signorina Quinton left anything behind in the room.” He paused before adding: “Papers, letters, things of that nature.”
“She never went in the room! It was locked and it’s locked now. Whatever she left behind her niece already has. Why are so many people interested in that dead woman’s writing anyway? Was she Dante? D’Annunzio?” A blank look came over her face as she failed to think of a third writer or perhaps one whose name began with the same letter. She stood up, catching the doll before it tumbled to the floor. “It’s not right of you to ask me all these questions when you didn’t even bring a little something for my darlings this time. The first time I excused you but I was sure you would know better when you came back. I would have put it with their other things.” She nodded in the direction of a small tiered table covered with all kinds of tiny trinkets, most of them miniature versions of real objects—little cups and saucers, a menagerie of glass animals, tiny porcelain masks that would fit over a doll’s face, miniature books, and even a delicate candelabra with candles no bigger than pencil leads.
“It’s quite a collection. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He started to make movements to leave but not without feeli
ng that there was still something of importance she might tell him.
“Next time I’ll bring you something special.”
“Not for me, remember, but for my sweethearts,” she said as she led him to the door, the Tyrolean doll clutched in one hand.
9
THE weather had changed again and the lagoon was wreathed with fog that drifted over the water. Where everything had been golden and sunny only an hour ago, now the dominant color was pearly gray and the wake of the boat opalescent. It wasn’t so foggy, however, that they needed someone to watch from the bow and once or twice Urbino was able to glimpse the dim outlines of another craft not far away. Never did the other craft turn out to be a black and gold funeral gondola making its way back from San Michele, but somehow this was what he kept expecting to see, even down to the drooping red chrysanthemums that would be on its bow.
The fog lifted suddenly, but briefly, and the island of glass came into view beyond the stretch of water that now showed as flat and silvery as a mirror. Murano neither smoked nor smoldered as Quinton had said it did in her imagination but for a few moments seemed to beckon him onward. It was soon lost again in a swirl of fog, however, and he was left feeling teased and even mocked.
It took him some time to find Sister Veronica and her group at the Glass Museum. He went up the main staircase to the suite of exhibition rooms, where he passed the showcases displaying the best and the worst of Venetian glass, most of it looking dusty. His own preference was for the crystal-clear items that Murano had prided itself on until seventeenth-century excess took over—cups, dishes, vases, goblets, chalices, ampules, all in simple, delicate designs. As for many of the other things—glass horses and mice, a menagerie of vases, drinking glasses with snake-entwined stems, liqueur bottles fashioned to look like pistols, ceremonial glass trumpets, pagoda-shaped, dolphin-encrusted chandeliers—at least they were better than the even more vulgar objects outside in the shops.
Sister Veronica was in the room with the masterpieces from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. She stood with several elderly women and a middle-aged man in front of the glass bell that covered the Barovier Wedding Cup that Beatrice Galuppi had copied scenes from. It was a delicate goblet about nine inches tall with a smooth blue surface decorated with several enameled scenes and portraits: of the bride and groom, a bridal procession on horseback, and a fountain in which several naked young women bathed.
Once again, as he had last week in the Church of San Gabriele, Urbino listened to what Sister Veronica was saying.
“Without question this is the most exquisite piece in the Class Museum. It was blown and decorated in the second half of the fifteenth century by Angelo Barovier of the distinguished glass-making family. Although it is said to be patterned after a Chinese original brought back to Venice in a caravan, I prefer to think it was the original creation of the Barovier maestro himself. Notice its lovely violet-blue color and how perfect, how dramatic its form is. As you can see, depicted around its rim are the aristocratic nuptial couple, the wedding procession, and an allegory of youth. Although the couple for whom it was made are now only dust, it is still here to remind us of their marriage and to show us what heights earthly beauty can reach even in something as lowly and humble as a cup.
“If you would like to make a similar gift yourself, you will find copies in many of the shops here on Murano.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “But I assure you I get absolutely no commission if you decide to buy anything later. Before we leave you might want to look at the fragment of a glazed drinking glass from the fifteenth century found in the ruins of the Campanile of San Marco after it fell down in 1902 ‘like a gentleman,’ as it was said, without hurting anyone at all.”
When she finished, she smiled at Urbino and came over to him.
“Good morning, Signor Macintyre. Are you here to reacquaint yourself with Venetian glass? Tintoretto is my specialty but you are welcome to join us for the rest of our tour here. You might even give us the benefit of your own knowledge. I’m afraid there are terrible gaps in what I know about glass and glassmaking despite my family background.”
“Actually I came to ask you another question or two. As it turns out, it’s about the Wedding Cup.”
“But I’m afraid you’ve just heard almost everything I know about it. If it’s more detailed information you want, I have a book back at Santa Crispina that you’re welcome to look at.”
“The information I want is about Beatrice Galuppi’s copy of the Wedding Cup. You said it was well done but that she had made changes, had tried to show her originality.”
“You’re the one who mentioned originality, Signor Macintyre.” She turned her head to look at her little group, who were gathered in front of the case against the far wall. “It wasn’t a complete copy but only of some of the details: the bride and groom and the scene of the fountain of youth.” She looked down at the cup beneath its glass bell. “It’s been a long time but yes, I remember that it was well done.”
“And the changes?”
“She gave in to some youthful self-indulgence. It was a matter of vanity, not originality. Beatrice Galuppi was blessed with beauty but that didn’t mean she had to paint her own face instead of the bride’s plain one. Always staring into a mirror, she probably was.”
“And the groom?”
She laughed but it was a nervous laugh.
“Your guess is right. You would think a vain girl like that would have kept him just as he was. He’s very handsome, very aristocratic.” They looked down at the Wedding Cup. The imposing profile of the young nobleman with his long brown hair and cap indisputably supported her point. “But she would have her fun.”
“What do you mean?”
“The groom’s features were somewhat more coarse, the nose less aquiline, maybe even the colors were less true, with redder tones, I’m not really sure. I don’t think she took as much care with him. There was something vaguely familiar about his face but I can’t say that I recognized it. Maybe I felt that way because it reminded me of those Renaissance profiles of Pico della Mirandola, Lorenzo dei Medici, and Savonarola. But the portrait on the original itself reminds me of them, too. It’s in the same style, he even has a cap like the ones you see in those portraits.”
“What did Maria say when you told her about the changes?”
Sister Veronica averted her eyes.
“I didn’t tell her. I told her the painting was as lovely as the original here. It wasn’t really a lie, you see. She only wanted to have her daughter praised. She said that Beatrice was very protective about this particular painting, that she never even wanted her to look at it. Beatrice had once given it or lent it to someone who hadn’t taken good care of it. She was in tears when she got it back and she just hid it away. How could I not praise the work? I gave Maria what she wanted, what she needed.”
Urbino was tempted to tell her that she had been wrong, that Maria had wanted nothing more nor less than the truth. She had been searching for it for twenty years.
As if she wanted to make up for what she hadn’t told Maria twenty years ago, Sister Veronica now said quickly, “But of course nothing could come close to the original, even if Beatrice hadn’t indulged herself. It’s not just the scenes themselves that make the cup what it is but the shape, the texture, the workmanship. She could never have captured that, no matter how good she was. Have you seen any of her work yourself?”
Urbino shook his head. It might be helpful to try to locate what hadn’t been stolen. Had the pieces been in Maria’s apartment when she was murdered? And where might they be now?
“Then you have no idea what a talented copyist she was. I know Signor Cavatorta doesn’t agree with me, but she had a skilled hand, a fine eye—and she would have been even better, much better, if the Lord hadn’t had other plans for her.” She seemed eager to repair whatever poor impression she might have given of Beatrice but then she added, “The talented as well as the good can die young.”
“What abo
ut her copy of the Tintoretto at the Madonna del’ Orto?”
“I didn’t care very much for it, although I suppose it was good in its way, but I’m inclined to be more demanding when it comes to the divine Tintoretto.”
“And the capriccio?”
“She approached it too much as a game—juxtaposing scenes from the Cannaregio, the Rialto, and Murano the way she did. There was very little Piranesi in it.”
Urbino thanked her and apologized for having taken her away from her group. Before he left, he walked slowly around the glass bell. As Sister Veronica had said, the Wedding Cup was exquisite. The enameled love scenes and portraits of the bride and groom brought to mind Keats’s words—“unravished bride of quietness.”
Keats of course had been referring to the Grecian urn itself as a bride but here on the Wedding Cup was an actual bride—and she did, in fact, look properly unravished.
The quietness was something else, however.
There were things about the Wedding Cup that came close to screaming but as he turned to leave, he realized that however loud the scream sounded to him, it meant nothing unless it also rang true. And to be sure of that he needed to know still more.
10
“ARSENIC?” Bartolomeo Pignatti whispered the word even though no one else was in the showroom but the two of them. He had his lunch—a simple one of bread, cheese, roasted peppers, and red wine—spread out on one of the display cases. All around them were glass shelves and mirrors reflecting the vases, ashtrays, animals, figurines, glass pencils, lamps, and other wares of the Pignatti glassworks. There was still perspiration on the glassmaker’s forehead from his hours in front of the furnace. He took out his handkerchief from his back pocket. “Why do you ask about arsenic, Signor Macintyre?”
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