The Veils of Venice

by Edward Sklepowich

  Walther continued to regard her closely, his hands clasped.

  ‘Since I am interested in the theater and enjoyed your Gozzi production a few seasons ago,’ the contessa continued, ‘I thought I would inquire as to whether I could be of help.’

  She paused to take a breath.

  Walther leaned forward and asked, ‘You are an actress, contessa?’

  ‘Oh, no, you misunderstand me.’

  ‘Because you strike me as a woman who might make a very good one.’

  The contessa, who was somehow able to feel flattered amidst all her other emotions, bestowed a little smile on the director. ‘Thank you, Signor Walther. That is a considerable compliment coming from you. But no, I’m not an actress.’

  ‘A costume designer, then?’

  ‘Not a costume designer either, but it is about a dressmaker, a costume designer that I have come.’ The contessa started to speak more quickly than she usually did so that there might be no more misunderstandings. ‘It’s unfortunate that your company has been deprived of its designer under such circumstances. I would not want to see your schedule disrupted. I can recommend two excellent ones in Venice. Unless you already have someone in mind, someone you were considering along with my cousin? Perhaps my cousin, so unfortunate in her tragic death, was fortunate in having been given preference over another designer?’

  Since this was what the contessa mainly wanted to know, she felt as if her question drew a great deal of attention to itself. But if it did so, Walther gave no indication.

  ‘She was fortunate in having no competition. But we have had to move quickly, and have found a possible replacement, if we can convince him to take on the project. He lives in Milan.’

  ‘I hope everything will go on as scheduled.’

  The contessa settled back against the chair in the cabin as Pasquale brought the motorboat out into the Grand Canal. She was looking forward to being back at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, where she could be off-stage.

  The day had turned slightly warmer, and the gray sky had given way to a sky daubed with streaks of bright blue. The palazzi, which still had the power to impress her with their beauty and improbable setting, unrolled themselves on both sides of the watery avenue. After a few minutes, they set her mind briefly wondering about the romance and intrigue, beauty and violence that had been enacted behind their colorful façades, maybe not too much different in kind, if not degree, from what had taken place in the Palazzo Pindar in its more humble setting. Despite having passed from one owner to another over the centuries, most of the palaces carried either the name of their original owner or, like her own building and the Palazzo Pindar, that of some subsequent illustrious one who had made a particular mark on the city.

  As the boat approached the water entrance of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, she drank in the sight of the palazzo almost as if she were seeing it for the first time, a morning that was still fresh in her memory so many decades later. She could still hear the conte’s soft voice, saying in his accented English, ‘Cominelli designed it. Stone from Istria. Can you see the frieze of lions on the attic, Barbara dear?’

  How proud Alvise had been of the building, almost as grand as the Palazzo Labia further up the Grand Canal, another of Cominelli’s designs. How Alvise had hoped – how they had both hoped, sadly and vainly – that they would be able to pass it on to a son or a daughter.

  The contessa, so preoccupied with thoughts about Olimpia’s will and the two remaining owners of the Palazzo Pindar, worried about the future fate of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini. Her will, made after the conte’s death, bequeathed the building to the conte’s youngest nephew, but he was a man older than she was, as Bianchi had reminded her. She should remake the will and name one of the conte’s younger relatives to inherit in the eventuality that his nephew died and that she was, for whatever reason, unable to change the will. Life could be sadly unpredictable.

  As the contessa, feeling weary after her efforts of the morning, was approaching the staircase that would take her up to the piano nobile, her steps were diverted by sounds from the room where the Fortuny exhibition was being set up. Two members of her staff – young men who did gardening and minor repairs – were disassembling the glass case with the Eleonora Duse gown. Vitale was supervising them, his arms folded.

  Eufrosina was standing beside the display of scarves and purses. The glass case that had enclosed them had been taken apart and placed against a wall. Olimpia’s moss green silk velvet purse, one of the contessa’s Knossos scarves, and a pleated black purse lent by the conte’s grandniece, which had been slightly rearranged on the cubes and rods, were among the items. Eufrosina was taking one photograph after another. A tripod stood against a wall.

  Vitale joined the contessa. ‘She came shortly after you left, contessa,’ he informed her in a low voice. ‘She said that she needed to take photographs of some of the clothing but that she couldn’t take them while they were still in the cases. I’ve been here most of the time.’

  ‘It’s all right, Vitale.’

  Eufrosina stood up. She was dressed in a suit of striped mauve wool, stylish but worn and soiled on one knee. Black cotton gloves covered her hands.

  ‘Good morning, Barbara, or is it good afternoon?’ Her voice was constrained. ‘I’ve lost my sense of time. I wanted to take some photographs today. I hope I have not disturbed things by removing the glass cases but – but I don’t want to risk any reflections. I want to do my best and show them to you right away so that you will see how good they can be.’

  She averted her gaze from the contessa.

  This particular display was not one of those that the contessa and Urbino had decided should be photographed for the catalogue. The contessa had given Eufrosina a detailed list of the items that needed to be photographed. The woman must be confused. But the contessa saw no point in drawing her attention to her error. Eufrosina was obviously distracted and anxious about the commission. The contessa did not want to disturb her further and make it even more difficult for her to concentrate on her work.

  ‘I’m sure they will be very good,’ the contessa assured her. When the contessa reached out and touched her arm, it was trembling. How could the contessa ever remove her from the project? It would shatter the poor woman. The contessa silently berated herself, yet again, for having decided to have her do the photography. Why hadn’t she listened to Urbino!

  The contessa’s words did not appear to calm Eufrosina, if indeed she had heard them or even felt the contessa’s consoling touch. Her eyes darted around the room as she continued to explain to the contessa how she was determined to do a good job. She wouldn’t come back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini for a few weeks, but she would devote her energies to the Fortuny Museum. Although she spoke loudly, her voice seemed to come from a long way off. When she started to speak even more quickly, the contessa could not follow what she was saying. It flowed and surged with references to lenses and polarizing filters and reflections and incandescent lamps and exposures and flaws and flashes. The contessa continued to listen without understanding anything except that Eufrosina was feeling the effects of severe stress and that whatever photographs she was taking today could hardly be better than the mediocre ones the contessa and Urbino had already seen.

  When Eufrosina finished, the contessa asked if she would like to have lunch.

  ‘No, I must go, but thank you.’ She hurried over to her tripod and started to fold it.

  ‘I visited your mother this morning.’

  ‘You did?’ Eufrosina seemed surprised.

  ‘Yes. I don’t think she is well at all. She said that Dr Santo had been there recently. But it would be a good idea to encourage her to have him come again as soon as possible. How is your bronchitis?’

  ‘Much better, thank you.’

  Eufrosina was drawing on her coat.

  ‘Pasquale will take you wherever you want to go.’

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need for that.’ But a few moments later, afte
r the two workers had helped her collect her things, Eufrosina changed her mind and said she would appreciate Pasquale’s services. All of the nervous energy had drained from her. Her face was slack. The contessa stood at the open door of the water landing, watching as Pasquale backed the motorboat into the Grand Canal to take Eufrosina across to Santa Croce.

  A few minutes later, the contessa returned to the exhibition room. She told the workers that they need not put the glass case back around the display of purses and scarves. She would have them do it another day.

  That evening the contessa and Urbino went to a small restaurant near the Piazza San Marco for dinner. She wanted to get out of the house even though she had been gone all morning.

  Being at home in the evening reminded her of how Mina was lying in some cell in God knew what a state. Corrado Scarpa had still not been able to get her permission to see Mina. She had spoken with Mina’s attorney, Giorgio Lanzani, who was able to convey messages back and forth. Mina had told him to assure the contessa that she was fine and that she hoped they would see each other soon.

  Shortly after they sat down, the contessa started to provide an account of her day’s performances, which continued through dinner.

  Having ordered only a salad, she had little to distract her from rendering each scene in detail. Urbino was able to give her his full attention despite his indulgence in a three-course meal that included roasted eel cooked according to an old Venetian recipe. He listened to what she said and how she said it, and scrutinized her face for any additional revelations.

  When it came to dessert, the contessa could not resist the ricotta cake, which necessitated a postponement of the rest of her account until she had finished it.

  Tonight, as always, Urbino was an excellent listener, and he kept his interruptions to a minimum, usually to have her repeat something he did not quite catch the first time around or to give him more details and impressions.

  It was only after they had re-settled themselves in the bar and started sharing a bottle of Montepulciano that they examined the fruits of the contessa’s efforts more closely.

  ‘An excellent job, my very dear Nora,’ Urbino said.

  The contessa felt herself glowing under his praise. ‘And also your very dear Sarah Bernhardt?’

  ‘That, too.’ Urbino twirled the wine glass in his hand. ‘Do you think Mina knew about the will?’ As she expected, he seized on what was surely the most relevant thing she had learned. ‘If she did, it could change a great deal. No, not about how we feel about her innocence, but she might have said something about it to someone if she did know. Maybe Gaby. After all, Gaby confided in her about her fears.’

  ‘I have no idea if she knew.’

  ‘She might have felt uncomfortable telling you. She kept most of her relationship with Olimpia to herself.’

  ‘And I never pried. ’This was not because the contessa had not burned with curiosity, but because she was a keen respecter of others’ privacy. But the problem with privacy in a murder investigation, as Urbino had pointed out to her on numerous occasions, was that it could not be respected – and should not be. The private life, the hidden life, was often what had led to the violence. One could only hope that, after a case was solved and the guilty person had been exposed, the uncovered secrets that had had nothing to do with the case could be re-interred.

  ‘It makes it worse for Mina,’ Urbino observed. ‘I hardly need to tell you that. You can imagine the scenario that the police will have already created. Each piece probably seems to fit perfectly. Moneyless girl from Sicily in the service of an aloof, wealthy woman.’

  This was not all that far from the scenario the contessa had tortured herself with in Walther’s office but she took umbrage with some of Urbino’s description. ‘Mina is paid very well, and I’m not aloof! I do not fare la contessa with her, you know that. I put little distance between us.’

  ‘Don’t defend yourself by saying that to anyone, Barbara! People are going to try to pull you into the picture. Don’t give them any more encouragement than they already have.’

  ‘I already am in the picture. La contessa inglese,’ she murmured.

  ‘Precisely. As you said over dinner, la contessa inglese seems to have already been assigned her role in a deadly triangle. And there could be more than a few tongues wagging – in the heads of people who don’t know you and never even heard of you until now – that you could have murdered Olimpia. Oh, you can be sure they’ll be able to work out a very plausible motivation for that.’

  Urbino held up his hand as she started to protest. ‘But let me continue with the other pieces in the scenario. I’ll revise them slightly. A poor young Sicilian woman. A generous, warm, and wealthy mistress of the house – you see, it does not look too much better. Then there is the lonely, unmarried dressmaker, rattling around in an old palazzo with a bunch of other eccentrics. Dressmaker gets smitten, gets manipulated, gets murdered. It’s all so damnably neat.’

  The contessa’s heart sank. ‘I’m afraid it is. And I had to get the ocelot coat. I hope that doesn’t get around. It could look like a pay-off for having been the go-between, the – what is the name I am thinking of?’

  ‘The Pandarus.’

  ‘Yes, the Pandarus! But why did she leave it to me?’

  ‘It might have been her way of thanking you for being responsible for bringing – quite innocently – Mina to her notice. Olimpia never would have met her if it had not been for you. Or she might have left it to you because you are family. And you appreciate beautiful things. You have a respect for tradition, continuity. Leave it to Gaby? A kind sisterly act, certainly. But where would the poor woman wear it?’

  ‘In the house as she’s doing now! It’s cold enough in there for it. I will give it to her. Or, rather, let her keep it.’

  ‘She must be upset that Olimpia didn’t will her anything. Her share in the house and the collection she expected, of course. It appears to be what the three of them agreed to, even maybe what they promised their father if the topic ever came up while he was still alive.’

  ‘I wonder if she took the coat before or after the reading of the will. And it makes one wonder if she took any of Olimpia’s other things, from her rooms and from the atelier.’

  ‘Yes, it does make one wonder.’ Lines of concentration deepened along his brows and under his eyes. After a few moments he said, ‘Olimpia could have been murdered because of something she had or was thought to have had. Someone else wanted it, needed it. I don’t mean money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am just speculating, Barbara. I have no idea what it might have been, but it would have had to have great value of some kind. Gaby and Ercule get her share of the house and the collection, but they are not getting her personal possessions or perhaps not the contents of the atelier, although Bianchi did not mention that. Mina gets all that, but if she is convicted, whatever Olimpia bequeathed her will go to Gaby, wouldn’t it? She’s the next oldest sibling.’

  The contessa nodded.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Urbino added, after taking a sip of wine, ‘it would be to Gaby’s advantage to keep Mina looking as guilty as possible. She would get Olimpia’s possessions. And we’ve seen how eager she was to take over the ocelot coat. She would clearly benefit from Mina’s conviction, even if she had nothing to do with Olimpia’s murder.’

  The contessa could not believe that Urbino – or, to be honest, she as well – had reached the point where they had to consider such things about Gaby or anyone else in the Palazzo Pindar. But she knew that they had set out on a course that they could not turn aside from, no matter where it led.

  The contessa, who had thought that she had uncovered some interesting facts and possibilities, was realizing that things were much more complicated and even more disturbing than they had originally seemed to be.

  The wine was giving her a pleasant feeling, but it was making her sleepy. She had already had three glasses over dinner. She was not sure sh
e would be able to follow Urbino through many more of his ruminations.

  ‘As always,’ Urbino said, ‘the problem is figuring out what the facts mean. Like your ocelot coat. Why did Olimpia leave it to you? And what about this business of the door of the Palazzo Pindar not being locked during the daytime? That house, that museum are Gaby’s and Ercule’s patrimony as they were Olimpia’s along with them. They should want to protect what they have from any damage, any theft, as Apollonia says. The loss of some of the objects would be Gaby’s main concern, but there is also money involved. Some of those things could be sold for a pretty penny. If the house and the museum had a good security system and anything were to be stolen, they might not be able to recover the objects but they would recover some money. Even if they have insurance now, they wouldn’t get a cent if anything were taken.’

  The contessa did her best to try to follow each question and each point some distance toward a possible answer and clarification, but it was proving to be a very short distance.

  ‘Do you have any answers, caro?’ The contessa took another sip of wine.

  ‘Ideas and questions, not answers. The ideas and questions are relatively easy. One seems to generate another. It’s the answers that are difficult.’

  The waiter came over and poured more wine for them.

  ‘Let’s see if Apollonia can help influence Ercule and Gaby to put in a security system. She’s the matriarch, in a manner of speaking, and the Pindars have great respect for tradition and the past, even if it’s taken some unhealthy forms. And since you’ve offered to assume the costs, they might agree. They might seize the opportunity to toss aside a family tradition that’s become ludicrous – if tradition is the real or main reason behind it.’

  The contessa’s head was throbbing. It had been a long day and several glasses of wine too many. She brought up again, hoping she was not slurring her words, how ill Apollonia had been today. ‘I doubt very much if she’s up to the task, not now. She was trying to be her usual self, but she’s declined considerably since the funeral. She used to know so many people, be the life of the party. Now she is all alone, except for Eufrosina and Alessandro. Most of the people she used to know are dead. The few others don’t seem to care.’ The contessa felt a strong surge of sympathy for Apollonia. How well she remembered her in her prime, and it did not seem all that long ago.