Frail Barrier

by Edward Sklepowich

  ‘I think you will understand this,’ she said after she put down the glass. ‘Understand and not judge him. Luca was gay. It was never a problem for me, or for our mother. His father didn’t know. Luca didn’t think he would understand. Zoll was the first man that Luca had a serious relationship with. He told me everything – well, almost everything. He loved Zoll. He would have done anything for him. And Zoll felt the same way. Or he certainly seemed to from what I could see. I was happy for Luca.’

  There were so many questions that Urbino wanted to ask, but so far Clementina had made questions unnecessary. Perhaps she wasn’t finished yet.

  She gave Urbino a faint smile.

  ‘Maybe you think that Luca was after money. He wasn’t. He wasn’t manipulating Zoll. I’m not saying that Zoll wasn’t generous, but it’s not as if he made him a beneficiary in his will.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Well, that’s what Luca told me a few weeks before he died. Zoll had a son that he left almost everything to.’

  ‘A stepson.’

  ‘I thought it was a son.’

  ‘He’s in Venice now. Have you met him?’

  Clementina looked at her wristwatch.

  ‘Met him? What reason would I have to meet him? Excuse me. I should get to Giulietta’s apartment. My assistant is looking after the shop. She’s trustworthy enough, but you know how it is.’

  She seemed eager to leave now. Perhaps she had said more than she wanted, but if she had, it hadn’t been because Urbino had been asking her a lot of questions. She had seemed more than willing to confide in him, at least on her own terms.

  The vaporetto to San Marco was packed with tourists, some of them already drunk at this hour. Urbino stood next to the railing, not even thinking about trying to make his way to the stern.

  An elderly Venetian couple stood beside him, complaining that they couldn’t find a seat. Urbino offered to arrange two bags so that they might sit on them, being sure to use the Venetian dialect, but the husband declined.

  ‘We’re getting off at the Accademia,’ he said.

  Urbino chatted with them about the upcoming regatta until they reached their stop, which was the next one.

  For the rest of the ride down the Grand Canal, Urbino tried to block out all the noise and confusion around him by looking at the buildings along the banks, but he projected his gaze at the upper stories and roofs of the buildings. In this way he was able to remove himself further from all the activity surrounding him, getting a view of one altana after another, chimneys, tiles, and high-perched balconies. He stared for long moments at the Gothic balcony of Zoll’s apartment and the windows of the Gritti Hotel across from it before refreshing his eyes with the white dome of the Salute.

  He ran over in his mind what Clementina had told him about Luca. He regretted that he had not felt comfortable asking her more questions. Their conversation had left him with the feeling that he had been, in some sense, manipulated. But in what direction and for what motivation he didn’t have the vaguest idea.

  Either he had just had the benefit, with little effort on his part, of some frank confidences or some of the most calculated, even fabricated, of revelations.

  Urbino managed to find a small, unoccupied table at Florian’s, but it was not in the Chinese Salon. It was in the Liberty Salon beyond it, with its arched vault ceiling, gleaming wood wainscoting, and hand-painted mirrors. He ordered red wine and a selection of cheeses. When the waiter brought them on a silver tray – bigger than the marble top of the table – Urbino detained him for a few minutes. The waiter, whose name was Marcello, worked on the same daytime shift that Claudio did.

  He confirmed that Zoll had frequented the café over the past year, but usually in the morning. They preferred the Liberty Salon to any of the other rooms.

  ‘And they always ordered the same thing. A bottle of mineral water for the German with a slice of lemon and either Prosecco or Corvo for his young friend.’

  Marcello told him that he had been working the day Zoll had fallen ill and Albina had gone to Perla’s shop. He shook his head regretfully when Urbino informed him that Zoll was dead.

  ‘I could see that the poor man was sick. He could hardly walk sometimes. His friend had to help him.’

  ‘His friend is dead, too. Maybe you heard about it. He was killed when something fell on him during the first of the two big storms we had.’

  Marcello raised his eyebrows in evident surprise.

  ‘No, I didn’t know. Life is strange, signore.’

  ‘It is indeed. Did either of them prefer any of the waiters more than the others?’

  ‘They were kind with us all. The Italian was the one who usually paid. From his own pocket, and always with a generous tip. But it must have come from the German. One of the customers took a photograph of the three of us – me, the German, and his friend. Around the Feast of the Redeemer. I’ve been waiting for them to return to show it to them. I have it with me all the time.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  From the pocket of his white jacket, he withdrew the photograph.

  It showed Zoll and Benigni in the Liberty Salon. Marcello stood behind the handsome young man, who had a bright smile on his dark face. Benigni had his arm around Zoll’s shoulder. The German was smiling and looking not at the camera but at his companion.

  ‘Would you mind if I borrowed this for a few days? I’d like to show it to the German’s stepson. He’s in town to settle some affairs. It will make him feel good to see his stepfather enjoying himself so soon before he died.’

  When Urbino finished his wine and cheese, he went upstairs to the foyer between the restrooms. The same woman who had been there the other day was sitting at the little table with the plate of coins. He asked her questions similar to the ones he had asked Marcello. She said that she had never noticed that Zoll and Benigni had favored one of the staff more than another.

  As Urbino was edging his way out into the arcade through the press of people, his name was called behind him. It was the manager.

  ‘When you were here the other day I forgot to mention that Albina left an envelope with me for Claudio. It has the name of the Cassa di Risparmio di Venezia on it.’ This was a local savings bank. ‘No address or anything else. I telephoned him a few times but couldn’t get him. You’ll probably see him before I do. Would you tell him about it? Albina left it the last day she was here, the day before she died.’ On his walk back to the Palazzo Uccello, Urbino stopped for a coffee at Da Valdo’s. He showed the photograph of Zoll and Benigni to Valdo, who said that he didn’t recognize either of them.

  The waiter gave him a different response.

  ‘The older man, no,’ he said, ‘but I remember the younger one very well.’

  ‘Was he a regular?’

  ‘He came once that I know of. Alone. An Italian. A Venetian, I think, though he didn’t speak in dialect. It was the night of the first of those big storms, right before it swept over us. Rushed inside and sat in the back. And left in a hurry, too, almost without paying for his Prosecco. As if he had suddenly remembered something. Or maybe he noticed the storm was coming and wanted to get home before it hit.’

  ‘Was Albina Gonella here at the time?’

  ‘Oh, no, signore, it was at least an hour before she usually came.’

  ‘No, Signor Urbino, I haven’t seen him since yesterday,’ Gildo said when Urbino asked him about Claudio. The gondolier was shining the gondola by the water entrance. ‘He said it’s a good idea for us to rest a while. He’s staying home. He isn’t the way he usually is. It’s because of Albina.’

  Gildo’s good-looking face was shadowed by concern.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go out today?’ he asked. ‘It will calm me. It’s not as hard as it seems, you know.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Gildo. It’s much harder than you make it seem. You make it seem almost effortless, but I know better than that.’

  ‘But sometimes I get more energy b
y using energy.’

  Urbino smiled.

  ‘An interesting theory. But if we go out, it won’t be during the heat of the day.’

  Urbino went to the library. He lay on the sofa, stroking Serena, who fell asleep on his lap. He soon joined her in a fitful nap. An hour later, he got up, took a shower, and had a cup of espresso.

  He took the San Marcuola traghetto to Santa Croce. From there it was a quick walk into San Polo, where he had agreed to do an errand for Natalia before seeking out Claudio near San Tomà.

  The shops had reopened after the siesta. Urbino stopped to talk to some of the shop owners and residents before delivering the small box of cookies Natalia had baked that morning. They were for an elderly woman friend who lived near the Campo San Polo.

  He stopped for a glass of white wine at a café in the square, gazing at the isolated campanile and the small fountain where pigeons and other birds were bathing and drinking. He imagined the bull runnings, parading soldiers, masked balls, and religious sermons that had once animated the large, open space. One of the palaces to his right had been the scene of the Baron Corvo’s disgrace, when his hosts had evicted him in the middle of winter for having used their friends and acquaintances in his writing.

  Maisie Croy had been impressed that Urbino knew how many bridges there were in Venice. As he had joked, his mind was full of useless information, and more of it started to surface about the square. But he pushed aside these odd bits and pieces to think about Claudio and the envelope that Albina had left for him at Florian’s.

  Did the envelope contain money? It would seem to be a likely possibility since the envelope came from a savings bank. But why would Albina be giving Claudio money, either in cash or in the form of a check?

  Urbino realized how little he knew about Claudio. He had been considering the waiter as a kind of stable element in the picture, fixed mainly by his apparent devotion to Albina. Urbino’s contacts with him had been limited to his services at Florian’s, two private recitals that Romolo had arranged, and his friendship with Gildo. Lately he had seen more of him than usual because of the upcoming races. From what he and the contessa knew, Claudio was alone in the city, but had a widowed mother and younger sister living in Rovigo.

  Claudio impressed him as a sensitive, refined man whose ambitions extended beyond Florian’s. Urbino couldn’t believe that he would be content to remain there as a professional waiter for the rest of his life. But Florian’s was a good place from which not only to view the world that passed through its doors and under its arcade, but also to contrive a move into that different world. At least two waiters that Urbino and the contessa had known over the years had profited from being placed there. One had married an older American woman and sometimes returned with her during carnival. The other had been given the management of a coffee house in Berlin.

  Claudio might think that his fine singing voice – or his good looks – would eventually free him from waiting tables, even though working at Florian’s was considered a pinnacle for most waiters in the city.

  These thoughts about Claudio began to be intruded upon, without any perceivable connection at the moment, by a piece of history about the Campo San Polo. The square had been the scene of a bonfire of vanities similar to Savonarola’s forty years later in Florence. It had consumed elegant gowns, make-up, ribbons and bows, masses of hair extensions, and cages of pet birds. Because Urbino was of a somewhat ascetic temperament despite the evident luxuries and pleasures of his life, he always felt ill at ease, as he did now, when contemplating the story of the bonfire. Surely, in a different time and a different place, he might have had some of his beloved objects put on the flames.

  Or, more frightening, he himself might have thrown the objects of others into them.

  Because these thoughts tugged at his mind with such persistence as he finished his wine, he couldn’t help but feel that they had some relevance to his thoughts about Claudio – or if not to those about Claudio specifically, then to his inquiry into the circumstances of Albina Gonella’s death.

  What this relevance might be, if any, eluded him. But when he left the café, he felt a sense of greater unease than he had felt when he had sat down.

  Nine

  Claudio’s apartment was above a vacant shop in a narrow calle. He was the only occupant of the brick-exposed building that was in the process of extensive renovation. The other tenants had been forced to move, but Claudio had insisted on staying despite the inconveniences and even dangers. From what Urbino understood, he was no longer paying rent. This very well could be Claudio’s main motivation for staying, since he seemed to spend a lot of his money on clothes and opera tickets at La Fenice and La Scala, often staying in Milan for a few days.

  The doorway leading from the calle was warped, flaking, and broken. One set of hinges was rusted off. Urbino was often amazed at how insecure many buildings in the city were. The Gonella sisters and the other tenants of their building had lived with a damaged street door, and Claudio was doing the same although his situation was different since he should have already left the premises. Living rent-free had its price.

  Urbino pushed open the door with little trouble and started up the dark staircase. Claudio lived on the second floor. Two of the marble steps near the second-floor landing were damaged. Chunks of marble had split off.

  The sound of workmen’s shouts came from the floor above.

  ‘Signor Urbino,’ Claudio said in surprise when he opened the door to Urbino’s knock. His face was sad and fatigued.

  Claudio’s living room was crowded with objects, but not because it was particularly small. It was actually large, with a high ceiling and two wide windows at one end. But Claudio had brought into it all the furniture from his bedroom – two armoires, a large triple pier glass, and a disassembled bed whose mattress leaned against the back of the sofa. A pillow and rumpled sheet on the sofa indicated that Claudio was using it as his bed. On the far side of the living room was a doorway, but the door that should have been attached to it was placed against the wall a few feet away.

  Beyond the doorway the late afternoon light pouring through the unshuttered windows revealed brick walls stripped of most of their plaster and a twisted brass chandelier hanging from exposed wiring.

  The most unusual feature of the bedroom was its floor. Except for a small area immediately in front of the door and along the wall to its left the floor was non-existent. Only a few wooden beams and boards remained, and these were sagging in some cases and splintered in others. Very little of the layer of mortar that had once covered the wood remained. Large flat pieces of stone leaned against the left wall. One stone had broken into smaller pieces the size of bricks.

  ‘My God, Claudio, this is a dangerous situation.’ Urbino went over to the bedroom doorway. Twelve feet below was the stone floor of the pianoterreno. ‘You need some kind of barrier. Let me help you move the door across the bottom, at least. We can put it on its side.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’m careful. Two of the workmen said they would nail some boards across tomorrow.’

  Claudio’s voice didn’t have its usual resonance. It was slightly weak, even hoarse.

  ‘Be sure they do it,’ Urbino insisted. ‘Do you want me to speak to them?’

  ‘No. I’ll take care of it. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

  When Urbino and Claudio were seated across from each other, Urbino mentioned the envelope that Albina had left for him at Florian’s.

  Claudio seemed puzzled, even surprised

  ‘Do you know about it?’

  ‘No. And my phone hasn’t been working for the past ten days because of the construction. An envelope? An envelope from the Cassa di Risparmio? Oh,’ he said after a few moments. ‘It must be money. Yes, yes, that’s what it is,’ he said more emphatically. ‘I gave her fifty euros a week before she died. She was running short. But I didn’t want it back. I told her that.’
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  ‘But why did she leave it at Florian’s?’

  ‘She knew if she tried to hand it to me, I would have refused to take it. Well, I’m not going to take it back. I’ll buy flowers for her grave and have a Mass said at the Carmini.’

  ‘That would be nice. When will you go by to get it?’

  ‘Not before the regatta. It would make me sadder than I am. And I don’t want to go to Florian’s and see everyone there. I need to concentrate on doing a good job in the race.’

  ‘I could get it for you. I pass that way a lot.’

  ‘I’ll get it myself.’ Claudio said this in a clipped voice, but then added more gently, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?’

  ‘Maybe just a glass of water, if you don’t mind.’

  While Claudio was in the kitchen, Urbino made a visual survey of the room. Beneath all the confusion, he perceived an order of sorts.

  No clothes were strewn about. The dark green drapes on the two windows were pulled to each side and tied neatly with a gold-colored cord. On a side table stood a small cylinder of marbled paper in the popular red fiammato pattern of the notebook he had bought for the contessa at Clementina’s legatoria. It held pens, pencils, a letter opener, scissors, and a pair of sunglasses. On the wall beside the entrance to the hallway was a collection of photographs in inexpensive, uniform wooden frames. From a distance Urbino made out a woman in a wedding dress standing beside a man. Urbino assumed they were Claudio’s parents. Another photograph was a group shot of Claudio and his colleagues in front of the entrance to Florian’s.

  An old bookcase between the room’s two windows held three large boating trophies on its top shelf. On the other shelves were books, mainly paperback editions, arranged neatly. Urbino wished he could get up and examine the titles. Books could provide a great deal of information about their reader. Regate e Regatanti lay on the end table by the sofa.

  Claudio returned with two glasses of water. When Claudio was sitting down again, Urbino said, ‘I thought you’d like to know that I’m writing a little book about Albina. It will have anecdotes about her life from her sister and her friends. I’d like you to contribute. Giulietta already has. So if you have anything special you’d like to share about her, this could be a good way to do it.’