Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  Scrutinizing the legal document Margo had given her, Anna realized it was a copy of a 1987 register of the Societé de Commerce Privée, or SARL, in Luxembourg. Alessandro Favier, Sergio Corrin, and the Fondazione Corrin, a family foundation he must have formed, were listed as shareholders. What to make of it?

  She slammed the ledger down in irritation. Watching the tide roll in along San Francisco Bay seemed pretty good right now, but she doubted she’d ever see it again.

  Il Giardino, The Garden

  Tuesday, afternoon

  “We have to keep our minds sharp during the party, so I hope you’re not planning to stew about splurging on your dress,” Margo said as they passed an androgynous clothing store in Campo San Stefano in the warm autumn air. “Guilt is a useless emotion. And you should bring home one silken gem from Venice. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  Normally, Anna took satisfaction in being thrifty. Her parents had died young; her marriage was over; her Nonno and Nonna were gone—but spending was one thing under her control. As a child, she had earned a nickel for every wine bottle she had washed. Afterward, she had run to her bedroom, deposited the bounty into her Empire State Building piggybank and listened for the reassuring clink. Had Nonno saved the coin bank? Was it among the boxes in the Bronx storage space she could never bring herself to visit?

  They climbed the wooden backbone of the Accademia Bridge and soon neared a high brick wall with a sunken bronze plaque proclaiming Giardino. Staring at it, Anna doubted how verdant a Venetian garden could be, when stone and water were everywhere, while trees, plants, and earth were scarce. Doubtless a few blades of grass would be all.

  When Margo pressed a scarred bell, a clarion sound hung in the air. “Can’t wait to introduce you to Dudley and Agatha,” she said. “I’ve known them forever, and they know everybody. Some-thing’s bound to slip out on Sergio. Didya find anything last night?”

  “Nothing I can decipher. Just lots of transfers to lots of places.”

  “Maybe our luck will change.” Margo jabbed the bell. “What’s taking them?”

  The weathered copper gate jangled open to reveal a short, plump man with protruding eyes behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a starched white shirt and a red bowtie, neatly pressed gray pants, and shiny charcoal-colored oxfords. He was a senior citizen now, but with the same smile as the man in Alessandro’s photograph.

  He whispered to Margo, and then kissed her on both cheeks, leaving tiny bubbles of saliva gleaming like sea scum on a smooth beach.

  Recoiling, Anna thought fleetingly of Gabriella’s encounter and how she had laughed it off.

  “Welcome to our garden party,” Dudley said in a clipped transatlantic accent after Margo introduced them, staring at Anna’s biceps and making her long for the matching shawl she hadn’t bought.

  “You must go to the gymnasium a lot,” he commented, escorting the women toward a lush lawn.

  “I run and do aerobics faithfully—high impact,” Anna answered uncomfortably. She felt a blush coming on.

  “Oh Dudley, please,” Margo said with a chuckle. “Stop trying to be such a bad boy, and get us some vino. But before you go, have you heard anything at all about Sergio?”

  “Leave that tragedy for later,” he said. “I want you to enjoy yourselves.”

  If only that were possible. Anna ached to forget her worries about Sergio’s murder, even knowing that the laws of mathematics were against her. Every person she met increased the probability that she’d face someone who would recognize her from Saturday night or had heard about her from Sergio. At least Biondi and his tracker wouldn’t be at the party—she hoped.

  “Excuse me, belle signorine,” Dudley said, butchering the Italian pronunciation like a tone-deaf singer destroying a song, before wading to the bar.

  Cringing, Anna knew how proud Nonno would have been of her ear for the language, even after all these years. She still remembered the early lessons with him, vowels pronounced with an open mouth, not closed as in English. He made her practice saying their last name: O, Or, Or-si-, Or-si-ni. Just a short trill with the tongue on the roof of the mouth before pronouncing the “s.”

  “You must know who you are, and how to say our family name in Italian,” he had told her. That first time, he had added that there was no use continuing under the old one, for after her parents’ death, she was the only Fortunato left.

  The women followed Dudley’s retreating bulk, past white marble nymphs and satyrs playing in a circle frozen in time among lilac hydrangeas. Climbing roses framed the stately, rust-colored palazzo. Anna felt weighted down as women in designer outfits and men just as expensively dressed, bobbed their heads in her direction, curious about the pedigree of anyone strolling through the gate.

  Beyond all of them, the garden bordered the shimmering waters of the Grand Canal where a parade of gondolas, vaporettos, and barges glided by ancient façades of tan and salmon palazzos, more exotic than the canal-side homes on Long Island or the houseboats of Sausalito, perched like seabirds on the water.

  “Dudley is a sweetie, once you get to know him,” said Margo. “And he adores his wife.”

  “You told me he’s a writer. Of what?”

  “Venetian histories—popular ones that make Venice come alive. The wall in his study is plastered with the family trees of all one hundred and eighteen doges of Venice—the guy’s an expert in Venetian genealogy. Back in the sixties, he wrote a few historical novels, some in Italian, like The Doge’s Robes. To this day, the critics are still screaming for more. Maybe you’ve heard of his last one, The Gondolier’s Prize, about one of Venice’s murdered doges. Even some rulers here met bad ends.”

  “I’m afraid I’m into science books.”

  A trim, petite woman in a lustrous fuchsia gown stepped through the arched doorway of the palazzo and headed toward them. Her lively, wide-set eyes and upturned lips gave her an impish look, which a crown of feathery silver hair heightened.

  After greetings, Anna remarked, “What a garden! You can’t even tell it’s here from outside the gate.”

  Agatha smiled, revealing pearls of teeth. “It’s sweeter that way, don’t you think? Venice is full of secret gardens like ours. A few are filled with the sound of trickling fountains, so soothing. Others have centuries-old wisteria growing, geraniums tumbling out of pots, honeysuckle climbing the walls, and lots of stone lions, of course. Many are splendid hideaways, to the delight of their owners, like us.”

  “Have you lived here many years?”

  “It’s been so long,” Agatha replied. “Venice is in our blood, if there can be such a thing. Dudley insisted on getting married here in May, during La Sensa, the annual Sposalizio del Mare festival, when Venice weds the sea. I suppose it’s the most romantic thing he’s ever done.”

  “It’s the Feast of the Ascension, Venetian style,” Margo explained. “Centuries ago, the doge of Venice tossed a gold ring into the water to symbolize Venice’s rule over the sea and expansion in the Adriatic. This is reenacted every year. After the ceremony, all the Venetians follow in their boats and go to Mass on the Lido.”

  What a strange mix of the religious and the profane, Anna thought. So as Christ rises to heaven, the doge is marrying the sea, and the city is celebrating the greatness of its history with Mass thrown in as a bonus.

  “I got married in a dress just like yours, Anna,” Agatha said. “Simple and elegant. Mine was ivory, of course, but I love the olive color of your Fortuny. Compliments on your good taste.”

  Anna remembered how the pensione clerk had startled her as she had descended the stairs that afternoon, with appreciative smacking sounds from his wriggling lips, making her hope his reception was not what she’d experience later on. That man, Giuseppe, was an odd duck, arguing with her at breakfast about the early-morning singing, telling her he had heard “niente” and nothing like that ever happened in the quiet neighborhood around the pensione.

  “Anyway,” Agatha continued, “I was a little
worried that Dudley would be tempted to fling my ring into the Grand Canal and then have me dive for it.” As she laughed, her face breaking into crevices, she splayed the fingers of her left hand, revealing a large heart-shaped diamond set amid swirls of emerald baguettes. “He didn’t do it, of course, and I certainly wouldn’t have. The jury’s still out about who dominates whom, I guess. But there’s no question that the sea is his mistress.”

  “Aren’t you jealous?” Margo asked with a wink. “You can tell me. I won’t print it in the Chronicle.”

  “I know I have nothing to fear, driven as you are.” Agatha patted Margo’s hand. “Besides, when we’re back in the States we only read the East Coast papers. You know,” she sighed, “he does this crazy rowing standing up.” Her hands fumbled, tracing circles. “He even rows with other Cultural Council members, sometimes at the crack of dawn.”

  “Yes,” Dudley chimed in as he offered the women drinks on a gold-leaf tray. “I get up at five in the morning and put on my trainers before I’m hardly awake. In summer, the sea and sky are tinged just like the color of this Bellini. I take my trusty steed there.” He nodded toward a rowboat bobbing on the canal near a tiny boathouse.

  “You go out in that puny thing?” Margo asked.

  “Most days, before the water has a ripple in it. I row past the silent palazzi—I call them my painted ladies—showing no sign of life. Then I pick up the tempo and streak past the Arsenale, where you’re not supposed to go. Pretty cheeky of me, I know. I row past San Michele and on occasion over to Murano.”

  His tone grew serious. “I do this for inspiration. You see, my thoughts need room to roam. The horizon is far, and little has changed through time. When I’m out there, who’s to say what century it is? Time can stand still or go backwards. Funnily enough, you cannot imagine my progress as I float, cradled by the sea. Sometimes ideas spring from the waves. It’s hard to distill the beauty and the evil of the world into a few, almost random drops of ink on paper. I’ll always be challenged and plagued by it. ’Tis the writer’s curse.”

  “Right.” Agatha’s face glowed as she eyed him. “He’s hoping since Dante visited the Arsenale then wrote the Inferno, that some ancient genius will rub off on him, too.”

  Margo cackled and grabbed her glass from Dudley. “And he hasn’t done too badly, Agatha.”

  “Doesn’t the rowing take a lot of time from your writing?” Anna asked, before sipping her drink and studying him. She could hardly imagine someone looking like an albino turtle fighting the currents and angry waves. Where does he hide his muscles? she wondered.

  “Not really. It takes about three hours round trip if I go to Murano, much less if I stay closer or row with other council members. We compete against one another—always training for the next Vogalonga, our little rebellion against the motorboat.” He snickered.

  “Men will always be boys, but I’m not jealous,” said Agatha. “I’ve grown to treasure the early-morning hours alone. At six, I stretch and get up leisurely, like my cat, Orfeo. I put on my velvet Venetian slippers.” She glanced at Anna’s feet. “Oh, I see you’re wearing a pair. Then in good weather, even if it’s a bit chilly, I climb the steps to our altana.”

  “What’s that?” Anna asked.

  With her ringed forefinger, Agatha pointed to the roof of the palazzo. Balanced on its peak was a little wooden shed-like structure and narrow balcony, the sculpted head of a lion atop each post.

  “Instead of bleaching my hair up there like a Venetian courtesan of centuries ago, I sip my tea and gaze out at the city—all the bell towers and alleyways, the palazzos and canals.” Her tone became oddly reverent. “I’m like a possessive lover, I guess. Every day I scrutinize Venice for changes, and it never fails to surprise me. A boat’s wake, the cry of a seabird, the way the sun’s rays strike a window, a flag on a passing ship.” Agatha’s voice fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird. “I love all of it.”

  “I can vouch for that—why, I’ve joined her in the early morning a bunch of times,” Margo said. “I swear you have one of the best views in Venice.”

  Agatha stood straighter.

  Anna could not picture night-owl Margo getting up at daybreak to visit a woman with the tongue of a poet, extolling Venice’s virtues. Perhaps she stayed over when she got stranded by some man, or was too tipsy to maneuver the bridge steps.

  “I imagine this place could spoil you forever, giving you an unreal view of the rest of life,” Anna said.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear,” Agatha said with a distant look. “I have enough unwelcome memories to last another lifetime.”

  “Dudley, I’m writing a short piece on Venetian life in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries,” Margo said. “Who should I talk to?”

  “Ronaldo Gratti,” Dudley answered promptly, “who just happens to be here. He’s the tall man over there at the bar, an absolute authority and a professor at the University of Venice with impeccable credentials. Headed many art restorations. He’d be happy to put you on the right track.”

  “Are the best historical sources at the Marciana Library?”

  “Now be patient,” Dudley said. “Standing next to Gratti is Filippo Fanfarone, an expert on modern as well as old Venetian society. We’ll visit with him, too. He’s an excellent writer over at the Gazzettino, covering culture as well as the society column. Maybe you saw his report on Sergio.”

  Anna focused on Gratti, wondering if he was the sullen man in Alessandro’s old photograph. He looked dark and intense enough. Fanfarone, the columnist, seemed to be of the same vintage. Slim, long-haired, dressed in an elegantly cut pea-green jacket, he was clinking glasses with a woman in a turban, staring at her cleavage. Perhaps she and Margo could turn on the charm and wheedle some information from these men.

  “I need to speak to both of them for a second reason,” Margo went on. “As Agatha may have told you, I’m writing an article about Sergio for my newspaper back home: I’m calling it ‘The Death of a Venetian Count.’ It’ll be a blockbuster.”

  “Frankly, you know, Venice has more worthy citizens,” Dudley said. “But without a doubt, an article like that would be exciting.”

  “If people help me with behind-the-scenes information,” Margo said.

  “By the way, Dudley is too shy to tell you,” Agatha said, beaming. “He was just made president of the Cultural Council.”

  “Complimenti, Dudley,” Margo toasted.

  A sweet duel of cornets and strings drifted from a musical group sitting in a far corner of the garden.

  “Ladies, listen to this music,” Dudley commanded. “One of the Cultural Council’s projects last year involved funding a recording of this coronation piece for Doge Grimani, a popular doge of the fifteen hundreds. Giovanni Gabrielli wrote most of it; he was the organist at the Scuola di San Rocco. Anna, you may know that San Rocco was the patron saint for people suffering from the plague. Treasures restored to their former glory, saving the jewels of Venice, whether music or canvas or stone—our society does it all.” His chest expanded in pride. “We get things done. We’re not like that other group,” he snorted. “They just entertain each other at glitzy snog parties, like the one on Giudecca last weekend.”

  “They could afford that glitzy party, given all of Sergio’s contributions,” Agatha said.

  “Were they huge?” Anna asked.

  “In a word, yes.”

  “We do more effective outreach,” Dudley said. “Harder than writing checks on your own bank account.”

  Almost against her will, Anna found herself admiring Dudley’s fine qualities. His intellect and civic spirit outweighed his pomposity and “bad boy” demeanor. “Margo told me about your books,” she said. “I’m impressed with your hard work in bringing ancient Venice alive.”

  “I’m an old soul, Anna.”

  “Indeed,” Agatha nodded. “Dudley would love to return to the years when Venice was a republic. I can see him addressing the crowds now, wearing a dog
e’s cap.” She squeezed his arm fondly.

  “I’m afraid not. Unless, of course, I could make you my dogaressa, Muffin.” He bowed with a comic flourish.

  “Isn’t that Alessandro over by the canal?” Anna asked, surprised by the sleek brunette in a leather halter top clutching his arm.

  “Looks younger than the last one,” Margo said, exchanging a glance with Agatha.

  “Where’s your pride, man?” Dudley muttered. “What about your name?”

  “Could be his granddaughter this time,” Margo said.

  “He’s stuck in a rut,” Agatha told Anna, “seeking women around the age Gabriella was when she died. This Flavia is the latest. She does come from an old-line family.”

  The poor, haunted man, Anna thought. Doesn’t he ever look in the mirror and know that he’s getting on, notice the curve of his paunch, his silver hair? Just like Jack and his bottles. Sooner or later, life deals everyone a blow. She hadn’t collapsed. She had picked herself up and marched on. One step leads to another on the path to the future, if you can avoid looking back.

  “Still searching,” Agatha said, her forehead furrowing.

  “He’ll never find another,” Dudley added. “Gabriella was extraordinary. Well, it’s up to me to help correct the situation. I’ll go and speak with him now that the hussy has left him for the moment.” He straightened the gold lion cuff link on his sleeve. “Carry on.”

  As he took a purposeful step in Alessandro’s direction, a black-aproned waiter approached.

  “Do try one of these antipasti,” Agatha said. “Warm fig, wrapped in prosciutto.”

  “Leave it to the Italians to dress up their figs, and then crown them with melted gorgonzola cheese,” Margo said, putting two on a small plate before offering Anna one.

  Anna savored the piquant mix of salty and sweet.