Liquid Desires

by Edward Sklepowich

  Urbino inwardly groaned as they sat at a table on the Da Gianni raft terrace. Eugene examined the gray-haired waiter balancing a tray of ice cream sodas and mineral water.

  “This country’s got the oldest waiters I’ve seen anywhere. Is it something Italians do when they retire? I have to admit they’re pretty spry, though. Maybe they take blackstrap molasses! Hennepin might be able to do a big deal with the Italians.”

  During lunch, as Eugene complained about the problems he and Evangeline had encountered in Rome and Florence, where “we didn’t have anyone to guide us around, of course,” Urbino’s mind drifted back to Flavia. He was beginning to understand why she had looked familiar. Surely he had seen her before, hadn’t he? And the Contessa would have, too, if she hadn’t kept herself disdainful up in Asolo, removed from the kind of art that Eugene’s admired Peggy Guggenheim had bought up as if it were so many pieces of candy.

  7

  “A pile of junk!” Eugene said contemptuously as he surveyed the arrangement of gray rocks, worn army boots, and rusted rifles and sabers. “I wouldn’t give a cent for any of it! Who are they tryin’ to kid?”

  Urbino and Eugene were at the Biennale exhibition. So far, his ex-brother-in-law’s responses were, in spirit if not in language, so close to the Contessa’s that Urbino was beginning to think the two were destined to become fast friends.

  “It’s not this kind of stuff I’m interested in bringin’ back. Not by a long shot! I want some pretty stuff.”

  Eugene, eager to return to the air-conditioned Danieli, could have quit now without a regret, but Urbino persuaded him to go to one more pavilion.

  It was the Italy Pavilion, set back against the Giardini Canal. Urbino left Eugene in one of the front rooms while he sought out the paintings of Bruno Novembrini. He didn’t go directly to the empty space on the wall where one painting was missing, but moved slowly from painting to painting. Most of them were Venetian scenes in which the standard tourist images of the city—gondolas, the Bridge of Sighs, the Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, Piazza San Marco—were fantastically juxtaposed or were floating or sailing as if in a dream or hallucination.

  Immediately before the empty space was a large canvas with a naked man and woman embracing as marble eagles and columns melted around them, the liquid flowing into a golden river in the foreground. Let Rome in Tiber Melt, it was called, the quotation identifying the passionate couple as Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra.

  Next to this painting in the empty space was a hand-lettered sign:

  NUDE IN A FUNERAL GONDOLA has temporarily been removed from exhibition. It is hoped that it will be exhibited again before the end of the Biennale.

  Urbino had just finished reading the sign when a man behind him said, “It should be back soon. It wasn’t as damaged as we thought at first.”

  The speaker was a man in his sixties of medium height with long gray hair and beard and a prominent nose. He was dressed in a subdued charcoal-gray suit given a calculated touch of color by a loosely folded blood-red pocket square. Urbino recognized Massimo Zuin, a prominent art dealer and owner of a gallery in the arty Dorsoduro quarter.

  “Signor Zuin, I’m Urbino Macintyre. Perhaps you can help me. I’d like to see a reproduction of Nude in a Funeral Gondola. You’re Bruno Novembrini’s dealer, aren’t you?”

  Zuin said he was and told Urbino to wait while he got a catalog. Eugene sauntered into the room and went over to look at a painting of a funeral of gondolas going up the Grand Canal carrying pieces of Venetian monuments. Zuin returned with the catalog.

  “You’ll find a color reproduction of the painting here,” he said in his courteous but patronizing voice, opening the catalog and handing it to Urbino.

  The painting was as Urbino remembered it. Floating in a flooded Piazza San Marco, with the Basilica in the background, was a funeral gondola, an even deeper shade of black than the customary color. Hovering in the left-hand corner, as if they might have detached themselves from the facade of the Basilica, were a lion weeping into a black handkerchief and a bearded angel. Both were looking at the figure reclining in the gondola—a beautiful nude woman, her hair obscured in an Oriental turban and her bright green, eerily vacant eyes looking directly at the viewer.

  Urbino now had no doubt that underneath that turban must be Titian hair and that the model was the young woman who had exploded her bombshell under the Contessa’s pergola on Saturday afternoon.

  “I was particularly struck with it the other times I was here,” Urbino said. “As a matter of fact, the last time I saw it was minutes after it was slashed.”

  Zuin’s face hardened almost imperceptibly.

  “It’s a pity. These crazy feminists! It must have had something to do with that girl murdered near here. Some woman blaming the sexual attack on art, most likely. Once the painting is repaired, no one should be able to notice the damage. There was only one tear. I’m sure we can agree on a fair price if you’re interested in it.”

  “Right now I’d like to know about the model.”

  More surprise than disappointment showed on Zuin’s face. He scratched the long gray hair at the nape of his neck.

  “The model? Bruno only used her the one time.”

  “Do you know what her name is?”

  “If I did, Signor Macintyre, I couldn’t give you that information.”

  “But you do know who she is?” The art dealer didn’t answer. “Perhaps Novembrini wouldn’t mind telling me. Do you have his number?”

  It occurred to Urbino that Zuin might be no more inclined to give him Novembrini’s phone number than the name of the model, but Zuin surprised him by smiling and saying, “I’ll give it to you only because it’s listed in the phone directory. Surely you understand that art dealers have a responsibility to protect their artists in whatever way they can. And our own interests. I wouldn’t be quite so willing to give you Bruno’s number if I thought the two of you might strike a private deal between you.”

  With a cool smile, Zuin took out a fountain pen, wrote a phone number on the front of the catalog, and handed the catalog to Urbino.

  Eugene joined them. Urbino made the introductions and told Eugene that Zuin was the dealer for the painter whose work was in the room.

  “So you work for this November fellow! Wonderful!”

  “I do,” Zuin said in English. “Are you interested in contemporary Italian painting?”

  “Is that what this is? I know what I like and I like this stuff here. Is any of it for sale?”

  Zuin’s face brightened.

  “Most of it. Are you interested in any in particular?”

  “That one.” Eugene pointed to the painting of the gondolas transporting pieces of Venice up the Grand Canal. “Has anyone grabbed it up yet?”

  “Not yet, but you’ll have to wait until the end of September when the Biennale closes.”

  “No problem. I’ve got to wait until almost Christmas for a gondola!” Eugene turned to Urbino. “We’re one day ahead of ourselves now! I’m determined to buy something every day,” he explained to the puzzled Zuin, “something nice like this November’s paintings. I’ve already bought a gondola at a rundown boatyard. By the way, I guess we should talk about money. How much you askin’? You don’t have to decide right away. You can give me a call at the Danieli Hotel—is that how you pronounce it, Urbino? I’m stayin’ there instead of that tiny little palace Urbino has. It’s in such a pokey part of town. I like to be where the action is.”

  Zuin suggested that the two of them talk about the painting in the morning at his Dorsoduro shop. After leaving the Biennale, Urbino and Eugene had a drink at the Danieli bar before Urbino went to the Island of Giudecca to visit Oriana Borelli.

  8

  The living room of the Ca’ Borelli was so austere that it was almost like a slap in Urbino’s face.

  Just about the only things in the large white room that could possibly be a focus of Urbino’s attention—that is, other than the histrionic Oriana
in her Versace outfit—were the massive lightwood bookcase with its six halogen lamps, a Barovier-Toso vase filled with dried brown flowers, and the neo-Biedermeier sofa on which its owner was now sprawled. The Contessa’s flamboyant friend looked a little exhausted. She must be recovering from one of her strenuous marital infidelities.

  “Poor Barbara! I wish I had been there.” Oriana said. “But it’s all nonsense—assolutamente! As far as that phone call was concerned, I was worried about what people were saying about Barbara—not about Alvise. Yes, there was talk, and some people were even saying that if the bell’ Alvise wandered a bit it would only serve Barbara right. But Alvise was the most faithful husband I’ve ever come across.”

  Oriana looked at him unblinkingly through her large Laura Biagiotti sunglasses, which she wore indoors and out from May until October. She was speaking from a vast experience of other women’s husbands who had been unfaithful with her and about one—her own—whose infidelities came close to matching hers.

  “Barbara knows I was attracted to Alvise—both before and after they got married. It was no secret, darling! I’m a woman, aren’t I? And he was so handsome, so gentle—and devoted to Barbara. Never showed me any interest except a friendly one! In any case I would have restrained myself for Barbara’s sake,” she assured him. “She’s my one, dear friend, and I’d never do anything to hurt her. How absolutely terrible it would be if I knew that Alvise had had an affair with another woman! What would I do then, I ask you? Even if Barbara says she wants to know the truth, how could I be the one she hears it from?” She shook her light blond head firmly. “She’s asking you to do something molta delicata! But I’m not so sure if you should have agreed! I’ll tell you one thing. If Alvise had been unfaithful to her, Barbara would never have found out—absolutely never! He would not have left anything behind to incriminate himself. He never would have wanted to hurt her. If he knew something like this was happening now—”

  As to what Alvise would have done, Oriana didn’t say. She left it to Urbino’s—and perhaps even her own—imagination.

  “Someone must have been telling this girl stories. Barbara has enemies here. She’s had them from the first and she’ll have them until the day she dies—may it be many, many years from now.”

  “Enemies, Oriana? Who?”

  “Barbara’s right! Sometimes you are so absolutely American! Hasn’t Italy done you any good? Of course the poor dear has enemies. We all have enemies—even innocent little you! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was one of Barbara’s enemies who put the girl up to it.”

  “Do you know of any in particular?”

  “‘In particular,’ Urbino! You are amusing. As if dear Barbara doesn’t know herself. But if it embarrasses you too much to ask her, I’d suggest her archenemy, Violetta Volpi.”

  “Violetta Volpi? I don’t believe Barbara has ever mentioned her.”

  “Her maiden name was Grespi. I don’t know her well but I think she has a sister. A branch of the Grespi family are comaschi—silk manufacturers—in Como.”

  Urbino shook his head. The name Violetta Grespi meant as little to him as Violetta Volpi.

  “She’s led a pampered life,” Oriana went on, as if pampering were something alien to her. “A nurse who looked after Filippo knew her. She’s a painter now. She was on the point of marrying Alvise when Barbara came along. Violetta Volpi never seems to have forgotten how ‘the Englishwoman almost ruined her life,’ as the nurse said she used to say, but perhaps Barbara would like to forget it.”

  9

  “I most certainly have mentioned her!” the Contessa said when Urbino phoned her that evening from the Palazzo Uccello. “I mentioned her as recently as yesterday at the Caffè Centrale! You’re not going to be any help to me if you don’t pay more attention.”

  “As I remember, Barbara, you mentioned a woman who was with Alvise when he rang the Wilverlys’ bell. Was it this Violetta Grespi—or Volpi as she’s now called?”

  “Exactly, caro. And perhaps you’ll also remember that she tried to latch on to Silvestro afterward. She was eager to make a good marriage—and she did. A respectable man with a respectable income. Bernardo Volpi owns an import-export business in Mestre. He’s almost an invalid these days—his heart or his liver, I’m not sure. You have to understand that I don’t court information about Violetta Volpi—any more than I go out of my way to be told what nasty things she might be saying about me. To be honest, though, I’d like to believe that it’s Violetta Volpi or someone like her who’s behind this. I’m far less frightened of any lies that this Flavia person might be telling than I am of it all turning out to be the truth. I know you don’t like to hear that, caro—not when I’ve asked you to get at the bottom of this—but I assure you again that no matter how afraid I am of the truth, I have to know it. Don’t hide anything from me. Don’t protect me. Just be gentle.”

  Her voice had been gradually getting softer but when, after a brief pause, she spoke again, it had a harsh, sarcastic edge.

  “Violetta Volpi is an artiste.” It was a word the Contessa reserved for only the least talented and the most pretentious. “I mention this only as a warning.”

  Urbino next called Bruno Novembrini.

  “Ah, yes, Signor Macintyre. Massimo said I might expect a call from you.” Novembrini’s voice was low and smooth. “He tells me that you’re interested in one of my paintings.”

  Surely Zuin would have been more specific than that.

  “I am, but not in buying it. I’d like some information about the model you used.”

  “You would?” There was an almost total lack of surprise in Novembrini’s question. “In that case I don’t think we should discuss it over the phone. Why don’t you meet me at Massimo’s gallery tomorrow morning at ten. Massimo said that a relative of yours would be stopping by then.”

  10

  Eugene was in an exuberant mood the next morning despite the heat as the crowded vaporetto went up the Grand Canal between rows of palazzi and under a sky as gray as lead. His exuberance, however, had nothing to do with the scene around them. Urbino kept pointing out buildings as they stood in the front of the boat, but Eugene only nodded and inevitably returned to his preferred topic of conversation since leaving the Danieli.

  “I like that Zuin,” he said for what must have been the fifth time. “Not one for piddlin’. Called me up right before you came—wanted to be sure it was still a convenient time for me to stop by. Very accommodatin’—the most accommodatin’ man in his line I’ve ever come across,” he added, giving the impression of a long and rich experience with art dealers. “Says he’s got some mighty fine stuff at his shop—big things—and he won’t even charge for shippin’!”

  “It might not be a good idea to seem too eager, Eugene.”

  “’Cause he might take advantage of me? You know there’s nobody on either side of the big lake that can do that to Eugene Lee Hennepin! I know you want to help me out—Europe and this place bein’ your turf—but let’s face it. You have no more business sense than Evie. Good thing you never agreed to join our family business. Between you and Evie you would have run us into the ground!” He gave Urbino a quick sideways glance. “Evie isn’t so happy these days, Urbino.”

  Eugene waited. Urbino had no choice but to ask him why.

  “Seems like her marriage to Reid is over and done with! That’s what comes from marryin’ a cousin from the Delisle side of the family. The only good Delisles are the women, like our Momma. Could I ask you a personal question, Urbino?” Not waiting for an answer, Eugene went right on, “Could you love another man’s child?”

  Urbino stared at Eugene in disbelief.

  “Damn hot in this city of yours!” Eugene said quickly. “Even worse than back home! And I keep gettin’ these glimmers in my eyes and feelin’ unsteady on my feet as if I’m on a ship!” Eugene applied his handkerchief to his flushed face while looking surreptitiously at Urbino. “Don’t look at me like that! You know what I mean! Could
you love Evie and Reid’s little Randall like your own?”

  “Whatever are you talking about, Eugene?”

  “I know I’m bein’ premature and jumpin’ the gun, but let bygones be bygones. It’s been years since you’ve even seen one another. She’s as fresh as ever, and you haven’t changed all that much,” he added with less conviction, squinting at Urbino. “The reason I mention little Randall is that Evie would never remarry under any other circumstances. And you wouldn’t be reminded of Reid. Little Randall looks a lot more like me, poor kid, than Reid—or even Evie! Funny how genes work out, isn’t it? So what do you say, Urbino?”

  The only comfort Urbino got was knowing that Evangeline couldn’t possibly be behind all this.

  “Evie still thinks about you,” Eugene went on. “Mentions your name all the time. Has a soft spot in her heart, she does. Drives old Reid up the wall.”

  Evangeline’s pretty oval face swam before Urbino’s eyes. He hadn’t seen her in ten years, and that had been only briefly on a visit to New Orleans to see his great-aunts. Evangeline had looked just as lovely as ever. She had been with her parents and her father’s two brothers—in other words, very much within the deep bosom of the Hennepin family from which Urbino had tried to help her escape. Back when they had first met, Evangeline had wanted and needed Urbino as a counterweight to the Hennepins, but ultimately she had been too much of one not to leave him standing alone against the family.

  Pushing away thoughts of Evangeline, Urbino tried to deflect Eugene’s attention to the Palazzo Dario with its multicolored marble facade. Eugene suspiciously eyed the building, whose outside walls inclined to the left at a noticeable angle.

  “Looks like it’s ready to fall over, like half this town! Don’t know how you stand it. Is it always so jam-packed? Just look at all the people! I’m surprised the whole place doesn’t just sink plumb out of sight! But I’m not so sure all this would bother Evie one little—”