Appreciation of the taste of his new heroine was proving difficult for the poor man, and perhaps no more difficult than when they were looking at the Surrealist paintings.
“The Robing of the Bride?” Eugene stared at Max Ernst’s painting. A naked woman, barely covered by a bright red cape and a hood of feathers, was flanked by a bizarre birdlike creature with a spear, another naked woman, and a pygmy figure with four breasts, a protruding belly, and a penis. “Am I missin’ something, Urbino? I just don’t get it.”
Urbino, not feeling up to an explanation of Surrealism, mumbled something about fantasy and the dreamworld. It was to Eugene’s credit that he didn’t even pretend to understand.
“And look at this one,” Eugene said. “It’s called The Birth of Liquid Desires. Looks more like the death of something to me!”
It was by Salvador Dalí. A bearded nude man, with a woman’s breasts and a prominent erection draped by a scarf, grabbed a young woman in a white gown. The woman’s head was a burst of colorful flowers, with random petals falling to the ground. Behind them loomed a weirdly shaped rock with a womblike opening in which another man, wearing nothing but a sock, his back turned to the viewer and the couple, was bending down and reaching a hand into a pool of water. Kneeling behind the rock was another pale woman, her face turned aside and shielded with one hand as she poured liquid into a bowl in which the bearded man’s foot was standing.
Eugene kept staring at the Dalf until he finally pronounced that he liked it.
“Can’t figure out why, though. It has something to do with water, right? That must be it. Or it could have something to do with money, too, couldn’t it? You know, liquid cash. Isn’t that a safe up there in the corner?” He scrutinized the painting for a few more moments. “Lookee here! That man’s all ready and rarin’ to go, ain’t he? What they don’t put in paintings! Wonder how much Peggy paid for it?” Eugene asked, obviously feeling closer to Miss Guggenheim now that he was seeing her house and belongings. “Probably a lot less than Zuin soaked me for the girl with the flowers.”
Eugene gave one last look at the Dalí before they left the room.
“I really like that Liquid picture,” he said.” You don’t think it could be for sale, do you, Urbino?”
“Definitely not, but they probably have a postcard reproduction at the desk.”
“Guess that’ll have to do,” Eugene said in a disappointed tone, but then he laughed. “Maybe I’ll send one off to May-Foy and tell her I bought the real thing. Wouldn’t that be a hoot!”
They went out to the terrace on the Grand Canal. The two stone benches were occupied and people were sitting on the stone balustrade. For a few moments Urbino and Eugene stood there looking out at the heat-shimmering Grand Canal with its water traffic and the palazzi on the other side.
“Look at this, Urbino!” Eugene said in a stage whisper. “Just like the old fellow in the Liquid picture.”
Urbino knew exactly what he was referring to. It was The Angel of the Citadel, Marino Marini’s metal sculpture of a horse and rider—or rather one particular detail of the rider whose head was thrown back and arms outstretched as if in ecstasy. The detail was there for anyone on the terrace or passing on the Grand Canal to see—namely, the rider’s erect penis. Peggy Guggenheim used to unscrew the penis whenever nuns or sensitive visitors came to the palazzo.
“What a woman!” Eugene said, shaking his head slowly in bemused admiration. “I’m beginning to see why you like this watery town. It certainly seems to attract an unusual crowd. Are you sure your Countess friend—”
But Eugene didn’t finish. A woman’s scream shot through the air. Several people were pointing through the wrought-iron grille gate that separated the terrace from the Grand Canal.
Floating face downward between two of the gold-and-white-striped wooden pali, or mooring poles, was a body, its arms trailing down into the water. Shrouded in green material, the body was rocked by the wake of a vaporetto moving up the Grand Canal. Long hair fanned out in the water—long hair whose color was evident only where it broke the surface of the water and caught the rays of the late-afternoon sun. It was a Titian auburn.
A museum official hurried from the palazzo past Marini’s tumescent rider. Two men dressed in work clothes came out seconds later, climbed into one of the boats moored against the posts, and reached down to grab hold of the body. Straining, they lifted it over the side of the boat, water streaming from it. As they brought the body into the boat, the face turned toward Urbino.
Although bloated and misshapen, the face was still recognizable enough for Urbino to realize that Flavia Brollo’s days of being an object of desire—but not of mystification—were now over forever.
PART TWO
The Sun in Its Casket
1
On sunday afternoon, twenty-four hours later, Urbino and the Contessa were slowly walking through the puzzle maze at La Muta, trying to make some sense of the death of Flavia Brollo. Urbino, along with Eugene, had arrived earlier in the day to help ease the Contessa through the shock and confusion.
That morning’s Gazzettino had carried a piece on Flavia Brollo’s death:
BODY OF WOMAN FOUND IN THE GRAND CANAL
The body of a woman, Flavia Brollo, 26, of this city, was found floating in front of the water steps of the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni (“the Palazzo Guggenheim”) late yesterday afternoon.
A group of people, who were at the Palazzo Guggenheim to see its renowned collection of modern art, noticed the young woman’s body from the water terrace.
Death was apparently from drowning. This morning Professore Renzo Zavarella, appointed expert of the office of the substitute prosecutor, Maurizio Agostini, will perform the autopsy on San Michele. The police are making inquiries into the last hours of the life of Signorina Brollo.
Signorina Brollo was the daughter of Lorenzo Brollo of the San Polo quarter, and the late Regina Grespi Brollo. Signor Brollo is a pianist and founding member of La Serenissima Orchestra. The Brollo family is the former owner of Riva Petrochemicals in Marghera.
Although the article made no mention of foul play, Urbino couldn’t rid himself of the fear that this was what they might be dealing with. Who knew what dirty waters Flavia had stirred up after she rushed from Florian’s to get proof that Lorenzo Brollo wasn’t her father?
Yesterday Urbino had given a statement at the Venice Questura to Commissario Francesco Gemelli of the Pubblica Sicurezza with whom he had a somewhat adversarial relationship. They had worked together, unofficially, in the past, not so much with the police chief’s approval as by his sufferance. Gemelli had been less than pleased to learn that Urbino and the Contessa had been acquainted with the dead woman and that Urbino suspected murder. Urbino had told him about Flavia’s intrusion at the Contessa’s villa last Saturday, the blowup at Florian’s on Thursday afternoon, Flavia’s link to Bruno Novembrini, and her lodging at the Casa Trieste.
“A delicate situation for your Contessa to be in,” Gemelli had said. “Shortly after a public threat to the reputation of the Conte and Contessa da Capo-Zendrini, the young woman is found floating in the Grand Canal. You say you think foul play might be involved. Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we? By ‘we’ I mean the police, the medical examiner, and the prosecutor. It might be much better if you and the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini prayed that Flavia Brollo died any way other than by foul play, although a judgment of death by suicide could do its own kind of damage to the Contessa’s peace of mind and reputation.” Gemelli had given his supercilious smile. “We’ll proceed with our inquiry and wait for Zavarella’s report. Nothing is likely to slip by him.”
When the Contessa had read the article in the Gazzettino, she was stunned, as Urbino knew she would be, to find the Grespi name surfacing. Grespi was the maiden name of Violetta Volpi, the woman who the Contessa’s friend Oriana Borelli had said bore a long-standing grudge against the Contessa. Urbino had given Oriana a call, asking her to try to get information from her hu
sband Filippo’s old nurse. Oriana had told him last week at the Ca’ Borelli that the nurse knew Violetta Volpi. Since his arrival, Urbino and the Contessa had stayed close to La Muta in anticipation of Oriana’s response, venturing this afternoon only as far as the maze to take advantage of the fresh, cool air blowing across the Dolomites.
Although the Contessa, dressed in flattering apricot charmeuse, was leaning on Urbino’s arm and seemed to be paying little attention to their meanderings, it was she who was leading him. Despite Urbino’s many negotiations of the maze’s devious twists and turns and cul-de-sacs with the Contessa—and once, completely alone, on an interminable summer afternoon when he had been too proud to uncover the signs—he had never learned the route. Trying a trick he had read about, he had kept his left hand in constant contact with the hedge wall, but it had done no good. The Contessa’s maze was much more complicated than that. Now, as on other occasions, Urbino was content to have her lead the way. His only responsibility was to carry the wicker hamper with their late-afternoon snack.
“If you think my problems are over now, you’re sadly mistaken, caro,” she said, looking straight ahead along the line of neatly clipped yews. “However Flavia died—suicide, accident, or God forbid! murder—I feel responsible. How can I not? One minute she’s all wrought up and desperate for me to accept that Alvise is her father, and the next she’s dead. All night I’ve been tortured thinking about her and worrying about myself, and about what it means to me now that she’s dead. The burden hasn’t been doubled. It’s been tripled, quadrupled! I don’t know if I can bear it.”
Despite her distress, however, the Contessa didn’t hesitate when they reached a junction but went to the left and almost immediately to the right. All they could see above the hedges were the upper stories of La Muta, the clear blue sky, and the top of the viewing tower in the center.
The Contessa stopped and looked at Urbino.
“She can’t have been Alvise’s daughter! I’ve searched through all my records from my conservatory days, but I didn’t find the Brollo name anywhere. And as for Violetta Grespi—or Violetta Volpi as she is now—I’m almost convinced she must be related in some way to Flavia Brollo’s mother. Sharing the Grespi name would be too much of a coincidence. Well, whether she’s related to Flavia Brollo’s mother or not, Violetta Volpi could give me back my peace of mind. Of course, if she does say that Alvise was Flavia’s father, how will I know whether she’s being spiteful by lying or being spiteful by telling the truth? Oh, it’s impossible!”
“The truth is what you want, Barbara, no matter what it is.”
Urbino didn’t toss this out lightly. The Contessa was a highly moral though not at all moralistic woman. She prided herself on doing what was right and facing things squarely.
“And don’t worry. We’ll recognize the truth when we hear it,” Urbino assured her with more conviction than he felt as they resumed their slow pace. “What’s much more important is how Flavia died. If she committed suicide, it’s going to be a hard blow. There’s going to be regret and guilt. But if Flavia was murdered, it’s not going to be any better—”
“‘Better’!” the Contessa repeated. “They’re equal evils as far as I’m concerned.”
“But if she was murdered, Barbara, it could have been because of Alvise in some way, and we have to know.” The Contessa’s gray eyes widened in fear. Urbino squeezed her arm gently. “But things should be clearer tomorrow after Zavarella hands in his report.”
They were on a long, curving stretch now with several alternate passages to their right but the Contessa ignored them.
“I’m depending on you more than ever before. Do what you have to do. After poor Flavia’s outburst at Florian’s, there’s no way that her accusation about Alvise is going to be kept a secret. It might even be better this way. It won’t seem as if I have anything to hide. People might be more willing to tell you the truth—and if there is a relationship between her death and Alvise you’ll be in the best position to find out and help the police. You’ve proven so good at it in the past,” the Contessa added, giving him a brave little smile.
They had reached a spiral junction, one of several in the maze. The Contessa came to a halt, but not because she had lost her way and was tempted to read one of the covered signs that said LIFT IF LOST in three languages. She was looking at Urbino in dismay.
“Am I being a fool? Should I just let it go? Fidelity leaves nothing behind but a clean sheet—a clean page,” she corrected herself quickly, “but infidelity—betrayal—that’s something else entirely, isn’t it? A person can always find proof of that—or something that looks enough like it. I have to keep my two feet squarely on the ground. If I don’t I’m lost, absolutely lost!”
She looked around her with a slightly bewildered expression, as if illustrating just how lost she could become. As if to compensate, she turned down one of the paths with an almost aggressive quickening of her stride.
“But now that poor Flavia is dead—possibly murdered—there’s no way that Alvise and I aren’t going to be dragged into things whether I want it or not. There’s absolutely no way I can let it go, is there, caro?”
They were such good and close friends that their silences were almost as communicative as their conversations. The Contessa leaned more heavily on Urbino as the minutes passed, but she continued along the gravel path without the slightest hesitation. After more twists and turns, the marble bench at the center appeared. Behind it were rose bushes, the viewing tower, and a classical statue of a nymph—Alvise’s gift to his wife during the summer of the maze.
As Urbino sat next to the Contessa on the bench and opened the hamper with the sandwiches, chilled wine, and mineral water, a shout floated down to them from the tower.
“Hey, you two! I’m up here!”
It was Eugene, whom they assumed hadn’t yet returned from his trip into town. Urbino and the Contessa looked up at the tower. Eugene’s round, flushed face smiled down at them.
“It took you two a mighty long time to get through! I was watchin’ you all the way. Mind if I join you?”
“Please do, Mr. Hennepin. We’re having a little repast.”
“‘Repast’! I love the way you Countesses talk. I’ll be down in a jiff.”
His head disappeared. Footsteps clattered down the staircase.
“I like your ex—brother-in-law, caro. He’s so—so”—she searched for a word to do the man justice—“so primitif, in the best sense. He doesn’t seem to think before he speaks. It’s absolutely delightful! I find him charming.”
“Charming?”
“Are you jealous? Or are you worried that this charming man is going to tell me all the secrets about you and Evangeline that you’ve hugged so close all these years? Don’t begrudge me what little pleasure I can find right now!”
Eugene burst through the Gothic-arched opening.
“Sorry to barge in on your little ‘repast’ like this, Countess, but I wouldn’t want you to think I was spyin’ on you from up there.”
“Please call me Barbara.”
“How about Countess Barbara? You can call me Eugene. You’ve got a mighty fine contraption here—and thank the Lord you had the good sense to put up those signs. They should have them in Venice instead of the ones pointin’ in two different directions with the same name! I walked through lickety-split. You were just pokin’ along. Why, thank you, Urbino, don’t mind if I do have a bit of wine, but I’ll hold back on a sandwich. Now you two just pretend I’m not here and go right on with your confab. I won’t pay you no mind.”
But no sooner did he say this than he reached into his pocket and took out a list on which he had written everything he had bought so far in Venice. For the next hour, there at the center of the maze, he solicited the Contessa’s advice about what other things he should invest in. The Contessa gave every appearance of being interested.
2
During dinner a large unoccupied part of the Contessa was waiting for Oriana’s
call. So conversationally expansive, however, was Eugene that an observer less attuned to the Contessa than Urbino might have thought that her attention was completely captivated.
“Urbino was always a mite strange,” Eugene was saying now as he sat in full possession of a Louis Quinze armchair in the salotto verde. “How could he help it? No brothers and sisters, and only a meager sprinklin’ of great-aunts and cousins in the whole wide world! Practically an orphan even before his poor momma and poppa were killed in the car crash. You’d think someone with hardly any kin would want a passel of kids of his own, but Evangeline and him, they never had none. You might have had a son, Urbino. Maybe he would have grown up to work in the Hennepin business even if you never wanted to, not that I ever faulted you. You know I was on your side.”
Urbino, who had never regretted being the only child of two only children and who had never wanted to be part of a large, potentially smothering family, said nothing.
“Your sister has a lovely name, Eugene,” the Contessa said, giving Urbino a secret little smile from the Brustolon sofa. Behind her on the wall was her collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century fans from Venice, Spain, France, and England, which, for Urbino, always seemed to whisper back the questionable conversations they had masked in a long-gone era.
“We call her Evie most times,” Eugene said proudly, “but Urbino always called her Evangeline.”
“I believe she’s remarried since she and Urbino divorced, hasn’t she?”
“Married to our cousin Reid—our second cousin,” he emphasized, “but things don’t look too good for them now. Evie’s cuttin’ loose. Says it’ll be better for little Randall in the long run.”
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