“Because without the label we can’t be sure whether she was really taking them, can we?”
“She was taking them all right! I think we’ve finished, Macintyre. Flavia told me to be nice to you but maybe she didn’t know that you weren’t nice yourself, and would be saying bad things about her. You and the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini just want to make Flavia seem unreliable, now that she’s dead and can’t defend herself! You have no regard for the dead! I think it’s—it’s despicable!”
As Mirko got angrier and angrier, Urbino found something forced in it, as if the man were giving a performance or saying these things because he thought they were expected of him. Mirko took a deep breath and seemed about to go on in the same vein, perhaps at an even higher volume, but instead he remained silent, rubbing his nose again. It was as if he had decided, for whatever reason, that it would be better if he wasn’t so passionate in Flavia’s defense—better, instead, if he continued to do what Flavia had asked him to do and tell the truth. A doubt remained in Urbino’s mind, however. How could he know whether Flavia had said this to Mirko at all?
“I didn’t mean to get so worked up, Signor Macintyre,” Mirko said, shrugging his thin shoulders. “But it’s been hard on me. I cared about Flavia.”
“I understand,” Urbino said. “That’s why I’m sure you want to know exactly how she died. We might not realize it but we always feel better when we know the truth about these things, even when it’s a hard truth.”
“You’re right,” Mirko responded flatly. “I suppose that means you have more questions.”
“Just a few. Is there anyone still at the pensione who might have had any contact with Flavia last week? Anyone who might have seen her on the last night she came here?”
“No.”
“Flavia kept a scrapbook,” Urbino said, hoping that Madge Lennox had told him the truth about it.
Mirko didn’t seem surprised.
“I have it. Don’t tell Lorenzo, but I kept a few of her things. The scrapbook, a few books, and an old robe I like. They were special to Flavia and they make me feel close to her. Want to see the scrapbook and the books?”
Mirko opened the table drawer and took out two paper-bound books and a large album with a dark blue cover. He was now being as cooperative as possible, it seemed.
Urbino took the album and paged through it quickly as Mirko observed him nervously. The scrapbook was almost completely filled with newspaper clippings, postcards, and other memorabilia.
“Would you mind if I took this for a day or two?”
Mirko was still looking down at the album.
“I—I’d rather you didn’t.”
Urbino was puzzled at this apparent change in Mirko. If he hadn’t wanted Urbino to look at it, why had he volunteered to show it to him? Mirko was a difficult man to read. Was there craft behind what he was doing or was he making things up as he went along? What roles, if any, were grief over Flavia and love for her playing in all this?
Taking back the scrapbook, Mirko handed the two books to Urbino. One was an Italian biography of Eleonora Duse and the other a catalog of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Urbino fanned the pages of the biography. Nothing was between the pages.
He turned to the Guggenheim catalog. On the cover was a photograph of the terrace of the Palazzo Guggenheim. Marino Marini’s tumescent horseman—although the state of his arousal couldn’t be seen from the angle of the shot—gazed out at the Grand Canal through the wrought-iron gates. One of the mooring poles against which Flavia’s body had surfaced three days ago was visible.
Urbino opened the booklet. On the flyleaf was the inscription:
To my favorite niece on her twenty-first birthday. Does it make any difference that you’re also my only one?
Love,
Zia Violetta
Urbino riffled through the catalog. He had his own copy at the Palazzo Uccello. There were English and Italian forewords about the collection, followed by color illustrations of most of the museum’s works. The binding was loose and several pages slid out and fell to the floor. Urbino picked up the pages and started to rearrange them in their proper sequence. He soon noticed that one leaf of the book was missing, comprising pages 71 and 72, opposite sides of the same sheet. He handed the books back to Mirko, who stared fixedly at the cover photograph of the catalog.
“I’m sorry, Signor Macintyre,” Mirko said with a touch of impatience, “but I have to go to the Questura now to bring over the registration slips.”
Urbino thanked Mirko for his help and left. As he walked slowly in the direction of Campo Santa Margherita, Urbino started to play over his conversation with Mirko. Could Regina Brollo actually have told her daughter that Alvise da Capo-Zendrini was her father? Had she been telling the truth? If not, then why did Regina Brollo fill her daughter’s mind with such a monstrous lie?
But how much of what Ladislao Mirko told him could he believe? Mirko hadn’t acted in a completely consistent way. He had some of the signs of cocaine addiction—the reddened nose, the sniffles, the dull eyes, even a slight confusion at times. And then there was the scratch on his cheek that he had made a point of saying the cat had done. Urbino’s investigation was going to be very tricky because of his close relationship with the Contessa, but he would have to be careful to keep an open mind, Perhaps—
Urbino’s thoughts were interrupted by quick footsteps behind him and the calling of his name. He turned. It was Mirko, his homely face now flushed. He was carrying two objects under his arm. One was the large envelope for the Questura. The other was Flavia’s scrapbook.
“Here,” Mirko said, thrusting the scrapbook at Urbino. “Flavia wouldn’t mind. She liked you. I know she didn’t know you but—but Flavia could tell about a man. If he could be trusted. She always trusted me,” Mirko emphasized.
Surprised but pleased at this sudden reversal of Mirko’s decision, Urbino thanked him and said he would return the scrapbook as soon as he finished going through it. Mirko, without saying good-bye, hurried ahead into the calle.
12
Urbino, with two hours before his appointment with Novembrini in Campo Santa Margherita, decided to go back to the Palazzo Uccello and see what he could learn from Flavia’s scrapbook. He was still puzzled why Mirko had changed his mind about giving it to him. What had gone through the man’s mind in those minutes after Urbino had left him? Was it possible that he had removed something from the scrapbook?
Unlike earlier that day when he had returned home from the Palazzo Brollo, Urbino departed from the direct route. He wanted to avoid the crowds clogging the main calli, making it almost impossible to squeeze through. Spirits were high and the alleys echoed loudly with enthusiastic voices. The crowds became thinner and the sounds more muted, however, as he went through a network of alleys that groped and twisted their way toward the Grand Canal. They were a tourist’s nightmare. Unless you knew exactly where you were going, you could easily get turned completely around and end up far from your desired destination—or find yourself, an hour later, back at your starting point.
Urbino knew the city so well that he didn’t have to pay particular attention to his route. This was fortunate since his mind was filled with just about everything but the scene in front of him. For a brief moment Urbino remembered how he had felt vaguely menaced and stalked on his earlier walk. It now embarrassed him that he had become a victim of one of the city’s familiar tricks.
Urbino thought about what he had learned. Mirko said that Flavia had been at the Casa Trieste until seven-thirty and then, angry, had left to see Violetta Volpi. Fifteen minutes on foot would have brought her to the Ca’ Volpi on the other side of the Grand Canal. If she had taken the traghetto across the canal by the Ca’ Rezzonico, she could have been there even quicker, for the gondola ferry would have deposited her only a short distance from the Ca’ Volpi. Venice was a small town, only about twice the size of Central Park in New York City.
But had Flavia gone to the Ca’ Volpi directly? Had she stopped to see s
omeone on the way? Urbino hoped that Corrado Scarpa would be able to give the Contessa the information they needed about the chronology of Flavia’s last night.
Urbino turned down a usually deserted calle near San Giacomo dell’Orio that was a shortcut for those who knew their way. Wooden planks were set down on the paving stones to make the alley negotiable for acqua alta. As could so often happen in Venice, even on the driest of days, an oppressive dampness dropped down over Urbino like a heavy cloak. He took several deep breaths but the thick air didn’t satisfy him.
A few seconds later Urbino heard footsteps behind him on the plank but paid them no mind. Just someone else who knew his way through these back alleys, someone else just as eager to get through and out into more breathable air.
Then a man appeared in front of Urbino. He wore a dark cap low on his forehead. Urbino felt a rapid surge of apprehension. Something about the man’s wary, catlike stride and appraising look made Urbino sense that he was not just going to pass him by. Urbino tried to draw more air into his lungs. He almost felt as if he were drowning.
Urbino turned to retrace his way, but now another man was standing a few feet away, blocking Urbino’s path. He was over six feet tall and very broad. If Urbino hadn’t been so concerned—if he hadn’t still been struggling for breath—he would have laughed because this man, too, wore a dark cap identical to the other’s. In a quick, hot flash of fear, Urbino realized he was about to be mugged.
What happened next happened very quickly. The man behind Urbino was upon him, holding him around the neck and putting a hand over his mouth. Urbino couldn’t move. What little air he had been taking into his lungs was now cut off completely. The other mugger rushed up and reached into his pockets, extracting his wallet and his keys.
Urbino clasped Flavia’s scrapbook closer. The man holding him in a viselike grip said in unpolished Italian whose regional accent Urbino couldn’t place, “Get the damn book.” The man going through his pockets reached for the scrapbook. It was soon in his hands.
“That’s it,” the mugger holding Urbino said. “Let’s go!”
He pushed Urbino to the pavement and his cohort, with a strange, scraping laugh, threw the keys down into Urbino’s face. Urbino instinctively closed his eyes and the keys struck him in the left eye. He heard the two men hurry off in the direction Urbino had come from.
It took him a minute or two to get to his feet. He braced himself against the side of one of the buildings, the bricks slippery to his touch. His head was swimming and his left eye was throbbing. He put his hand up to touch his eye. He took his hand away and looked at it in the dimness of the narrow alley. There was no blood.
Urbino got enough breath to shout for help. He hurried in the direction he had heard his two muggers run. A middle-aged man and his wife were farther up the alley, toward San Giacomo dell’Orio. They said that two men had rushed by them a minute or two before but they weren’t sure which way they had gone. Urbino went as far as the quiet Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio. He saw no trace of the two men. If they knew the city as well as he did, they would be camouflaged by a crowd by now.
Angry and still a little fearful, Urbino went to a nearby trattoria and called the police.
13
When Urbino joined Bruno Novembrini at the café in Campo Santa Margherita, his bloodshot and swollen left eye required an explanation. He quickly described the mugging and the theft of his wallet, but didn’t say anything about the scrapbook. He had never been mugged before and he was still shaken by the experience. Could the two muggers have been trailing him since earlier in the day? Had they seen him standing outside the Palazzo Brollo and then followed him later to the Casa Trieste?
Urbino had filled out several forms for the police, but the police seemed almost resigned. Another mugging to add to the string of others this summer. Urbino had tried to convince them that this mugging, however, might not be part of the pattern, but what did he have as proof except his own suspicion?
Urbino was just as distraught at the loss of the album as he was by having been physically attacked—perhaps even more. The police were alerting sweepers and trash collectors, since the muggers might have tossed away the scrapbook if it was worthless to them. But this was too much to hope for. Urbino was afraid the muggers hadn’t just been after his wallet but rather the scrapbook. The man restricting him had been determined that his accomplice take it.
Urbino ended up being fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Novembrini at seven-thirty. Campo Santa Margherita, which the area’s residents used as an extension of their homes, especially during the passeggiata that so amused Eugene, was filled with locals. Its comfortable, unpretentious rhythm helped soothe Urbino somewhat as he sat across from Bruno Novembrini at the outdoor café.
Novembrini’s handsome, bony face was heavily lined with fatigue this early evening, giving him an even more rakish look, especially with the dark shadow of his beard gleaming in places with spikes of gray. Urbino could easily imagine Novembrini as a model for those darkly handsome, vaguely sinister men whom virginal heroines fall in love with in bodice-ripper romances. Almost invariably this kind of man ended up being—in fiction, at least—well intentioned. What had Flavia’s relationship been with the older Novembrini? Had she found the glowering artist abusive or kindly intentioned in the end? And just how virginal and vulnerable had she actually been? If appearances meant anything, she hadn’t been virginal at all; yet Urbino knew only too well that appearances often were the very greatest deceivers.
“I’d like to get this over with,” Novembrini said in his low, mellifluous voice. “I’m doing this at Massimo Zuin’s urging. He thinks it might help me to talk about Flavia with someone who—who wasn’t involved in any way with her. I’ve been keeping a lot to myself and he thinks it’s taking its toll. But first you should tell me exactly why you want to know more about Flavia. Is it really because of the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini, as you said when we talked before?”
Novembrini opened a sketchbook and took a pencil from his pocket.
“Would you mind if I sketched you while we’re talking? It helps my thoughts along.”
Urbino explained why he needed to know more about Flavia. He told Novembrini how she had insisted that the Conte da Capo-Zendrini was her father and how Urbino suspected that her death not only had something to do with her accusation but wasn’t suicide at all, let alone an accident.
Novembrini just listened, squinting against the smoke from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He busied himself with his pencil, looking back and forth between Urbino’s face and the sketchbook. He took the cigarette from his mouth and put it on the edge of the table.
“Murder? Would it shock you if I said I wish I could believe it?” Novembrini said. “Maybe then I wouldn’t feel guilty about her having committed suicide. But suicide or not, it’s her father and her father’s sister who should feel the most guilty. Flavia never felt loved by either of them. She said that Lorenzo resented her after her mother’s death. But this is the first I’ve ever heard of anything about the Conte da Capo-Zendrini—or any other man. She never said anything like that to me.”
Novembrini frowned. Did it bother him that Flavia hadn’t told him about the Conte da Capo-Zendrini? The artist studied Urbino’s face for several moments, but didn’t return right away to his sketch. A burning odor hit Urbino’s nostrils. Novembrini reached down for his cigarette, which had scorched the tablecloth, and took a long drag, trying, not very hard, to blow the smoke away from Urbino.
“I honestly don’t know anything about it,” Novembrini said, looking down at the sketch again and making a few strokes.
“How long did you know Flavia?”
“Almost two years. I met her at Zuin’s. She came in with her aunt—not Lorenzo’s sister but her mother’s, Violetta Volpi. She’s a painter, most of it imitation Munch. She’s envious of me, although she should just turn a cold eye on her own work to see why she never even made it as far as the Aperto.”<
br />
The Aperto, an exhibit devoted to up and coming artists, was mounted every Biennale at the rope works near the Arsenal.
“Massimo carries her work. Your relative bought one—a portrait of a girl standing by a pool of water. Violetta painted a whole series like that. Flavia didn’t like any of them. They reminded her of her mother’s death. To give Violetta credit, though, she was devoted to Flavia. Although Flavia sometimes said that Violetta might have resented her mother a little—because her mother was so beautiful and Violetta knew Lorenzo first—she never doubted her love. And if Flavia needed anything she needed love—deep love—not just affection, and certainly not just sex.” Novembrini paused before saying, “I tried to be the kind of man she seemed to need. I loved her but I must have failed her somehow. She used to say that she trusted me a long time before she loved me. I’ve thought about that a lot since she died. I think that for her, trust was just about everything. If I ever violated her trust, I knew that she would be destroyed—and I never did.”
Where, Urbino asked himself, did the dark-haired young woman he had seen with Novembrini at the café before Flavia had died and whose show of affection Novembrini had checked fit into this picture?
“So why did she slash the painting?”
Novembrini, who should have expected the question, seemed surprised. He put down the sketch pad.
“I said that I never violated her trust, but that’s not the same as her thinking I had. About two weeks ago she started accusing me of seeing someone else and saying that I had been lying to her. A friend of hers put the idea in her head. Ladislao Mirko, the weird guy who runs the pensione I mentioned when we first talked. I never took to him. He’s a real loser.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not all that much. Just what Flavia and—and one or two of her friends told me about him.”
“What friends?”
“I don’t remember their names now. Just friends.”
“What did they say?”
Liquid Desires Page 14