There was one more thing Urbino wanted to know. It was about Silvestro Occhipinti.
“That silly little man from Asolo?” Annabella answered. “The one who’s always mumbling nonsense? I heard that Violetta had hopes he would marry her in the old days, but he must have seen through her.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Yes. The day Flavia drowned like Regina. In the morning. I told him where Flavia was staying. I called up Ladislao Mirko to tell him that an old man might be coming by the pensione. He didn’t think it was important until two days ago—Friday. He wanted to know who ‘the skinny old man’ was. I told him. Ha! Do you think an old codger like that would believe he had a chance with Flavia? But who knows? Maybe she ended up liking older men after Lorenzo!”
Annabella laughed hysterically until tears rolled down her sallow cheeks. Urbino couldn’t imagine flowers or anything else blooming under her baleful touch.
He was about to turn away when he was startled to see Lorenzo Brollo’s face staring at him from within a cracked mirror in a far corner of the dark hall. The face was immobile, the eyes sharp and glaring. In the few moments before Annabella closed the door, Urbino couldn’t decide whether he was looking at Brollo’s actual reflection or the reflection of a portrait that had gone unnoticed on his other visits. Whichever it was, the eyes stared unblinkingly into Urbino’s, as haughty as ever.
Turning his back on the dark and twisted emotions of the Palazzo Brollo, Urbino told the motoscafista to take him as quickly as possible to the Casa Trieste. The puzzle pieces were all finally coming together.
20
“Mirko’s not here,” Agata said when Urbino got to the Casa Trieste fifteen minutes later. “He left about two hours ago, not long after you were here.”
“Do you know where he went?”
The woman shook her head and was about to close the door.
“By the way, Agata, did you ever notice a bottle of pills anywhere in Flavia Brollo’s room when you were cleaning it?”
“Pills? I don’t think so.”
Urbino asked if he could use the pensione phone and waited until he heard Agata sweeping before he dialed. He first called the Contessa and, in a low voice, asked her to have Milo wait with the car in Bassano for the next train from Venice, which was leaving in an hour. Then he asked if she had seen Occhipinti that day.
“No, but he called a few hours ago. I’ve been trying to contact you. He said that he hadn’t told me everything. He was at the Casa Trieste before Tuesday.”
“Just what I thought.”
“He said he didn’t like lying to me, that he was ready to tell the whole truth, but that he wanted to tell you and me together. What’s going on, Urbino? I’m frightened. Are you coming here because of Silvestro? Or is it Madge Lennox? She went by in a taxi a little while ago in the direction of La Pippa.”
“I’ll explain everything later, Barbara, but you can stop worrying about Alvise. He wasn’t Flavia’s father. No, that’s all I have time to tell you now, but please stay at La Muta.”
Urbino next called Occhipinti, letting the phone ring a long time. When no one picked up, he called the Questura.
Commissario Gemelli hadn’t returned. Urbino, speaking softly so that Agata wouldn’t hear, told the duty officer what had happened at the Ca’ Volpi, what he had learned from Violetta Volpi and Annabella Brollo, and what he knew about Silvestro Occhipinti in relation to Flavia Brollo and her death. He said that he was going to Asolo to Occhipinti’s apartment and gave the exact address on the Via Browning. The Questura should alert the carabinieri in Asolo and try to locate Ladislao Mirko. Praying that when Gemelli got all this information he would realize, as Urbino himself did, how urgent the situation was, Urbino went through everything again with the duty officer as the minutes flew by.
Urbino went out into the little square. As he hurried into the calle that would eventually take him back to where the boat was waiting, he realized how much danger he was in. He felt it much more keenly now than ever before.
The calle was deserted, filled with puddles from the recent storm. Urbino quickened his step, as much out of apprehensiveness as urgency. He was reminded of how he had been mugged not far from here, and he still wasn’t sure whether it had been a random attack or not. Quick footsteps came from what he thought was ahead of him. When he turned the corner, however, no one was there. Water dripped from the eaves of the buildings onto the pavement.
Suddenly Urbino heard a shout and a dark object came crashing down in front of him, within inches of hitting him in the head. It smashed on the pavement. Pieces of earthenware, soil, and the leaves and flowers of a geranium were scattered on the stones.
“Mi dispiace, signore.” A woman looked down from an open window. Two pots of geraniums remained on her sill. “I’m planning to put up wires to keep the pots from falling,” she went on nervously. “Are you all right?”
Urbino said he was fine and ran to the waiting boat. Ten minutes later, thanks to the Rio Nuovo shortcut, Urbino was walking up the steps of the Santa Lucia train station. As he looked at the sky above the modern white building, it was as if some visual residue of the recent lightning were flashing “Fathers often use too much force.” Urbino had come full circle since more than two weeks ago when, sitting on the veranda of the Grand Hotel des Bains, he had remembered those words from a previous Biennale d’Arte. They meant something very much different to him now than they had then. From now on they would be associated with a cycle of violence that he feared might not yet be over.
“Urbino!” It was Eugene. “I thought you’d never get here! I called Countess Barbara and she said you were takin’ the next train up to see her. Thought I’d join you if you don’t mind. I’ve got something to tell you. It’s goin’ to disappoint the hell out of you though. Ha, ha!”
“I’m in a hurry, Eugene. The train leaves in a few minutes.”
“Let’s get goin’ then! I want to see Countess Barbara once more before I leave. I’m off to Rome tomorrow morning.”
Urbino and Eugene made their way up the steps of the station, where groups of youths, many with backpacks, were lounging.
“Tomorrow?”
“Afraid so. Got to catch up with Evie. Don’t look like the two of you are goin’ to get together here in Venice. Who would’ve thought that spunky little sister of mine would be the one to get cold feet? She went to Rome today. But you ain’t free and clear entirely—not by a long shot! There’s a method in the girl’s madness.”
Urbino forged ahead of Eugene through the open doors of the station. The odors of sweat and wet clothing assaulted him.
“What do you mean?” Urbino called back over his shoulder.
Eugene was trying to keep up with him and was short of breath.
“Slow down, Urbino! What do I mean? I mean that Evie wants you to come to Rome. Neutral territory, she calls it. I said she should meet you in Switzerland then! The problem is she didn’t think she should come here, seein’ it’s your home now and all. But Rome’s different. I think she’s a mite suspicious of Venice. Could be because of some of the things I’ve been tellin’ her about what’s been goin’ on here. She didn’t take to the story of that girl who ended up dead. Bawled me out, too, about buyin’ you that picture of her. Anyway, Evie said something about a promise you made to her back in the good old days—something about a cemetery!”
Urbino remembered. In the early months of their marriage he had promised to take Evangeline to Keats’ and Shelley’s graves at the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. Evangeline loved the Romantic poets and had read about pilgrimages to this particular cemetery by devotees. The trip to Rome had been postponed, however, from their first anniversary to their second, until it was beyond all possibility as their marriage soured, failed, and then quickly ended after Urbino had discovered Evangeline and her cousin Reid together.
“Evie’s just as strange as you are when it comes to cemeteries! You know how much she loves St. Louis Cemetery
. Anyway, I said I’d tell you, and now you can do as you see fit. We’re stayin’ at the Boston Hotel for a week. I’d be happy to see you down there but don’t think I’m pressin’ you anymore. To be honest, Urbino, maybe my little sister is givin’ you the kind of test you can’t win. She’s a crafty one.”
Urbino checked the announcement board to see if the Bassano train was leaving from the usual track.
“I don’t know if I can get down to Rome, Eugene. I don’t know if I should. It might be better to leave things the way they are, but I’ll think about it.”
On his way to Asolo like this, with his mind filled with speculation and uneasiness, was no time to consider the possibility of a reunion with Evangeline and what it might mean. Reflection about that would have to come later.
“Well, you just think about it then. Meanwhile I guess I can make my good-byes tonight to Sylvester,” Eugene said. “I just might rent his villa next year. How would you like that, Urbino? Me and your Countess hobnobbing it up in Asolo.”
As they hurried to the Bassano del Grappa train, Eugene painted a detailed, rosy picture of what life might be like for him and Countess Barbara in the hills of Asolo.
21
When Urbino and Eugene arrived at Bassano, the Contessa’s Bentley was waiting. The Contessa hadn’t listened to Urbino. She hadn’t stayed at La Muta but had come to meet him.
“What a delightful surprise, caro!” the Contessa said. “You’ve brought our dear Eugene with you.”
On the way to Asolo, the Contessa and Eugene dominated the conversation while Urbino withdrew into himself, looking out the window and making only obligatory responses. The Contessa’s eyes slid in his direction many times, but Urbino was sure that Eugene detected nothing amiss in her attention. All the while, Urbino knew that she was agonizing over what might happen next, although she was certainly relieved to know that Alvise hadn’t been Flavia’s father after all.
At one point, hurrying to speak in a convenient interval in Eugene’s monologue, she said, “I must say that you’ve been in a brown study since Bassano, Urbino.”
“A brown study, Countess?” Eugene asked, screwing up his face.
“Your former brother-in-law is thinking very deeply, Eugene. He’s lost to us. Can’t you see it as plain as day?”
“Oh, that funny look on his face! I know what you mean. Well, he’s always been a thinker, Countess Barbara. Let’s just hope he ain’t thinkin’ anything bad about us!”
The Contessa queried Urbino silently with her eyes.
“Why don’t you have Milo drop you and Eugene off at La Muta,” Urbino suggested. “Rosa can have a nice light supper ready and we—”
“A ‘repast’!” Eugene broke in with a laugh. “That’s the ticket. But forget about droppin’ me off! I want to see Sylvester, too.”
“Silvestro?” the Contessa said in a choked voice, putting a hand to her throat.
“Yes, Countess Barbara, good old Sylvester! I want to say good-bye. Poor fellow wasn’t lookin’ all that good the last time I saw him.”
The Contessa gave Urbino a pleading look. She clearly feared that Urbino was about to pull down her secure little world of Asolo.
“Maybe I’ll make some arrangements with Sylvester for next year,” Eugene said with a wink at the Contessa. “You might have more than one boy from New Orleans on your hands before you know it, Countess Barbara—but I promise you I’ll be a lot more rambunctious than Urbino!”
The Contessa told Milo to go to Occhipinti’s directly, despite Urbino’s repeated suggestion that she be dropped off at La Muta. When the Bentley pulled up beside the arcade of the Via Browning, Urbino got out quickly.
“Hold on there, Urbino,” Eugene said. “Don’t forget me and Countess Barbara.”
“I think Barbara will be more comfortable staying here.”
Urbino looked pointedly at the Contessa. She collapsed against the seat as if she no longer had any energy.
“You can go back to La Muta, Barbara.”
“I certainly will not. I’m staying right where I am.”
Despite her determined words, the Contessa’s eyes were painfully vulnerable. Urbino didn’t like to leave her like this but he had little choice. As it was, he had to deal with Eugene, who was probably thinking only of a fond, apparently temporary farewell to Occhipinti.
22
As Urbino and Eugene went under the arcade and up to the door of Occhipinti’s building, an elderly woman was coming out. She glared at them suspiciously but let them go in. A dog was barking sharply.
Urbino hurried up the stairway to the third floor, Eugene right behind him. The dog’s barking became louder and sharper, then was followed by a yelp of pain. There was no doubt that the dog’s cries were coming from behind Occhipinti’s door.
Urbino knocked as hard as he could.
“Sylvester!” Eugene called from behind Urbino. “It’s Eugene and Urbino. Is your little dog all right?”
Eugene went up to the door and pounded on it. Urbino tried the doorknob. The door was locked.
“Let’s see if we can break the door down,” Urbino said.
Without waiting for an explanation, Eugene pushed his shoulder against the door. It hardly budged.
“Let’s get a good runnin’ start,” Eugene said.
Urbino and Eugene went to the banister and then ran together toward the door. They both hit it with their shoulders at the same time. The lock gave way and they were carried by their own momentum into the room.
“What the hell!” Eugene said as he took in the scene.
Pompilia had resumed yapping and was circling the sofa. Sprawled on the sofa, flat on his back, was Silvestro Occhipinti. At least Urbino assumed it was Alvise’s old friend, for the still, small figure’s face wasn’t visible. How could it be beneath its burden?
As he and Eugene ran to the sofa, Urbino wondered if the last words poor Occhipinti might have seen in his long life—if in fact it were now truly over—were,
Open my heart and you will see,
‘Graved inside of it “Italy.”
For these were the words embroidered on the silk pillow that Ladislao Mirko was holding over the face of the birdlike little man.
Footsteps clattered up the stairs. Three carabinieri in blue uniforms rushed into the room. Behind them, out of breath, was the Contessa, her eyes wide with worry.
EPILOGUE
Death over Gelato
The contessa insisted.
Five minutes later a matching Coppa Duse was placed in front of Urbino on the plant-screened terrace of the Caffè Centrale in Asolo. The Contessa, in a silk chiffon tea gown in an antique rose print, sat across from him in the filtered sunlight. The only sounds were the soft conversations at the other tables, the playing of the winged-lion fountain in the piazza, and La Traviata spilling out of an open window.
“It will help soothe you, caro, as you give me the rest of the grim and grisly details.”
It was Wednesday afternoon, two days after Urbino and Eugene had burst in on Ladislao Mirko holding the Browning pillow over Occhipinti’s face. Alvise’s old friend was recuperating at La Muta with his faithful Pompilia, and both should soon be walking up and down the streets of Asolo together again.
“You know the worst of the details now,” Urbino said, his spoon poised over the whipped cream soaked with blue syrup. He had already told her on Sunday about Lorenzo and Violetta’s affair, their plot against Regina, and Lorenzo’s sexual abuse of Flavia—his own daughter, as they now knew.
He had never seen the Contessa so stunned—so stunned, in fact, that she hadn’t immediately registered that she could stop worrying about Alvise.
“I feel abominably guilty,” the Contessa said now, already well beyond her whipped cream. She was looking considerably better than she had. The deep rose of her print dress was complemented by a gentle glow in her cheeks. “I’ve gained so much”—Urbino’s eyes couldn’t help but flick in the direction of her coppa as she said this,
which wasn’t lost on her—“and it’s all been at poor Flavia’s expense.”
Urbino knew what she meant. It was the turmoil and ghastly events of Flavia’s life, ending in her death at Ladislao Mirko’s hands, that revealed the young woman’s accusation for what it actually was—a desperate attempt at denial and evasion, at remaking her life.
“Of course, Barbara, Brollo denies that he ever was anything but the perfect father to her—denies that she ever broke down the last night of her life and accused him, once she no longer had the illusion that he actually wasn’t her father, of all the terrible things he had done to her.”
“Oh, we’ve turned over a rock, haven’t we? Such repulsive white squirming things under it! I definitely feel more revolted than enlightened.”
“There are things we’ll never know for sure.” Seeing an apprehensive look come into her gray eyes, he quickly added, “But I don’t mean about Alvise.”
“You’re sure?”
He reached out and touched her hand.
“Absolutely. Brollo and Violetta admit that Flavia was their daughter but Brollo denies that he ever touched her in any but a fatherly way. Although he admits that she made those accusations—he can hardly deny them since Annabella heard them—he says that they’re one more indication of how disturbed she was.”
“And disturbed she well might have been, being brought up in that atmosphere! She couldn’t trust anyone, could she? Not the schizophrenic Regina whom she loved as her mother, not Annabella who hated her, and certainly not Lorenzo! And not even her real mother, Violetta. Flavia thought she could trust her, but Violetta didn’t tell her the truth until the night of her death. And then there was Ladislao Mirko.”
Yes, Ladislao Mirko had ended up confessing everything to the police, admitting that Flavia had made not one but two visits to the Casa Trieste on the fateful Thursday evening. She had come back to the pensione after leaving the Palazzo Brollo, distraught over Lorenzo’s corroboration that she was definitely his daughter and that Violetta was her mother. She told Mirko everything she had learned since leaving him two hours earlier.
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