Surviving Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  He thought about how Count Gabrieli Verona had been drowned that same day here in Venice and wondered what Salvio’s preoccupation with drowning was about—it was an extremely rare mode of murder. He came upon a string of messages between the hit men that spelled out how Giselle’s left ankle was to be tethered with a length of vintage amber-colored nautical rope that was sent from Italy.

  Luigi came forward, sitting bolt upright with a start. Gabrieli had drowned because his left ankle had been tethered with rope that held him far below the water’s surface. It was an amber-colored rope that no one at Verdu Mer was familiar with. What on earth was that about? Nothing on the phone was sent by or to Salvio, his name wasn’t even mentioned. There were also two murderous directives initiated by two people, someone named Mateo and Bernardo’s brother or someone who called him ‘Fra.’ Luigi called out to the room at large, “Eh! Anyone know if the hit man the French have in custody…”

  “Bernardo Vitti,” a voice yelled.

  “…has a brother?” he finished.

  “Sì, Benjamin. The Vittis are from here, they live over on Murano.”

  “Anyone talk to Benjamin yet?”

  “Don’t know about that. Don’t think so. His address is in one of the files marked ‘French Case.’”

  “Grazie.” Luigi started shuffling through the files on his desk.

  “Prego.”

  “Who did the work on the Vitti brothers?” he called out to the room.

  “I did.” Bruno again.

  “Run a search, get me his phone number.”

  “It’s in the file.”

  Luigi’s excitement built as he found the file and pushed the others back into a stack. “You’re a beautiful man, Bruno. Maybe we’ll keep you over here in homicide after things settle down.”

  “Remember that when commendations come out. You’re the one with the Chief Inspector’s ear.”

  “Plan on it.”

  “I will.”

  Picking up his phone, Luigi dialed Benjamin’s number and got a message that the voicemail was full.

  He clicked off the call and continued scrolling through Henri’s phone. He found the number he’d just dialed, proof that the brothers had spoken the day Bernardo was sidelined by Fauve. He wouldn’t fall for “I haven’t spoken to him in a long time” when he finally got to question Benjamin. In fact, he now had enough evidence to bring Benjamin in for questioning. And then Luigi’s breath caught. Henri had taken a screenshot of Bernardo’s recent calls! Fucking brilliant!

  Bernardo had called Benjamin nine times for varying durations on the day in question. Luigi found a text that had been sent a month prior from Benjamin to his brother about a phone bill that included an attachment of the bill. It showed an address on Fondamenta Savorgnan. Turning to his computer, he searched the address and found a house two calles over from where Benedetta had sent him the night she broke out of captivity.

  Two big puzzle pieces snapped into place that he felt certain would lead to the critical pieces he’d been waiting months for. He was filled with gratitude for Giselle’s friend Henri. He pictured him as a scruffy Gérard Depardieu-looking man with a home-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth as he coolly stood over a drugged hit man scavenging his phone. He pictured Fauve as Brigitte Bardot in “…And God Created Woman” wearing a black ballet top, wrap-skirt and bare feet, stashing her hypodermic needle and then stepping over Bernardo to go check someone into their hotel with a sultry look.

  Luigi got up, pulled on his raincoat, grabbed his cellophane-wrapped panino, dropped both phones into his pocket, and headed off to visit the address on Fondamenta Savorgnan where hit men get phone bills and virgins were taken by their parents to be raped by Salvio Scortini.

  The rain had just stopped when he knocked on the door of a two-story whitewashed home kept neat with healthy winter greenery in the window boxes. A man with an immaculately clean-shaven head answered the door. He was dressed somberly, all in black with glossy black shoes. Bingo!

  “Sì? Che cosa?”

  “I’m Detective Lampani, Venice police.” He flashed his badge. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Sì.” He didn’t appear nervous.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mateo.”

  Gotcha! Keeping his expression neutral, he asked, “Are you familiar with Felix Montand, Miguel Turrion, or Bernardo Vitti?”

  “I know Benjamin Vitti, and I’ve heard of his brother Bernardo. The others, no.”

  “Ever met Bernardo?”

  “Sì.”

  “What’s your opinion of him?”

  “I don’t know enough about him to form an opinion. Benjamin doesn’t speak highly of him, so…”

  “But the brothers live together, right?”

  “No.”

  “They don’t live in an apartment…” He consulted his notebook and found the address from Bruno’s report. “…in Murano on Calle Brussa?”

  “Benjamin lives there, Bernardo doesn’t. Is this about Bernardo getting mixed up with some pazzi trying to pull off a robbery in France last month?”

  Luigi ignored the attempt to mislead him. “I’m looking into Bernardo’s involvement with the Veronas.”

  “The Veronas? He has no involvement, as far as I know.”

  Luigi figured he’d shake this liar up since he’d seen the texts both he and Benjamin had sent to Bernardo. “Bernardo was in France trying to kill one of the Veronas.”

  “No way. You’ve got the wrong guy. Neither brother knows anything about the Veronas. It was an attempted robbery of some French château.”

  “You sound like you know what happened.”

  “No, just what was on the news.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you know where Benjamin is right now?”

  “No.”

  “Does Bernardo get mail delivered here?”

  “No.”

  Luigi looked past him to a gleamingly clean entryway and beyond to a pleasant sitting room filled with similarly gleaming antique furniture. Apparently, this bald man was fond of polishing things: his furniture, his head, his shoes. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Are you a decorator?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve got excellent taste from what I can see.” Luigi gestured toward what looked like furnishings circa seventeen hundred.

  “My furniture was passed down from my great-grandparents—sturdy old pieces. Why give them up, right?”

  “There must have been real money in your family.”

  “Nah, they worked in service of one of the great palazzos and were given old furnishings.”

  “Oh? Which great palazzo?” Please say Scortini! Please say Scortini!

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Right. Okay then, I’ll be on my way.” Luigi walked away with the knowledge that Mateo was protecting Bernardo, he’d likely held Benedetta against her will, probably sheltered Salvio here while the entire police department had been hunting him, and was possibly involved with Gabrielli’s murder as well as the ongoing effort to kill Raphielli Scortini. Despite being unable to discuss his new evidence with anyone, he felt like things were finally coming together.

  He walked carefully to avoid the ice that was forming everywhere as the sun set. It was even floating in chunks along the canals. He ducked inside a tabaccheria as much to get out of the cold as to search for Pocket Coffee. They had none, so he bought a Mangini hard coffee candy and some aspirin. Opening both, he chewed two aspirin and popped the Mangini in his mouth. He did his best to pretend it was dark chocolate and sugary espresso. He failed miserably.

  Luigi was supposed to be ramping down from work for the holidays. He was scheduled to take the next two days off and was looking forward to some quiet time with Gladys. He used to love Christmas with his parents and uncles and cousins. But after a steady family exodus, he and Gladys were the only Lampanis who h
adn’t moved to Sorrento for a slower-paced life. Now, there were so many of his relatives in Sorrento that when he and Gladys visited, the locals said, “Oh! No more Lampanis! We know you’re going to change the name of our little town to Lampanirento!” It was said in jest. His family had been warmly embraced there.

  Since being stymied by the Scortini case, Gladys had been putting pressure on him to retire early and move. He hadn’t had time to consider it, but he was in love with two wives: Gladys and La Serenissima.

  Mateo didn’t want to do what had to come next, but Nejla had to go. Lately, he’d had to do a lot of things he didn’t want to do, but the Alithiní faithful had survived this long through secrecy, abundant caution, and when threatened, moving fast to escape the pope’s thugs. They worshipped listening to Jesus’s teachings as given to him directly from God, and Nejla, their orator, was the repository of their divine spoken tradition. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was written down. It was too dangerous for Nejla to remain in Venice. Mateo placed a call to her.

  “Pronto.”

  “Nejla, our anonymity has been broken.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I’ve just had the authorities at the house. If the dull-witted police have found us, we can’t risk the Vatican finding us, too.”

  “You’re sending me to Castine?”

  “Sì. Pack a small bag, nothing anyone would notice. Make it look like a day trip. I’ll get in contact with our people on Nautilus Island and get you on a flight to New York tomorrow.

  “New York? Aren’t I going to Castine, Maine?”

  “I’ll book you a connection to Portland, don’t you worry about anything. One of our people will meet you and say the code word ‘sinope.’ They’ll drive you to Penobscot Bay and then sneak you out to Nautilus Island where you’ll stay with the first North American congregation until you’re called back here. Call your niece and tell her she’ll be leading services in your absence.”

  He ended their call and started making preparations. He didn’t like the idea that Nejla’s niece would be their substitute orator, but it couldn’t be helped. She had memorized everything perfectly, she just didn’t deliver the lessons with anything approaching Nejla’s power.

  It was getting late and the sun was gone by the time he’d made the arrangements. He paid cash at a travel agency run by one of their Alithinían brethren. He’d just left the agency when one of his neighbors bumped into him in the cramped alley.

  “Eh! Mateo! Where’s the fire?” It was an old man who rented a room in a home near the safe house. He was always hanging out in Parco Savorgnan and seemed to never go inside in the summer no matter how bad the mosquitos got. He’d just sit in the park, like a fixture, either watching the children play on the playground, looking dreamily up into the trees, or dozing. No one in the neighborhood could avoid conversing with him if they were in the park.

  “Oh, no fire. Just trying to stay warm.”

  Ignoring his reply, the old man continued, “Everyone’s in such a hurry this time of year. It’s almost Christmas. Are you off to visit your relatives in…where are they again? Emilia Romagna?”

  “Sì, San Lazzaro. You have a good memory.”

  “Well, if I don’t see you before your trip, Buon Natale.”

  “Buon Natale,” he said and hurried off in the opposite direction of his neighbor.

  When Mateo reached the promenade at the edge of the Grand Canal, he could hear a low rumbling and occasional screeching sound. The ice was clacking together out on the waves, and the sound of heavy ice being tumbled about by the powerful motion of the lagoon was other-worldly.

  He walked to the vaporetto pier feeling secure in the Alithinían custom of always pretending to be somewhere visiting far-off relatives during Christmas. It provided an excuse to avoid celebrating the holiday mass that even the most lapsed Catholics observed, showing up and faking their way through a charade.

  For Alithiníans, Christmas meant nothing. They didn’t celebrate Christ’s birth on some arbitrary day by engaging in gross consumerism and then gorging themselves like Roman emperors. They celebrated their High Holy Day in the spring when God’s natural bounteous gifts were bursting forth in all their glory. Italian Alithiníans tended to celebrate by snorkeling where there were still underwater wonders in areas like the Cyclops’ Sea, Aci Trezza, or Taormina. That was the ultimate Alithinían religious experience!

  It was still dark when Gina woke up. She moved about her little apartment, grateful that her landlord had fixed the radiator. But now it was beyond cozy, in fact it was a bit stuffy. She went to the window overlooking the Campo San Martino and lifted the sash a crack, grateful that it wasn’t raining. The cold air felt refreshing on her bare legs.

  Down on the street, she saw a man in black standing in front of the locked church door looking up at her. She sprang away from the window, pressed herself against the wall, then peeked out again, careful not to be seen. She watched him move to the adjacent shuttered grocery store. He pretended he hadn’t been looking at her window and looked down at his watch. She stood pressed against the wall wondering if she should drop to the floor and crawl to her phone. Who should she call? She peeked out again at the man, unable to move. All this intrigue with the Veronas was making her jumpy.

  A woman joined the man on the well-lit campo. She was wearing sweatpants, a heavy jacket, scarf, and hat, all bought no doubt at the Grand Canal kiosks for extravagant prices. She was pulling a shopping bag on wheels bearing the outline of a gondolier. These weren’t spies. They were tourists. After hooking her arm through his, the woman propelled the man toward what must be another day of spending money.

  Gina put the couple out of her mind and went through her morning routine getting ready for work. Half an hour later, she closed the window, locked the apartment, and moved cautiously down the calle to her favorite café across from the Arsenale, careful to walk on the side where ash had been spread and the ice was turning to slush.

  With a quick rap on the door of Al Leon Bianco, she summoned Diego and his head appeared from behind the kitchen curtain. He came out grinning as he eased himself around the big espresso machine and came to unlock the door.

  “Ciao, Gina. On your way to the shop?”

  “Sì, but I need…”

  “Espresso coming up.”

  “No, cioccolata calda. A big one, to go.”

  “You got it. Let me see, my dad put some big paper cups in back.”

  She eyed the pastries in the glass case and the biscotti in the glass jars at eye level. “And I’ll take a biscotto with chocolate and almonds.”

  “Sì, okay. Those are from yesterday, I haven’t replaced them yet. Just take one.”

  “And a sfogliatella.”

  “Those just came, they’re still sticky. I’ll wrap it.”

  While making her hot chocolate, he asked, “Doing anything special for Christmas?”

  “Maybe a quick trip to Rome for the pope’s Christmas Eve mass.”

  “Hey, that’s special.”

  “You?”

  “We’re going to see my aunt, taking our boat down to Pescara to see her and my cousins.”

  “Will your brother be there?” She thought about the evening she’d had with him.

  “He’ll be there.”

  “Give him my regards.”

  She watched as Diego took extra care securing the cup’s lid before sliding her pastries into a bag. He handed both over before giving each of her cheeks a little peck.

  Forty minutes later at the flower shop, she’d finished her breakfast and her morning duties when Horace, the owner, came banging through the front door, sending the bell almost flying off its mount.

  “Buongiorno, Gina! Look what I bought to make our holiday arrangements extra special!” He reached behind him for the handle of a red wagon and hauled in what looked like a sleigh-load of wonders. Then he flipped the sign on the door to Aperto.

  “Look!” he gushed. “The most gorgeous stained glass m
osaic vases, hand-painted ribbons, and opalescent cellophane. And wait till you see these sparkly curlicue ornaments we can stick in the bouquets!”

  “Very pretty,” she said. “But we’re already the most expensive flower shop in Venice. How much will these increase our arrangement prices?”

  “We’re the most exclusive, honey. Exclusive is the word. They’ll never complain when they’re getting something like this!” He produced a golden blown glass partridge perched on a glittering pear tree bough and waved his hand beneath it like a prize lady on a game show.

  Horace continued, “Hey, did you know some kids are planting a big winter garden by the wholesale mart? Some world youth project the pope is encouraging. Anyhow, they actually came up to me and told me that this beautiful treasure trove was destined for a landfill.” He pointed to his goodies. “They called me ‘ecologically irresponsible.’ Bah humbug, eh? Who could disapprove of anything so festive?” He waved one of his glittery curlicue sticks like a Christmas fairy and started to quietly sing “Santa Baby” in English to himself while he began adding ornamentation to the bouquets Gina had just made.

  She was busy organizing the new supplies back in the wrapping station when the bell above the door rang and Juliette, Vincenzo, and Leonardo came in. They’d just gotten inside when Raphielli set the bell jangling again as she came in with a woman Gina had seen at the women’s shelter. Then Alphonso came in with another extraordinarily well-built, big, longhaired man—apparently his twin brother. This was the second time Alphonso had been in this morning. He’d already come to claim the arrangement she made every morning for Raphielli. His eyes found hers and he gave her a little chin acknowledgment.

  “Ciao di nuovo,” he said with a grin.

  The place was suddenly full. Behind the counter, Horace reached into a refrigerated case and retrieved the hibiscus bouquet Gina had just created for Juliette.

  “Grazie, Horace. Buongiorno, Gina,” Juliette called. Then she pivoted to Raphielli. “My dear, come to lunch today. I will bring Ivar and he can talk to you about using his skylights in your renovations. Your palazzo needs some sunlight.”