Deadly to the Sight Read online

  Deadly to the Sight

  The Mysteries of Venice, Book Six

  Edward Sklepowich

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  For my Tunisian and Moroccan friends, colleagues, and students, especially Anwar Amara, Henda Ammar, Sihem Arfaoui, Asma Ben Yahia, Riadh Boujnah, and Amel Guizani, and with particularly warm shukrans and mercis for Monia Bayar and Nessim Effassi

  This is the city of mazes. You may set off from the same place to the same place every day and never go by the same route. If you do so, it will be by mistake. Your bloodhound nose will not serve you here.

  —JEANETTE WINTERSON, The Passion

  PROLOGUE

  Return to Florian’s

  The best time at Caffè Florian’s is five o’clock on a winter afternoon. The best room is the Chinese salon. And the best company, as far as Urbino Macintyre was concerned, was his good friend, Barbara, the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.

  Out in the Piazza San Marco, the chill January air schemed with a sudden burst of rain to send the blessedly few tourists scurrying for shelter. But all was warmth in the intimate room, with its dark wood and old-fashioned radiators, Urbino’s sherry, and the Contessa’s first-flush jasmine tea and, most of all, their long-looked-for and too-long-delayed reunion.

  Together again, Urbino said to himself, taking in the sight of the Contessa as she leaned gracefully back against the maroon banquette. What more could he ask for? The Contessa and Florian’s, the magical, winter-haunted city beyond the glass, and everything else that had recently come his way.

  He was falling in love all over again.

  These were his comfortable and somewhat sentimental thoughts as he bathed the Contessa in a look that could express only a part of what he felt for her and all the rest.

  “I like to think of this as the still point of our wheel,” she said, abandoning in mid-flow her account of mutual friends to show how in tune they were. “Not only at this time of the year, caro, but even in the midst of high season. It’s our own special place.”

  “Ours, yes, but only because it’s first of all yours.”

  His words were nothing less than the truth, for the Contessa possessed the scene like a gem in its proper setting.

  Around her, mirrors reflected her attractiveness, which hadn’t diminished over the years, at least in his eyes. Bronze amorino lamps on the walls enhanced the tender glow of her skin.

  How much art? How much nature? It was something that still kept him wondering after all these years.

  She seemed to have stepped down from one of the elegant portraits, framed in dark wood and sheathed in glass, that graced the walls. The intricately patterned ceiling and the burnished parquet floor were, for the moment, the only imaginable canopy and anchor for her charms.

  The reigning quiet at this serene time of the year, both within the Chinese salon and beyond its windows, seemed an extension of her soft, well-modulated voice. On this afternoon, and during the past weeks he had heard it, recounting some of the thousand and one details of what had transpired since he had left Venice for Morocco almost two years ago. Her letters and phone calls, and one golden weeklong cruise of the Mediterranean on La Barbara had communicated only a small portion of them.

  Urbino momentarily shifted his glance out into the Piazza San Marco where the rain had temporarily abated. He marveled all over again at how the square’s gleaming stones and strutting pigeons, its colorful clock tower and brightly-restored Basilica, its graceful arcades and crimson-and-gold banners—how, in fact, everything conspired to let him pass back into the picture so comfortably.

  Even mundane details took their necessary places: a short, fat woman in a knit cap pushing a souvenir cart out of the arcade, the wooden planks providing dry passage over deep puddles in front of the Basilica, and an unmuzzled dog dashing ahead of its master toward the pigeons.

  And then came the church bells to wash the square with their liquid tones. The sounds of Venice were dear to him, whether they were the cooing of pigeons and the plaint of cats, the lapping of water and the shouting of boatmen, the groan of mooring rope and the mourn of foghorns, or the cries in the Rialto market. But the sound of its church bells was one of the dearest. They now brought not only music but also, somehow, splashes of color to the scene that a few moments before had been pearly gray and reminiscent of Sargent’s palette for Venice par temps gris.

  His attention returned to the Contessa. She was an attractive woman approaching sixty, as best he could figure out, if she hadn’t already passed it. She looked at least ten years younger. Stylish in a subdued manner, she wore this afternoon her multicolored Fortuny dress that had belonged to the actress Eleonora Duse. Her choice of the dress vaguely disturbed him, however. It was a sign that she was either especially weary or depressed, since she believed there was some talismanic quality in the garment that dispersed clouds and lifted fatigue.

  She selected a petit four—a slim oblong of yellow with lime-green icing—and examined it as if she were admiring its perfection of color and shape. She prepared to take a bite.

  “And it seems, caro,” she said, “as if Oriana and Filippo are finally, after all they’ve gone through and put me through, ringing down the curtain on their strange and long-playing performance.”

  What she meant by her theatrical metaphor was the marriage of her friends, the Borellis. For as long as Urbino had known them, they had been in the midst of domestic disputes and extramarital intrigues that had not so much brought them to the brink of divorce as saved them from that ultimate step. But now Filippo had moved out of the Ca’ Borelli on the Giudecca and taken an apartment in the Castello quarter.

  “Dreary, dreary rooms, Urbino. Scarcely any better than the ducal dungeons and literally a few paces away. The whole situation depresses me. What if they never get back together?”

  Where Oriana and Filippo thrived on the ups and downs of their opera buffa marriage, the Contessa despised change. Her decision not to go back to her native England after her husband’s death was in large part because she felt sheltered from it here among the slow rhythms of the city, its self-contained, monastic air, and its immutable face that seemed to defy and outwit the passing years.

  In truth, the Contessa’s rather complicated, even perverse love for Venice was not much different from Urbino’s. They were both willing victims.

  He smiled at the thought.

  “I’m afraid I don’t find it as amusing as you do,” the Contessa said. He had no chance to explain before she went on: “I’m appealing to you. Perhaps you can help Oriana and Filippo.”

  “I don’t see what I can do.”

  She finished off the petit four and seemed about to reach for another. He had seen her demolish an entire plate in no time at all if she happened to be in an agitated mood.

  “You’re a friend of fifteen years, but you’re not emotionally involved. You can get inside a person’s head and skin and—and understand him, can’t you?” What she meant by this somewhat startling image was that he was a biographer. “And there’s something else you can offer those two poor souls, the most important thing of all.”

  She gave a longish pause, which had the effect of drawing his attention to her gray eyes. They had a peculiar, discomfiting sheen of purpose.

  “What’s that?” he prompted.

  “Your own experience with these matters. You were married, you know, or have you managed to forget it?”

  Exasperation sharpened her voice.

  Not for the first time since his return did he hear a discordant note that seemed to indicate that not all was perfect with their reunion.

  “And divorced shortly afterwards,” he pointed out.

  “Precisely.”

  The Contessa paused
again, this time to survey him with a tender, almost commiserating look. He was put on his guard.

  “Don’t you see, Urbino dear,” she went on in a softer tone, “that advice from you would be precious? That is, coming from someone who once was in their position and—who knows?—might regret having divorced? It would mean much more than whatever I can offer. Alvise and I had an ideal marriage.”

  There were so many ways to respond that he required a few moments of reflective silence. The Contessa spent the time eyeing the plate of petit fours.

  “I don’t regret divorcing Evangeline,” he began. “I regret having married the poor girl.” Then he added, “As you well know—or did, before I went off.”

  “Ah, yes, before you went off.”

  “And also,” Urbino said, ignoring the sigh that had followed her words, “happy marriages are all alike, as Tolstoy said, but an unhappy marriage is unhappy in its own particular way.”

  “I believe he said families and not marriages.”

  “Whatever limited and very particular experience I had with marriage—and divorce—couldn’t be of much help to Oriana and Filippo. And they have to want my help.”

  Knowing the couple as well as he did, he realized there was, fortunately, little chance of this. He had no intention of getting involved.

  The Contessa touched the sleeve of his tweed jacket.

  “How much you want to be wanted and needed! It’s one of your most appealing qualities—and dare I say American as well? Just don’t get carried away by it.”

  A confused look came over her face as she realized that this last piece of advice was, on the surface, very much at odds with what she was trying to persuade him to do. But she refrained from making any clarification, knowing that he was more than capable of unraveling the various strands of what she said and what she meant.

  His only response was to peer out into the Piazza.

  “Are you expecting someone?” the Contessa asked.

  She too looked into the large, open space as if searching for a familiar face or figure. She was about to return her attention to the Chinese salon and their discussion, when her eyes opened wider.

  “Oh, my,” she said, with unmistakable distress. “Could she be coming here?”

  Urbino followed the direction of her gaze.

  He saw a small, old woman with a shock of white hair and thick glasses a few feet away from the window. He had never seen her before. Dressed in a long, black shawl, she stood against one of the columns in front of the Chinese salon. She wore black fingerless gloves, and she held her shoes. Her feet were wrapped in black trash bags to make easier passage through the acqua alta that had seeped and washed into the city during the night.

  She was piercing the Contessa with eyes magnified behind the lenses of her glasses.

  “Who is she?”

  “Nina Crivelli. A lace maker from Burano. She may be here to see me.”

  “Why?”

  “She—she wants something from me,” the Contessa said.

  Urbino was intrigued. He didn’t feel encouraged, however, to ask anything more about the woman, who was now shuffling past the windows. The Contessa followed her slow progress.

  “I’ll tell you about it later, caro, not now,” she said. “I know your detective instincts have been aroused.”

  She gave him a strained smile.

  “Dare I confess something?” she said, trying for a light air. “I’ve been afraid that you’d find me changed, physically, I mean.”

  She bowed her head as if shy of his scrutiny.

  “Fishing for compliments? You’re toujours jeune. You haven’t changed the slightest.”

  “The same old Barbara, you mean? Well, I suppose I am. You’ve changed a wee bit yourself though. Oh, not for the worse! The desert sun didn’t burn away your Bloomsbury and Brideshead look any more than the years have since we first met. But you look both older and somehow younger. Will it all fade with your bronzage and those sun streaks? We’ll have to wait and see.”

  She finally yielded to another petit four, this one with mauve-colored frosting that matched one of the colors in her dress.

  “I can go on and on about you, you see! It’s because I’ve missed you so much. I’ve become rather ridiculous even to myself. For example, the changes at the Ca’ da Capo,” she said with a slightly deprecatory air that wasn’t matched by the appreciation with which she took a bite. “You’d think it was a matter of each and every stone pulled out and put in a different place. Oh, I knew that Mauro was getting on and couldn’t be with me much longer, and Giorgio is as good as Milo, or will be, when he knows the canals better. He cuts a much better figure, according to Oriana! But it hasn’t been easy getting used to the changes, not with you being away. And as for Silvia, the girl leaves a lot to be desired, even without comparing her with dear, lost Lucia.”

  This lament referred to Mauro, her former majordomo, now replaced by a younger man, and to Giorgio, her handsome new boatman, obviously the object of Oriana’s roving eye, and to Silvia, her troublesome personal maid.

  “I just know that my ball is going to be a complete failure this year with all of these changes, and I so want it to be the best ever!”

  The Contessa was planning a ballo in maschera at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini on Shrove Tuesday to celebrate the end of Carnevale. Inspired by Urbino’s recent stay in Morocco, the theme was to be The Arabian Nights.

  “Mauro knew how to help make things run smoothly. And Lucia could see a problem brewing long before I could. As for Silvia, the poor girl—”

  The Contessa broke off nervously as someone approached the entrance of the salon. It was an attractive, middle-aged woman in a long black coat.

  “Listen to me!” she continued with evident relief. “Here I am going on about my silly ball and the Ca’ da Capo when you have more serious problems at the Palazzo Uccello. I cry every time I think of the Bronzino! And that poor chandelier!”

  The Palazzo Uccello was the grandiose name for Urbino’s humble building in the Cannaregio quarter. He had returned from Morocco to find a great deal of damage done to the interior and to some of his most prized possessions, by an American couple engaged to look after the place. The Contessa had managed to have them vacate and to replace them with a German woman, who had turned out to be an ideal tenant.

  “Pignatti examined the chandelier.” Carlo Pignatti was a glass maestro from Murano. “He shouldn’t have much trouble matching the broken pieces. It will never be the same,” he added, “but what can I do? I’m more concerned about the Bronzino.”

  The Bronzino, a gift of the Contessa, was a portrait of a pearl-and-brocaded Florentine lady. The American couple had removed it from the wall of the parlor and leaned it beside an open window, where it had been saturated during a storm.

  “Someone’s coming from Florence to assess the damage. It’s beyond anything I can do for it.”

  Urbino had taken courses in art restoration in Venice and Florence to prepare for a biography he had been writing on the Minolfis, a Venetian family of restorers.

  “You did an excellent job on the Bartolomeo Veneto.”

  “A competent job.” The engagement portrait of a young lady, also a gift of the generous Contessa, had only suffered from yellow varnish and grime. “The Bronzino needs the attentions of a professional. And so do the manuscripts, but I can manage with the confessional, perhaps with the mirror, as well.”

  He watched the Contessa out of the tail of his eye as he added, “Habib will be a lot of help.” Habib was a promising Moroccan painter pursuing his art in Venice with Urbino’s financial help and encouragement. “He’s a real handyman.”

  The Contessa showed no reaction unless it was a barely perceptible inclination toward the plate of petit fours.

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” she said, with nothing in her voice to indicate that she wasn’t. “Sebastian would have been of no use. He can’t hang up a curtain rod.” Sebastian Neville, her second cousin, had been U
rbino’s traveling companion in Morocco until their falling out. “It makes it convenient for Habib—or should I say for you?—that he’s staying right in the midst of the things that need his attention. But I hope you’re letting the poor boy out of the house. Perhaps you’ve been so intent on scanning the Piazza to see if he’s escaped from his duties?”

  Almost against his will, he glanced into the Piazza again. A few people had reclaimed the open space. None of them was Habib.

  “He has language classes this afternoon.”

  “If his Italian ends up being even half as good as his English, he’ll be able to charm the rest of Italy.”

  “And Spain and France as well,” Urbino observed.

  “A veritable Tower of Babel!” the Contessa enthused. “And at such a young age. Twenty-two, isn’t he?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Urbino had done all the computations before. He was about to point out that the difference between Habib’s age and his own wasn’t much more than what separated the Contessa and himself, but he held his tongue. His silence was a signal that any further pursuit of the topic would be an assault on her part.

  The Contessa, who knew the script of their special friendship well, since she had fashioned much of it herself, let the matter drop. As if to make up for her surrender, she captured another petit four, this one chocolate with a sliver of almond.

  “For the rest of our time here today, caro, why don’t we forget about the Ca’ da Capo and the Palazzo Uccello.” Her eye strayed to the entrance again as someone came in. “Let’s enjoy our still point. Because, you see, I’m blissfully glad you’re back, as blissful as—as one of the angels of the Basilica dome! The rest will take care of itself.”

  Having delivered these last encouraging words with all the aplomb of a well-rehearsed actress, she then showed how well she could take care of her third petit four.

  Urbino sipped his sherry and looked at the plate of cakes. A colorful, dainty phalanx remained. He was sure, however, that she would polish it off in good order with all the energy and appetite of her frustrated aggression.