Black Bridge (7 page)

Festa glared at her.

“It
is
close in here,” Bobo said. “Perhaps the incense choked him up. It was doing the same to you, Harriet.”

“Oh, I hope it wasn't my incense!” the Contessa lamented. “Harriet, call an ambulance.”

Before rushing off, Harriet thrust a large envelope into Urbino's hand.

Gava regained consciousness and tried to raise his head. He looked confusedly at the faces peering down at him. He focused on Bobo.

“Rosa, my dear sister,” he said before passing out again. “I'm coming.”

12

The next morning, after the Contessa called to tell him that Gava was doing fairly well and was recuperating in his room at the Flora, Urbino went to the Teatro del Ridotto to inquire about the threat left in the foyer.

“It had to be before seven,” the theater manager said. “The box office attendant noticed it when he returned from a break. I called the police immediately. We've added an extra guard for the rest of the Barone's run.”

Urbino next went to the Doges' Palace with the Barone's publicity photograph. The guard took one quick look at it and shook his head.

“Nothing like the man.”

He handed the photograph back.

“Are you sure? This is about ten years old but the man looks very much the same.”

“He's not the one who was here. Excuse me. I have to make my circuit.”

Urbino slipped the photograph back in the envelope. The guard's response puzzled him. He had been too abrupt in dismissing the photograph and no longer seemed to want to talk about the incident.

Urbino wouldn't have had any doubts if the guard had identified the Barone. Was this because he was convinced that Bobo had been at the Doges' Palace or because he was so biased against him that he
wanted
him to have been?

He could see two rocks looming dangerously in the waters of his inquiries. One was his friendship with the Contessa, for whom he would do almost anything. The other was his dislike of the Barone. But why, precisely? Because the Contessa admired him and enjoyed spending time with him, might even be falling in love with him? Because Urbino's comfortable relationship with her was endangered?

Or did he sense something essentially false about the man? Actors often possessed an affected manner that had nothing to do with insincerity but was sometimes merely the fruit of discipline. Was this what he was responding to in Bobo?

He must be careful. Yet not so careful that he went too far in the opposite direction and wrote off suspicion as mere unfounded prejudice. No, it wasn't going to be easy.

13

That afternoon Urbino hurried over a bridge near Piazza San Marco, where gondoliers in their straw hats and striped shirts were calling out to tourists. The autumn weather was today more gray than golden. A few drops of warm rain fell as he ducked into the Libreria Sangiorgio.

Bobo was enthroned behind a table with copies of
Pomegranate
and
I See the Sun
. A group of people, neither vulgarly large nor embarrassingly small, waited to have him sign their books. Among them were a tense-looking Marie Quimper and her companion, Hugh Moss.

“Urbino dear!” the Contessa called. Radiant in copper-hued silk that subtly complemented Bobo's tweeds, she stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding an extra Mont Blanc, just as she did at Urbino's own signings here. Urbino bought a copy of the two books and got at the end of the line behind Oriana and Flint. Flint seemed jumpy and his eyes were dilated.

“For my folks back home,” he said, indicating the books in his arms. “Though they certainly don't know Italian and never even heard of this D'Annunzio guy.”

“That describes half the people here, I'm sure,” Oriana said. The two burst into laughter. Oriana's laugh was her usual operatic one, but Flint's sounded askew, as if he wasn't in control of it. Livia Festa frowned. She kept shooting glances at the Barone and the Contessa—glances which, if they had been given by one of her own actors, she would most likely have asked to be brought down a few notches, even for the stage.

When their fit of laughter was over, Flint handed Urbino the books in his arms. He dashed through the rain and into the Bauer-Grünwald Hotel on the other side of the bridge.

When he returned ten minutes later, an interval Oriana filled with anecdotes about the Philistinism of Filippo's family, he said: “Well, Urbino, when are you going to invite me into your inner sanctum?”

He gave his laugh again, which was slightly out of control, his eyes even more dilated now. Urbino saw no way out but to ask him to stop by after the signing. When Oriana, pleased at the apparent rapport between the two men, resumed her anecdotes, Urbino was free to consider the others in the room.

The person he was most surprised to see was Marco Zeoli, who had a full schedule at the thermal spa. Perhaps he had come to be with Harriet, who, however, was standing by herself. If she was indeed in love, today she seemed to be suffering the predictable pains of that state. Like one for whom true love was not running smoothly, she seemed to be finding the enamored states of others unbearable. She scrutinized the Contessa and the Barone with particular discomfort. The one person she didn't look at was Zeoli, a sign that he was the probable source of her affliction.

Urbino shared Harriet's feelings of exclusion as he approached the table. It wasn't that he wanted to deny the Contessa the gratifications of the heart. He couldn't quite bring himself to call them, even less to think of them, as the gratifications of the flesh. But the Barone wasn't a worthy object of her affections. Instead he seemed the kind of man to take full advantage of them.

Bobo gave Urbino a broad smile when his turn came, and signed the books with a flourish.

“I hope you're coming to closing night tomorrow. We'd miss you, wouldn't we, Barbarina?” He smiled up at the Contessa. “I always have one special person in the audience to act for. Of course, it will be Barbara, but if you're there, too, it will be an added inspiration.”

“Of course he'll come! And afterward we'll have a nightcap at the Ca' da Capo,” the Contessa said before going off to join Oriana and Flint, who were paging through a book on Venetian jewelry.

Festa, who was standing close enough to the table to have heard this interchange, picked up the Baron Corvo's
Desire and Pursuit of the Whole
, opened it at random, and started to read with furious attention. After assuring Bobo that he would try to make the closing performance, Urbino joined Festa.

“Impossible book!” she said with more animosity for the eccentric novel of Venice than seemed warranted. “My English isn't up to it—or my patience!”

She slammed the book down.

“A strange book, I admit,” Urbino said, wondering if it was in his power to calm the woman down before she turned over the whole display, “but I've grown to like it. He's buried over on San Michele. His real name was Frederick Rolfe. He wasn't a real baron, you know.”

Involuntarily they looked at Bobo. Moss had taken advantage of Bobo's momentary solitary state to have a few private words with him. Quimper stood alone against a bookshelf, watching Bobo and Moss with acute anxiety.

“Bobo's a
real
barone, though,” Festa said. “For what that's worth. Excuse me. I must go.”

One of the owners of the bookshop came over to Urbino with copies of his books and asked him to inscribe them. They talked about Ruskin as Urbino guardedly watched Moss and the Barone. Moss was saying something to him. The Barone stiffened, looked intensely into Moss's face, and said something in his turn. Moss answered back. Then they both looked at the Contessa. The Barone stood up abruptly as Moss walked toward her. Before he could reach her, however, Quimper grabbed his sleeve in passing and they retired against one of the bookshelves.

Suddenly Oriana gave a little cry. She and Flint were looking at a sheet of paper in her hand. The Contessa snatched it away and stuck it into the book on jewelry and clapped the book shut. She looked over at Urbino, who excused himself and joined her.

“He's struck again!” Urbino would almost have laughed at the Contessa's exclamation except for the pained look on her face. “Another threat! The same as the others. Oriana found it on the bookshelf. Oh, Urbino! I thought you were going to put a stop to all this!”

14

An hour later Urbino and Flint were in the library of the Palazzo Uccello. On the way from the bookshop, they had talked about the latest threat, coming to no conclusions. But now Flint's interest was obviously only for the little palazzo.

He appreciatively took in the rows of books, the paintings, the refectory table, and the dark wood confessional where Urbino's cat Serena was napping. Then he noticed the collection of sixteenth-century Venetian books. He examined them closely.

“I know someone who would give you a small fortune for these. If you're ever interested in selling any of them, let me know,” Flint said slowly, prolonging every single vowel.

Flint seemed to be the kind of Southerner who thought he could charm the world if he only drawled. It had much the opposite effect on Urbino, who was, however, perhaps unfairly prejudiced against the handsome man on this point, as on others. Urbino, with probably just as much deliberation as Flint, had made a contrary effort to banish his own New Orleans accent.

“I wouldn't sell the least of them. They're a gift,” Urbino said.

“From Barbara, of course. Yes, women are sensitive when it comes to selling their gifts, but a gift no longer belongs to the giver once it's out of her hands.”

Urbino held his tongue as he led Flint into the parlor. At first it was the baroque stucco ceiling that caught Flint's attention. Then he scrutinized the Bronzino portrait of a pearl-and-brocaded Florentine lady over the sofa.

“A generous woman, isn't she?” Flint said, at first confusing Urbino, who found the Bronzino woman more angular than ample. “Oriana has a big heart, too, but not as big a pocketbook. If I didn't know that you inherited this place, I would have thought that Barbara had turned it over to you because she didn't know what else to do with it.”

“Let me make something clear. Barbara and I are only friends.”

“One can always hope for more—but perhaps not now with the Barone in the picture.”

Flint took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his nose, which had started to drip during the past few minutes. A network of broken capillaries marred its perfection.

“This place is small, though. When people hear you live in a palazzo, they must expect something like Barbara's place.”

“It's big enough for me.” Urbino hoped they could leave the Contessa out of the conversation. “I've turned the top floor over to my housekeeper and her husband. I live on only this floor.”

“What about the ground floor? Damp and flooded?”

“Not at all. I'm using it for an art restoration workshop. I'm just an amateur, though. I restored the portrait of the Cremonese lady you saw in the library.”

“Another gift from Barbara, I'm sure. By the way, Oriana wasn't clear about how you inherited the building.”

“From my mother's side of the family,” Urbino said, trying to keep his patience. “She never saw it, unfortunately. She was born in New Orleans, always intended to go to Italy, but never did. It's been a bit of a struggle to keep it up, with the restoration and the repairs and everything else. I do what I can but I have to let a lot of things go. If you look closely you'll see what I mean. The chandelier has a lot of pieces missing, and those portraits on the other wall need to be cleaned.”

“You're breaking my heart! Less than perfect Murano chandeliers and dirty portraits!”

“They're all by minor Venetian painters.”

“Yes, but the frames alone are works of art. They could bring in a pretty penny. But I've already taken up enough of your time, Urbino. Don't forget now. If you ever change your mind about those books, I could put enough money in your hands so that you could make more than a few repairs around here! I feel so sorry for you having to live amid such squalor!”

15

On the closing night of
Pomegranate
some of the fog invading the city seemed to have crept into Bobo's performance, which was vague and distracted.

“I have some things to see to, Barbara,” Bobo said afterward. “I'll join you and Urbino in an hour.”

During the trip up the Grand Canal, where the fog was swirling in thick patches, the Contessa made only perfunctory remarks and eventually the two friends fell silent. But when the door of the
salotto blu
was closed behind them, the Contessa said in a flat, dead voice: “Something's wrong. I saw it in Bobo's eyes. He was planning to come right back. Maybe it's another threat! You must have noticed that his performance was off.”

She kept glancing at the mantel clock. Usually she nursed her wine but this evening she drank it quickly and refilled her glass. She moved restlessly about the room, but expended little of her energy in conversation. Urbino paged through magazines, content just to be her silent, understanding companion, but as the time dragged he began to feel as if he were keeping vigil with her.

Bobo didn't show up after an hour, or an hour and a half. There was no word, no call. The Contessa's nervousness eventually began to affect Urbino. It was a quarter to midnight when Lucia said that the Contessa was wanted on the phone. The Contessa hurriedly left the room, having banished telephones from her
salotto
.

“How very strange,” she said when she returned. “That young artist, Hugh Moss, of all people! He insists on stopping by at this ungodly hour! He sounded drunk. Whatever does he want to see
me
for?”

“At Bobo's signing yesterday he was going to come over to you but his girlfriend restrained him. And right before that when Moss was talking to him, Bobo seemed frightened and Moss looked as if he—”