Deadly to the Sight (14 page)

“All of which might be true,” he conceded, “but at the moment we're concerned with Nina Crivelli.”

“I'm trying to tell you that it all could be related. You and Habib and mothers and—and the rest,” she finished, somewhat lamely.

“Habib?”

“Well, she singled him out for special attention, didn't she? And—and he called her a witch!”

“Not to her face.”

“Oh, I know I'm not making much sense. How is the boy?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Fine. He went to Vicenza yesterday with his language school.”

“How nice. He doesn't seem the type to appreciate Palladian architecture, though.”

“Perhaps not, but he seems to have had a good time. But to get back to Nina Crivelli, Barbara, aren't you forgetting that she was badgering you before I returned?”

“I'm not forgetting one single, solitary thing! She was a monstrous old woman,” and then she added, somewhat guilty, “God rest her soul. Filled with venom and the wrong kind of mother love. And you can be sure she was spinning some fine web, and it wasn't made of lace! She collected information about people. Some do it for perverse amusement, but others do it to sell to the highest bidder, waiting for it to go up in value! The time had come for Nina Crivelli to market me! Or you! Or me
and
you!”

“At least you're leaving Habib out of it this time,” Urbino said with dry humor.

“The Contessa Uccello, Nina said, and don't forget it. When you get on your feet, you'll have to start tending to things farther away from home.”

6

Urbino had only a few moments to reflect about his conversation with the Contessa when the doorbell rang.

Natalia hadn't gone for the night. Shortly, she opened the door of the parlor after a discreet knock.

“Signora Hensel. Signora Bauma.”

“But we are
signorine
!” Frieda called out as she strode into the room. She was carrying two small, brightly wrapped packages.

The tall, aristocratic-looking Beatrix Bauma, her hands behind her back, stood in the doorway and surveyed Urbino with a quick, amused glance.

He wasn't wearing the cap that had so preoccupied the Contessa several evenings earlier. The pointed slippers were on his feet, however, and he had donned an embroidered
jellaba
over a brightly colored pair of cotton pajamas in expectation of his visitors. Now that he was well on the way to mending, he enjoyed playing the invalid even more, especially with Habib's pampering.

“Would you like anything before I leave, Signor Urbino?” Natalia asked.

“No, thank you. I can manage.”

Dressed in a long, belted dark-brown dress, Beatrix sauntered further into the room, her hands still behind her back.

“Oh, here, signora,” Frieda said. She held out a woolen scarf, more muted than the silk one of bright blue-and-yellow tied flamboyantly around her head. “I forgot to give you this.”

Frieda spoke in flawless, unaccented Italian.

Natalia took the scarf with something close to a strained little bow that Urbino had never seen her indulge in before. As she was closing the door, she threw a peculiar look at Beatrix's back.

“How comfortable you look!” Frieda said with a big smile. “And all prepared for Barbara's costume ball, I see. Ha, ha!”

“All I need is a mask,” he said.

Beatrix looked as if she wanted to say something in response. Suppressed merriment danced in her eyes.

“You are better?” Frieda asked.

“Much better, thank you. Where's Marie?”

“She is tired from all the walking, poor little bird,” Beatrix said. “She sends her greetings.”

Frieda held the packages out to him.

“The one in blue paper is from me.”

He unwrapped it. It was an elaborately decorated wax candle.

“I brought it from Munich. Maybe it will chase away the germs!”

“If I can bring myself to use it instead of keeping it as it is. It's lovely.”

He opened the other package, which was wrapped in Venetian marbleized paper. It was a compact disc of Mozart's
Requiem
.

The Austrian woman laughed.

“Marie made a joke. I am happy to see you are far from a requiem! Where is Habib?”

“In his studio. Would you like a drink? Or perhaps some coffee or tea?”

“Some grappa,” Frieda said.

“Red wine for me,” Beatrix said.

When Urbino turned around from the bar with their drinks, a tall, frozen-faced dark figure was standing silently beside Frieda. A large cone-shaped beak concealed its nose and mouth. A muffled moaning sound broke the sudden stillness in the room.

“Enough! Enough!” Frieda cried out. “He will need the
Requiem
if you continue!”

Beatrix untied the mask from her face and put it down on the table.

“I thought I would bring a little precaution in case you have something contagious.”

The mask was that of a plague doctor, and could be found in any of the mask shops in Venice. Along with a black tunic, large black-framed glasses, full black gloves, and a thick wooden stick, it was one of the popular costumes for Carnevale. Centuries earlier, it had been the indispensable outfit for doctors taking care of plague victims. A piece of cloth soaked with a fumigating substance was placed in the cone to protect the wearer from the plague.

“She is always buying a new mask,” Frieda said. “Soon she'll have more than you. But where have yours gone?”

Her slightly protruding eyes sought out the place on the wall where his collection of Venetian masks used to hang. A brightly colored carpet in a naive design now occupied the spot.

“I've stored them. They made Habib uncomfortable.”

“A very impressionable and sensitive boy, yes.”

She seated herself on the sofa next to Urbino. Beatrix was about to take the wing easy chair across from them when her eye was caught by something on a nearby table. She went over and picked up a carved wood diptych with miniatures of Giovanni Bellini's aloof Madonnas.

“Habib is lucky to have all these lovely things around him to inspire him.” She replaced the diptych. Her eye quickly ran over some of the other objects in the room. “I would love to have a talk with him about his work. I didn't get a chance at the party to ask him what he was painting on Burano. He was there with his painting kit the day before.”

“He was?” Urbino said. “He hasn't mentioned it to me, but it is an artist's paradise with all those colors.”

“You say that he is working?” Beatrix asked. “Would you mind if I slipped out for a few minutes to see the boy?”

She was gone before Urbino had a chance to tell her which of the rooms was Habib's studio.

“You see how free Beatrix makes herself in your house,” Frieda said after taking a sip of grappa. “I think she likes it even more than I do, if such a thing is possible.”

“I'm happy you found it to your liking, and Beatrix too. Did you meet here in Venice?”

“Yes. We have become good friends, the three of us.”

“Where are they staying?”

“Not far from here. In an apartment by the boat landing for Burano. But enough about Beatrix. You must tell me all about Habib. We writers like details, you know! How you met and such things. He is a delightful boy.”

“We met in the medina in Fez. His family has a house there.”

“And so?”

“One afternoon, when I was walking in the medina, someone pushed against me and I fell on the ground. Before I knew what had happened, my wallet and passport were gone.”

“And this was Habib? I would not have imagined it!”

“Oh, not Habib. Quite the opposite. He came to my rescue.”

“Most interesting!”

“He saw the whole thing from a cafe. He chased after the boy. A few minutes later he brought back my wallet and passport.”

“And with all the money in it?”

“Yes.”

“A very clever creature!”

Urbino gave her a sharp look.

“What do you mean by that?”

She looked embarrassed.

“It was quite clever of him to act quickly. Were the police involved?”

“Morocco isn't a country where you want to have much business with them, even when you're on the right side. That had been my impression. And Habib said it would do no good and could only draw attention to him—and to me.”

“I see.”

“The police there have a way of making a young man's life difficult,” Urbino explained, disliking his defensive tone but unable to banish it. “I had a good example of that about a week later, also in Fez.”

“Attention was drawn to him—and to you?” she asked, echoing his words.

“Yes, but he was the one in danger. It was when we were leaving the medina one evening. I stopped outside the gate to examine something I had bought. Habib walked on ahead. When I looked up, two policemen were talking to him. He was showing them his identity card.”

Urbino poured himself more wine.

“I hurried over,” he said as he reseated himself beside Frieda. “The policemen were taking him away. A police wagon was parked a few feet off. They cruise all over town, stopping to check identity cards. It's awful to see them filled with these young guys. I asked if he had showed them his university identity card. He was in his last year. He had, he said, but they didn't care. I don't know what came over me, but I actually started babbling in more Arabic than I thought I knew.”

Frieda was drinking it all in with a writer's curiosity.

“Something popped into my head. He was my student, I said, and a good student. My Arabic was rather limited, but it worked. The policeman holding Habib looked at me closely, then at Habib. Without saying anything, he let go of Habib's arm. They got back into the wagon and drove off. I can't tell you how relieved I was.”

“But you weren't his teacher, or were you?”

“It was a lie. I was putting my neck out. I suppose it would have been even worse for him, if they had bothered to check. It was a wild gamble.”

“You saved him, and he saved you.”

Frieda's imagination seemed to be giving the story a shape already. It made him feel uncomfortable.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Frieda stood up.

“I must get back to Burano, but I'd like to say good evening to your brave rescuer.”

Beatrix re-entered the parlor.

“I cannot find Habib anywhere.”

“I am sure you searched every corner, yes!” Frieda said. “Urbino will think you are a strange guest, my dear. But come. We must be on our way. Don't forget your mask! No, Urbino, you don't have to show us out. We know our way. You continue to get well so that you can visit me—you and Habib together.”

7

Urbino's own search through the Palazzo Uccello revealed that Habib had gone out.

He often went for walks at night without telling Urbino. At first Urbino had been uneasy until he returned, but he had gradually become more relaxed about it. In Morocco it had been Habib who had been concerned by Urbino's unaccompanied walks into remote parts of the Fez medina.

Urbino returned to Habib's studio. The poster of Habib's favorite Arab diva stared out at him with her wide-eyed gaze.

Habib had tidied up the room. The paints and brushes were all in their places, the rags were arranged on the rack, the divan was made up, and the cassettes of Arabic music were in neat rows on the shelf. The ingenious storage and drying cupboards that Habib had constructed were closed and securely locked. Habib was jealous of his own space and became upset at any intrusion, whether it was by Urbino or Natalia. Urbino attributed it to the severely cramped quarters Habib had endured in his family's house.

In the library, he reclined on the sofa with a volume of Veronica Franco's love sonnets. Franco, a famous sixteenth-century courtesan and poet, who established a home in Dorsoduro for former prostitutes, was one of the women he was including in his new book.

He fell asleep before he had read through one sonnet, good though it was. He was awakened by Habib's footsteps on the staircase.

“
Sidi
!” Habib exclaimed. “You are still up.” He tossed his burnoose on the back of a chair. “It is late.”

Urbino squinted at the clock. A few minutes past midnight.

“I hope you weren't worrying about me. I was fine.”

Urbino started to close the lights and gather together some of his books and notes. Habib, however, was always a few steps or seconds ahead of him, and anticipated what he wanted to do.

“I walked all over the city, and went over all the bridges—or down the bridges, the way that you say in Italian! And I spent too much time in the Piazza.”

“A lot of time, you mean. That is, unless you really do mean too much time.”

“You are a little upset with me, I think. A
tisane
will help.”

“No, thank you. By the way, Habib, have you ever been to Burano without me? Believe me, I don't care if you have. You know I want you to strike out on your own and do whatever you want as long as you're careful. But it might be just as easy for you to get confused here as it was for me in Morocco. You remember how many mistakes I was always making.”

Habib nodded with amusement.

“But never any bad ones. Everyone liked you.”

“I'm pleased that you think so. But listen, Habib, there are certain things about Burano that are on my mind these days.”

“Because of the death of the old woman with the evil eye?”

“She's part of it. There might be problems for you, because of your association with me. I'm not saying you shouldn't go there. Just let me know when you do. Beatrix Bauma, the Austrian woman, said that she saw you there the day before Frieda's party. Did you go there to do some painting?”

Habib's dark, thickly lashed eyes met his and looked away.