Deadly to the Sight (28 page)

“Has she reported the incident to the police?” Torino asked.

“I don't think so.”

“I would neither encourage nor discourage her to do it. The existence of the photographs could be used against Habib.” He paused. “I get the feeling that the Substitute Prosecutor is looking at this as a crime of passion. Jealousy on Habib's part, or some kind of rejection by Giorgio. I suspect the Questura knows something along those lines that we don't. Did Habib tell you anything else that could be of significance? He's been more forthcoming with you.”

“Nothing he said about Giorgio even suggested that he had any negative feelings. As a matter of fact, he even defended Giorgio when he thought I was criticizing him. And I know Habib well. He wasn't pretending.”

“I hope you impressed on him that he shouldn't hold anything back. This business of his brother's death makes me uneasy. I wonder why Gemelli told you.”

“Trying to undermine my confidence in Habib.”

“Habib isn't giving much help in that department by concealing information.”

Before ringing off, Urbino told him about Regina Bella's apparent friendship with Giorgio and her rendezvous with him near the language school on at least one occasion.

Urbino threw on his cape and left the Palazzo Uccello.

Jerome lived somewhere in the Sant'Elena district at the far end of Venice, adjacent to the Giardini Pubblici where the Biennale modern-art show was held. Surely only a few inquiries there would lead him directly to the young man.

Urbino walked briskly through the cold, damp city toward the boat landing by Harry's Bar. A steady stream of thoughts coursed through his mind, but they brought him no enlightenment. There was still much he didn't know or, perhaps, was unable to see.

Within a relatively short time he turned into the Frezzeria, deserted of shoppers at this hour. Down one of the little streets on his right was the Colomba restaurant, where he and Habib had enjoyed a memorable meal a month earlier. It seemed like an eternity ago.

He dashed into Harry's Bar for a glass of wine. He was glad that he knew no one in the smoke-filled room but the bartender. He wasn't in any mood to socialize, and just stood at the bar for the few minutes it took him to drink the wine down.

He secluded himself in the stern of the
vaporetto
out of the wind, his cape wrapped around him, and watched the passing scene with almost unseeing eyes. Though it was called the
accelerata
, the boat moved at a pace that seemed slower than his own steps had been earlier. It eventually stopped at the Biennale exposition grounds.

When he got off the
vaporetto
in the Sant'Elena quarter, a young man in the Parco delle Rimembranze pointed him in the direction of Jerome's apartment. It was on the ground floor of a modern block of flats.

Jerome opened the door only after Urbino had knocked several times.

“Monsieur Urbino, it is you,” he said in his French-accented English. He looked over Urbino's shoulder into the hallway. “You are alone?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

Jerome hesitated, then stood aside and let Urbino in. He closed the door behind them.

It was a small room with only two chairs and a lopsided wooden table. It smelled of mold. A one-burner portable stove stood on the floor surrounded by dirty dishes and cutlery.

“Habib needs your help, Jerome. Do you know what has happened to him?”

“He is in prison,” came out in almost a whisper. His disconcertingly blue eyes were wide in alarm. “The students said it at school.”

“The police think he killed Giorgio, the Contessa's boatman.”

“I know. It is terrible!”

“How well did you know Giorgio?”

“Only a little! I said this to the police.”

“When did you speak to the police?”

“They came to speak to me! It was yesterday. They were at the school. They brought the students and teachers into a room, one after the other. They asked many questions. But I said nothing bad about Habib. He is very nice.”

“What did you say about Giorgio?”

“He was friendly and bought me coffee. That is all.
Je vous jure
!”

“Did you ever give Giorgio your photograph?”

“My photograph! What is it that you ask me?”

“You must tell the truth, Jerome.”

“I am telling the truth.”

Urbino stared at him until he looked away and moved to the door.

“Please! You must go. I want no problems. Tell Habib
bon courage.
”

10

“I'm glad that Habib is holding up,” the Contessa said to Urbino an hour later in her
salotto blu
after he had told her about his meeting with Habib. “You must do the same. Never more than now do you need tea and sympathy.”

“What I really need is information. What did you learn on Burano?”

“Have something to eat first. You look frightful.”

She poured out another cup of tea.

Urbino took a small sandwich from the plate. He was surprised to find how hungry he was. He took another and ate it quickly, then drank down his tea.

“That's a good boy. Now it's your turn to sit back and listen. You can tell me the rest of your adventures later.”

The Contessa had gone to see Carolina Bruni.

“I endured a lot of bad singing. Fortunately, she still had enough of a voice to tell me more about Regina Bella than she told you. There's been talk about her carrying on with someone's husband. She's been caught talking with him alone. Carolina's friend smelled her perfume on him—or thinks she did. It may be nothing, but what sounds suspicious are those periodic trips to Milan. Shopping, she says, and she comes back with bags from the boutiques on Montenapoleone, but who knows? They could be stuffed with old newspapers.”

“She does have a fashionable wardrobe.”

“Not all that fashionable. She wears one expensive outfit to death every season like most Italians.” The Contessa took a sip of tea. “I went to see Gabriela Stival again and managed to get around to the topic. She confirmed what Carolina said about the trips to Milan, but she was more doubtful about an affair. Gabriela lives only a few buildings away from Regina and has never seen anything suspicious, and it seems she's always looking out her window.”

“Did she ever see Giorgio anywhere near her apartment?”

“Giorgio was handsome, but I wouldn't think he was her type in other ways. It could explain the cap in the kitchen, though. Do you think she killed Giorgio?” she asked after a few moments of musing. “And Nina as well?”

“It can't be discounted. Don't forget that she looked after Nina's heart pills.”

“But what was she doing around the language school? Maybe that's a stupid question. Venice is a small place. There's no reason she shouldn't be there, although,” she added dryly, “her kind of shops are nowhere nearby.”

“The language school is somehow involved in all this business. Gemelli is bound to see it as something else against Habib.”

“I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it without any varnish. Doesn't it make you uneasy that Habib concealed his trips to Burano from you, and also his brother's death?”

“I understand why he did it.”

“Well, you know him better than I do. He doesn't seem the type to hurt anyone intentionally, but he does have Mediterranean blood, remember, and it may be even stronger on the other shore. He's frightened. He may be telling you what you want to hear, and then off you run to construct a sand castle. Trust is a beautiful quality. I just don't want to see yours knocked down.”

“Perhaps you should be more concerned about Habib's misplaced trust in me. I feel as if I've brought all of this down on his head.”

“You're being absolutely ridiculous! And rather selfindulgent, if you'll excuse me for saying so.” She stirred uneasily in the chair. “Perhaps, given the present state of affairs, it would be a good idea for all of us, Habib included, if I were to cancel the masquerade ball. It's only three weeks away. We could have a simple dinner and—”

“No!” he shouted. “You're going to have your ball and we're all going to be there! Excuse me, Barbara, but there are some other things you don't know yet. They've shaken me up quite a bit.”

He went to the liquor cabinet.

“Please,
caro
. It would be best to stick to tea.”

“I need something stronger.” He poured himself a cognac. “It will steady my nerves.”

“And cloud your mind! You need to think clearly!”

“Agreed. And one of the things I need to think clearly about is a manila envelope—or
two
manila envelopes,” he emphasized.

He explained how Frieda had discovered the envelope of photographs.

“Photographs of young men! Habib?”

“It doesn't seem so. She says there was one of Jerome. I never saw any of them. Someone mugged her when she was on her way to see me, and snatched them from her.”

“Well, at least we can say it wasn't Habib, although—oh, never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Forgive me for saying what you might not want to hear, but it's a service you need at the moment. Just because Habib is in prison doesn't mean that he couldn't be involved in the mugging. You said that Jerome's photograph was among them. Maybe Jerome, or someone else close to Habib, attacked Frieda. As a way of protecting himself and Habib.”

Urbino considered this possibility for a few moments. He knew that, in other circumstances, he would have seized on it. Now, however, a part of his mind shut a door.

“I've just seen Jerome. The police interrogated him and the other students. He's frightened. It would be strange if he wasn't. And he's also hiding something about Giorgio, hiding it from the police and from me.”

“And something about Habib as well?” the Contessa prompted.

“If he is, it could be something innocent.”

“Or something not,” she persisted.

He took a sip of cognac.

“There's another aspect to the envelope business,” he began.

He told her, at first hesitantly, and then with borrowed courage from the alcohol, how he had found the other envelope with the German-English dictionary in Habib's studio. He plunged into an account of the story.

“It's an adaptation from
The Arabian Nights
,” he said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “It doesn't seem as if you've been the only one inspired by it. Frieda calls it a transformation. I assumed it was one of her stories, even before she confirmed that it was. Somehow Giorgio ended up with it, and gave it to Habib to translate.”

“According to Habib.” The Contessa mitigated the words with a gentle pat on his sleeve. “He may have good reason to want to distance himself from the story.”

“You mean that since he's concealed things from me, he may also have stolen. And from stealing to killing. Is that it?”

“Looking at it from another point of view,” she said, refusing to be drawn in, “if Giorgio did give the story to Habib, it destroys your wild theory that he's Gino. We can assume that Gino would know German after spending twenty years in Germany.”

“Unless he wanted to conceal the fact.”

“But he made him promise not to tell anyone.”

“So now you believe what Habib told me.”

“We're trying to see this from all angles,
caro
. Or at least I am.”

“In that case, how about this? Giorgio extracts a promise from Habib that he doesn't believe he can keep, or want him to keep. It would have been a way of protecting himself if he were Gino—or, at the least, of gaining time. He could have been using Habib as a pawn. Either alone or in concert with someone else. Habib is a victim, you see, a victim of his own good nature, his own trust! Can't you see that?”

The Contessa shook her head slowly.

“Someone could be playing with your mind,
caro
. It's all too apparent how abominably easy that is these days.”

11

After tossing and turning for several hours that night, Urbino finally fell asleep.

Nina Crivelli's face swam up at him. From deep in her throat came a cackle. A lace handkerchief frothed out of her mouth. She reached a gnarled hand to her face, tugged and pulled at the skin. It was a mask. Urbino's mother stared at him. She was kneeling in their garden in New Orleans, digging holes in the flower bed with a spoon. Urbino grabbed the spoon. Her gloves were covered with red soil. Golden flowers drifted from the sky. Brightness falls from the air, he said to her. He held out his white shirt to catch it. His mother couldn't breathe. The brightness scattered. Lace hung from the trees like Spanish moss.
Punto in aria, punto in aria
, Frieda repeated like a litany. Sad wives invented lace, she said. They copied the mermaids' seaweed hidden in their husbands' pockets like love letters. Photographs fluttered through the air, and settled in the flower bed. Urbino picked one up. It was a photograph of Habib. He dropped it and picked up another. There was a hole where Habib's face should have been.

Urbino woke up.

He felt hot and dizzy. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table beside his bed. He lay still and listened to the sounds of the house around him. Since returning from Morocco, he had noticed new sounds, and wondered if they had always been there. He sometimes thought that they were the result of all the assault the building had undergone during the storm that had battered it right before he had left.

As he lay in bed, he remembered another night a few weeks ago when he had awakened, filled with premonition for the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini. He had gone out into the night and stood on the little bridge looking up at the Contessa's palace.

When he got up now, however, it wasn't to throw on his cape, but instead to put on his slippers, and walk from room to room.