Farewell to the Flesh (27 page)

This marked the end of their conversation. They sat side by side in the stern of the vaporetto, looking at the Grand Canal and the palazzi lining its banks. They could see the decorative Murano chandeliers in the parlors and could hear the sound of laughter and music drifting over the canal from open windows. The Sant'Angelo and San Silvestro stops came and went and they still were silent.

As the boat was approaching the Rialto landing, Spaak stood up.

“I know the way to the Casa Crispina from here. Don't mention anything to my mother. If she has to know, I should tell her. I hope you can see that.”

Urbino did. He also saw that the circle of benevolent deception between Spaak and his mother was likely to continue.

“And the police?” he asked as Spaak opened the door into the cabin.

“I'll tell them everything tomorrow. Tonight I just want to take a long walk.”

He closed the door behind him and went down the aisle to the exit.

13

For the remaining trip only occasionally did Urbino give his attention to the passing, familiar scene along the Grand Canal. At first he thought about his conversation with Nicholas Spaak. Was his story of his two trips to the Calle Santa Scolastica to be believed? Had what he had seen there—someone in a plastic mask standing outside the
calle
and someone else unmasked at the end of it by the canal—played a role in the death of Val Gibbon? Did Spaak know something more about Val Gibbon's sexuality than he was willing to say? And did he really not realize that his mother knew about his own homosexuality? Or did he know, yet not want to acknowledge that she actually did, even to himself? And what about his sister? How much did she know about her brother?

There seemed to be no limit to people's capacity, not to say their need, for self-deception. We wear masks as much for ourselves as we do for others, Urbino thought. Masks covered faces, and these days there were any number of examples of them. But the face could be the ultimate mask, one thrust not only at strangers and loved ones, friends and enemies, but also at oneself.

Much of his work as a biographer was to penetrate masks—in some cases to peel successive ones away—and to seek out the concealed selves behind them, yet all too often there was little that could be found. Proust, sounding a warning, had said that no one could truly say he knew another person. Urbino had little doubt of this. He was being particularly sensitive to it as he worked on his book on Proust in Venice, and now he reminded himself of it in reference to the deaths of Gibbon and Porfirio.

Because of the turn Urbino's mind had taken as he sat in the stem of the vaporetto after Spaak had left, everything around him seemed to feed his thoughts—the water reflecting darkened impressionistic images of the reality above them, the veil of fog wreathing in, the palazzi stretching and curving like some long, deceptive escarpment or series of embellished masks on either side of the Grand Canal. Sitting there in the stern, Urbino for a few confused moments felt that he himself wasn't moving but that an elaborate screen was being unwound on either side of him, giving the illusion of motion and of depth.

Inevitably, this sense of disorientation led back to his thoughts about the murder in the Calle Santa Scolastica, thus completing the circle.

What was true and unfeigned about the things he had been told so far? Even in the best, most usual of circumstances, when little except social discomfort was at stake, people pretended, exaggerated, indulged in mental reservations or outright lies. It wasn't immoral except by the strictest of standards, and it certainly wasn't villainous. But murder was an entirely different matter. Loss of face and loss of reputation were the least things for the murderer to fear.

As the vaporetto pulled alongside the San Marcuola landing, Urbino felt oppressed as if by a frieze of masks showering down upon him their lies and deceptions. Among these lies and deceptions were the ones biding the truth of a brutal murder. These had to be recognized and exposed, but as for the others, he would leave them where he found them.

14

The surprise the Contessa had been teasing him with earlier with her insinuations and enigmatic smile was immediately evident when Urbino walked into her
salotto
shortly after nine.

It was on the sofa next to her. His face must have shown a great deal of what he was feeling because the Contessa, barely able to keep the laughter from her voice, said,

“No, you're not seeing things,
caro
!”

“Hello, Urbino,” Hazel Reeve said. She was wearing a forest-green dress of simple lines that brought out the color of her eyes. “I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier when you stopped by but I—I had to leave in a rush.”

“Don't go into that right now, Hazel dear,” the Contessa said, reaching out to pat the young woman's hand in a proprietary way. While she was doing it, however, she wasn't looking at Hazel but at Urbino with just the faintest suggestion of her Gioconda smile from several hours ago.

“I'm also sorry that I left your place the way I did this morning. And I wish I could have spoken with you later from Porfirio's but Commissario Gemelli wouldn't let me.”

She gave him a brave smile. It was as if she needed to apologize all at once for whatever she might have done.

“I've been busy for most of the day myself,” he said. “I should have given you another call. I'm sure Porfirio's death has hit you hard, coming as it does right after Val's.”

He fixed himself a bourbon, something that the Contessa kept especially for him. She looked at the glass.

“You've given up Cynar, I see. Be careful,
caro
. You know how too much bourbon gives you a restless night. When you're finished with that bottle, I'm not so sure I'm going to be nice enough—or inconsiderate enough—to get you another.”

Urbino sat down and took a sip of what might be one of his last bourbon and waters at the Contessa's. Hazel took a sip of her own indistinguishable but tall drink and said, “I came here about two this afternoon, Urbino.”

“You came here?”

“Yes,
caro
, she came here. Don't act so incredulous. The Ca' da Capo isn't a St. Anne's Home for Young Girls, I know, and our own sweet Hazel here isn't in any way the wayward kind, are you, dear?”—once again she reached over to pat the girl's hand—“but here she is and here she can stay for as long as she cares to.”

This was said with a slightly uptilted chin as if she expected Urbino to demand at once that Hazel Reeve be returned to her original quarters.

“The Contessa—Barbara”—Hazel corrected herself—“came over to Porfirio's this afternoon and insisted that I return here with her. She helped me pack my things, not that there were all that many, and we were here before I knew it.”

The Contessa glanced at her sharply, perhaps at the possibly implied criticism she might have detected in Hazel's “before I knew it.” When the Contessa spoke, however, it was without a trace of anything except a sincere desire to leave nothing in question.

“I certainly couldn't leave her at Porfirio's, poor girl! And a room in a hotel just would not do, even if we could have found one. As far as the Palazzo Uccello is concerned,
caro
, we couldn't have Hazel staying there unchaperoned. I know that Natalia and her husband are living in the
attico
but that's not enough to keep all the tongues in this city from wagging.” She took a sip from her glass of Corvo before adding, “One night couldn't do much damage but, beyond that, we have to be concerned with appearances, especially since Hazel knew a man who has been murdered.” She looked away from Urbino and said to Hazel, “Urbino is considered something of an interloper, I'm afraid, Hazel dear. People are only too eager to talk in the most unkind ways.
Dio mio!
Even after more than thirty years here, I have to watch out for myself. Tongues are like knives here, believe me!”

It was to Hazel's credit that she gave no indication that she might have found the Contessa's last image disturbing.

Urbino sipped his bourbon and water and mulled over the Contessa's volte-face. Only a very short time before she had been brimming with disapproval of her young compatriot. Now she was benevolent and protective, traits much more natural to her. But what bad brought about the change?

“She's all alone here in our serene city, Urbino dear,” the Contessa said, eerily answering his unspoken question, “although it isn't particularly serene at the moment, is it? And she has no father, no mother.” This must have started an unwelcome train of thought for she quickly added, “And I thought it only right that I offer her some sisterly shelter and comfort. We are both English after all. She's suffered enough.”

For the first time since coming into the
salotto
he noticed the dark shadows under Hazel's eyes. On top of Gibbon's murder and her fear that Tonio Vico might have been involved—a fear that had caused her to flee to Mestre—there had come Porfirio's own death. The poor girl was understandably at loose ends, and it had been a commendable act of charity for the Contessa to invite her to stay at the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini—even if he didn't fully understand the reasons for his friend's abrupt change of mind.

“I hope it doesn't compromise you, Barbara. I certainly seem to be in the thick of things,” Hazel said with an embarrassed smile. “I knew Val, and he's dead, and I was staying with Porfirio and now he's dead, too. I know that they died in different ways, that there's no connection between their deaths,” she was quick to add, “but it doesn't make me feel any less—less peculiar. Commissario Gemelli didn't make me feel any better this morning, especially not when I told him about the key.”

“The key? What key?” the Contessa asked.

Hazel flushed.

“Things have gone so fast today, Barbara, that I haven't had a chance to mention it before now.”

The Contessa put down her wineglass and waited for Hazel to go on.

“You see, there was a key to the church. Val gave me one. He had it made from the one he had. We would meet in the church late at night, just to be alone together, just to talk and walk around. It was like being in another world. He gave me the key because he didn't want to have anyone interrupting us. On evenings when we didn't have dinner together he would go in and lock the door behind him, then wait for me. I would let myself in with my key. Porfirio took it. That's how he got into San Gabriele the night he—he died.”

“Didn't you take the key with you to Mestre?” Urbino asked her.

“I left very quickly without going back to Porfirio's. I intended to come back. I
did
come back. But why would I want to take the key anyway?”

“How did Porfirio know about it?”

“One night he saw me going into San Gabriele. He was walking across the square. It was obvious I had a key.”

“So he took it and went into the church—but why?”

“I haven't the slightest idea. Maybe he wanted to see the restoration work for himself.”

“But he could have come in to look at it anytime.”

“He might have wanted to look at it when no one else was there,” interjected the Contessa. “With Gibbon dead and Lubonski in the hospital, he could be sure no one would interrupt him.”

“Porfirio
was
upset that Val was taking the photographs of the restoration instead of him,” Hazel said tentatively, picking up her tall glass. “Do you think he might have wanted to take his own photographs now that Val was dead?”

“Paolo told Sister Teresa that Porfirio had one of his cameras with him,” the Contessa said.

This didn't mean very much, although Urbino would have liked to know what the film in Porfirio's camera showed when it was developed.

“When do you think Porfirio took your key?” he asked Hazel.

“Does it really matter that much? I don't really know. I kept it on the dresser in my room. I didn't put it on my key ring because I knew I would have to give it back to Val soon. It wasn't there this morning, but I'm sure it was there the last time I bothered to look a few days ago. Porfirio could have taken it just about anytime after Val died—or before—and either used it or had a copy made.”

“I doubt he had a copy made since the key wasn't there this morning. The key he used to get in must be yours. It must have been found on his body.”

“And now there's this trouble for Tonio,” she said, shaking her head and looking at the Contessa. “Can I tell him now?” she asked hesitantly.

“Whatever do you mean, Hazel dear? You can tell him whatever you want, whenever you want. Urbino, would you mind getting me another glass of wine? And perhaps Hazel would like to have her drink freshened.”

The girl shook her head. Urbino got up and poured out another Corvo for the Contessa and put another ice cube and dollop of bourbon into his own glass.

“What is this about Tonio Vico?” he asked as he gave the Contessa her glass and returned to his seat. “I went to the Questura with him this morning. Everything seemed fine, although he was nervous, of course.” But before he finished speaking he thought he knew what Hazel had meant. “Rigoletti said he identified someone at the Questura. Was it Tonio?”

“After you left,” the Contessa said.

There were a few moments of silence.

“It can't be true!” Hazel said. “I know it's not true! Tonio could never have done anything to Val.”

It wasn't the time to remind her that she had fled—albeit only across the bridge to Mestre—when the sight of her former fiancé at the Montin had led her to suspect that he had had something to do with Gibbon's murder.

“I told you that last night,” she said to Urbino. “Tonio swears he's never been anywhere near the area.”

“You've spoken with him?” Urbino asked.