Liquid Desires (32 page)

Brollo, pleased when Urbino made no effort to defend the exhibit, went to the piano and started to play a Mozart sonata. Under the spell of the sonata the discomforts of the hot dim room began to recede, and Urbino almost forgot the urgent questions that only Brollo might be able to answer.

Whatever kind of man Brollo was, he was a masterly pianist. The
sala
seemed magically transformed by wonderful waves of sound that were also somehow a bath of light flooding the room's darkest corners. Like some aged dryad charmed from a wood, Annabella emerged from the deeper recesses of the house and stood in the doorway listening, her arms crossed and an expression on her sharp face that was as much a sneer as a smile.

As Urbino continued to listen, however, something started to intrude on his enjoyment of the sonata. He was carried back to the Ponte degli Alpini in Bassano del Grappa, when the Contessa had pulled Flavia's scrapbook out of her Bottega Veneta bag like a rabbit out of a hat. Something had tugged at his memory then, and he was close now to knowing what it was. It had to do with Brollo's tirade against the electronic lines of text at the United States Pavilion at the last Biennale.

Urbino didn't trust Brollo. He was convinced that the man was lying about Flavia, but exactly how and why Urbino didn't know. It had something to do with Flavia's last meeting with this man who claimed she was his daughter. Once again, Urbino tried to imagine what had taken place that Thursday night between Lorenzo and Flavia and, a little later, between Lorenzo and Violetta—and also what Annabella's role might be in everything. These three might individually or together or in some combination, one with the other, have spun a web of intrigue that Flavia had become caught up in during her short life.

It was time for Urbino to leave. Annabella started to walk toward the staircase.

“Signor Macintyre can find his own way out, Annabella dear. You have to get ready for your doctor's appointment.”

“I'll only be a minute, Lorenzo,” she said quietly.

The other time Urbino had been at the Palazzo Brollo Lorenzo had urged the reluctant Annabella to accompany him to the door. This morning their roles seemed reversed.

Annabella didn't look at her brother as he stood uneasily in front of his wife's portrait. She went down the stairs silently with Urbino, casting a quick glance over her shoulder back up at the
sala
. She still said nothing as she opened the door for him.

When Urbino stepped out into the
calle
, however, she leaned toward him and whispered in a stifled voice, “He's lying to you! That's all he's ever done, lie! lie! lie!”

The smell of anisette hung between them in the hot, humid air.

“What do you mean? Lying about what?” Urbino asked in a low voice, sensing Brollo's presence at the top of the staircase.

Annabella stared at him through narrowed eyes. Urbino thought she was about to answer but she just kept on staring. He decided to try a different tack.

“Did you ever hear an argument at Lago di Garda the summer your sister-in-law died? An argument between Violetta Volpi and your brother?”

“I've heard many arguments in my life, signore,” she said slyly. “Flavia was usually the one who made the most noise.” She found this amusing and started to laugh. “Maybe you should be asking about arguments Flavia herself had not too long before she died.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the one she had with her boyfriend's art dealer, the same dealer that Violetta has. What's his name? Massimo Zuin?”

“When did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago. I was on my way to see a friend near the Casa Trieste, the pensione of Flavia's friend. Flavia was standing at the open door with Zuin. She was very upset.”

“What did she say?”

“Something like ‘You'll have to kill me to keep me away from him, but thanks for the money anyway. I'll put it to good use.' Massimo Zuin cursed her and stormed past me. Neither of them saw me. I haven't mentioned it to anyone before, even though I knew it must be important, what with Flavia dead and all.” She smiled mischievously. “I know I should have. I've been naughty.”

“You should have told the police.”

There was more amusement than fear or guilt in Annabella's blue, bloodshot eyes.

“Perhaps,” she answered.

“Is there anything else you know or might have overheard that could be important? Like an argument at Lago di Garda?”

Urbino thought he heard the click of the intercom above the bell push. Annabella held up a thin finger against her lips, reminding Urbino of the woman in Odilon Redon's painting
Silence
. Then, with a cold smile, Annabella put her thumb and forefinger together and twisted them against her lips. She closed the door quietly and firmly behind her.

Urbino stood there in the deserted little square for a few minutes, looking up at the wicker basket tied to the balcony and the closed shutters of the Palazzo Brollo. It was difficult to imagine Lorenzo Brollo ever leaving his domain, although surely he must. The Palazzo Brollo was very much a world closed in on itself, now inhabited by only an unmarried sister and her widowed brother who had just lost the young woman who might or might not have been his daughter. Flavia had been determined to escape from her father's house—from the profusion of plants and flowers tended by her aunt, from the icy control exercised by the man who insisted he was her father. Urbino could understand why Flavia had preferred to live in a room at the Casa Trieste, why she had felt more at home at Villa Pippa with Madge Lennox.

Something about the Palazzo Brollo reminded Urbino of the Hennepin residence in the Garden District in New Orleans. The Hennepin mansion, despite its high, wide porches and annual coat of fresh white paint, had always seemed turned in on itself, too—a closed, hothouse world. Urbino had been admitted, obligingly if not warmly, but the Hennepins—mainly Evangeline's father, Emile, the so-called “Sugar Cane King”—had wanted Urbino to close the door behind him and to leave much of his own world on the other side. Evangeline herself, out of weakness, had ultimately wanted him to do the same.

As Urbino left the little square and walked in the direction of the Casa Trieste, he replayed his visit to Lorenzo Brollo. The pianist had denied any knowledge of the Dalí, his wife Regina's confidences to Flavia, or the Lago di Garda argument, but had Urbino really expected anything different? Urbino had come to understand that denials and silences and giving answers unrelated to questions asked could often be more revealing than an hour of tearful confession.

How was Urbino to interpret Annabella Brollo? He could understand why Flavia and Tina had joked about her being a witch when they were girls. There was something out of focus about her, and he suspected it wasn't just the anisette she seemed to drink like baby's milk. How much could he believe her? Not only had she accused her brother of being a liar, but she had also pointed a finger at Massimo Zuin. Urbino thought he knew what the argument between Flavia and Zuin had been about—Zuin's star artist, Bruno Novembrini. It was fairly clear that money had changed hands, perhaps a very large sum. Urbino would have to speak with Massimo Zuin.

When Urbino reached the
calli
on the other side of Campo Giacomo dell'Orio, the crowds thickened. Usually he preferred to be solitary, but this late morning, with the experience of the Palazzo Brollo so disturbingly fresh in his mind, he was happy to be among people who seemed troubled by nothing more than where they would go for lunch. He stopped in a bustling trattoria and had a plate of risotto and half a carafe of wine. He wasn't all that hungry, but he felt that he wanted to do something that affirmed life. What better way than eating?

No sooner did he think this than he thought of another way: sex. But because of Urbino's obsession with Flavia Brollo's murder, his mind didn't rest there but inevitably flowed on to the final destination in this world of stone and water, dreams and desires—death.

It was as if he saw the two words embracing there in front of his eyes as he looked through the windows of the trattoria. Sex and death. Those had been the words he had spoken out loud on the Ponte degli Alpini, taking the Contessa by surprise.

Now, here in the trattoria, surrounded by the boisterous diners around him, Urbino realized what had been teasing his mind since that moment on the Ponte degli Alpini. It was as neon-bright as the sign in the trattoria window. It was a phrase that had flashed in electronic text before his eyes at the last Biennale, part of the disorienting barrage that had driven the Contessa from the exhibit room like Mrs. Moore from the Marabar Caves.

FATHERS OFTEN USE TOO MUCH FORCE

Lorenzo Brollo hadn't mentioned this particular phrase from the exhibit he had despised. And neither had he mentioned two others that also burned their way into Urbino's mind now in the busy trattoria:

MURDER HAS ITS SEXUAL SIDE

EVEN YOUR FAMILY CAN BETRAY YOU

4

“Brollo took Flavia's stuff,” Mirko said as he sprawled on the threadbare sofa at the Casa Trieste. He was wearing his woolen skullcap and a green kimonolike robe, and he kept jiggling his foot. In the hall outside, a small, dark woman about forty was sweeping the floor. “He came a few hours after you left with a big brute of a guy. I kept some things for myself, though. This is hers”—Mirko indicated the robe—“but I always wore it more than she did.”

The robe must have made him feel close to Flavia.

“What else? Did Flavia leave any money here? Did you give it to Brollo?”

Mirko shot him a quick look. The scratch was still faintly visible on his cheek.

“Money? What money did she ever have? She lived mainly on handouts from Violetta and Bernardo. And didn't I already tell you I never took any money for her room! Listen! Are you spying for Lorenzo or something? He gave me hell about the scrapbook. Swore up and down, said that he could get me in trouble with my license. All I kept was this robe and that book over there.”

He indicated the biography of Eleonora Duse on the table.

“About the scrapbook,” Urbino said. “Things were missing. Some clippings with photographs—photographs of the Conte and Contessa da Capo-Zendrini—maybe some other items as well.”

Mirko seemed genuinely surprised.

“I remember a lot of clippings with photographs,” Mirko said, running a finger under his nose. “Flavia pointed out some of the Conte once. There was one with his wife and another with several men. The Conte had his arm around the shoulders of a little man with round glasses. So those clippings were missing? I guess Flavia took them out.”

“But you don't know for sure?”

“Of course not, but who else would have done it? You don't think
I
did, do you? There are plenty of people who come in and out of here.”

“Didn't you put it in the safe?”

Mirko's foot stopped jiggling and a veiled look came into his eyes.

“Maybe I should have, but I didn't think it was anything valuable.”

The cleaning woman peeked around the door. She looked nervous.

“Excuse me for interrupting, Signor Mirko, but I couldn't help hearing what you said. There was a strange old man in the parlor here on Tuesday afternoon when you were out. As old as Methuselah, he was. Must have been let in by one of the guests. Said he was looking for a room but that he didn't think this was the kind of place for him. I don't know how long he was here. I was cleaning one of the rooms upstairs. He left right after I came down.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Agata?”

Mirko was obviously angry with her.

“I—I'm sorry, Signor Mirko. You were at the Questura with the registration slips and I left before you got back. I forgot all about it till now. I hope I haven't done anything wrong.”

“It's all right, Agata,” Urbino said. Mirko looked at him sharply, as if it wasn't his place to excuse the woman for her laxness. “Exactly what did this man look like?”

“Very small and thin—and old, as I said—maybe as old as eighty, but he had a lot of energy. I hope I have his energy if I get to be his age.”

It sounded like Silvestro Occhipinti. Agata said the man had come to the Casa Trieste on Tuesday, the day Urbino was sure he had seen Occhipinti crossing the bridge in San Polo. Tuesday was also the day he had been mugged.

After Agata left, Mirko remained silent for a few moments. Then, barely able to control his irritation, he said, “Does this old man sound like someone you know?”

“No,” Urbino lied.

“Well, do you think he could have taken those clippings from Flavia's scrapbook?”

“It's possible. Did you notice a reproduction of a painting by Salvador Dalí in the scrapbook? It was on a page torn from the Guggenheim catalog.”

Mirko got up and went behind the table that stood in front of the curtain drawn across his private quarters. He opened a drawer and took something out.

“
This
page?” He handed Urbino the missing catalog page. “Flavia gave it to me two or three years ago.”

After examining the page and seeing that there were no marks or writing on it, Urbino handed it back to Mirko.

“Why?”

“Because she knew I liked it. I don't mean the painting you're talking about—but the one on the other side. The one by Yves Tanguy. Ever since I was a teenager I liked his stuff. It looks like things I used to see in my own head when I was—was ‘expanding my consciousness,' as we used to say back then! Before Flavia's mother died we used to go to the Guggenheim, sometimes with Tina Zuin. They would go to look at the Dalí. I would look at this one here”—he pointed to Tanguy's
The Sun in Its Casket
—“and the three or four other ones they have by Tanguy. I felt as if I were on a trip! He was probably on something when he painted them!”