Liquid Desires (7 page)

Zuin suggested that the two of them talk about the painting in the morning at his Dorsoduro shop. After leaving the Biennale, Urbino and Eugene had a drink at the Danieli bar before Urbino went to the Island of Giudecca to visit Oriana Borelli.

8

The living room of the Ca' Borelli was so austere that it was almost like a slap in Urbino's face.

Just about the only things in the large white room that could possibly be a focus of Urbino's attention—that is, other than the histrionic Oriana in her Versace outfit—were the massive lightwood bookcase with its six halogen lamps, a Barovier-Toso vase filled with dried brown flowers, and the neo-Biedermeier sofa on which its owner was now sprawled. The Contessa's flamboyant friend looked a little exhausted. She must be recovering from one of her strenuous marital infidelities.

“Poor Barbara! I wish I had been there.” Oriana said. “But it's all nonsense—
assolutamente
! As far as that phone call was concerned, I was worried about what people were saying about Barbara—not about Alvise. Yes, there was talk, and some people were even saying that if the
bell'
Alvise wandered a bit it would only serve Barbara right. But Alvise was the most faithful husband I've ever come across.”

Oriana looked at him unblinkingly through her large Laura Biagiotti sunglasses, which she wore indoors and out from May until October. She was speaking from a vast experience of other women's husbands who had been unfaithful with her and about one—her own—whose infidelities came close to matching hers.

“Barbara knows I was attracted to Alvise—both before and after they got married. It was no secret, darling! I'm a woman, aren't I? And he was so handsome, so gentle—and devoted to Barbara. Never showed me any interest except a friendly one! In any case I would have restrained myself for Barbara's sake,” she assured him. “She's my one, dear friend, and I'd never do anything to hurt her. How absolutely terrible it would be if I knew that Alvise had had an affair with another woman! What would I do then, I ask you? Even if Barbara says she wants to know the truth, how could I be the one she hears it from?” She shook her light blond head firmly. “She's asking you to do something
molta delicata
! But I'm not so sure if you should have agreed! I'll tell you one thing.
If
Alvise had been unfaithful to her, Barbara would never have found out—absolutely never! He would not have left anything behind to incriminate himself. He never would have wanted to hurt her. If he knew something like this was happening now—”

As to what Alvise would have done, Oriana didn't say. She left it to Urbino's—and perhaps even her own—imagination.

“Someone must have been telling this girl stories. Barbara has enemies here. She's had them from the first and she'll have them until the day she dies—may it be many, many years from now.”

“Enemies, Oriana? Who?”

“Barbara's right! Sometimes you are so absolutely American! Hasn't Italy done you any good? Of course the poor dear has enemies. We
all
have enemies—even innocent little you! I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was one of Barbara's enemies who put the girl up to it.”

“Do you know of any in particular?”

“‘In particular,' Urbino! You are amusing. As if dear Barbara doesn't know herself. But if it embarrasses you too much to ask her, I'd suggest her archenemy, Violetta Volpi.”

“Violetta Volpi? I don't believe Barbara has ever mentioned her.”

“Her maiden name was Grespi. I don't know her well but I think she has a sister. A branch of the Grespi family are
comaschi
—silk manufacturers—in Como.”

Urbino shook his head. The name Violetta Grespi meant as little to him as Violetta Volpi.

“She's led a pampered life,” Oriana went on, as if pampering were something alien to her. “A nurse who looked after Filippo knew her. She's a painter now. She was on the point of marrying Alvise when Barbara came along. Violetta Volpi never seems to have forgotten how ‘the Englishwoman almost ruined her life,' as the nurse said she used to say, but perhaps Barbara would like to forget it.”

9

“I most certainly
have
mentioned her!” the Contessa said when Urbino phoned her that evening from the Palazzo Uccello. “I mentioned her as recently as yesterday at the Caffè Centrale! You're not going to be any help to me if you don't pay more attention.”

“As I remember, Barbara, you mentioned a woman who was with Alvise when he rang the Wilverlys' bell. Was it this Violetta Grespi—or Volpi as she's now called?”

“Exactly,
caro
. And perhaps you'll also remember that she tried to latch on to Silvestro afterward. She was eager to make a good marriage—and she did. A respectable man with a respectable income. Bernardo Volpi owns an import-export business in Mestre. He's almost an invalid these days—his heart or his liver, I'm not sure. You have to understand that I don't court information about Violetta Volpi—any more than I go out of my way to be told what nasty things she might be saying about me. To be honest, though, I'd like to believe that it's Violetta Volpi or someone like her who's behind this. I'm far less frightened of any lies that this Flavia person might be telling than I am of it all turning out to be the truth. I know you don't like to hear that,
caro
—not when I've asked you to get at the bottom of this—but I assure you again that no matter how afraid I am of the truth, I have to know it. Don't hide anything from me. Don't protect me. Just be gentle.”

Her voice had been gradually getting softer but when, after a brief pause, she spoke again, it had a harsh, sarcastic edge.

“Violetta Volpi is an
artiste
.” It was a word the Contessa reserved for only the least talented and the most pretentious. “I mention this only as a warning.”

Urbino next called Bruno Novembrini.

“Ah, yes, Signor Macintyre. Massimo said I might expect a call from you.” Novembrini's voice was low and smooth. “He tells me that you're interested in one of my paintings.”

Surely Zuin would have been more specific than that.

“I am, but not in buying it. I'd like some information about the model you used.”

“You would?” There was an almost total lack of surprise in Novembrini's question. “In that case I don't think we should discuss it over the phone. Why don't you meet me at Massimo's gallery tomorrow morning at ten. Massimo said that a relative of yours would be stopping by then.”

10

Eugene was in an exuberant mood the next morning despite the heat as the crowded vaporetto went up the Grand Canal between rows of palazzi and under a sky as gray as lead. His exuberance, however, had nothing to do with the scene around them. Urbino kept pointing out buildings as they stood in the front of the boat, but Eugene only nodded and inevitably returned to his preferred topic of conversation since leaving the Danieli.

“I like that Zuin,” he said for what must have been the fifth time. “Not one for piddlin'. Called me up right before you came—wanted to be sure it was still a convenient time for me to stop by. Very accommodatin'—the most accommodatin' man in his line I've ever come across,” he added, giving the impression of a long and rich experience with art dealers. “Says he's got some mighty fine stuff at his shop—big things—and he won't even charge for shippin'!”

“It might not be a good idea to seem too eager, Eugene.”

“'Cause he might take advantage of me? You know there's nobody on either side of the big lake that can do that to Eugene Lee Hennepin! I know you want to help me out—Europe and this place bein' your turf—but let's face it. You have no more business sense than Evie. Good thing you never agreed to join our family business. Between you and Evie you would have run us into the ground!” He gave Urbino a quick sideways glance. “Evie isn't so happy these days, Urbino.”

Eugene waited. Urbino had no choice but to ask him why.

“Seems like her marriage to Reid is over and done with! That's what comes from marryin' a cousin from the Delisle side of the family. The only good Delisles are the women, like our Momma. Could I ask you a personal question, Urbino?” Not waiting for an answer, Eugene went right on, “Could you love another man's child?”

Urbino stared at Eugene in disbelief.

“Damn hot in this city of yours!” Eugene said quickly. “Even worse than back home! And I keep gettin' these glimmers in my eyes and feelin' unsteady on my feet as if I'm on a ship!” Eugene applied his handkerchief to his flushed face while looking surreptitiously at Urbino. “Don't look at me like that! You know what I mean! Could you love Evie and Reid's little Randall like your own?”

“Whatever are you talking about, Eugene?”

“I know I'm bein' premature and jumpin' the gun, but let bygones be bygones. It's been
years
since you've even seen one another. She's as fresh as ever, and you haven't changed all that much,” he added with less conviction, squinting at Urbino. “The reason I mention little Randall is that Evie would never remarry under any other circumstances. And you wouldn't be reminded of Reid. Little Randall looks a lot more like me, poor kid, than Reid—or even Evie! Funny how genes work out, isn't it? So what do you say, Urbino?”

The only comfort Urbino got was knowing that Evangeline couldn't possibly be behind all this.

“Evie still thinks about you,” Eugene went on. “Mentions your name all the time. Has a soft spot in her heart, she does. Drives old Reid up the wall.”

Evangeline's pretty oval face swam before Urbino's eyes. He hadn't seen her in ten years, and that had been only briefly on a visit to New Orleans to see his great-aunts. Evangeline had looked just as lovely as ever. She had been with her parents and her father's two brothers—in other words, very much within the deep bosom of the Hennepin family from which Urbino had tried to help her escape. Back when they had first met, Evangeline had wanted and needed Urbino as a counterweight to the Hennepins, but ultimately she had been too much of one not to leave him standing alone against the family.

Pushing away thoughts of Evangeline, Urbino tried to deflect Eugene's attention to the Palazzo Dario with its multicolored marble facade. Eugene suspiciously eyed the building, whose outside walls inclined to the left at a noticeable angle.

“Looks like it's ready to fall over, like half this town! Don't know how you stand it. Is it always so jam-packed? Just look at all the people! I'm surprised the whole place doesn't just sink plumb out of sight! But I'm not so sure all this would bother Evie one little—”

“That building there,” Urbino said, indicating a large, low white building with gold-and-white-striped wooden poles in front of a water terrace where people were lounging, “is the Palazzo Guggenheim.”

Urbino hoped that the interest Eugene had expressed yesterday in Peggy Guggenheim would get him off the topic of Evangeline.

“Nothing much to the top of it,” Eugene said in a disappointed tone. “Matter of fact, looks like the whole damn top was sliced right off.”

“That's because it was never finished. It's called the ‘Unfinished Palace.' It would have been the biggest palazzo on the Grand Canal.”

“What happened? Run out of money?”

“That's one story. Another one is that the family who owned that palazzo”—he pointed to the Palazzo Grande on the other side of the Grand Canal—“objected. They didn't want their view of the lagoon taken away.”

Eugene looked skeptical.

“Must have been the money. Would have cost a bundle even in those days. How much did Guggenheim fork over?”

“Sixty thousand dollars.”

“A steal!”

“That was back in 1948 though.”

As the boat went under the Accademia Bridge and approached the vaporetto station where a crowd was waiting, Eugene looked as if he were doing some mental calculations.

“Even back then, it was a steal.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Now
there
was a businesswoman—even if she
did
get a palace without a top floor.”

11

The front room of Zuin's gallery in a little courtyard behind the Accademia was filled with objects from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, among them Victorian photogravures of Venice, statuary and sculpture, and period furniture.

“Do you think these are fancy enough for May-Foy, Urbino?” Eugene asked as he peered at two eighteenth-century gilded chairs with a carved doge's hat decorating the backrests. “You know how picayunish she can be.”

May-Foy—actually Ma Foi—was Eugene's wife back in Louisiana. Thinking of May-Foy's ornate sitting room in which she spent almost all her waking hours, Urbino, who was examining a sixteenth-century glass reliquary inset with jewels, assured Eugene that the Brustolons would do.

“I don't know, though,” Eugene said, shaking his head. “Seems kind of funny to bring chairs back from Italy.”

Zuin, today sporting a lavender pocket square, led them into the first of the other two rooms. Eugene smiled in satisfaction.

“Look at all these paintings! Some of them are so big!”

The walls were covered with Venetian scenes, several portraits, and more than enough abstract and expressionist works to keep the Contessa complaining for hours. A good-looking man of medium height dressed in black came walking toward them.

“You must be Urbino Macintyre,” he said in accented English, his voice smooth, taking Urbino's hand. “I didn't recognize your name when we talked on the phone but I've seen you around town. I'm Bruno Novembrini.”

Novembrini was tall and dark, with short-cropped hair graying at the temples and deep-set eyes in a bony, handsome face. From the biography in the catalog Zuin had given him, Urbino knew that Novembrini was forty-two and a native of Venice. He had a degree in economics from Ca' Foscari, the local university, but had been “devoted to art since Peggy Guggenheim had met him as a teenager and showed him her private collection.” Knowing Peggy Guggenheim's somewhat scandalous reputation, Urbino couldn't help wondering exactly what Novembrini's association with the woman had been.