The Last Gondola (41 page)

He gazed up at the crumbling façade of a palazzo with boarded-up windows. The building, with its eroded stone loggia, showed the ravages of a recent fire, a fire that could easily have claimed his life and that of the contessa if circumstances had been slightly different. The palazzo was not only a reminder of the undeniable pleasures of his sleuthing – for he had made some order here and triggered a grim form of justice – but also a warning of the dangers it could bring him and those close to him.

With his thoughts considerably more sober now than they had been when he had left the Palazzo Uccello, he set off in the most direct way for the Accademia Bridge.

Although this was one of his favorite walks, through the twisting lanes of San Polo and into Porsoduro and the lively area around the Campo Santa Margherita, he enjoyed it less this evening than he usually did. The sight of the burned-out palazzo had dropped a chill over him that the humid air only made more uncomfortable.

He didn't stop until he reached the Accademia Bridge. Tourists lined both sides of the parapet, looking up and down the Grand Canal, taking photographs, pointing. Urbino managed to find a free spot at the wooden railing. On his left the rich marbles and carvings of the Palazzo Barbara – actually the two Gothic buildings that went by that name – were brightly illuminated. He stared at the palazzo, trying to change his mood by thinking about Henry James, who had used it as a setting in one of his greatest stories.

But the chill that had dropped over him remained, for James's story was not only one of love but of death as well. So as not to risk making the chill any keener, Urbino avoided looking down the Grand Canal to a long, low white building on the right, which housed the Peggy Guggenheim collection. For near the palazzo's water steps one summer afternoon during the Biennale Art Exhibition the body of a lovely young woman had floated to the surface. Urbino, who had been on the terrace of the palazzo at the time, had realized that one of his investigations had turned deadly serious and that the contessa herself was under a dark shadow of suspicion.

He checked his wristwatch. He would have to hurry now if he wanted to catch Albina before she left the Caffè Da Valdo.

The night sky had become thickly covered with low clouds during the past half-hour. Thunder rumbled. It seemed that the city was going to get some brief relief from the heat and humidity, but the storm that would bring it was certain to come with a price.

Urbino left the parapet of the bridge, made his way slowly through the crowd, and moved toward the steps that would bring him down into the San Marco quarter. Before he reached the steps, however, he bumped into a couple. It was Romolo and Perla Beato.

‘Urbino!' Perla said with a bright smile. She was a slim, blonde woman in her mid-thirties with smoky brown eyes and high cheekbones. ‘There must be better ways to meet each other. We haven't seen you in ages. But excuse us. It was our fault. We're trying to catch the boat.'

Romolo was a portly man in his early sixties with thick hair that had been snow-white ever since Urbino had first met him fifteen years before. He was dressed in a well-cut suit. Since marrying Perla five years ago, he had shown a much greater interest in his appearance.

‘No, it was my fault,' Urbino said. ‘I wasn't looking.'

‘Either you do not look because you are always in your own world,' Romolo said with a smile, ‘or you are always looking. A man of extremes.'

Both Romolo and his wife preferred to speak in English with Urbino.

‘Are you going to Harry's?' Urbino asked.

Romolo and Perla were regular patrons of the bar. The vaporetto from the Accademia stopped in front of Harry's Bar.

‘Harry's in the month of August!' Perla cried. ‘Have you lost your wits? With all those tourists sticking their heads in to have a quick look, not to mention the ones taking their time and nursing Bellinis?'

Perla's English, perfected when she had studied alternative medicine in London, was much better than her husband's, although she strained too hard for idioms.

‘I'm going to Santa Lucia now,' Romolo explained. Santa Lucia was the name of the train station. ‘To see Rocco for a week.'

Rocco, his son, lived in Padua where he taught art history at the university.

‘Don't forget the business that goes with the pleasure,' Perla reminded him. She planted a kiss on his cheek, bending slightly from her greater height.

‘I won't. I'm having problems with one of my tenants,' Romolo explained to Urbino with a frown. ‘He hasn't paid the rent in three months.'

Romolo owned buildings in Padua that he had inherited from his father, an industrialist. His income from the buildings supported his love for music – and for Perla. What he earned from his voice lessons could barely pay for their frequent trips and her clothing bill.

‘Romolo is much too gentle for a businessman, but that's one of the reasons I love him. I had to insist that he go to Padua.'

Perla gave him another kiss and put her arm around his shoulder.

‘Yes, you certainly have been insisting, my dear.'

Urbino thought he detected a slight edge in his words, but Romolo looked up at his wife with what seemed a warm smile.

‘You should also be happy, Romolo dear, that you're getting away from another one of our storms,' Perla said.

‘My dear, storms can come anywhere and any time. If I – or you – try to avoid one, we will only find another.'

‘True, my dear. But don't forget “O
Sole Mio,”'
Perla said with a slight tremor in her voice.
‘“L'aria serena, dopo la tempesta!”'

She half spoke, half sang the words of the old Neapolitan song that gondoliers had appropriated as their own. Her face looked strained.

‘Brava!
You show your husband's expertise,' Urbino complimented her. ‘By the way, Romolo,' Urbino said, ‘how is Claudio doing with his voice lessons?'

‘Very well. He's a young man of many talents. In fact, he—'

‘But we must hurry,' Perla broke in. ‘The boat is coming.'

The
diretto
was about to pass beneath the wooden bridge.

‘See you soon, Urbino,' Perla said as she took Romolo's arm.

Urbino fought his way to the railing at the opposite side of the bridge and waved at the couple before Romolo boarded the boat. After blowing her husband a kiss, Perla went down the Calle Gambara in the direction of the Beato apartment near the Zattere.

One dim light illuminated the interior of Da Valdo. Most of the tables had chairs turned upside down on their surface, exposing loosely intertwined wooden slats beneath the seats. The table legs cast a twisted net of shadows around the walls.

Da Valdo, popular with tourists and locals, was in a corner of the Campo Sant'Angelo on the route to the Rialto from the Accademia Bridge and the Piazza San Marco. Its outdoor tables provided a clear view of the tilted bell tower of the Church of San Stefano.

Inside, steins and green and purple plastic grapes hung from the wooden beams of the low ceiling. Behind the bar were an Italian flag and photographs of footballers and of Valdo, the owner, with friends and clients. One wall held a calendar and posters. Another had a collection of photographs. They were of the
acqua alta
of 1966 and the collapse of the Campanile in San Marco in 1902. Other photographs, of carnival and the Regata Storica, were much more recent.

The café was empty at this hour except for the solitary figure of Albina Gonella. She was slowly removing upturned chairs from the tables, having finished cleaning the floor. She paused to catch her breath. She held two legs of a chair as if she were waiting for strength to return to take it down.

‘Let me help you, Albina,' Urbino said, coming up to the woman.

She started but brightened when she saw who it was.

‘Signor Urbino! What a surprise! Thank you.' She stepped away from the table. ‘I am a little tired tonight.'

Albina was a small woman in her late fifties with lively eyes and graying hair that she usually preferred to keep beneath a bright green knit cap, even on hot nights like this one. She was usually charged with energy out of proportion to her physical size, but tonight her face looked worn. She wore a yellow shirt dress, much too small for her. The hem was stained with bleach marks.

‘Maybe we should try to find another job for you, Albina. Only one place where you would have regular hours.'

The woman stood up straighter and went over to another table. She took down a chair and placed it on the floor.

‘Don't worry about me. I'm fine here and at Florian's. My heart is stronger than the doctor says. If I feel a little tired tonight, it's not because of work. It's because of Giulietta.'

The two sisters, both unmarried, lived together in Dorsoduro.

‘I hope she isn't ill.'

Urbino took down another chair and put it in an upright position.

‘As strong as a gondolier. But that doesn't mean that she helped me for one second with the boxes she made me carry up to the apartment today. Her fingernails, she says. All long and painted. She'd chop me into little pieces if she broke one of them. Easier for me to tote a hundred boxes up ten, twenty flights than to deal with her when she's angry!'

Giulietta was as different from Albina as two sisters could possibly be. The seamstress expected Albina to wait on her hand and foot, and seemed to give little in return except for her cast-off garments.

‘Let me take care of the rest of the chairs,' Urbino said as he went over to another table. ‘Do whatever else you need to do. I'll walk you home.'

‘It'll be nice to get back earlier than usual. There's something I want to watch on television.'

While Urbino replaced the chairs, Albina made a few adjustments around the café, neatened glasses by the sink, emptied a bucket of sudsy water into the sewer grate, and closed the window behind the bar.

‘I don't want to keep you waiting, Signor Urbino. Let's go.'

‘There's no need to rush.'

‘I'm finished.'

Urbino pulled down the metal shutter with a pole, wondering how the woman managed to do it herself. Albina took two keys on a ring from her dress pocket and locked the shutter with one of them.

‘This is nice,' Albina said as they headed toward the Accademia Bridge. ‘If you hadn't helped me, I would have got caught in the storm that's coming.'

A strong, damp wind blew against their faces as they entered the Campo Santo Stefano. What shops and cafés were still open on this summer's night were closing. Awnings were being rolled up and merchandise taken inside. Tourists looked apprehensively at the dark sky. Some stood immobile on the stones of the square as they tried to decide what to do. Others hurried back to their hotels or the shelter of an open café.

‘But I don't think it will be as bad as what we had two nights ago,' Albina said.

Urbino, who had developed the Venetian sensitivity to the weather, agreed with her.

‘Were you caught in that storm?' he asked her.

‘I was at the restaurant when it started. I thought the walls were going to come down around me! A neighbor's son came to rescue me and walk me home, just like you're doing. We probably didn't get blown away because we were holding on to each other for dear life.'

Urbino took her arm as they went up over the Accademia Bridge.

‘You don't have to take me all the way home. Here comes the
diretto
. You'll be in Cannaregio before the rain comes.'

‘I like the rain.'

‘Not the kind this one is going to be. But as you wish.'

Urbino and Albina soon entered the Calle Gambara down which Perla Beato had slipped an hour earlier, but in a few minutes their steps diverged from those which would have taken Romolo's wife to her apartment. Albina and her sister lived in the unfashionable part of Dorsoduro – or at least it was considered unfashionable by residents like Perla and members of the large expatriate community who favored Dorsoduro above other areas in Venice.

But it was one of Urbino's favorite quarters, and he had been frequenting it a lot of late. He enjoyed the liveliness of the Campo Santa Margherita and its proximity to the university at Ca' Foscari. Although nothing could shake his devotion to Florian's, on many afternoons he could be found at one of the small cafés in Santa Margherita. He had become acquainted with some of the students, and often got involved in discussions with them about art and politics that went on for hours.

Although it would have been a few minutes quicker to Albina's apartment if they went over the bridge by the Church of San Barnabà, Albina suggested they pass through the Campo Santa Margherita.

‘I go that way whenever I can,' she said. ‘I like to see the people, especially the young ones.'

Urbino guided her through the Campo San Barnabà and over the Ponte degli Pugni.

By the time they reached the Campo Santa Margherita the branches of the trees in the square were twisting in the wind. Groups of students congregated outside the cafés and pizzeria, unconcerned about the approaching storm. Several elderly people greeted Albina, but showed no inclination to stop for more than a moment. The woman kept up a flow of conversation, mainly about her work at Florian's and about Claudio. The two of them looked out for each other in whatever way they could. She was praying that he and Gildo would qualify for the
gondolino
competition.

‘He's such a good boy,' she said. ‘Like the best of sons. Last October he took Giulietta and me to see
Così Fan Tutte
. It was at the Scuola Grande dei Carmini.' She inclined her head in the general direction of the guildhall originally associated with the Church of the Carmini. Decorated by Tiepolo and located right off of the Campo Santa Margherita, it was sometimes used these days as a venue for innovative opera productions. ‘I thought it was very funny, but Giulietta just sat there like a statue. And she kept criticizing the costumes.'