Deadly to the Sight (7 page)

While the Contessa waited impatiently as Frieda started to look through the lace items, she felt a tug at her coat sleeve. Turning around, she was face to face with Nina Crivelli. It would have been almost comical to the Contessa, the way the old lace maker seemed to be popping up out of thin air—comical, that is, if she didn't find it more than a little alarming. And in a few minutes she had even more reason to be dismayed.

“You are kind and generous, Contessa,” Crivelli said in Italian without any preliminary.

A foul odor emanated from the old woman, a smell of decay and death. She lifted a gnarled hand in the air, with one finger pointing toward the Contessa. The Contessa drew back. The woman gave her a mocking smile as her finger moved slowly through the air between them. Crivelli nodded and put her hand down.

“Is poor woman, Nina Crivelli,” the lace maker said in English. “Money.”

She rubbed the fingers of one hand together, still with her mocking smile.

The Contessa made no response except to open her purse and take out three ten-thousand-lira notes, feeling a sense of desperation as she did it. If this was all she needed to get rid of the woman for good, she thought, she would give her double or triple that amount. She was, in fact, about to extract another ten thousand lire, when she noticed Crivelli's reaction.

She was staring at the money in the Contessa's hand with her alarming eyes. Whether this was because she was offended at being offered such a relatively small amount or any money at all, despite her plea, it was impossible to determine.

“Later!” Crivelli said in Italian. She slipped behind the neighboring lace kiosk. The Contessa waited for her to come back, but she appeared to have vanished.

Frieda didn't seem to have observed the encounter, but all the way back to Venice she kept asking the Contessa if she was feeling all right. The Contessa's halfhearted assurances that she was fine didn't seem to satisfy the German woman, who was reluctant to part with her new friend.

Five days later, after making the necessary arrangements for the changes at the little house on Burano and Frieda's smooth move there from the Palazzo Uccello, the Contessa took the train to London. She was caught up in visits, shopping, theaters, and museums. Only at odd moments did she think about her encounters with Nina Crivelli. When she did, however, she felt the same sense of premonition as she had that day on Burano, a premonition that neither distance nor time had weakened.

As a consequence, it wasn't a total surprise when one of the first things Vitale told her on her return was about the “strange old woman” who had been loitering outside the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini and who, on one occasion, had rung the bell and asked for her. Vitale had been cautious enough to inform the woman only that the Contessa was not at home and to ask for a message.

There had been none.

11

If the Contessa had no doubts that her path would cross with Nina Crivelli's again, it wasn't because of the nature of Venice, whose waterways and alleys and profusion of squares made privacy impossible as soon as you stepped out of your door. Nor was it because she was obliged to visit Frieda and thus was treading the even more public spaces of Burano where the old woman lived.

Her certainty came from the echo in her mind of the lace maker's urgent “later!,” which, now that she was back in Venice, sounded with a particularly disturbing loudness. Anxious to get the next inevitable encounter with Crivelli over with, she was restless at the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini, and found excuses to be out and about, and especially to go to Burano. But yet she was shy of seeking Crivelli out more directly by going to Il Piccolo Nettuno, which she avoided. She realized that she was a bundle of inconsistencies.

When a week passed with no sight of the lace maker, the Contessa's nerves were at the breaking point. It was with the hope of soothing them that, one morning, after visiting a friend who lived above a shop on the Calle del Paradiso, she walked the short distance to the Church of Santa Maria Formosa.

The Contessa had special places scattered throughout Venice where she sought out repose. She thought of them as way stations on a long journey. Like the Chinese salon at Florian's, they were public spaces, but because of association and familiarity, she had made them her own.

The Church of Santa Maria Formosa fell into this small but special category because of one of its paintings. It was by Palma Il Vecchio, and it portrayed the Contessa's namesake, Santa Barbara. The Oratorio on Burano, because it had its own portrait of the same saint, was another of the Contessa's refuges, but on this particular day and with her particular problems, Burano was out of the question for any kind of restorative reflection.

Leaving behind the lively square with its palaces, market, and cafes, she slipped into the Renaissance church, drawing her silk scarf around her head. When she touched her forehead with the water from the stoup, it felt so unusually cold that she realized she might be slightly feverish.

She was pleased to see that her accustomed chair, with its view of the great painting, was not only unoccupied, but that there was no one else in the church except two art students making studies of the Vivarini triptych. She seated herself and looked at the Palma Il Vecchio.

This sixteenth-century portrait of the patron saint of bombardiers, who was blond, buxom, and graced with a small cannon at her feet, somehow had the ability to comfort her despite its martial associations. She liked to think that if she shared anything with the portrait—other than her blondness—it was the painted woman's air of calmness and faith in the presence of the inevitable. In Santa Barbara's case, this inevitability was her own immediate death.

Sitting there in the late-morning quiet, the Contessa contemplated the saint's serene face beneath its crown and the delicacy of colors blending together so smoothly. For a few moments she closed her eyes, and started to recite a brief prayer to St. Barbara that she had learned from the nuns at St. Brigid's-by-the-Sea.

“Sudden death, Contessa,” said a voice in Italian. “Lightning. Bombs.”

The Contessa's eyes flew open. Standing in the aisle beside her was Nina Crivelli. In her hand, sheathed in a black fingerless glove, was a large plastic bag. It bore the name of one of the fashionable shops on the Calle Large XXII Marzo.

Somehow the Contessa found her voice.

“Are you following me, Signora Crivelli?”

She looked up at the woman, forcing herself to stare directly into her magnified brown eyes. Surely it was a pose worthy of Santa Barbara, thought the Contessa, who could indulge, despite her distress, in this bit of self-importance—unless, of course, it was something more like bravado.

“Perhaps, Contessa, it is you who are following Nina Crivelli!”

There was no answer to this. Crivelli might have been in the church when she came in, concealed by the shadows or even sitting inside one of the confessionals. This thought, however, was even more disturbing. It seemed to compromise her sense of freedom even more if the place she had chosen to escape from the lace maker was the one where the woman already was, waiting for her.

“You are a busy woman,” the lace maker continued. “Even your prayers must be scheduled, yes?”

This only confused the Contessa more. She showed her state of mind by saying, more loudly than she intended, “What is it that you want with me, signora!”

The two art students paused in their work to look at her. What did they see, she wondered? Probably a haughty woman disdaining the pleas of one of the city's poor. The thought that she could be so misunderstood would, in other circumstances, have made her more concerned about appearances, but today was different.

As a response to her question, Crivelli seated herself in the chair behind the Contessa, obliging the Contessa to twist her body slightly to look at her. The lace maker then leaned toward her, fixing her with her eyes. Once again, as there had been in front of the lace shop, there was the odor of something foul in the air.

“I need money,” she said as quietly as the Contessa had almost shouted. “Much more than thirty thousand lire. If you cannot find it in your heart to give it to me, Contessa, I am prepared to sell you something. I would give it to you free, but I have to consider my needs. I am a desperate woman.”

Indeed, at that moment, because of the shadows that conspired to darken all her face except for the thick glasses and the magnified, invasive eyes behind them, the lace maker did look desperate enough for anything.

The Contessa's gaze involuntarily flickered in the direction of Crivelli's plastic bag, now lying on the stone pavement. An absurd hope that the woman wanted an exorbitant price for a handmade lace tablecloth stuffed inside the bag flashed through her mind. It was quickly quashed, however, as her eyes returned to Crivelli's.

“What is it that you have to sell, signora?” she asked in as firm a tone as she could muster.

The answer came quickly and in the same low, urgent voice.

“Information, Contessa.”

Hesitant footsteps sounded at the entrance. The lace maker, who had a more direct view of the door, peered in its direction nervously. The Contessa shifted herself to get a view.

A man stood motionless by the entrance. The dimness of the church made it impossible to see his face. With her poor eyesight, the lace maker could surely see even far less than Barbara could. The Contessa returned her full attention to the woman. She perceived a wariness in her that hadn't been there before.

“Information, signora? Information about what?”

The Contessa sensed the gradual approach of the person who had just entered the church. He appeared to be moving slowly from place to place as if examining the architecture and art. The lace maker kept peering in his direction, with a frown of concentration.

Crivelli, who had been so eager to speak before, now fell into silence. She appeared to be thinking. Then, she brought out with effort and much more loudly than before, “I—I speak of someone dead. Yes! Someone who is dead, Contessa.” She looked over the Contessa's shoulder, presumably in the direction of the approaching man or perhaps someone else. “He is long dead. He was—he
is
,” she corrected herself, “close to your heart.”

She grabbed her bag and stood up. She leaned toward the Contessa.

“Money, Contessa! Money for information about someone dead! Think carefully, but make the right decision! Good-bye!”

“But you can't go!” the Contessa cried out, once again drawing the attention of the art students and the man who was now beside her. To her surprise it was Giorgio.

Nina Crivelli said nothing more. She didn't even acknowledge Giorgio's presence. She made a wide angle around him and scurried across the stones of the church out into the square more quickly than the Contessa would have thought she could have moved.

“Giorgio!” the Contessa cried out, feeling embarrassed and agitated at the same moment. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Are you all right, Contessa?”

As she started to get up, he put out a hand as if to steady her. She fell back into the chair. She was trembling. Her head was light.

“I—I'm all right, Giorgio. Let's go,” she said after a few moments.

She declined his help as they went out into the busy Campo Santa Maria Formosa. With Giorgio silent and solicitous by her side, she walked a short distance around the church, looking in vain for the lace maker. Could she have ducked into a shop or private residence, or somehow managed during those few moments to take one of the eight routes that led away from the square toward San Marco or deeper into the Castello quarter? It seemed impossible, but nonetheless there was no trace of her.

She returned to the base of the
campanile
for one final look around the area.

“Do you want me to look for the old woman, Contessa?” Giorgio asked.

“No, of course not!” she said sharply. Then, more softly, “Go back to the boat, Giorgio. I'll be there in a little while.”

Reluctantly, he left, walking with his slight limp and casting an occasional concerned glance over his shoulder.

The Contessa opened her purse and withdrew a small vial of perfume. She unscrewed the top and inhaled the musky scent. It somehow steadied her, and also dispersed the odor from the old woman that had been lingering in her nostrils.

She was about to follow Giorgio to the boat, when the monstrous, leering head at the base of the bell tower caught her attention. Its flat nose, grotesquely misshapen mouth, and protruding teeth transfixed her. It had on other occasions seemed almost like a cartoon figure, something designed to frighten children and the pathetically credulous. Now, after her encounter with Nina Crivelli, its leer was distinctly disturbing and strictly—all too strictly—personal.

An icy fear twisted around her heart. She couldn't shake it off in the privileged snug atmosphere of her sleek motorboat as it made its way back to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini, nor later in the comfort of the
salotto blu
, where she hid herself away for the remainder of the day.

12

After her account, during which Urbino had not interrupted her to ask or say anything, the Contessa arose from the sofa with a sigh. Telling her story had taken its toll on her. She looked even wearier than she had before.

She went over to a small table, this one burdened with paperweights, and picked up a
mille fiori
ball. As she gazed into its crystal depths, she said in a resigned manner, “So you see,
caro
, it's a matter of blackmail.”

She put the paperweight down and looked at him with an aggrieved expression.

“I definitely need a drink,” Urbino said. “Or should I say we?” He went to the drink cabinet. “Sherry?”

“I give in. Yes, sherry.”

The Contessa rang for the removal of the tea table, as if she wanted to clear the stage of a prop that had proved less useful than she had hoped.