Death in a Serene City (28 page)

Once again, as he had last week in the Church of San Gabriele, Urbino listened to what Sister Veronica was saying.

“Without question this is the most exquisite piece in the Class Museum. It was blown and decorated in the second half of the fifteenth century by Angelo Barovier of the distinguished glass-making family. Although it is said to be patterned after a Chinese original brought back to Venice in a caravan, I prefer to think it was the original creation of the Barovier
maestro
himself. Notice its lovely violet-blue color and how perfect, how dramatic its form is. As you can see, depicted around its rim are the aristocratic nuptial couple, the wedding procession, and an allegory of youth. Although the couple for whom it was made are now only dust, it is still here to remind us of their marriage and to show us what heights earthly beauty can reach even in something as lowly and humble as a cup.

“If you would like to make a similar gift yourself, you will find copies in many of the shops here on Murano.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “But I assure you I get absolutely no commission if you decide to buy anything later. Before we leave you might want to look at the fragment of a glazed drinking glass from the fifteenth century found in the ruins of the Campanile of San Marco after it fell down in 1902 ‘like a gentleman,' as it was said, without hurting anyone at all.”

When she finished, she smiled at Urbino and came over to him.

“Good morning, Signor Macintyre. Are you here to reacquaint yourself with Venetian glass? Tintoretto is my specialty but you are welcome to join us for the rest of our tour here. You might even give us the benefit of your own knowledge. I'm afraid there are terrible gaps in what I know about glass and glassmaking despite my family background.”

“Actually I came to ask you another question or two. As it turns out, it's about the Wedding Cup.”

“But I'm afraid you've just heard almost everything I know about it. If it's more detailed information you want, I have a book back at Santa Crispina that you're welcome to look at.”

“The information I want is about Beatrice Galuppi's copy of the Wedding Cup. You said it was well done but that she had made changes, had tried to show her originality.”

“
You're
the one who mentioned originality, Signor Macintyre.” She turned her head to look at her little group, who were gathered in front of the case against the far wall. “It wasn't a complete copy but only of some of the details: the bride and groom and the scene of the fountain of youth.” She looked down at the cup beneath its glass bell. “It's been a long time but yes, I remember that it was well done.”

“And the changes?”

“She gave in to some youthful self-indulgence. It was a matter of vanity,
not
originality. Beatrice Galuppi was blessed with beauty but that didn't mean she had to paint her own face instead of the bride's plain one. Always staring into a mirror, she probably was.”

“And the groom?”

She laughed but it was a nervous laugh.

“Your guess is right. You would think a vain girl like that would have kept him just as he was. He's very handsome, very aristocratic.” They looked down at the Wedding Cup. The imposing profile of the young nobleman with his long brown hair and cap indisputably supported her point. “But she would have her fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“The groom's features were somewhat more coarse, the nose less aquiline, maybe even the colors were less true, with redder tones, I'm not really sure. I don't think she took as much care with him. There was something vaguely familiar about his face but I can't say that I recognized it. Maybe I felt that way because it reminded me of those Renaissance profiles of Pico della Mirandola, Lorenzo dei Medici, and Savonarola. But the portrait on the original itself reminds me of them, too. It's in the same style, he even has a cap like the ones you see in those portraits.”

“What did Maria say when you told her about the changes?”

Sister Veronica averted her eyes.

“I didn't tell her. I told her the painting was as lovely as the original here. It wasn't really a lie, you see. She only wanted to have her daughter praised. She said that Beatrice was very protective about this particular painting, that she never even wanted her to look at it. Beatrice had once given it or lent it to someone who hadn't taken good care of it. She was in tears when she got it back and she just hid it away. How could I not praise the work? I gave Maria what she wanted, what she needed.”

Urbino was tempted to tell her that she had been wrong, that Maria had wanted nothing more nor less than the truth. She had been searching for it for twenty years.

As if she wanted to make up for what she hadn't told Maria twenty years ago, Sister Veronica now said quickly, “But of course nothing could come close to the original, even if Beatrice hadn't indulged herself. It's not just the scenes themselves that make the cup what it is but the shape, the texture, the workmanship. She could never have captured that, no matter how good she was. Have you seen any of her work yourself?”

Urbino shook his head. It might be helpful to try to locate what hadn't been stolen. Had the pieces been in Maria's apartment when she was murdered? And where might they be now?

“Then you have no idea what a talented copyist she was. I know Signor Cavatorta doesn't agree with me, but she had a skilled hand, a fine eye—and she would have been even better, much better, if the Lord hadn't had other plans for her.” She seemed eager to repair whatever poor impression she might have given of Beatrice but then she added, “The talented as well as the good can die young.”

“What about her copy of the Tintoretto at the Madonna del' Orto?”

“I didn't care very much for it, although I suppose it was good in its way, but I'm inclined to be more demanding when it comes to the divine Tintoretto.”

“And the
capriccio?
”

“She approached it too much as a game—juxtaposing scenes from the Cannaregio, the Rialto, and Murano the way she did. There was very little Piranesi in it.”

Urbino thanked her and apologized for having taken her away from her group. Before he left, he walked slowly around the glass bell. As Sister Veronica had said, the Wedding Cup was exquisite. The enameled love scenes and portraits of the bride and groom brought to mind Keats's words—“unravished bride of quietness.”

Keats of course had been referring to the Grecian urn itself as a bride but here on the Wedding Cup was an actual bride—and she did, in fact, look properly unravished.

The quietness was something else, however.

There were things about the Wedding Cup that came close to screaming but as he turned to leave, he realized that however loud the scream sounded to him, it meant nothing unless it also rang true. And to be sure of that he needed to know still more.

10

“ARSENIC?” Bartolomeo Pignatti whispered the word even though no one else was in the showroom but the two of them. He had his lunch—a simple one of bread, cheese, roasted peppers, and red wine—spread out on one of the display cases. All around them were glass shelves and mirrors reflecting the vases, ashtrays, animals, figurines, glass pencils, lamps, and other wares of the Pignatti glassworks. There was still perspiration on the glassmaker's forehead from his hours in front of the furnace. He took out his handkerchief from his back pocket. “Why do you ask about arsenic, Signor Macintyre?”

“There's no need to be concerned.”

“I want nothing to do with the police if I can help it. One of the things our father taught us was never to trust them, never depend on them. We've never had much cause to. The Pignatti family has always tried to lead its life with honor.”

“I'm sure of that, Signor Pignatti, but not even the Pignatti family, no matter now it conducts its life, has control over people who choose to live differently.”

“What is it you want to know?”

There was a note of resignation in his voice. He cut a piece of cheese and put it into his mouth with the edge of the knife.

“Do you use arsenic here?”

Pignatti swallowed and picked up his glass of wine before answering.

“Tin oxide, we use tin oxide. I can show you our records. Nothing but tin oxide.”

Urbino took a sip of the wine which was the only thing he had accepted when Pignatti had offered to share his meal with him.

“So you don't use arsenic to make your emerald-green glass?”

Pignatti raised his eyebrows.

“You know something of our art, I see. Centuries ago that knowledge might have brought you death—and certainly the death of the glassmaker who gave you the information.”

“It wasn't a person but a book.”

“A book,” he said scornfully, “everything is in books today. Not long ago the only way to learn our art was from a glass
maestro
. But to answer your question, Signor Macintyre, we do not use arsenic at the Pignatti Glass Factory, not anymore; none of the glass factories do.”

“When did you stop?”

“It must be a good thirty years ago, just after I started learning from my father. Even back then, as I remember, it was difficult to get, as you can imagine, although it was well known that we glassmakers needed it. There were papers to sign, care to be taken. It should have been as difficult to come by in the days of the Borgias!”

“Did your father keep the arsenic locked up?”

“Most of the time, certainly at night when we were closed. During the working hours it depended.”

“On what?”

“On whether we had need of it. It was used not only for the emerald-green color but to reduce silver ions to elementary silver—for that we use iron today and, as I said, tin oxide for the emerald-green. My father always said the colors were better with the arsenic but I never noticed much difference. He was a
perfezionista
, he preferred the old ways, God rest his soul.”

“Did he ever notice if any of his arsenic was unaccounted for?”

“If he did he never said anything to me about it. He might have noticed if large amounts were missing from one time to another, but other than that …”

“So someone could have taken a little at a time over a period of days or weeks without his necessarily noticing?”

“Who is this ‘someone' you're talking about?”

“You said you were an apprentice here over thirty years ago. That was about the time Beatrice Galuppi died, wasn't it?”

A cloud passed over Pignatti's handsome face.

“I've already told you and the Contessa that I never knew her.”

“Yes, I remember what you said. Tell me, were there other apprentices here then?”

“Several.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Fairly well. There were twin brothers from the Castello. One of them had the skill, I think the other came just to be with his brother. They left after a month or so, went to Argentina. Still there now, someone told me, married to twin sisters.”

“What about the others?”

“One other—a man from Padua, about five years older than me”

“What did he look like?”

“As handsome as the others were ugly. And his name was Giovanni Fabbri, can you imagine! How many Giovanni Fabbris do we have here in Italy? They're like your John Smiths in America and England. Isn't that what the name is there? We would joke about it, ask him if it was his real name, try to get a look at his
carta d'identità
, but I stopped after my father told me not to tease him. ‘Maybe he has his reasons' is what he said, ‘and who are you to say it isn't his real name?' He was very protective of him, made me feel a little jealous, I admit, all the more so because his work was better than ours. When we had our picture taken together, one of the twins put his fingers behind Fabbri's head for horns. My father got very angry. We had to take the picture over again.”

“Do you know where this Fabbri is today?”

Pignatti shook his head.

“He left about three months after the
gemelli
, said he had to go back to Padua. He always seemed nervous. I think he was having problems at home, but he never talked about them. He hardly told us anything about himself. He might still be in Padua, but you know how it is these days, people don't stay where they were born anymore.”

The glassmaker gave a deep sigh.

“Did he ever come back here again?”

“Not as far as I know, but I left for the army not too long after that, then traveled around for a year, settled down in Canada, got married. My wife and I came back after the flood in sixty-six. My father was getting old by then and needed someone to help out, all he had was a nephew and my two sisters. I had to learn everything all over again.”

Now Urbino thought he understood Pignatti's sigh a few moments before. He had probably been thinking about his own attempt at escape years ago only to find himself now in the place where he had begun. But he had little to complain about from a professional point of view. The Pignatti glassworks were thriving and, according to the Contessa, were one of the best on Murano.

“So you never saw this Giovanni Fabbri again?”

“And why should I? I doubt if he would have wanted to pay any friendly calls, at least not once my father died. I wasn't very nice to him. You know how young people are. No, I never saw him again. Of course, that was thirty years ago when I knew him. I might pass him by every week on the quay and not even know it was him.”

He couldn't resist looking at himself briefly in one of the mirrors across from him and admiring his own dark good looks which were probably only a mature version of what they had been in the fifties.

“And the photograph?”

“The photograph?” Pignatti looked away from the mirror with a puzzled frown. “What photograph?”

“The one of you apprentices.”