Farewell to the Flesh (16 page)

Firpo came over, revealing pointed azure boots beneath the embroidered hem of his gown. His costume gave his paunchy body svelter lines. So far his ambition to get on a calendar or a postcard hadn't been realized but neither had his enthusiasm been dampened. Each year he tried to outdo himself, expecting each year to be the one when he would finally achieve his goal. Urbino hoped that he would eventually get what he wanted. There was something to be said for such a simple dream.

“Have you been having any success?” Urbino asked him.

“Marvelous! Everybody's been taking my picture today.”

“Did you know the English photographer who was murdered in the Calle Santa Scolastica Wednesday night?”

“I didn't know him, no, but I knew who he was.”

“Did he take any pictures of you?”

The baubles on Firpo's headdress tinkled as he shook his head.

“No, unfortunately.”

Firpo seemed about to add something but his attention was caught by a man in a heavy black turtleneck aiming his camera at two women in pink gowns, white stoles, pearls, and large sunglasses with pink feathers sprouting from them.

“Were you anywhere near the Calle Santa Scolastica on Wednesday night?”

“Why would I go there? This is where most of the action is.” He looked over at the photographer, who was finishing with the two women in pink. “I didn't see the English photographer that night, if that's what you want to know.”

“What about Xenia Campi?”

“I'm sure I would have known if
she
was around!”

Urbino had to agree. If Xenia Campi had been there in her usual capacity that night, she certainly would have made her presence known, but suppose she hadn't wanted to be seen? He had only her word that she hadn't left the Casa Crispina after Gibbon and Nicholas Spaak had left and Josef had come in.

“Did you ever see the English photographer paying attention to any young women in particular?”

“In particular? No.” Firpo was getting impatient to be off. The photographer in the turtleneck was now exchanging names and addresses with the two women. “He talked to a lot of the girls.”

Firpo excused himself and hurried away, holding his headdress as it swayed perilously in his effort to get the photographer's attention before it was caught by someone else. But the photographer passed Firpo by and started taking pictures of a figure dressed as an
Inamorata
from the commedia dell'arte, voluptuously robed in gold, scarlet, and silver. Firpo stood watching the figure pose at the foot of the ramp, then started to walk up the ramp sedately, off again in search of the photographer who might make him an icon on next year's calendars or collection of
Carnevale
postcards.

20

On the edge of the crowd, looking as sullen as he had yesterday, was Giuseppe, wearing his cowboy hat and holster. He recognized Urbino, too, and seemed to want to slip away but Urbino went over to him before he could.

“Giuseppe, how are you? Where are your cousin and Fabio?”

“Somewhere.”

His eyes shifted over the crowd in the Piazza, not meeting Urbino's gaze.

“I was wondering if you saw Xenia Campi anywhere around here on Wednesday night.” He paused. “It was the night the English photographer was murdered.”

“She could have been.”

“But did you see her?”

Giuseppe took a few moments to think. He still didn't look at Urbino.

“People wear masks and costumes. Maybe she did. She could have been here but I might not have known it was her.” He finally looked at Urbino. “Are you trying to get me in trouble? If she thinks I told you she was here, she'll have it in for me. No!” he said. “I didn't see that
strega
, that witch! None of us did.”

“Leo said something about a girl she was trying to get you interested in. Who is she?”

“I don't remember her name. She was the girlfriend of a dead boy. She's the girl who paints faces sometimes, the one who told Leo who you were. She's too old for me, and even if she wasn't I don't want anything to do with someone that crazy woman likes. Good-bye!”

He disappeared into the crowd.

21

The waiter brought over Urbino's Campari soda. A teapot and a plate of little cakes were already on the table. Despite the press of people waiting in the foyer, Urbino had found the Contessa comfortably ensconced at her usual table by the window in the Chinese salon.

“Tell me everything,” she said. “And when you're finished I might have something of interest for you, too.”

As he filled the Contessa in on what he had learned since yesterday morning from the Neapolitan boys, Hazel Reeve, and Xenia Campi, he was grateful for the opportunity to review it all himself.

“So what do we know about Gibbon?” the Contessa said when he had finished. “He was a good-looking man, he was talented, he flirted with women, he wanted to marry Hazel Reeve but didn't want to sign a prenuptial agreement, and he was found stabbed to death in a rather
louche
area. He also rubbed people the wrong way. Josef, Porfirio, Xenia Campi, and Nicholas Spaak didn't like him. Hazel says she loved him but can we be so sure of that? She might have loved him at one time but love can turn to hate. So what do you think, Urbino? Did the girl love him or hate him?”

The Contessa smiled at him in a playful way that he found somewhat inappropriate. When he didn't answer, she said, “Or is that too much like the Lady or the Tiger?—or rather, the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea?” She paused and nodded knowingly. “She's having her little success, isn't she, Hazel Reeve? Or perhaps I should call it a big success.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's succeeded in confusing you.”

“It's you who are trying to confuse me, Barbara!”

“I'm trying to help clarify things,
caro
. Hasn't it occurred to you why she cares what you think, what you know?”

“Of course it has.”

“Well, then, I hope that you're just a little bit suspicious that she's giving you all these confidences. Look at the way she said that she hadn't told the Commissario about her old boyfriend but was telling you. That itself should make you suspicious. You're proving yourself to be just like a man, and I had such great hopes for you! Don't be too eager to assume that what Xenia Campi or Nicholas Spaak has to tell you about Gibbon is more to the point than the positive things you've heard from the others.”

“I wasn't aware that you had liked Gibbon so much.”

“I didn't particularly care for him or didn't care for the little I knew about him. That's just what I mean. I knew so little.”

“Someone else might say that to dislike someone after only limited contact means that there's a good, visceral reason.”

“The viscera can lead you astray, as anyone who's been blindly in love can testify. No, Urbino, you have to put your faith in a different part of the anatomy”—she tapped a well-manicured finger against her temple—“and you have to separate the facts from the opinions. You're in search of truth, after all! That's what your wonderful little lives are all about, aren't they? But I certainly don't mean to lecture you,
caro
—all the more so because I know you've saturated yourself in Proust of late, and if I remember correctly, he has almost as much to say about the elusiveness of
la vérité
as he does about
l'amour
itself.”

Urbino nodded absently, feeling a little dispirited. He looked around the crowded Chinese salon, filled with the aromas of coffee and of the mint, cocoa, and cherry in the small Rosolio glasses.

Most of the other patrons were wearing costumes. Two tables were occupied by men and women in black capes, high-heeled shoes, white stockings, beribboned black-velvet pants and lace-frothed white shirts. The women carried black masks on long sticks and the men had black
bautta
demi-masks. In the eighteenth-century surroundings of Florian's, Urbino felt as if he were in a Pietro Longhi painting. Casanova or Goldoni would have felt right at home.

The Contessa was peering with particular attention into the crowd beyond the windows, apparently in search of her friend. An elderly man started to strum his mandolin in front of the window, as if he were serenading her. When he finished the Contessa smiled at him and he took off his tricorn hat and bowed.

Urbino hadn't yet told her about the incident on the
traghetto
. Before he did, he wanted to pursue something she had said a few minutes ago.

“You said you had something interesting to tell me.”

“A piece of factual information. Gibbon was found with money on him, all in hundred-pound notes. Thirty of them.”

Urbino was too surprised to do anything at first but stare at her. Then he asked her how she knew.

“Corrado Scarpa.” She named a friend of her husband attached to the Questura. “You know what he thinks of Gemelli. They haven't got along since they were both in Verona. I hardly had to ask him for any information. I met him at the hospital when I went to see Josef—who isn't much better, by the way. Corrado was checking some medical records.”

“Gemelli would be furious if he knew,” said Urbino. “It wasn't in
Il
Gazzettino
and it wasn't one of the things he condescended to tell me about. The Questura obviously doesn't want the public to know.”

“I have never thought of myself as the ‘public,'
caro
.”

“It certainly seems to rule out random violence or a mugging gone wrong. But what was Gibbon doing with all that money? Three thousand pounds!”

“Maybe it was the price of his death. People are killed for less than that.”

“But the money was still on him. It doesn't make sense. Why murder a man and not take the spoils?”

“The murder might have been interrupted,” speculated the Contessa. “It's
Carnevale
. Any number of people might have wandered into the Calle Santa Scolastica—other than the ones who usually do, I mean. Do you think he was going to give the money to someone?”

“Someone might have given it to him that night.”

“Or he could have taken it from someone.”

“It seems more logical that he was given the money, that he rendezvoused either in the Calle Santa Scolastica or somewhere nearby and then went there. He was a photographer, don't forget, which means he was in a classic position to blackmail someone.”

“True, but blackmail isn't the only motive for murdering a photographer—or even the best.” A mischievous gleam came into her eye. “Anyone who has ever had a bad photograph taken would understand wanting to do it.”

If the Contessa was trying to lighten his mood with her little jokes this afternoon, she wasn't having much success.

“You said a little while ago, Barbara, that I should use something other than my viscera. When you find a murdered photographer with so much money on him, blackmail is probably the first and most logical thing to come to mind. Hazel said he always had plenty of money. Maybe that's why.”

“Except why give Gibbon the money and then kill him? Why not kill him before, or take the money back after you've killed him?”

They were contemplating this when the waiter came over and told the Contessa there was a call for her.

While she was gone, Urbino considered various possibilities. Although it made more sense to kill a blackmailer before you turned over any more money, there were other scenarios as well. The money could have been given as a distraction, to put Gibbon off his guard, to gain some vital time, and then been forgotten in the confusion or because of an interruption. It was even possible to imagine someone who didn't care about the money, but only cared that Gibbon was now dead. Or Gibbon could have been given the money by one person and murdered afterward by someone else.

If Hazel knew about the money found on Gibbon, she would most likely see it as further proof of how little he had been interested in her own. Unless, of course, she had given it to him herself and already knew about it.

“It was Berenice,” the Contessa said as she slipped back onto the banquette. “She's not feeling well, poor thing. Probably another bad night at the hotel.”

Urbino quickly told her about the incident on the
traghetto
. The waiter brought over a fresh pot of tea and another Campari soda.

“All along you obviously knew she wasn't coming!”

“I had no idea! She was upset at first but she seemed fine by the time I left her.”

“Poor Berenice.” She laughed. “I know I shouldn't be laughing but her experience on the
traghetto
reminds me of when she fell into the Cam. Were there any good-looking young men around who might have caught her eye? Other than you, I mean? That's what happened on the Cam. All this good-looking boy had to do was take his straw hat off to her and she was lost. She waved, she stood up and called something to him—and she was lost.”

“Lost?”

“What do you call it when a person falls into a river from the exuberance of her own emotions? She was passionate about so many things. We used to think it was because she was American. We had a lot of laughs about it.” Her face suddenly clouded. “Berenice's appearing out of the blue like this after all these years wasn't the best thing that could have happened to me—not with another birthday coming up. I've been resenting her a little—resenting her for remembering so much, even more for reminding me of so much. I know it's wonderful to have old friends, people you've shared so many things with, who remember how you once were, but it's also unsettling. Sometimes I feel as if I want to forget most of it—or remember it only when I'm all alone. I'm not in search of lost time, not like your Monsieur Proust, by any means! I treasure my past but I like to keep it in a chest I can open from time to time when no one else is there. Quite frankly, if someone else brings up the past I feel so abominably old!”