Liquid Desires (10 page)

She didn't go on but apologized again and hung up. Urbino knew that he would have trouble sleeping himself. He went to the study, put Mahler's Third Symphony on the player, and, with Serena in his lap, tried to lose himself in the gossipy pages of Peggy Guggenheim's memoirs.

17

While Urbino and the Contessa waited for Flavia Brollo to contact her again, Urbino devoted himself to Eugene.

His ex—brother-in-law had found a chandelier to his taste on Murano—“big, all different colors, with pagodas and dolphins” was his enthusiastic description. He had also decided on the painting of the melancholy girl with flowers at Zuin's gallery. Having made these purchases, along with the gondola and Novembrini's painting, he was now ready for some sightseeing.

And so, in the enervating heat of a sirocco, Urbino and Eugene made their rounds of the sights along with hordes of tourists. The Bridge of Sighs was pronounced “dirty gray” and the Basilica San Marco “a cave dark enough for bats.” The canals were as smelly as “a low-tide bayou,” the
calli
“too narrow to even change your mind in,” and the dank, low-ceilinged dungeons of the Doge's Palace “probably no worse than half the parlors in the city.” Only when Eugene was looking at Tintoretto's
Paradiso
in the Doge's Palace did he seem to find something commensurate with his taste.

“The largest painting in the world!” he exclaimed. “Must be at least twenty-five yards long and a good seven wide! Look at all them angels and saints and whatnots around Jesus and His Momma. I reckon there must be about a thousand.”

Unfortunately, it was all a disappointment for Eugene after he had seen paradise. Even a gondola ride up the Grand Canal and along the back waterways on Saturday afternoon with a mercifully silent gondolier couldn't spark his interest. He was manifestly unimpressed with it all, and barely condescended to give a glance at anything—not at the Rialto Bridge or the palazzi or the silent, secret squares. He did, however, find some amusement in the plaque adorning the side of the Ca' Rezzonico. On it were written the lines from Browning that were embroidered on Occhipinti's pillow:

Open my heart and you will see

'Graved inside of it, “Italy.”

Eugene joked that this might be a good epitaph for Urbino himself, now that he had turned his heart against his own country.

“Just like that Guggenheim gal! Say! How about havin' this fellow drop us at her building with the top missin'?”

Pleased to have Eugene show an interest in something, Urbino had the gondolier deliver them to an embankment near the Palazzo Guggenheim.

Urbino and Eugene first wandered through the small garden at the back of the museum. A tour guide was animatedly speaking to his small group in front of the huge, thronelike stone seat that Peggy Guggenheim had loved to pose on. Urbino pointed out the pieces of sculpture scattered throughout the garden to Eugene, among them one by Giacometti, but Eugene wasn't paying any attention. He was listening to the tour guide's story of the notorious Marchesa Casati, who had owned the palazzo before Peggy Guggenheim.

“The Marchesa, known as the Medusa of the great hotels, kept leopards and panthers here. She let them range around freely, from what I understand, and loved to wear a live boa constrictor around her shoulders. One of her last parties, after which she had to flee Venice in disgrace, was given in Piazza San Marco. Handsome young men holding flaming torches stood on columns placed throughout the Piazza. They wore absolutely nothing except golden paint.” The tour guide paused, assessing the reaction of his listeners, before going on. “Unfortunately, one of them suffocated to death under the paint. Years later, Peggy Guggenheim bought the palazzo for sixty thousand dollars.”

Eugene gave a broad smile.

“I'm sure she gave plenty of wild parties of her own! Why, look here, Urbino,” he said, pointing to an engraved marble sign against the wall:
HERE LIE MY BELOVED BABIES.
Eugene shook his head. “She certainly had a passel of kids! And look at these names! White Angel. Hong Kong. Madame Butterfly. She
was
a strange woman. Is your Countess anything like her?”

Urbino assured him that the Contessa wasn't and explained that the names were those of Peggy Guggenheim's dogs.

“Too bad the gal passed on, Urbino. She sounds mighty interestin'. Let's go inside and take a look at those paintings she bought every day.”

But once inside the gallery, he seemed bewildered and was perhaps reconsidering his high evaluation of the woman who had bought all this abstract and Surrealist art.

“She must have known what she was doin' but I can't make head nor tail out of these things, Urbino! Just look at this contraption here!” He pointed to a Giacometti bronze on a block. “
Woman with Her Throat Cut!
Can you believe that one! Looks like a lobster split open. Reminds me of that girl I heard about at the hotel—the one stabbed to death. And why is this one called
Sad Young Man on a Train
? Do you see any train? I don't even see a man! At least I could make out all those eyes in the painting in the other room that had ‘eyes' in the title.”

Appreciation of the taste of his new heroine was proving difficult for the poor man, and perhaps no more difficult than when they were looking at the Surrealist paintings.

“
The Robing of the Bride?
” Eugene stared at Max Ernst's painting. A naked woman, barely covered by a bright red cape and a hood of feathers, was flanked by a bizarre birdlike creature with a spear, another naked woman, and a pygmy figure with four breasts, a protruding belly, and a penis. “Am I missin' something, Urbino? I just don't get it.”

Urbino, not feeling up to an explanation of Surrealism, mumbled something about fantasy and the dreamworld. It was to Eugene's credit that he didn't even pretend to understand.

“And look at this one,” Eugene said. “It's called
The Birth of Liquid Desires
. Looks more like the
death
of something to me!”

It was by Salvador Dalí. A bearded nude man, with a woman's breasts and a prominent erection draped by a scarf, grabbed a young woman in a white gown. The woman's head was a burst of colorful flowers, with random petals falling to the ground. Behind them loomed a weirdly shaped rock with a womblike opening in which another man, wearing nothing but a sock, his back turned to the viewer and the couple, was bending down and reaching a hand into a pool of water. Kneeling behind the rock was another pale woman, her face turned aside and shielded with one hand as she poured liquid into a bowl in which the bearded man's foot was standing.

Eugene kept staring at the Dalf until he finally pronounced that he liked it.

“Can't figure out why, though. It has something to do with water, right? That must be it. Or it could have something to do with money, too, couldn't it? You know, liquid cash. Isn't that a safe up there in the corner?” He scrutinized the painting for a few more moments. “Lookee here! That man's all ready and rarin' to go, ain't he? What they don't put in paintings! Wonder how much Peggy paid for it?” Eugene asked, obviously feeling closer to Miss Guggenheim now that he was seeing her house and belongings. “Probably a lot less than Zuin soaked me for the girl with the flowers.”

Eugene gave one last look at the Dalí before they left the room.

“I really like that
Liquid
picture,” he said.” You don't think it could be for sale, do you, Urbino?”

“Definitely not, but they probably have a postcard reproduction at the desk.”

“Guess that'll have to do,” Eugene said in a disappointed tone, but then he laughed. “Maybe I'll send one off to May-Foy and tell her I bought the real thing. Wouldn't that be a hoot!”

They went out to the terrace on the Grand Canal. The two stone benches were occupied and people were sitting on the stone balustrade. For a few moments Urbino and Eugene stood there looking out at the heat-shimmering Grand Canal with its water traffic and the palazzi on the other side.

“Look at this, Urbino!” Eugene said in a stage whisper. “Just like the old fellow in the
Liquid
picture.”

Urbino knew exactly what he was referring to. It was
The Angel of the Citadel
, Marino Marini's metal sculpture of a horse and rider—or rather one particular detail of the rider whose head was thrown back and arms outstretched as if in ecstasy. The detail was there for anyone on the terrace or passing on the Grand Canal to see—namely, the rider's erect penis. Peggy Guggenheim used to unscrew the penis whenever nuns or sensitive visitors came to the palazzo.

“What a woman!” Eugene said, shaking his head slowly in bemused admiration. “I'm beginning to see why you like this watery town. It certainly seems to attract an unusual crowd. Are you sure your Countess friend—”

But Eugene didn't finish. A woman's scream shot through the air. Several people were pointing through the wrought-iron grille gate that separated the terrace from the Grand Canal.

Floating face downward between two of the gold-and-white-striped wooden
pali
, or mooring poles, was a body, its arms trailing down into the water. Shrouded in green material, the body was rocked by the wake of a vaporetto moving up the Grand Canal. Long hair fanned out in the water—long hair whose color was evident only where it broke the surface of the water and caught the rays of the late-afternoon sun. It was a Titian auburn.

A museum official hurried from the palazzo past Marini's tumescent rider. Two men dressed in work clothes came out seconds later, climbed into one of the boats moored against the posts, and reached down to grab hold of the body. Straining, they lifted it over the side of the boat, water streaming from it. As they brought the body into the boat, the face turned toward Urbino.

Although bloated and misshapen, the face was still recognizable enough for Urbino to realize that Flavia Brollo's days of being an object of desire—but not of mystification—were now over forever.

PART TWO

The Sun in Its Casket

1

On sunday afternoon, twenty-four hours later, Urbino and the Contessa were slowly walking through the puzzle maze at La Muta, trying to make some sense of the death of Flavia Brollo. Urbino, along with Eugene, had arrived earlier in the day to help ease the Contessa through the shock and confusion.

That morning's
Gazzettino
had carried a piece on Flavia Brollo's death:

BODY OF WOMAN FOUND IN THE GRAND CANAL

The body of a woman, Flavia Brollo, 26, of this city, was found floating in front of the water steps of the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni (“the Palazzo Guggenheim”) late yesterday afternoon.

A group of people, who were at the Palazzo Guggenheim to see its renowned collection of modern art, noticed the young woman's body from the water terrace.

Death was apparently from drowning. This morning Professore Renzo Zavarella, appointed expert of the office of the substitute prosecutor, Maurizio Agostini, will perform the autopsy on San Michele. The police are making inquiries into the last hours of the life of Signorina Brollo.

Signorina Brollo was the daughter of Lorenzo Brollo of the San Polo quarter, and the late Regina Grespi Brollo. Signor Brollo is a pianist and founding member of La Serenissima Orchestra. The Brollo family is the former owner of Riva Petrochemicals in Marghera.

Although the article made no mention of foul play, Urbino couldn't rid himself of the fear that this was what they might be dealing with. Who knew what dirty waters Flavia had stirred up after she rushed from Florian's to get proof that Lorenzo Brollo wasn't her father?

Yesterday Urbino had given a statement at the Venice Questura to Commissario Francesco Gemelli of the
Pubblica Sicurezza
with whom he had a somewhat adversarial relationship. They had worked together, unofficially, in the past, not so much with the police chief's approval as by his sufferance. Gemelli had been less than pleased to learn that Urbino and the Contessa had been acquainted with the dead woman and that Urbino suspected murder. Urbino had told him about Flavia's intrusion at the Contessa's villa last Saturday, the blowup at Florian's on Thursday afternoon, Flavia's link to Bruno Novembrini, and her lodging at the Casa Trieste.

“A delicate situation for your Contessa to be in,” Gemelli had said. “Shortly after a public threat to the reputation of the Conte and Contessa da Capo-Zendrini, the young woman is found floating in the Grand Canal. You say you think foul play might be involved. Well, we'll have to see, won't we? By ‘we' I mean the police, the medical examiner, and the prosecutor. It might be much better if you and the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini prayed that Flavia Brollo died any way other than by foul play, although a judgment of death by suicide could do its own kind of damage to the Contessa's peace of mind and reputation.” Gemelli had given his supercilious smile. “We'll proceed with our inquiry and wait for Zavarella's report. Nothing is likely to slip by him.”

When the Contessa had read the article in the
Gazzettino
, she was stunned, as Urbino knew she would be, to find the Grespi name surfacing. Grespi was the maiden name of Violetta Volpi, the woman who the Contessa's friend Oriana Borelli had said bore a long-standing grudge against the Contessa. Urbino had given Oriana a call, asking her to try to get information from her husband Filippo's old nurse. Oriana had told him last week at the Ca' Borelli that the nurse knew Violetta Volpi. Since his arrival, Urbino and the Contessa had stayed close to La Muta in anticipation of Oriana's response, venturing this afternoon only as far as the maze to take advantage of the fresh, cool air blowing across the Dolomites.

Although the Contessa, dressed in flattering apricot charmeuse, was leaning on Urbino's arm and seemed to be paying little attention to their meanderings, it was she who was leading him. Despite Urbino's many negotiations of the maze's devious twists and turns and cul-de-sacs with the Contessa—and once, completely alone, on an interminable summer afternoon when he had been too proud to uncover the signs—he had never learned the route. Trying a trick he had read about, he had kept his left hand in constant contact with the hedge wall, but it had done no good. The Contessa's maze was much more complicated than that. Now, as on other occasions, Urbino was content to have her lead the way. His only responsibility was to carry the wicker hamper with their late-afternoon snack.