Liquid Desires (9 page)

Back at the Palazzo Uccello, Urbino called the Contessa and told her about the artist Bruno Novembrini and Ladislao Mirko, the
padrone
of the Casa Trieste.

“You've learned quite a bit already,
caro
! Now we at least know her last name. Brollo, Brollo. The name doesn't quite mean anything to me, and yet—” She broke off, ostensibly to search the corners of her mind for some association. “I'm being teased. I seem to have heard the name before.”

“It isn't all that unusual.”

Then Urbino told her that Flavia's father was a pianist.

“That could be it,” the Contessa said. “I could have heard his name at the conservatory. He might even have been one of the teachers. I'll go through my bits and pieces from those days. You know, Urbino, I'm even more apprehensive now than I was before. If this Flavia Brollo could bring herself to slash the painting the way she did, who knows what she might be capable of? You said that Novembrini seemed afraid for himself. He's probably afraid she'll come at
him
with a knife next time! Do you think they're having an affair?”

“Either they're having one—or it's over. That might be the reason she slashed the painting. An attractive young woman joined him at the café when I was leaving. Maybe it's his new girlfriend.”

“Now I have something to tell you,
caro
,” the Contessa said with a little thrill of excitement in her voice. “I'm seeing the young lady in question tomorrow. She called and said that she would like to see me at Florian's.”

“Florian's?”

“It surprised me, too, but now that you've told me about how violent she can be, I'm almost glad it won't be here. Somewhere public might be better—or should I say ‘safer'? But then again you couldn't find a more public place than the Italy Pavilion, could you? That's why I'm glad you'll be with me.”

“It might be better to see her alone.”

“But then I wouldn't be able to see her at all. Signorina Brollo insists on you. She said to be sure that my good-looking young friend was there, too. I've added the ‘good-looking,'
caro
. Call me unredeemably prejudiced, but as for the rest—yes, she insists.”

“But why?”

“It's obvious, isn't it?” The Contessa paused dramatically. “She's afraid of being alone with
me
! That's why she chose Florian's. You may think you're a master of concealment, Urbino, but one thing you can't hide is how much your heart goes out to women in distress. She knows she can count on you to keep me in line. Thursday at four.”

15

The expression that Urbino found on the Contessa's face on Thursday afternoon when he slipped into the chair across from her revealed all the irritation she felt about the way the Chinese salon at Caffè Florian had been invaded. The doors between the salon and the arcade, usually closed so that the only access to the room was through the café itself, were thrown open. What in other seasons was the Contessa's vantage point from which she could peer into the square from behind a shield of dark wood and glass was now itself in the midst of activity.

Tourists intruded their heads to take in the salon's paintings under glass, its
amorino
lamps, marble tables, and banquettes. Others wandered through the eighteenth-century salons as if they were rooms in a gallery, peering curiously up at the ceiling with its strips of dark wood and floral paintings, at the parquet floors and mirrors, and at the Oriental frescoes under glass. Photograph takers backed into the Contessa and Urbino's table to get a good shot. Waiters bustled to the tables in the square and under the arcade, getting each other's attention with kissing noises.

Florian's orchestra, on its stage in front of the arcade, played one Broadway show song after another.

“‘Frogs and lice,'” the Contessa suddenly said.

“What was that, Barbara?”

“It just popped into my head.” Her face had a slight flush of embarrassment, and she rearranged the lace handkerchief in the pocket of her Valentino linen suit. “Last week I was reading a collection of letters by one of my countrywomen, Lady Montagu. It seems that she felt the same way about the crowds in Venice as I do—and that was two hundred and fifty years ago!
Plus ça change, plus c'est la mênu chose!
She said they tormented her 'as the frogs and lice did the palace of the Pharaoh.' A rather apt image, even if she was talking about her own fellow Englishmen. You have to admit she had a point,
caro
. My own not so original image is that it's like a circle of Dante's Inferno.”

“A circle reserved for whom, Barbara? For those who have sinned against charity by not wanting to have their fellow men around them?”

The Contessa gave a sigh of pure exasperation.

“Don't get democratic on me, Urbino. You hate this just as much as I do—maybe even more! After all,
I
wasn't the one who decided to sequester himself away in a remote Venetian palazzo in his prime.
I
married into Venice.”

This particular distinction didn't seem to give her any satisfaction this afternoon, however, and she was silent while Urbino ordered his Campari soda. Urbino didn't interrupt her thoughts, but gave his attention to the swirling scene only a few feet away.

“At least the orchestra could play Strauss or Offenbach!” the Contessa said finally when Urbino was enjoying the first sip of his drink. “And our Signorina Brollo is atrociously late. I've already had a
Coppa Fornarina
.”

She was now working on a plate of petits fours accompanied by tea—uniced, and made from the first-flush Jasmine brought over every month by Mauro, her majordomo at the Ca' da Capo.

“It's not much past four, Barbara.”

“It's almost twenty past! Oh well, considering how the girl has acted already I suppose I can't expect punctuality, can I?”

Two young men with short blond haircuts strolled past under the arcade, their chests bare. Swollen money bags were belted around their waists, and hanging from their back pockets were their T-shirts.

“Can't these people keep their clothes on? And look at those obscene pouches!” the Contessa said. She looked away from the two men only to see a young man and woman embracing against a column. Once again she sighed. “What did Yeats complain about? ‘The young in one another's arms,' wasn't it? Oh, it's in the air here—in the Italian air!”

She appeared to ponder this for a few moments.

“Italians! Sometimes I think most of them live only for the sake of physical beauty,” she said, apparently giving Urbino the fruit of her brief reflection. “I know it's a ridiculous exaggeration, but there's more than a little truth in it. Italy is such a difficult country when you see your own beauty, however great or small, slipping away. The Italians!” But this time she said it with a sadder inflection. “There are moments when I've felt like crying when I see a beautiful young woman pausing to look at herself in a mirror or a shop window. I can't help but wonder what Flavia Brollo's mother looked like. She must have been beautiful.”

She looked impatiently out into the crowd.

“Wherever is that girl! It's so insufferably hot in here!” She opened her lace fan and waved it vigorously back and forth, succeeding only in making herself hotter, Urbino was sure. “She'll probably torture me more now by never even coming! I—”

The Contessa was staring at the door into the next salon where Flavia Brollo was standing. She was wearing a simple shift dress in the shade of green preferred by Italians—the same shade as in the national flag. It brought out the green of her eyes, which were not at all as blank as they had been in Asolo. In fact, they were shining brightly.

“Contessa,” Flavia Brollo said with an attempt at a warm smile. “And Signor Macintyre.”

Urbino got up and held out a chair for her.

“I would like to speak in English, if you please,” she said somewhat tentatively as she sat down. “To show you that I want to be honest.” She smiled again. “It is very hard not to tell the truth in a different language.”

This, Urbino perceived, was a somewhat different Flavia from the one who had intruded on the Contessa's garden party on Saturday. She was just as assured, certainly, but she seemed less anxious and more inclined to please, to put them both at their ease. Perhaps the difference was because she had already made her great revelation.

“No, thank you,” Flavia said when Urbino asked her if she wanted anything, pushing back her auburn hair in what must be an habitual gesture.

“I hope you've come here to give us an explanation, Signorina Brollo,” the Contessa said without any preliminary, snapping her fan closed.

“So you know my legal name.” Flavia shrugged. “It does not matter.”

“But it
does
matter,” the Contessa insisted. “Surely you have nothing to do with my husband.”

“I am sorry, Contessa, but the Conte da Capo-Zendrini
was
my father. Soon you will believe me. You will have no choice.”

Flavia Brollo tilted back her chin and stared at the Contessa with her green eyes.

“Why do you say that he was your father, Signorina Brollo?” Urbino asked before the Contessa could respond to the young woman's challenge.

“I prefer it if you call me simply ‘Flavia.' I hate the name of Brollo!” Anger animated her face, but she gained control of herself a few moments later. “I say that the Conte was my father because he
was!
I know!”

“Isn't your father a pianist?” Urbino pursued.

“Him! He is the man who
says
he is my father but I know he does not believe it. He
cannot
believe it!” Her green eyes flashed with a cold fire. “You have a photograph of my father for me, Contessa?”

The Contessa took a deep breath.

“My dear Signorina Brollo, I have no intention of humoring you so that you will go away and leave me in peace.”

“You're being foolish, Contessa!” Flavia Brollo said, now speaking in Italian. “The Conte da Capo-Zendrini might have loved you. I don't know anything about that. You seem like a good woman. But he also betrayed you. He loved my mother. You're making a mistake! Can't you see that! Something terrible happens when people don't listen! When they refuse to believe what they know must be true!” She stood up, knocking her chair over and bumping against a waiter who was going out with a full tray of drinks. The fire in her green eyes was no longer cold, but burning. “Proof!” she shouted. “I'll bring you proof, one way or another, I promise you! Then you'll know that the Conte da Capo-Zendrini was my father! You'll believe me. You
must
believe me,” she said desperately.

Her raised voice had brought the maitre d', who now stood in the doorway. The Contessa caught his eye and shook her head slightly. He moved to one side as Flavia Brollo stormed out of the Chinese salon to the foyer, her auburn hair flying behind her. She went to the guest book, picked up the pen, and wrote in the book. After she hurried out into the Piazza, Urbino went over to see what she had written. An angry-looking script read “Flavia da Capo-Zendrini.”

16

“Do you think she actually
does
have proof?” the Contessa asked Urbino several hours later as they were dining at Al Graspo de Ua near the Rialto Bridge. It was one of the Contessa's favorite restaurants, but she had hardly touched any of her dishes. Even the gelato in front of her now was melting. “If she does, it changes everything, doesn't it? For one thing, it means you're off the hook,
caro
.” She managed a weak smile. “You won't have to worry about being the one to bring my whole world crashing down around me.”

The Contessa looked up at the overhead beams, as if she expected the crash to begin imminently. She spent so long gazing upward before going on that Urbino thought she might be trying to read the Venetian sayings on the beams.

“I tell you, Urbino,” she said, bringing her eyes back to his, “I tell you as surely as I'm sitting here that I'm up to it. If this young woman has proof, let her show it to me, and if it's
real
proof,” she said redundantly but not passionlessly, “I'll accept it. Whatever else can I do? I'll stand by her for Alvise's sake. But I can't imagine her having any proof that won't bear some discreet checking into. I'm not about to swallow things down whole! So you'll have your onerous little task to do, after all. If you don't, there would be only one reason why. It would mean that her proof was as obvious as the nose on my face—and that's one thing I just couldn't bear!”

Almost involuntarily, Urbino glanced at the Contessa's patrician nose. It was one of her best features. She held her head higher when she noticed the direction of his glance.

“‘Ocular proof,' you mean,” Urbino said, wondering if the Contessa's reference to noses had made him think of eyes.

“Why does that sound familiar to me?”

“Because it's what Othello says to Iago—to give him ‘ocular proof' of Desdemona's infidelity.”

“As I recall,” the Contessa said dryly, “that play didn't end happily for anyone. Let's hope we have a better resolution to my own little Venetian drama!”

The Contessa had aimed for a light note but it failed. The anxious look on her face told Urbino how much she knew she had to fear. He was sure that all the way back to La Muta she would be able to think of nothing else but Flavia Brollo's “proof.”

That night a violent thunderstorm shook Venice. About midnight, after the height of the storm, the Contessa called Urbino from Asolo.

“I'm sorry for calling you at this hour,
caro
, but I can't get to sleep. Tell me it's going to be all right. Tell me that Flavia Brollo is either silly or malicious. Tell me—”