The Veils of Venice (14 page)

The outer office was filled with potted plants and plastered with posters and photographs of previous productions.

No one was in the outer office except the assistant, a small, thin girl dressed in black.

‘I'd like to see the company director about your upcoming production of
La Locandiera,'
the contessa said.

The assistant knocked on a closed, leather-covered door and went inside for a few moments. ‘Signor Walther will see you,' she said when she returned. ‘Let me take your coat.'

The director of the company was a short-haired blond man of about thirty-five dressed in a salmon-colored suit and purple tie.

After she sat down, she introduced herself, dispensing with the ‘contessa' as she usually did.

‘How may I help you?' He spoke Italian with a strong German accent.

‘Olimpia Pindar was my cousin.'

A more serious expression passed over Walther's regular features. ‘I am very sorry for your bereavement, and especially under such tragic circumstances.'

‘Thank you. I know that my cousin was designing costumes for
La Locandiera.'

‘Yes. We engaged her three months ago. She had done some preliminary sketches. We were pleased with them. Your cousin was accomplished.'

‘She was. It's about her work for your company that I've come.'

Walther looked puzzled. ‘But we don't have any costumes she worked on. Just her sketches. I believe she was close to finishing one costume. And even if we did have the costume, it would be our property, along with the sketches and anything else she had finished. According to the contract, you understand.'

The contessa shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, even though she was seldom a seat-shifter or a throat-clearer, no matter how embarrassed and ill at ease. But she wanted to create the proper effect, since her audience was now a professional one, unlike the ones she had already performed before this morning. Walther seemed to be studying her intently.

‘Let me explain why I'm here, Signor Walther. The young woman being held for her murder was in my employ.'

Walther opened his eyes wider. ‘I thought I recognized your name. You are the English contessa.'

Walther's three words, ‘
la contessa inglese,'
made a tight knot form in the stomach of the owner of this title. The contessa realized the implications of his words – to be more exact, the histrionic implications. Her concern for Mina had prevented her from seeing them clearly and fully.

The terrible event that had occurred in Olimpia's atelier was a fascinating drama – even a melodrama – in which she, ‘la contessa inglese', had an essential, deliciously ambiguous role. It was an intriguing triangle: the murdered dressmaker; her murderous lover, a simple lady's maid; and the English contessa, the recipient of the domestic attentions of the passion-crazed murderess.

The contessa could only too easily imagine the script that went along with these precisely defined roles, especially hers.

And she had revealed something to Walther that the gossiping masses – the contessa could paint such a vivid picture! – would seize on as a marvellous fillip.
La contessa inglese
was actually the cousin of the brutally murdered woman.

‘Yes,' the contessa said, gaining control over herself. ‘It is because my cousin's accused murderer was working for me that I have taken it upon myself to come here. One feels a strange responsibility in such matters. I am not speaking morally or legally. Yes, a strange responsibility for having been, however innocently, a link between the two parties.'

Walther continued to regard her closely, his hands clasped.

‘Since I am interested in the theater and enjoyed your Gozzi production a few seasons ago,' the contessa continued, ‘I thought I would inquire as to whether I could be of help.'

She paused to take a breath.

Walther leaned forward and asked, ‘You are an actress, contessa?'

‘Oh, no, you misunderstand me.'

‘Because you strike me as a woman who might make a very good one.'

The contessa, who was somehow able to feel flattered amidst all her other emotions, bestowed a little smile on the director. ‘Thank you, Signor Walther. That is a considerable compliment coming from you. But no, I'm not an actress.'

‘A costume designer, then?'

‘Not a costume designer either, but it is about a dressmaker, a costume designer that I have come.' The contessa started to speak more quickly than she usually did so that there might be no more misunderstandings. ‘It's unfortunate that your company has been deprived of its designer under such circumstances. I would not want to see your schedule disrupted. I can recommend two excellent ones in Venice. Unless you already have someone in mind, someone you were considering along with my cousin? Perhaps my cousin, so unfortunate in her tragic death, was fortunate in having been given preference over another designer?'

Since this was what the contessa mainly wanted to know, she felt as if her question drew a great deal of attention to itself. But if it did so, Walther gave no indication.

‘She was fortunate in having no competition. But we have had to move quickly, and have found a possible replacement, if we can convince him to take on the project. He lives in Milan.'

‘I hope everything will go on as scheduled.'

The contessa settled back against the chair in the cabin as Pasquale brought the motorboat out into the Grand Canal. She was looking forward to being back at the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini, where she could be off-stage.

The day had turned slightly warmer, and the gray sky had given way to a sky daubed with streaks of bright blue. The
palazzi
, which still had the power to impress her with their beauty and improbable setting, unrolled themselves on both sides of the watery avenue. After a few minutes, they set her mind briefly wondering about the romance and intrigue, beauty and violence that had been enacted behind their colorful façades, maybe not too much different in kind, if not degree, from what had taken place in the Palazzo Pindar in its more humble setting. Despite having passed from one owner to another over the centuries, most of the palaces carried either the name of their original owner or, like her own building and the Palazzo Pindar, that of some subsequent illustrious one who had made a particular mark on the city.

As the boat approached the water entrance of the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini, she drank in the sight of the palazzo almost as if she were seeing it for the first time, a morning that was still fresh in her memory so many decades later. She could still hear the conte's soft voice, saying in his accented English, ‘Cominelli designed it. Stone from Istria. Can you see the frieze of lions on the attic, Barbara dear?'

How proud Alvise had been of the building, almost as grand as the Palazzo Labia further up the Grand Canal, another of Cominelli's designs. How Alvise had hoped – how they had both hoped, sadly and vainly – that they would be able to pass it on to a son or a daughter.

The contessa, so preoccupied with thoughts about Olimpia's will and the two remaining owners of the Palazzo Pindar, worried about the future fate of the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini. Her will, made after the conte's death, bequeathed the building to the conte's youngest nephew, but he was a man older than she was, as Bianchi had reminded her. She should remake the will and name one of the conte's younger relatives to inherit in the eventuality that his nephew died and that she was, for whatever reason, unable to change the will. Life could be sadly unpredictable.

As the contessa, feeling weary after her efforts of the morning, was approaching the staircase that would take her up to the
piano nobile
, her steps were diverted by sounds from the room where the Fortuny exhibition was being set up. Two members of her staff – young men who did gardening and minor repairs – were disassembling the glass case with the Eleonora Duse gown. Vitale was supervising them, his arms folded.

Eufrosina was standing beside the display of scarves and purses. The glass case that had enclosed them had been taken apart and placed against a wall. Olimpia's moss green silk velvet purse, one of the contessa's Knossos scarves, and a pleated black purse lent by the conte's grandniece, which had been slightly rearranged on the cubes and rods, were among the items. Eufrosina was taking one photograph after another. A tripod stood against a wall.

Vitale joined the contessa. ‘She came shortly after you left, contessa,' he informed her in a low voice. ‘She said that she needed to take photographs of some of the clothing but that she couldn't take them while they were still in the cases. I've been here most of the time.'

‘It's all right, Vitale.'

Eufrosina stood up. She was dressed in a suit of striped mauve wool, stylish but worn and soiled on one knee. Black cotton gloves covered her hands.

‘Good morning, Barbara, or is it good afternoon?' Her voice was constrained. ‘I've lost my sense of time. I wanted to take some photographs today. I hope I have not disturbed things by removing the glass cases but – but I don't want to risk any reflections. I want to do my best and show them to you right away so that you will see how good they can be.'

She averted her gaze from the contessa.

This particular display was not one of those that the contessa and Urbino had decided should be photographed for the catalogue. The contessa had given Eufrosina a detailed list of the items that needed to be photographed. The woman must be confused. But the contessa saw no point in drawing her attention to her error. Eufrosina was obviously distracted and anxious about the commission. The contessa did not want to disturb her further and make it even more difficult for her to concentrate on her work.

‘I'm sure they will be very good,' the contessa assured her. When the contessa reached out and touched her arm, it was trembling. How could the contessa ever remove her from the project? It would shatter the poor woman. The contessa silently berated herself, yet again, for having decided to have her do the photography. Why hadn't she listened to Urbino!

The contessa's words did not appear to calm Eufrosina, if indeed she had heard them or even felt the contessa's consoling touch. Her eyes darted around the room as she continued to explain to the contessa how she was determined to do a good job. She wouldn't come back to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini for a few weeks, but she would devote her energies to the Fortuny Museum. Although she spoke loudly, her voice seemed to come from a long way off. When she started to speak even more quickly, the contessa could not follow what she was saying. It flowed and surged with references to lenses and polarizing filters and reflections and incandescent lamps and exposures and flaws and flashes. The contessa continued to listen without understanding anything except that Eufrosina was feeling the effects of severe stress and that whatever photographs she was taking today could hardly be better than the mediocre ones the contessa and Urbino had already seen.

When Eufrosina finished, the contessa asked if she would like to have lunch.

‘No, I must go, but thank you.' She hurried over to her tripod and started to fold it.

‘I visited your mother this morning.'

‘You did?' Eufrosina seemed surprised.

‘Yes. I don't think she is well at all. She said that Dr Santo had been there recently. But it would be a good idea to encourage her to have him come again as soon as possible. How is your bronchitis?'

‘Much better, thank you.'

Eufrosina was drawing on her coat.

‘Pasquale will take you wherever you want to go.'

‘Thank you, but there's no need for that.' But a few moments later, after the two workers had helped her collect her things, Eufrosina changed her mind and said she would appreciate Pasquale's services. All of the nervous energy had drained from her. Her face was slack. The contessa stood at the open door of the water landing, watching as Pasquale backed the motorboat into the Grand Canal to take Eufrosina across to Santa Croce.

A few minutes later, the contessa returned to the exhibition room. She told the workers that they need not put the glass case back around the display of purses and scarves. She would have them do it another day.

That evening the contessa and Urbino went to a small restaurant near the Piazza San Marco for dinner. She wanted to get out of the house even though she had been gone all morning.

Being at home in the evening reminded her of how Mina was lying in some cell in God knew what a state. Corrado Scarpa had still not been able to get her permission to see Mina. She had spoken with Mina's attorney, Giorgio Lanzani, who was able to convey messages back and forth. Mina had told him to assure the contessa that she was fine and that she hoped they would see each other soon.

Shortly after they sat down, the contessa started to provide an account of her day's performances, which continued through dinner.

Having ordered only a salad, she had little to distract her from rendering each scene in detail. Urbino was able to give her his full attention despite his indulgence in a three-course meal that included roasted eel cooked according to an old Venetian recipe. He listened to what she said and how she said it, and scrutinized her face for any additional revelations.

When it came to dessert, the contessa could not resist the ricotta cake, which necessitated a postponement of the rest of her account until she had finished it.

Tonight, as always, Urbino was an excellent listener, and he kept his interruptions to a minimum, usually to have her repeat something he did not quite catch the first time around or to give him more details and impressions.

It was only after they had re-settled themselves in the bar and started sharing a bottle of Montepulciano that they examined the fruits of the contessa's efforts more closely.

‘An excellent job, my very dear Nora,' Urbino said.

The contessa felt herself glowing under his praise. ‘And also your very dear Sarah Bernhardt?'