Black Bridge by Edward Sklepowich Page A

Urbino said when Bobo returned his attention to the women with evident reluctance. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for them?”
    â€œNot me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gava said.
    â€œOrlando!” Festa remonstrated. “That wasn’t what he was thinking at all. If he suspects anyone it’s me!”
    â€œYou? But you like D’Annunzio, too, and—and you like Bobo. You were going to marry him!”
    â€œWhat I meant,” Festa said, “is that it’s great publicity—or would be if it got into the papers.”
    Festa described publicity stunts she was familiar with from her years at Cinecittà. Urbino let his eye wander around the room. The orchestra was now playing popular tunes and guests swept across the floor. Flint executed perfect steps with Oriana only a few feet away from Filippo, her husband, who was less smoothly but no less enthusiastically dancing with an American divorcée. Groups formed and dispersed according to the laws and whims that regulate such gatherings. The people lounging on sofas and chairs set against the walls seemed reluctant, either from comfort or inertia, to get up, and eyed those who were dancing or standing with the air of bored royalty.
    Festa was finishing her reminiscences when the Contessa came up and, with a barely audible apology, led Urbino away.
    â€œMore trouble,” she said when they were out of earshot of anyone. “Another threat against Bobo. The manager from the Teatro del Ridotto just told me. Bobo wanted it kept a secret. The box office attendant found one of those sheets in the lobby before the performance. You must try harder to get to the bottom of this.”
    â€œI don’t know what Bobo has told you, but he made it very clear to me that he doesn’t want me snooping around.”
    â€œHe doesn’t know what he’s saying! He needs you. We both do. See into his heart. There you’ll find his real feelings about this whole thing! Bobo—”
    â€œIs something the matter, Barbara?”
    It was Harriet, who had come upon them unnoticed. A slick film of moisture coated her forehead.
    â€œNothing at all, my dear. Excuse me.”
    The Contessa hurried off to join the Barone, who was now talking to the theater manager again. A short distance away Festa was making flamboyant gestures at a Milanese industrialist while Gava stared straight ahead gloomily as if he were at his beloved sister’s funeral. Even from this distance the melancholy surrounding the Barone’s brother-in-law was a thick, dark curtain.
    Harriet pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped her forehead.
    â€œHow close it is in here! All this incense is cutting off my oxygen and the burning wax is making my eyes burn. I’ll have to go up to my room and put in some eyedrops.”
    Before she left, Urbino asked her for one of Bobo’s publicity photographs.
    11
    A few minutes later, when Bobo, with less composure than usual, began to recite D’Annunzio’s prayer-prologue for Debussy’s Martyrdom of St. Sebastian to a musical accompaniment, Urbino went down to the garden.
    He walked through a courtyard of Venetian brick and past statues of chained Turks in Istrian stone up to the higher level. A pebbled path lined with clipped boxwood, laurel hedges, and stone mythological figures took him toward a pergola. The pergola, sheltering a Roman bath and covered with Virginia creeper and English ivy, was the Contessa’s and Urbino’s favorite place in the garden.
    Raised, angry voices coming from the pergola stopped him short. They were those of a man and a woman, but he couldn’t make out who they were. Ironically, he might have been better able to hear if he had been farther away from the pergola. The garden had unusual acoustics, which it shared with Venice itself where sound traveled erratically and mysteriously.
    Afraid that whoever it was