Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich Page A

angles in one or another of the restaurant’s unavoidable mirrors. She attributed these ill-considered new additions to the vanity of the woman who owned the restaurant and who kept throwing glances into them as she moved from table to table.
    The Contessa noticed that the waiter, who had worked at the restaurant for as long as she had been coming, was reeling more than usual as he carried plates. She had always suspected him of frequent nips from a bottle in the kitchen. Obviously the mirrors only added to his disorientation and lack of surefootedness these days.
    The Contessa was beginning to feel more at ease by the time they were lingering over coffee, Frieda’s having been “corrected” by a generous dose of anisette. Regina Bella, the padrona , joined them to chat, speaking in English and only now and again breaking into Italian.
    â€œEveryone here on Burano is grateful for your attempts to help its delicate art, Contessa,” she said in a voice made hoarse from all the cigarettes she smoked. “We Buranelli are one big family. We hope you will try again to establish a scholarship. The time wasn’t right before.”
    The Contessa’s immediate response was to give a perceptible start and an equally perceptible gasp. She stared into one of the mirrors.
    In it, the face of the old woman from the boat landing peered at her with her grotesquely magnified eyes. She pressed a lace handkerchief against her mouth and then drank from a glass of water, all the while staring at the Contessa.
    This sudden appearance of the old woman in the restaurant would have been enough in itself to startle the Contessa. Her distress was heightened, however, by the way that Bella’s comment had seemed to invoke the face of the very person who had been largely responsible for the failure of her benevolence. It suggested to the Contessa the old adage, Speak of the devil and he will appear.
    Bella followed the Contessa’s gaze. She gave a nervous laugh.
    â€œThat’s Nina Crivelli,” she said.
    â€œYes,” the Contessa said, “I recognized her.”
    â€œPeople always remember Nina! Those eyes! They stab right into you! She used to be one of the best of the lace makers in her day, before her sight started to go. It was all the lace making that did it. She can hardly see beyond her nose, even with the glasses. I think that’s why her eyes seem like knives, from the strain. But she manages to see quite a bit, don’t you worry about that. She’s become very attached to the restaurant recently,” she added in a lighter tone.
    â€œAlmost blind?” Frieda said with exaggerated sympathy. “How sad, and from making beautiful lace. There is a story to be found, yes, don’t you think?”
    â€œA story?” Bella repeated.
    â€œI am a writer, my dear. Be careful. Some of us have been known to steal a person’s life before they know it!”
    Bella, who seemed to follow the spirit of this if not quite all the sense, retreated behind a confused smile.
    â€œSteal? I never said that Nina would steal even a button!” She lit a cigarette and glanced uneasily in the direction of the kitchen. “The waiter, Salvatore, is her son. She comes to check up on him every day. She’s a very attentive mother, even after so many years. She does some of his cleaning up to get him home earlier. Sometimes she cooks meals when Nella isn’t here. You must excuse me.”
    Bella threw her lamb’s wool coat over her shoulders and dashed into the street, turning toward the main square.
    The Contessa paid Salvatore, and indicated he could keep the rather generous amount left over. She wanted to get out of the restaurant, and back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini as soon as possible. She had a vague sense of insecurity as long as she stayed on Burano.
    Frieda stopped at one of the lace shops on the way to the boat landing.
    â€œIf it’s good Burano lace