Death in a Serene City by Edward Sklepowich Page B

the direction of his wife and Cavatorta, an ex-priest and now a mask maker in the Cannaregio. The Bellorinis had a strained relationship with Cavatorta that was said to go back to the time of their marriage, when there had been a disagreement of some kind over a gift given by Cavatorta’s father. Those who disliked Angela spread the story that she had acted in a haughty manner that went with the Candiani blood and the Bellorini money. Equally vociferous were those who couldn’t abide Cavatorta. Surely a man who had never been known even in his youth to pass by an opportunity to make others look worse than himself had enjoyed taking malicious advantage of a mild misunderstanding and fanning the flames over the years.
    Urbino had always found all this rather amusing than otherwise. Venice, a small, inbred place, was rife with such gossip, petty jealousies, and rivalries.
    If Angela had a condescending side—something that he didn’t necessarily discount despite, perhaps even because of, all her charity work—she had never shown it to him or to the Contessa whose good friend she was. Through the Contessa, Angela and Stefano had become, if not his friends, then his close acquaintances and had been particularly helpful during the second stage of his renovation of the Palazzo Uccello. Often they had known better than the restorers where to find matching marble for the fireplace and the best terracotta bricks and tiles for the andron .
    As for Cavatorta, he had an irritating snideness. Urbino suspected that his behavior was an understandable, if mean-spirited reaction against the ill will many people had for him since he had left the Church. It must not be easy for him, living in the same quarter in which he had been a priest.
    After Stefano had bustled off to rescue his plain-faced wife from what seemed the rather bored attentions of the mask maker, the Contessa put her hand on Urbino’s arm.
    â€œSo how does our writer feel about his poor dead friend? Is he racked with remorse as you so colorfully expressed it earlier?”
    Urbino started to go over his conversation with Voyd and his friend Kobke. He was just wanning to the topic, trying to remember as best he could everything that had been said, when the Contessa interrupted him.
    â€œNo more details, Urbino, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œBut the details are particularly interesting.”
    â€œBut they might make me try to find excuses and the man doesn’t deserve any. He feels guilty because he is guilty and knows it. It’s a simple question of morality and the workings of the conscience. There you have it, my dear.”
    Urbino didn’t go on but he disagreed with her. For him details were almost everything. Wasn’t it one of the main things he loved about the city, its mad jumble of details that somehow all came together so beautifully? And all those lists of flowers, of perfumes, of painters in Huysmans? The Contessa had once accused him of losing a sense of “the one true bright thing,” as she had phrased it, because of this love for details. “But I’d be lost, adrift without them” had been his answer. “ I’d be lost forever if I indulged in them” had been her own quick response.
    The Contessa was smiling at him now, her head tilted slightly to one side.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking, caro . You’re saying to yourself, ‘For a bright old woman Barbara has her peculiarities.’ You’re saying, ‘Barbara and her blasted morality!’”
    â€œNot quite but you’re close. Tell me, though, does all this mean that Clifford Voyd has seen the last of his invitations here?”
    She gave him a look from which everything was absent except the reproach.
    â€œMy God, Urbino, what’s your opinion of me! Of course not. He’ll be back, I’m sure, if he cares to come, and his handsome young friend is welcome too. It should be interesting to see