Farewell to the Flesh by Edward Sklepowich Page A

writing fiction. I write biographies—biographies about Venice.”
    â€œBiographies about Venice?”
    â€œNot about Venice itself but about some of the people who have had an association with it. Mainly writers and artists—and not only Italians.”
    â€œBut you have so many to choose from! Browning, Ruskin, Mann, Turner, Vivaldi, Tintoretto, James—there must be dozens!”
    â€œExactly, although so far I’ve done books only on Ruskin, Casanova, Canaletto, and Browning and monographs on Pound and a Venetian family of restorers. I’m doing one on Proust now. Porfirio is providing the photographs.”
    â€œHow interesting. I absolutely adore Proust.”
    â€œProust!” Basso said with a frown after taking a sip of his whiskey. “I tried to read the book years ago but never got any farther than the first pages. The man was using so many words but he wasn’t saying anything that I could see. Something about kissing his mother.”
    â€œPerhaps you should try again, Signor Basso,” Hazel Reeve suggested. “The book is like a cathedral—but to begin to see that you would have to read more than just a few pages.”
    The comment seemed directed less at Basso than Urbino. She smiled, her green eyes looking directly into his.

10
    The Teatro La Fenice was ablaze with lights as Urbino slipped into the Contessa’s box in the second tier. The Contessa’s restrained black and ecru Pirovano gown and Bulgari ruby necklace complemented La Fenice’s dominant beiges, golds, and reds. She was talking with her friend Oriana Borelli, who was alone in the next box. They gave him a quick greeting and returned to their low conversation, which was probably about the most recent marital explosion at the Ca’ Borelli on the Giudecca.
    Urbino looked around the crowded theater. The crystal, gilt, and velvet enhanced the well-dressed audience, some of whom were in elegant masks and costumes. Urbino was curious about this new production of Rossini’s Otello . For him as well as the Contessa it would be the first production he had seen of the opera that had been eclipsed by Verdi’s version. He was familiar with the music but not the libretto. The librettist, the Marchese Berio di Salsa, was related by marriage to the da Capo-Zendrini family, and the Contessa hoped that her friend would disagree with the almost universal low opinion of his work. Her own opinion, it would seem, was a foregone conclusion. Ever since her marriage to Alvise da Capo-Zendrini—but especially since his death twelve years ago—she had become the champion of the family, drawing attention to their considerable contributions and deemphasizing, when not simply ignoring, their almost equally numerous peccadilloes.
    The Contessa finished her conversation with Oriana and turned to Urbino. He was glad Barbara wanted to do most of the talking as they waited for the performance to begin. He was thinking about Hazel Reeve. She had managed to insinuate herself into his thoughts not only by what she had said but also by what she had left unsaid and implied. Urbino wasn’t flattered easily—or at least he didn’t think he was. Yet he had felt sought out, even favored in a subtle way by this young Englishwoman with the widely spaced green eyes and had stayed longer at Porfirio’s than he had intended. After Basso had gone off, they had discussed Browning and Proust.
    When the performance began, it didn’t take Urbino long to realize that the libretto travestied Shakespeare’s tale of passion, pride, and jealousy.
    During the intervals the Contessa, however, praised the opera, looking at him with an amused expression as she singled out the libretto for special comment, calling it “unique.” He didn’t dispute her for indeed the libretto was unique in the worst sense. He mumbled something innocuous about the recitatives and the similarity between one