passage and a Verdi aria, surprised that aspects of the opera had managed to penetrate his abstraction.
âWhat did you think, Urbino?â the Contessa asked when the performance was over and they stepped out into the night air with Oriana Borelli.
âAny version that substitutes a love letter for the handkerchief canât be anything but all wrong, but thank God he smothered her instead of forgiving her.â
Oriana, who knew that the Marchese Bario di Salsa was related to the da Capo-Zendrinis, reached out to touch the sleeve of the Contessaâs sable coat in consolation and turned surprised eyes, magnified behind her outsize black frames, in Urbinoâs direction. Her gaze was transferred to the Contessa the next moment when the Contessa laughed and said,
âI couldnât agree with you more, caro . Abominable, wasnât it!â Then, with a tug at his arm as they went down the steps into the square after saying good night to Oriana, she added, âAlvise always said he wasnât absolutely convinced that the da Capo-Zendrinis were related to the di Salsas.â
In the darkened cabin of the Contessaâs motorboat, the Contessa asked him about Porfirioâs party. Urbino didnât go into much detail, not mentioning the photographerâs houseguest, but the little he said seemed to satisfy her. For most of the trip up the Grand Canal, she mused about the unexpected visit from her schoolgirl friend and said she was looking forward to getting Urbinoâs opinion of her.
âI hope,â she said, âthat youâll be over whatever is troubling you. I also hope that youâve noticed, with a keen appreciation for the reticence of true friendship, that I havenât asked you one single, solitary question about the cause of that scrunched-up look on your face. At least I havenât asked you yet. Go home and go to sleep. Good night and God keep you from any nightmares.â
11
When Urbino got back to the Palazzo Uccello, the phone was ringing. It was Lubonski.
âRemember that you promised not to go near the fresco until I am well,â he said in a barely coherent voice. âI want to be the only one responsible for any damage done.â
Not waiting for a response, the Pole hung up. Feeling somewhat put out by Lubonskiâs reference to âdamageââeven if he had included himself in itâUrbino went to the study and sat down to read Proust.
He seldom had premonitions, if that was the name he might give to the uneasy feeling he now had as he opened the book. He had felt this way on the day of his parentsâ accidental death and on a Mardi Gras evening almost fifteen years ago as he had paused in front of a closed door his wife had gone through half an hour before with her cousin, Reid.
As he sat stroking Serena absently, he couldnât shake the feeling that something bad was going to happenâunless it had already.
12
Ignazio Rigoletti, returning to the Corte Santa Scolastica after buying cigarettes, was glad he didnât encounter anyone in costume. He wasnât in a good mood and he didnât know what he might say or do.
The only festa he enjoyed was the Regatta. As a teenager he had rowed in the two-oar puparino and had eventually been among the gondolini champions and a district representative for the six-oar caorlina . Hadnât he even helped row the Bucintoro thirty years ago when the golden barge had carried Pope Pius Xâs body in a crystal coffin down the Grand Canal? Now he only occasionally rowed for the Querini club, at the age of forty-nine leaving most of the rowing to his nephews.
Rigoletti had hoped that his son, Marco, killed in a car crash on the autostrada, would become a rowing champion. He had been a fine specimen of a young man and the Regatta was a festa for real men. Even though they now allowed women to row in the two-oar mascareta , it was nothing more than just something to appease the
âWhat did you think, Urbino?â the Contessa asked when the performance was over and they stepped out into the night air with Oriana Borelli.
âAny version that substitutes a love letter for the handkerchief canât be anything but all wrong, but thank God he smothered her instead of forgiving her.â
Oriana, who knew that the Marchese Bario di Salsa was related to the da Capo-Zendrinis, reached out to touch the sleeve of the Contessaâs sable coat in consolation and turned surprised eyes, magnified behind her outsize black frames, in Urbinoâs direction. Her gaze was transferred to the Contessa the next moment when the Contessa laughed and said,
âI couldnât agree with you more, caro . Abominable, wasnât it!â Then, with a tug at his arm as they went down the steps into the square after saying good night to Oriana, she added, âAlvise always said he wasnât absolutely convinced that the da Capo-Zendrinis were related to the di Salsas.â
In the darkened cabin of the Contessaâs motorboat, the Contessa asked him about Porfirioâs party. Urbino didnât go into much detail, not mentioning the photographerâs houseguest, but the little he said seemed to satisfy her. For most of the trip up the Grand Canal, she mused about the unexpected visit from her schoolgirl friend and said she was looking forward to getting Urbinoâs opinion of her.
âI hope,â she said, âthat youâll be over whatever is troubling you. I also hope that youâve noticed, with a keen appreciation for the reticence of true friendship, that I havenât asked you one single, solitary question about the cause of that scrunched-up look on your face. At least I havenât asked you yet. Go home and go to sleep. Good night and God keep you from any nightmares.â
11
When Urbino got back to the Palazzo Uccello, the phone was ringing. It was Lubonski.
âRemember that you promised not to go near the fresco until I am well,â he said in a barely coherent voice. âI want to be the only one responsible for any damage done.â
Not waiting for a response, the Pole hung up. Feeling somewhat put out by Lubonskiâs reference to âdamageââeven if he had included himself in itâUrbino went to the study and sat down to read Proust.
He seldom had premonitions, if that was the name he might give to the uneasy feeling he now had as he opened the book. He had felt this way on the day of his parentsâ accidental death and on a Mardi Gras evening almost fifteen years ago as he had paused in front of a closed door his wife had gone through half an hour before with her cousin, Reid.
As he sat stroking Serena absently, he couldnât shake the feeling that something bad was going to happenâunless it had already.
12
Ignazio Rigoletti, returning to the Corte Santa Scolastica after buying cigarettes, was glad he didnât encounter anyone in costume. He wasnât in a good mood and he didnât know what he might say or do.
The only festa he enjoyed was the Regatta. As a teenager he had rowed in the two-oar puparino and had eventually been among the gondolini champions and a district representative for the six-oar caorlina . Hadnât he even helped row the Bucintoro thirty years ago when the golden barge had carried Pope Pius Xâs body in a crystal coffin down the Grand Canal? Now he only occasionally rowed for the Querini club, at the age of forty-nine leaving most of the rowing to his nephews.
Rigoletti had hoped that his son, Marco, killed in a car crash on the autostrada, would become a rowing champion. He had been a fine specimen of a young man and the Regatta was a festa for real men. Even though they now allowed women to row in the two-oar mascareta , it was nothing more than just something to appease the
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