8

“The pathetic and the deluded,” the Contessa said when Urbino told her about Giovanni Firpo and Xenia Campi Who was pathetic and who deluded she left for him to sort out as she glanced disdainfully at the flyer.

The Contessa’s choice today of her multicolored Fortuny dress that had belonged to the actress Eleonora Duse indicated that she was either weary or depressed, perhaps both. Urbino had never known her to wear it in any other circumstances. She seemed to believe there was something talismanic in the garment that would lift her spirits. It didn’t seem to be working this afternoon, however.

“Is that poor soul still talking about Disneyland? She said the same thing last summer.”

She sighed and absently fingered her strand of matched pearls.

“And she probably will again this summer. She does have a point though.”

“Of course she does! There’s nothing worse than an idealist gone wrong. You should be able to appreciate that.”

“I would think that you’d be more sympathetic, Barbara. You don’t care for Carnevale any more than she does.”

The Contessa looked out the window into the crowded Piazza.

“I endure it like so much else in life. Just a week until it’s all over.”

The waiter brought over a Campari soda for Urbino and a fresh pot of tea for the Contessa, made with the first flush jasmine tea her majordomo Mauro brought over every month. The needs of the Contessa and Urbino were anticipated here at Florian’s, where the Contessa was almost a daily figure, usually in the company of her American friend or some social, political, or artistic luminary of the city.

She favored the Chinese salon, one of the smaller rooms, with its floral patterns, vaguely Oriental portraits, and wooden parquet floor. It had an intricate ceiling of lace and flower designs sheeted in clear Murano glass and framed by dark, shining strips of wood in geometrical configurations. The walls had the same Murano glass but many of the strips of dark wood on the walls were gilded. Here in the Chinese salon, surrounded by its painted panels and carved wood, its velvet and marble, its stucco and its gilding, and its heavy mirror and bronze amorini holding delicately fluted lamps, the Contessa had one of her best settings. From the plush maroon banquette by the windows, she was mistress of all she could survey in the Piazza outside or in the small room itself. But right now she was staring at Urbino.

“Whatever is that thing around your neck?”

“I’m going to Porfirio’s party before the Fenice tonight.” He quickly added, “Don’t worry. I won’t be late.”

He felt uncomfortable mentioning Porfirio’s party, knowing that there was bad blood between her and the Venetian photographer. Had she been invited? Perhaps she was brooding about it.

“I’m not worried but do put that thing away. It’s distracting. There’s something I want to talk about.”

Urbino slipped the mask into the pocket of his blazer.

“I thought it gave a rather nice touch of color.”

“I’m beginning to wonder about you, Urbino. Are you sure you aren’t a closet masquerader or whatever one would call it? Trying to relive your adolescent days of those ‘mystical crows’ or whatever they’re called? Do you have a wardrobe of bizarre costumes at the Palazzo Uccello like Giovanni Firpo? It’s the kind of thing one would expect of an admirer of that decadent duke Des Esseintes! I’ve probably passed by you during Carnevale on any number of occasions and not even known it was you. Of course, one has absolutely no way of knowing who most of these mad men and women out there are, either. And I probably wouldn’t want to know. Shocks like that add lines to the face and gray to the hair!”

A figure was standing at the window looking at them. It was wearing a large mask designed after one of the weird portraits of the sixteenth-century painter Arcimboldo, composed of vegetables, fruits, and flowers. This comestible mask had a thicket of roots for hair, mushrooms for ears, a tuber for a nose, and a sprouting potato for a chin. The Contessa sighed and shook her head.

“You said you had something to talk about,” Urbino reminded her.

“So I do, caro. Three days ago I was rung up by someone I haven’t seen for longer than I care to remember. We were only about fifteen the last time we saw each other. Can you believe such an atrocious thing? Her name is Berenice Reilly—or rather it was. It’s Berenice Pillow now.”

“Pillow! You British have some of the strangest names.”

“Actually, caro, the name is American—or at least her husband was American. The family was probably British originally. She read about the Ca’ da Capo in the article in Casa Vogue. She couldn’t believe it was me—a Contessa, she said, little Barbara Spencer—and to think we had been girls together at St. Brigid’s-by-the-Sea.” She looked at Urbino with a little smile. “She recognized me, I believe. That picture taken in the library was a good one.”

“Recognized you after all these years? The article did give your maiden name and some other information.”

“In any case, caro,” the Contessa went on, “she said she remembered me quite well. She was a rather plain girl with a fiery temper to match her red hair. I never heard from her, or even of her, again until three days ago. Can you believe a person from your past just popping up like this?”

She took a sip of tea.

“She wanted to see me for old times’ sake and to find out about my life since St. Brigid’s. She said I was just the person she needed to talk to, to confide in the way we used to on those winter nights at St. Brigid’s. It’s rather flattering, don’t you think, after you get over the initial shock? It should be fun showing her around to Oriana and some of my other friends—and, of course, you, caro—as long as she promises to be discreet!”

A figure in a domino with its ample hood pulled up over a paint-whitened face paused before their window. He was about to move along when he saw the Contessa looking out. He raised his hand, bowed his hooded head, and called out “Benedicite!” to her. The Contessa turned away, not waiting to see what he might say or do next. The man blessed himself and continued along the arcade.

“Berenice and I decided to meet here at four-thirty yesterday. Well, I must tell you that I waited almost a full and complete hour! I had some diversion while I was waiting, but not completely pleasant. Gibbon came in with a plain young woman who’s also staying at the Casa Crispina. I talked with them for a while although she hardly said a word. I wish the same could be said for Gibbon. Every time I meet him he makes me regret ever listening to Sister Teresa. Somehow, within only a few minutes, he managed to disparage both Josef and Porfirio. There was a malicious edge to everything he said. The girl was quite amused but I definitely wasn’t. One of Porfirio’s friends was sitting at the table over there and heard everything. I have no doubt he repeated every single word back to him. When our local dragon Xenia Campi descended on us with her flyers, Gibbon and the girl left. The girl didn’t seem comfortable with Xenia Campi in the room although if she had waited only a few moments she would have had the pleasure of seeing her escorted out.”

Her eye ran over the flyer again before going on.

“Berenice finally came. She looked a wreck! You would never think we had been in the same form together although she was a year older, I think. I would never have recognized her but she came right over to my table without any hesitation. She was loaded down with enough things to outfit an army! She had her purse, a guide book, a Missoni shopping bag, and one of those folding lap desks. It wasn’t the most dignified entrance Florian’s has ever seen. She ordered a martini—a martini, mind you!—and drank it faster than I drank the rest of the tea in my cup. She asked me all about myself but we didn’t come close to sharing any confidences. Maybe once she saw me she decided she didn’t want to confide in me after all, and I admit I held myself back. I think we have to get reacquainted first. Just about the only things I learned were that she has been married twice, once to an Italian—and twice widowed, poor thing—and that she has a son. That is, I think she has a son. She was so confusing that I wasn’t able to figure out if he was a stepson or a son by one of her two marriages.”

She shook her head slowly.

“She’ll be stopping by the Ca’ da Capo tomorrow with her son—or her stepson. Why don’t you stop by, too? It might be fun, meeting an old school chum of mine—as long as you don’t ask any personal questions.”

“I’ll come just to see what a woman with a name like that is like!”

“As I said, she doesn’t look anything like my age. Or I should say,” she emended, realizing that this might be misinterpreted, “that she looks as if she had been at St. Brigid’s years before me! But you’ll see for yourself!”

She said this with a bright smile of confidence.