19

The Piazza had a fey, elfin spirit this afternoon, the kind that came in fairy tales from the passing of a wand.

Revelers walked under the arcades, sat on the steps, leaned against the pillars, and thronged the square. Laughter and shouts were a counterpoint to the Vivaldi playing over the speakers. Brightly costumed men and women danced the moresca on the large stage while on a miniature one a Punch and Judy show was entertaining a group of children. A Queen of Hearts and an Ace of Spades were doing a pas de deux of love and death near one of the souvenir wagons.

In front of the Basilica a family of tumblers in white suits with large white buttons and ruffled collars were performing their act and a man in a tall turban was cavorting agilely on stilts. Three young women walked slowly on huge wooden platform heels—the zoccoli of Renaissance Venice. They wore long, richly embroidered gowns of green and gold. On their heads were straw hats with the crowns removed so that they could pull their long, blond hair out to be bleached by the sun as Venetian women used to do in former days.

Involuntarily, Urbino’s eyes looked up at the space between the Campanile and the Basilica, half expecting to see a wire on which an acrobat was balancing. It would have fit perfectly into the dreamlike scene. Urbino felt as if he had stepped into the pages of a children’s book.

Amid all this carefree activity, solitary figures in fanciful and grotesque costumes stood immobile as if part of the city’s architecture. They leaned against the columns, perched on the base of the Campanile, and secluded themselves in niches and narrow openings where they could easily be mistaken for pieces of colorful sculpture.

As Urbino walked past one of these silent figures dressed in orange robes, a shaggy silver wig, and a huge five-pointed star glistening with silver sequins, Giovanni Firpo emerged from a lively cluster of people, carrying his mask in one hand, his mirrored fan in the other. He moved almost majestically in his blue and green robe and baubled headdress, his fan fluttering in the chill wind that blew across the domes of the Basilica. In order to take part in Carnevale the way he wanted to, Firpo had a reduced schedule at the hospital. He made up for it by working extra shifts during August when everyone else was running off to the seashore and countryside,

Firpo came over, revealing pointed azure boots beneath the embroidered hem of his gown. His costume gave his paunchy body svelter lines. So far his ambition to get on a calendar or a postcard hadn’t been realized but neither had his enthusiasm been dampened. Each year he tried to outdo himself, expecting each year to be the one when he would finally achieve his goal. Urbino hoped that he would eventually get what he wanted. There was something to be said for such a simple dream.

“Have you been having any success?” Urbino asked him.

“Marvelous! Everybody’s been taking my picture today.”

“Did you know the English photographer who was murdered in the Calle Santa Scolastica Wednesday night?”

“I didn’t know him, no, but I knew who he was.”

“Did he take any pictures of you?”

The baubles on Firpo’s headdress tinkled as he shook his head.

“No, unfortunately.”

Firpo seemed about to add something but his attention was caught by a man in a heavy black turtleneck aiming his camera at two women in pink gowns, white stoles, pearls, and large sunglasses with pink feathers sprouting from them.

“Were you anywhere near the Calle Santa Scolastica on Wednesday night?”

“Why would I go there? This is where most of the action is.” He looked over at the photographer, who was finishing with the two women in pink. “I didn’t see the English photographer that night, if that’s what you want to know.”

“What about Xenia Campi?”

“I’m sure I would have known if she was around!”

Urbino had to agree. If Xenia Campi had been there in her usual capacity that night, she certainly would have made her presence known, but suppose she hadn’t wanted to be seen? He had only her word that she hadn’t left the Casa Crispina after Gibbon and Nicholas Spaak had left and Josef had come in.

“Did you ever see the English photographer paying attention to any young women in particular?”

“In particular? No.” Firpo was getting impatient to be off. The photographer in the turtleneck was now exchanging names and addresses with the two women. “He talked to a lot of the girls.”

Firpo excused himself and hurried away, holding his headdress as it swayed perilously in his effort to get the photographer’s attention before it was caught by someone else. But the photographer passed Firpo by and started taking pictures of a figure dressed as an Inamorata from the commedia dell’arte, voluptuously robed in gold, scarlet, and silver. Firpo stood watching the figure pose at the foot of the ramp, then started to walk up the ramp sedately, off again in search of the photographer who might make him an icon on next year’s calendars or collection of Carnevale postcards.