72

At two o’clock the next afternoon, a Friday, Urbino rang the Cipris’ doorbell on the Lido.

The artist appeared, his thick white hair in disarray, but otherwise looking as dapper as usual in a bright blue cravat and tweed sport jacket. He couldn’t conceal his surprise at seeing Urbino.

“It’s you, Signor Urbino. It was a pleasure to see you yesterday at the Contessa’s concert. Brilliant, it was! Most brilliant!”

“Yes, it was,” Urbino agreed.

He looked over the painter’s shoulder into the parlor. Hilda’s chair was empty.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I had some business today on the Lido. I thought I’d stop by and ask your wife to autograph her book. The poems are very good, and I’m sure that if my German were better, I’d be even more impressed. She carried me back to the time of Byron in Venice.”

He took Hilda’s collection of Byron-inspired poems from his pocket.

“I had it with me at the concert yesterday, but she wasn’t there. I do hope she is all right.”

“She was feeling poorly.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ll come back some other time. Give her my good wishes.”

Urbino started to put the book back into his pocket. He sensed that Cipri was aware that Hilda’s autograph was only a pretext for his visit.

“No, it’s all right,” the painter said. “I’ll take it to her. She’s resting but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind being disturbed for a second. Would—would you like to come in?”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to intrude. If you’re sure it wouldn’t trouble your wife, I’ll be gratified to have her autograph, and then I’ll leave and not take up anymore of your time.”

“As you wish. She’ll regret not being able to see you today. Perhaps some other time when she’s feeling up to it. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Cipri indicated a chair beside the door and left.

As soon as Cipri was out of sight, Urbino went over to the table where he had noticed the sketches of Hilda. They were still there, as well as the pens and pencils and the Italian-German dictionary. The keys, however, were nowhere in sight. Urbino wondered how significant it might be that the table held everything that it had held not much more than a week ago, everything except the keys.

He seated himself in the chair by the door.

Cipri returned a few minutes later with Hilda’s book. The painter opened it. Hilda Krippe was written in bright blue ink on the title page.

“She was most pleased,” Cipri said.

Urbino thanked him and put the book in his pocket. What he probably had was an excellent forgery of Hilda’s signature.

“By the way,” Urbino said, as he was about to leave, “since my last visit I’ve become interested in someone you mentioned. It’s the foreign gentleman who used to stay at the Ca’ Pozza. He was Armenian. There’s an interesting relationship between Venice and Armenia. I thought I might write a short book about it.”

“I see. I suppose that would be interesting.”

Cipri’s smooth, pink face became impassive.

“Did you know that he drowned with his son in the same accident that Adriana drowned in?”

“He did? I didn’t know. I never had much to do with him except for the few times I saw him at the Ca’ Pozza.”

Urbino would have expected Cipri to show more shock and surprise at learning about Dilsizian’s death in the same accident that had killed Adriana.

“That’s too bad. But when you did see him there, did you notice what kind of relationship he had with Armando? Were they friendly?”

“As I said last time, Armando is devoted only to Possle.”

“And the memory of his sister.”

“If you say so. I wouldn’t know. I never see him.”