Liquid Desires (42 page)

“How horrible!”

“And off he went back to the pensione to start covering his tracks and to take possession of the money Flavia had put in his safe, the large sum left over from what Massimo Zuin had bribed her with. It was a financial windfall—something Mirko got out of Flavia's death in addition to not ever having to worry that sometime in the future she might let it out that he had killed his father.”

“Maybe it was Mirko's idea all along to kill Flavia for the money,” the Contessa suggested. “How much was there?”

“Enough. Zuin had given her ten million lire—almost eight thousand dollars. Flavia had given Tina about a third of it, saying, if you remember, that it was hers anyway, although she didn't mention that it had come from Tina's father. She gave the Riccis another million. I wondered what became of the rest of it. Was it lost in the water? Was Flavia robbed and then murdered? Or had she left the money somewhere for security? Mirko's safe, I thought. The money had to be very tempting for someone with a drug habit but I don't think he would have killed Flavia for the money. In his own way, he did love her”—the Contessa started to protest but Urbino raised his hand and continued—“but in the end his fear that she might reveal that he had murdered his father was stronger than his love. He probably regretted many times that he had confided in Flavia but—”

“When did he confide in her?” the Contessa asked, this time succeeding in interrupting him. “And why would he?”

“He did it about ten years ago after Flavia moved out of the Palazzo Brollo and trusted him enough to tell him what Lorenzo had been doing to her. Wanting to show her how much he, for his part, trusted her, Mirko told her that his father's death hadn't been an accident as everyone thought. Mirko was in love with her. He would have done anything for her, maybe even have killed Lorenzo. When Tina Zuin told me about the ‘secret sharing' game that the three of them used to play, I started to ask myself what kinds of secrets might have passed between Flavia and Mirko. Once I knew about Lorenzo's sexual abuse and had my hunch about Mirko's father, the two fit perfectly. I admit that I was misled for a time because Mirko was a help to us, up to a point, in looking into the business of Alvise. He gave me the scrapbook—although only after looking through it again to be sure that Flavia hadn't said anything about his father, Vladimir.”

“Whatever ‘help' Mirko seemed to give was all for his own devious ends!”

“True, and like any person trying to conceal murder, Mirko had a lot he had to be careful about revealing,” Urbino went on. “And drugs were complicating matters for him, confusing his mind. Should he remain completely silent or dole out some information? And how much would be too much? How much would be too little? Mirko never really knew what he should tell and what he shouldn't. Yet he did know that if he could incriminate Lorenzo while giving me the impression that he didn't intend to, it would look better for him. And he was right. He always had to be careful not to show any knowledge of what had happened to Flavia after she left his pensione the first time.”

“Did he?”

“Almost. When I awakened him suddenly from his stupor late Sunday morning and told him he hadn't been honest with me, he was frightened. He thought I knew about Violetta being Flavia's mother and had found out somehow that
he
knew about it because Flavia visited the pensione a second time that night. He was frightened, but he recovered quickly enough when he recalled the other big secret of Flavia's life—Lorenzo's sexual abuse. Later I remembered his reaction and started to speculate and—”

“And eventually pulled out a plum that's left us all gaping! You realized he was close to the breaking point and that Silvestro, Bernardo, and you might be in danger! I think I understand, but why didn't Mirko mention the sexual abuse earlier?”

“He was crafty, always looking out for himself when his mind was clear. My guess is that he didn't want to seem
too
eager to make Lorenzo look bad. After all, almost everyone said Flavia's death was suicide, and he was better off leaving it that way. Maybe he realized that Lorenzo's sexual abuse was too close to what he had done to Flavia himself. And who knows? He might have been afraid of giving himself away, of pointing me in one of the worst directions if he was to continue to avoid detection.”

“But he did show you that horrible Dalí that Flavia ripped from the catalog. The painting almost shouted about Lorenzo's sexual abuse to anyone with even a suspicion of what might have gone on between Lorenzo and Flavia.”

“I'm not so sure Mirko understood its significance. He might have believed that she had ripped it out to give him because of the Yves Tanguy on the other side.”

“I'll never—absolutely never!—be able to look at that Dalí painting again.
The Birth of Liquid Desires
indeed!”

Urbino smiled to himself. The threat and self-denial in the Contessa's statement were minimal considering how she had always felt about Dalí and how infrequently she even went to the Guggenheim Collection.

“I've never cared particularly for anything by Dalí,” Urbino said. “Flavia was at an impressionable age when Violetta introduced her to him, and she was fascinated with
The Birth of Liquid Desires
. But it's obvious why she started to feel differently about it later when Lorenzo's sexual attentions became so aggressive. She might even have associated Regina, Violetta, or Annabella with the other woman in the painting whose face is averted, thinking they might have known or
should
have known. After all, Annabella
had
known what was going on. As for Violetta, she now realizes that Flavia was trying to tell her about Lorenzo's sexual abuse in indirect ways. I'm surprised Flavia didn't try to slash the Dalí as well as Novembrini's portrait.”

“Such a sad young woman—and definitely emotionally unbalanced. But how could she help it? Look at the way she had to live! And she had the Grespi blood running in her veins. Genes have a strange way of asserting themselves. She ended up looking more like Regina—her aunt—than her real mother, Violetta. Just think of it. One Grespi sister emotionally disturbed for most of her life—and then the other one! Violetta!” The Contessa said the woman's name with quiet contempt. “She and Lorenzo are almost as responsible for their daughter's death as Mirko. They put everything in motion over twenty-five years ago for their own selfish—yes,
even fiendish
reasons! I'm not throwing the word out lightly,
caro
. I don't care if Regina agreed to the whole thing either. She was in no position to be allowed to. Her sister and her husband should have protected her. The whole thing was diabolical, I tell you! Violetta ended up protecting herself and having her revenge against both Regina
and
me at one blow. As for Lorenzo himself, he's beneath contempt. To think that nothing can be done to him! He murdered Flavia in his own way. He murdered her soul!”

The Contessa seemed to contemplate this final statement for a few silent moments, as Urbino recalled what Flavia had said to him in the
salotto verde
at La Muta: that a person's soul shrivels up when someone he loves and trusts betrays him. Then, rousing herself, the Contessa asked why Lorenzo hadn't let the truth about Violetta and him come out after Regina died.

“Maybe he was afraid of what Flavia might do to herself or to him if she knew the truth. He was caught up in the lies for so long that he was probably comfortable with them. Maybe it assuaged his conscience to have his daughter believe that he wasn't her father. Lorenzo seems to have been convinced that she committed suicide because of what he had done to her and how he and Violetta had deceived her. He must have been afraid my treating her death as murder would bring everything to light—as it eventually did. He gave Mirko money, ostensibly to cover Flavia's bills at the pensione, but he must have been hoping he could buy Mirko's silence if he knew about the sexual abuse.”

The Contessa watched as Urbino desultorily attacked his
coppa
.

“What about Nicolina Ricci?” she asked.

“Her death could have triggered much of Flavia's subsequent actions. What had happened to Nicolina—being raped by a trusted family friend, someone like an uncle, someone around whom Flavia had never felt comfortable, seeing in him what she had seen in Lorenzo—was too close to what had happened to her years ago. That must have been the significance in Flavia's inscription on Nicolina's funeral wreath: ‘From your older sister'—not sisters by blood, of course, but because of similar experiences. Nicolina's murder reopened all the wounds. And don't forget that Lorenzo was showing an interest in Novembrini's nude portrait of her. We don't have Flavia here to tell us what was going on in her mind. She was very careful in whom she confided—apparently only Madge Lennox and Mirko, possibly Nicolina. There must have been something about Bruno Novembrini that she didn't quite trust despite their intimacy.”

“You don't think that Madge Lennox and Flavia—”

“I don't know,” Urbino cut her off. “It's not important, is it? You wouldn't want to begrudge the poor girl whatever consolation she found as long as she wasn't deceived or taken advantage of.” The Contessa looked rebuffed. “What is important is that Flavia trusted Lennox—that she felt safe and secure in Asolo with her. There's no suggestion that Lennox let her down. You can imagine how important trust was for a woman who had been betrayed the way Flavia was.”

“Yes—and how vile silence and secrets are!” The Contessa's face was shadowed with sadness. “What do you think that poor girl really wanted from me, Urbino?”

“To accept her as Alvise's daughter. If you had done that, it would have been more real for her, and she would have been even more distanced from Lorenzo. I have a feeling that Mirko wanted her to try to extort money from you, but money isn't what she wanted.”

“So it was my peace for her own. Oh, Urbino, I would have done what I could for her! I keep seeing that old photograph of her she showed us at La Muta. If there had continued to be the slightest bit of doubt, I would have accepted her. I would have mothered the poor thing.”

“I know you would have, Barbara. You would have made a big difference, but it wasn't meant to be.”

“‘Wasn't meant to be'—I suppose that's less disturbing than saying something could have been different, that there was a choice we failed to make. I'm not thinking of you and me—of what we did or didn't do for Flavia—but of Alvise and me. It wasn't meant for us to have children. If Flavia had been given to me in the painful way I was almost beginning to accept, I would have considered her as something from Alvise after all these years. It's madness to say it—especially since I wasn't put to the test, was I?—but I would have. I would! I've always tried to convert the bad things that come my way into something good. I'm far from believing that every cloud has a silver lining—I leave that philosophy to you Americans!—but sometimes we have to refashion our pain.”

Urbino thought the Contessa was going to end on this somewhat philosophical and perhaps even puzzling note, when, after taking a quick sip of mineral water, she went on.

“And you know, Urbino, even though all we've gone through has made me only too aware of the sadness that can befall the Flavias and the Nicolinas of this sorry world—and the Mirkos, too, I suppose—I wish that Alvise and I had had our chance for that kind of happiness. I regret that Flavia was snatched from me. I could have made a difference in her life.” She paused. “She could have made one in mine.”

Urbino could add nothing to her heartfelt admission. He finished his gelato. When the waiter came over to take the empty goblets, the Contessa ordered another
coppa
.

“I don't care what anyone thinks today. I need to be soothed. It has absolutely nothing to do with appetite!”

Together they looked out at the placid scene. The jitney bus had just pulled in from the bottom of the hill and three young women descended. A boy on a bicycle waved to the women as he flew across the square and down the Via Browning. An old woman was watering geraniums at a window above the opposite arcade. When she finished, she stood at the window smiling and listening to the music of
La Traviata
still filling the afternoon air.

The Contessa broke the spell by bringing up Flavia's tape recording of the nurse Graziella Gnocato's statement.

“It must be somewhere at the bottom of the Grand Canal or sucked into the mouth of a trash boat,” Urbino said. “But it doesn't matter now. It never really did. It had nothing to do with the truth.”

“And the attack on you in San Polo?”

“It wasn't connected with the scrapbook—or with Flavia. It was just one of those things.”

“Listen to you! Just one of those things! You're aiming for a blasé note but it falls flat,
caro
. I know you were terrified, as well you should have been!”

The Contessa looked at Urbino with a bemused expression for a few moments. Urbino sensed that she wanted to say something but wasn't quite sure how to bring it up. When she spoke, he realized she was taking the direct approach.

“Tell me,
caro
, what are you going to do with Novembrini's painting of Flavia when Massimo Zuin delivers it to you after the Biennale?”

“Keep it. Will that bother you?” Urbino said, being as direct in his answer as she had been in her question.

“I'm not a Philistine, Urbino. I think you know that, even if I can't bear Dalí and his ilk. It's just that it makes me sad to think of that painting. Poor Flavia! To think that Lorenzo wanted it for his private collection. But maybe you're right about it, Urbino. Keep it as a grim memento. Who knows whose hands it might get into otherwise? At least we're sympathetic to its history. As time goes by we might be able to look at it without a pang although I know I'll never be able to like it.”