The writer of the article seemed to regard himself as un giornalista investigative. With obvious delight he listed the sordid elements of the story:
The murdered husband
The vanished wife, una donna eminente
The discovery in the bushes of a handgun with the wife's fingerprints
The apparent haste of her departure
The previous removal of her entire savings from the Cassa di Risparmio di Venezia
Sam understood at once the heavy implication of the word previous. The violent act must have been premeditated.
The story was continued on page 3. Sam's fingers couldn't find page 3. They kept turning to page 5, with its forecast of extremely high water in Venice in November, or to the report on page 7 from Padua, where fifteen thousand turkeys had been asphyxiated overnight.
At last his fingers trembled open the right page, and there at the bottom was another article, an interview with a woman who had been Lucia's neighbor in the sestiere of San Polo. It was headed LA VECCHIA STORIA. Sam read it with disgust.
It was the old, old story (tearfully reported Signora Adelberti). SHE was ambitious, HE was a man with a poetic nature. The dottoressa was too busy with her important career to nurture him in his loneliness, to comfort him in his sad state of unemployment, and thus he was forced into the arms of others.
With gravely careful fingers Sam refolded his Gazzettino and walked back to work. He did not examine the rest of the paper. He failed to see the item on page 16, a tiny paragraph with the modest heading Spazzino Smarrito.
The fact that a young trash collector employed by the Nettezza Urbana had disappeared, as well as the distinguished woman who was a newly appointed procurator of San Marco, rang no bells in Sam's mind at all.
*14*
The confessional in the north aisle of the Basilica of San Marco was a magnificent piece of baroque woodcarving, but behind the rosy curtain the space was as dark and intimate as if it were an ordinary clumsy box in a country church. Father Urbano's comfortable bulk nearly filled it.
Today he had his ear against the curtain, but still he could barely hear the hoarse whispering of the man kneeling outside. Perhaps it was the accent that obscured his words. Was he British perhaps? Or American? He was confessing an unspecified mortal sin, yet at the same time he seemed to expect automatic absolution. It was apparent that he did not understand the sacrament of confession at all.
"My son, you must name your sin."
"Name my sin! For Christ's sake, Father, just tell me my penance."
Father Urbano looked up over the red curtain of the confessional to the golden dome of the Pentecost. All the apostles sat around it in a ring with tongues of fire descending on their heads. The mighty wind that rushed upon them from heaven had not rumpled a single robe nor tossed a single strand of apostolic whisker, but every one of them now possessed the gift of speaking in tongues.
For a moment Father Urbano's own tongue was tied. Then he spoke in his usual way about the certainty of God's mercy and God's love, and cautioned that there could be no penance nor absolution until the sin was told. "My son," he said again, "you must name your sin."
In reply there was a long silence. At last Father Urbano parted the curtain and looked out. The man was gone. But someone else had taken his place. A child was looking up at him expectantly.
"My dear," said Father Urbano, "what do you want?"
She said nothing, but she got down on her fat little knees, as if in imitation of the man who had just hurried away.
"Little one," said Father Urbano, "you are very young. Have you been prepared for your first confession?"
She shook her head. Then a woman appeared suddenly, snatched the child's hand, pulled her to her feet, and scolded her in English. "Ursula, what on earth do you think you're doing? " With a baleful glance at Father Urbano she rushed the little girl away.
He was left standing in the aisle, feeling at a loss. He should have helped, he should have said something encouraging. The poor child, somehow he had failed her.
*15*
Mary got up early and prepared for another day of exploration. She stuck her folding umbrella in her bag along with her guidebook, her pocket dictionary, a sandwich, and a mirror and comb. Tucked into her billfold were her Venetian phone card, a slip entitling her to one more visit to the toilet near San Marco, and her abbonamento, the ticket that allowed her freedom of travel on the Grand Canal, anywhere, any time, by vaporetto.
First stop, the Accademia, because Venice was a city of painters. Here Mary would find them all assembledthe three Bellinis, Carpaccio, Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto, Tiepolo, Veronese, Lotto, Guardi, Canaletto! There was no end to the supply of great Venetian painters. They had set each other off, one skyrocket igniting another.