Free Liquid Desires by Edward Sklepowich

square, led them into the first of the other two rooms. Eugene smiled in satisfaction.
    â€œLook at all these paintings! Some of them are so big!”
    The walls were covered with Venetian scenes, several portraits, and more than enough abstract and expressionist works to keep the Contessa complaining for hours. A good-looking man of medium height dressed in black came walking toward them.
    â€œYou must be Urbino Macintyre,” he said in accented English, his voice smooth, taking Urbino’s hand. “I didn’t recognize your name when we talked on the phone but I’ve seen you around town. I’m Bruno Novembrini.”
    Novembrini was tall and dark, with short-cropped hair graying at the temples and deep-set eyes in a bony, handsome face. From the biography in the catalog Zuin had given him, Urbino knew that Novembrini was forty-two and a native of Venice. He had a degree in economics from Ca’ Foscari, the local university, but had been “devoted to art since Peggy Guggenheim had met him as a teenager and showed him her private collection.” Knowing Peggy Guggenheim’s somewhat scandalous reputation, Urbino couldn’t help wondering exactly what Novembrini’s association with the woman had been.
    â€œSo you’re the one who did all that stuff we saw yesterday!” Eugene said. “I bought one of them. I hope Zuin here doesn’t hold back on any of the lire with you. Just jokin’, Zuin. I’m sure you’re on the up-and-up.”
    Novembrini smiled.
    â€œI trust Massimo completely—and so can you. Is your name Macintyre, too?”
    â€œHennepin—Eugene Hennepin. Urbino and me aren’t related, except through marriage.” Eugene gave Urbino a knowing look. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Novembrini—am I pronouncin’ it right?—but I’m not here to get another one of your paintings. Variety is what I want. You see, I plan to buy something nice every day, like that Guggenheim lady from the palace with the top sliced off.”
    Novembrini’s surprise was so mild that either he was an accomplished actor or Zuin had already told him about Eugene’s quota.
    â€œLook here, Urbino, what do you think of this? It isn’t anything like Mr. Novembrini’s stuff.”
    It was a portrait of a girl of thirteen or fourteen with brown eyes and a pale face. She was sitting on the side of a rock near a pool of water and was carrying an armful of flowers. The execution was simple but there was something haunting about it, mainly, Urbino felt, because of the melancholy expression in the girl’s eyes.
    â€œReal pretty,” Eugene went on. “May-Foy loves flowers, and she’s nuts about pictures of girls. You know what she thinks of that Pink Lady she has. What’s this one called?”
    â€œThe artist didn’t name it,” Zuin said, “but I call her ‘Young Ophelia,’ for obvious reasons.”
    Eugene squinted at the portrait. Urbino explained about Ophelia’s mad scene with flowers and her death by drowning.
    â€œI wish you hadn’t told me that. Kind of takes away from the picture. But why don’t you just run along, Urbino? Don’t worry about me. Mr. Zuin and I know exactly where we stand with each other, don’t we, Mr. Zuin? We don’t need you standin’ around and gawkin’ at us.”
    Zuin added nothing but Urbino was sure that he agreed.

12
    Urbino and Novembrini were sitting at an outdoor café next to the Accademia Bridge. From their vantage point they could take in the boats going up and down the Grand Canal and the people thronging the wooden bridge for a view. The sky was still leaden and the air oppressive. Novembrini sat with a pensive expression on his bony face and a cigarette in his hand. Urbino wondered how anyone could smoke in this heat.
    â€œSo you’d like to know the name of the model for Nude in a Funeral