Free Frail Barrier by Edward Sklepowich

eager smiles on Urbino and away from the glories of the Grand Canal.
    Urbino knew that the best way to avoid any further personal questions was to assume the role of a cicerone.
    For the next fifteen minutes, he provided a running commentary on the buildings, squares, and bridges they were passing. He informed them that the altane were not fire escapes, assured them that the big stone bridge was not the Bridge of Sighs but the Rialto Bridge, and explained that the canal that ran beside the Ca’ Rezzonico was the one that Katharine Hepburn fell into in the movie Summertime . He told them about the upcoming regatta, commiserating with them that they would miss it.
    They soon passed under the Accademia Bridge. Urbino provided some statistics about the wooden bridge, surprising even himself with the way the information about the city was flowing effortlessly. He then told them about the newest bridge being built over the Grand Canal by the Piazzale Roma, the first one in over a hundred years, one to be made out of Murano glass.
    â€˜At least two years behind schedule. They put up an arch from each side of the Grand Canal, but they collapsed.’
    The women gave murmurs of surprise and regret.
    By this time Urbino was thoroughly enjoying his new role.
    He was about to launch into a description of the Palazzo Guggenheim which they were approaching, complete with anecdotes about the flamboyant Peggy Guggenheim, when Laura, who had been pushing her camera button almost constantly, said, ‘How I wish I could do what that woman over there can do instead of just taking these pictures!’
    She pointed toward the Campo San Vio that fronted the Grand Canal. It wasn’t difficult for Urbino to determine whom Laura was talking about.
    A tall, thin woman in a gondolier’s hat stood in front of an easel. It was the red-haired woman he had seen twice on the day of the second big storm.
    â€˜Keep on at it, girl!’ Laura shouted.
    She waved her arms wildly. She caught the attention of the woman, who waved back at her.
    Urbino continued to impart odds and ends of information to the women, pacing himself so that he came to the end of his description of the plague and the Salute just as the vaporetto approached the Maria del Giglio landing. There were so many thank-yous and kisses and handshakes that he almost missed the stop.
    Coming out on to the terrace of the Gritti Palace Hotel from the bar, where he had spent several minutes talking with an acquaintance, Urbino’s eyes were initially dazzled by the sunshine glancing off the Grand Canal. As he searched for Nick Hollander among the other patrons under the blue-and-white-striped awning, his eye fell on two women. Perla Beato and Oriana Borelli were sitting at a table against the wooden railing above the hotel’s private boat landing. With their blonde heads bent together, they seemed oblivious of not only Urbino but also the splendid scene beyond the terrace.
    â€˜Isn’t this a surprise,’ Oriana said in a voice that had been made hoarse from cigarettes. She was an attractive woman who, rumor had it, had just celebrated – or rather concealed – her fiftieth birthday. ‘I didn’t know the Gritti was one of your haunts. I keep learning more about you.’
    â€˜I’m glad to know I’m not completely predictable.’
    â€˜Nothing like that at all!’ In a characteristic gesture she pushed her large-framed sunglasses up on her nose. ‘Wouldn’t you say “ditto” to that, Perla?’
    Perla had applied more make-up than usual today but not enough to conceal a slightly weary look and a purple bruise on her left cheek. ‘Ditto, Oriana. Dependable but not predictable,’ she responded. ‘As good as his word, but not as … as …’ She stared at Urbino with her brown eyes as if appealing to him to help her come up with the right expression. Oriana smiled, but then Perla finished: ‘But