Free Black Bridge by Edward Sklepowich

show up after an hour, or an hour and a half. There was no word, no call. The Contessa’s nervousness eventually began to affect Urbino. It was a quarter to midnight when Lucia said that the Contessa was wanted on the phone. The Contessa hurriedly left the room, having banished telephones from her salotto .
    â€œHow very strange,” she said when she returned. “That young artist, Hugh Moss, of all people! He insists on stopping by at this ungodly hour! He sounded drunk. Whatever does he want to see me for?”
    â€œAt Bobo’s signing yesterday he was going to come over to you but his girlfriend restrained him. And right before that when Moss was talking to him, Bobo seemed frightened and Moss looked as if he—”
    He trailed off. How could he describe Moss during those moments with Bobo?
    â€œLooked as if he what?” the Contessa said impatiently.
    â€œAs if he enjoyed seeing Bobo uncomfortable, as if that was why he was talking with him and saying whatever it was he was saying. And then there was the way they both looked at you, as if you were very much a part of Moss’s enjoyment and—and Bobo’s fear and discomfort.”
    â€œYou’ve been reading too much Henry James! Such volumes in a conversation you didn’t hear a word of! Quimper said something the other night about Moss wanting to paint my portrait and maybe the view from the loggia. That’s the extent of it, I’m sure.”
    For the next forty-five minutes the Contessa retired into a silent sulk from which she withdrew only when footsteps sounded in the hall.
    â€œBobo!” she said and jumped up.
    But it wasn’t Bobo. It was Harriet, with a knit cap pulled down on her forehead and looking exhausted. She seemed to be out of breath.
    â€œHarriet! Are you coming in or going out?”
    â€œComing in. I—I was at Marco’s. I got lost in the fog. Good night.”
    The Contessa returned to her chair and lapsed back into her own gloomy thoughts. Urbino wondered if they were going to sit like this all night.
    But once again, ten minutes later, footsteps sounded in the hall. This time it was Bobo. He stood at the door of the salotto and looked in as if searching for someone or something and fearful of what he would find. The Contessa went up to his side, her face at first smiling with relief, then drawing into a horrified expression.
    â€œBobo! You’re bleeding!”
    Indeed, blood stained one end of his scarf. He looked down at it as if it had absolutely nothing to do with him.
    16
    On the other side of the Grand Canal a tourist lost her way as she hurried back to her hotel. Her head was filled with terrifying images.
    Were his lips sliced off as well as his nose and ears?
    She couldn’t remember. She had tried not to pay attention, but now she knew, as she stumbled through the fog and darkness, that it had done little good.
    Skinned alive, of that she was sure, but had that nasty little man in the church actually said something about the skin being stuffed with earth—or was it straw?—and being displayed through the streets on a cow?
    â€œAnd it’s right in there,” he said, pointing to the urn beneath the bust of the ill-fated general.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe skin! We stole it from the damn Turks!”
    She had thrust some lire into his hands and rushed from the church. Now the memory of the encounter and the fear that the man might be following her had made her lose her way in the maze of alleys.
    She stopped. Should she continue straight on or turn left or right? She had crossed over the Rialto Bridge a few minutes ago, surprised to find how deserted the area was. In the daytime it was bustling with shops and kiosks selling souvenirs and vegetables.
    She heard footsteps behind her, but rather than being relieved, she was more frightened than before. Surely it must be the man from the church! She turned impulsively to her right and hurried over