Free The Last Gondola by Edward Sklepowich Page A

the telephone to dial her number when the doorbell rang. It was such an unusual circumstance to have one visitor, let alone two, at this early hour, that when he went down to open the door, he expected to find himself confronted by the same grave man in black.
    Instead, the morning fog swirled around the painter Lino Cipri with his painter’s kit and a black leather portfolio. He gave Urbino an apologetic look. It shaded into keen embarrassment when he took in Urbino’s dressing gown.
    â€œExcuse me, Signor Macintyre. I hope I didn’t awake you,” Cipri said in Italian. He was a good-looking man with a smooth face despite his close to seventy years. “I’m always forgetting how early it is.” He looked down at his watch in a nervous gesture. “And I should have made an appointment.”
    â€œNot at all. Come in.”
    â€œAre you sure you don’t mind? I have something to give you.”
    â€œOf course not.”
    Urbino glanced outside. Fog curled over the surface of the canal and drifted across the quay and the bridge. Possle’s dark messenger was nowhere in sight, but Gildo suddenly emerged from the side of the building near the water steps. He seemed surprised to see Urbino in the open doorway and gave him a silent nod before bending over to tie his shoe.
    â€œI’m usually up before the seven o’clock bells,” Urbino said, as he closed the door. “Would you like some coffee?”
    â€œNo thank you.”
    Cipri was sweating as if he had been walking quickly. Or perhaps he was ill. His eyes had a somewhat feverish sheen. Urbino took his coat.
    Cipri’s heavy woolen cardigan, unraveling at one sleeve, and his flowing tie made the appropriate artistic impression, aided by an impressive head of thick, white hair.
    Urbino led him into the cramped parlor. Cipri put down his kit but held on to his portfolio. He looked at the Bronzino portrait of a pearled-and-brocaded Florentine lady over the fireplace.
    â€œLovely,” he said. He went closer to the painting. “It’s been repaired, I know, but you would never be able to tell.”
    When Urbino had been in Morocco, he had engaged an American couple to look after the Palazzo Uccello. They had managed to do a great deal of damage to the interior and to some of his most prized possessions. For some unknown reason they had removed the Bronzino from the wall and leaned it next to an open window, where it had become saturated during a storm.
    â€œUnfortunately, I can tell you exactly where the damage is,” Urbino said. “I can see it even now.”
    â€œIt’s not always good to be such a connoisseur if it interferes with your enjoyment of a painting as beautiful as this one. I assure you there’s no trace of the damage, and that’s a professional opinion.”
    Cipri balanced his portfolio on an ottoman in front of the sofa. He opened it. “I’ve finished the two Longhis for Signor Hennepin. I thought it would be best to bring them here. My apartment gets smaller every week between my paintings and my wife’s books and magazines.”
    Urbino and the Contessa had never met Cipri’s wife. They had heard that she was ailing and kept to their apartment on the Lido.
    Cipri withdrew two small, unframed paintings from the case. They were both copies of works from the Longhi Room at the Ca’ Rezzonico on the Grand Canal. One depicted masked ladies and gentlemen peering at a black rhinoceros, and the other was a fortune-teller reading the palm of a masked woman.
    â€œExcellent,” Urbino said. “Eugene will be pleased. You remember how much he liked the originals.”
    Cipri smiled. He was probably as pleased at the prospect of soon receiving some more money from Eugene as he was by the praise. He was said to be often in need of money, possibly because of his wife’s illness. He occasionally set up his easel in front of the Giardini Pubblici near