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Authors: Edward Sklepowich
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Mondador, a young architect talking with a reporter from Il Gazzettino .
âThat Cavatorta,â the Contessa said a few minutes later when Urbino had described the incident to her, âhe manages to rub everyone the wrong way. I donât know why I invite him here.â
But Urbino knew why. Although she readily admitted being prejudiced against the mask maker because of his abandonment of the priesthood, his father had been one of her husbandâs most faithful friends. If the sins of the father were often visited upon the sons, perhaps the virtues of the father could in some way make up for the wrongs of the sonâat least up to a certain point.
Perhaps she was thinking of the same thing for she said, âNow his father was a good man, the best. He sold a building over on Murano just to start Luigi up in business after he left the priesthood. Sold it at a loss, too, to one of the glassmakers who needed space for a showroom. If he had held on to it, it would be worth a fortune today. All that old Cavatorta got out of it was the satisfaction of pleasing his son and the dubious comfort of a discount on whatever he wanted to buy at the glassmakerâs. I wish I could remember his nameâwhat was it now? Oh, thereâs Sister Veronica. I didnât think she would be able to come. She might know.â
Sister Veronica, dressed in a simple dark gray suit and black shoes instead of the modified habit she wore when she was about her official duties at the Convent of the Charity of Santa Crispina, came up to them. Urbino knew he was old-fashioned to think so, but although he liked and admired her, he couldnât get used to the considerable freedom she enjoyed, a freedom that had her going to parties like these and often joining the Contessa or Angela or some other woman from the parish on shopping trips or outings as far away as Milan and Florence. And it wasnât as if she were one of the younger sisters who had grown up in a more liberal church. She was only a few years younger than the Contessa.
As it turned out, the Contessa didnât ask Sister Veronica the name of the glassblower. Instead they started to talk about Margaret Quinton. After a few minutes Urbino, feeling that the two women wanted to be alone to discuss the ill-fated writer, said good night. He was amused to see that Voyd was still there, a fresh wine in his hand. Kobke was nowhere to be seen.
11
ALTHOUGH Camille was one of his favorite movies, Urbinoâs attention continued to wander from the divine face of Garbo.
He was thinking about Margaret Quinton. Although he had met her only a few times, she was vivid in his mind. She had been a large woman who wore cumbersome shoes and dresses with little shape. Barbara had assured him, however, that the dresses were custom-made in Milan and Paris. What Voyd had told him tonight about her being slightly deaf helped him understand the intense look she had had whenever she was listening to him. He now wondered, despite all her nods and smiles, how much of what he had said to her she had even heard. He could still see the slightly pained look on her long, thin face when he had gone into considerable detail about his dislike for the centro tavola in the form of a garden with fountain on display at the Glass Museum. At the time he had taken it for disagreement but now he realized she had probably been straining to hear.
He wished he had been more attentive to her, had invited her to the Palazzo Uccello, had drawn her out more about the history of glassmaking that Barbara said she knew so much about. It might have helped just a little to dispel her vague, forlorn air.
He promised himself that he would take Voyd up on his invitation. He wouldnât mind learning a few more things about the woman. She was much more interesting to him now in her death than she had been in life.
The realization so startled him that he decided to banish any more thoughts of her for the rest of the night
âThat Cavatorta,â the Contessa said a few minutes later when Urbino had described the incident to her, âhe manages to rub everyone the wrong way. I donât know why I invite him here.â
But Urbino knew why. Although she readily admitted being prejudiced against the mask maker because of his abandonment of the priesthood, his father had been one of her husbandâs most faithful friends. If the sins of the father were often visited upon the sons, perhaps the virtues of the father could in some way make up for the wrongs of the sonâat least up to a certain point.
Perhaps she was thinking of the same thing for she said, âNow his father was a good man, the best. He sold a building over on Murano just to start Luigi up in business after he left the priesthood. Sold it at a loss, too, to one of the glassmakers who needed space for a showroom. If he had held on to it, it would be worth a fortune today. All that old Cavatorta got out of it was the satisfaction of pleasing his son and the dubious comfort of a discount on whatever he wanted to buy at the glassmakerâs. I wish I could remember his nameâwhat was it now? Oh, thereâs Sister Veronica. I didnât think she would be able to come. She might know.â
Sister Veronica, dressed in a simple dark gray suit and black shoes instead of the modified habit she wore when she was about her official duties at the Convent of the Charity of Santa Crispina, came up to them. Urbino knew he was old-fashioned to think so, but although he liked and admired her, he couldnât get used to the considerable freedom she enjoyed, a freedom that had her going to parties like these and often joining the Contessa or Angela or some other woman from the parish on shopping trips or outings as far away as Milan and Florence. And it wasnât as if she were one of the younger sisters who had grown up in a more liberal church. She was only a few years younger than the Contessa.
As it turned out, the Contessa didnât ask Sister Veronica the name of the glassblower. Instead they started to talk about Margaret Quinton. After a few minutes Urbino, feeling that the two women wanted to be alone to discuss the ill-fated writer, said good night. He was amused to see that Voyd was still there, a fresh wine in his hand. Kobke was nowhere to be seen.
11
ALTHOUGH Camille was one of his favorite movies, Urbinoâs attention continued to wander from the divine face of Garbo.
He was thinking about Margaret Quinton. Although he had met her only a few times, she was vivid in his mind. She had been a large woman who wore cumbersome shoes and dresses with little shape. Barbara had assured him, however, that the dresses were custom-made in Milan and Paris. What Voyd had told him tonight about her being slightly deaf helped him understand the intense look she had had whenever she was listening to him. He now wondered, despite all her nods and smiles, how much of what he had said to her she had even heard. He could still see the slightly pained look on her long, thin face when he had gone into considerable detail about his dislike for the centro tavola in the form of a garden with fountain on display at the Glass Museum. At the time he had taken it for disagreement but now he realized she had probably been straining to hear.
He wished he had been more attentive to her, had invited her to the Palazzo Uccello, had drawn her out more about the history of glassmaking that Barbara said she knew so much about. It might have helped just a little to dispel her vague, forlorn air.
He promised himself that he would take Voyd up on his invitation. He wouldnât mind learning a few more things about the woman. She was much more interesting to him now in her death than she had been in life.
The realization so startled him that he decided to banish any more thoughts of her for the rest of the night
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