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in the near distance on its own island. To its right on the Giudecca rose the Redentore, chaste and dignified among the unimpressive scramble of buildings around it. At the mouth of the Grand Canal, beyond the Dogana di Mare and its golden ball on which Fortune perched, the baroque whiteness of the Salute gleamed with its oversized cupolas, little tower, and graceful flight of steps, its wide quay obscured by the landing stages along the Molo between Urbino and the church. Vaporetti, motorboats, yachts, and barges crossed the lagoon and slipped in and out of the Grand Canal and the Giudecca. Passing each other in the middle of the lagoon were a car ferry headed for the Lido and a dark tanker with the Greek flag plying toward Porto Marghera. The wakes from all this water traffic rocked the tarpaulin-covered gondolas and motorboats moored along the quay and slapped against the foundations of the balustrade and wooden walkway beneath him.
    Between the balance and harmony of the two Palladian churches and the extravagance of the Salute, Urbino always felt at peace, as if the two sides of his nature were here externalized and shown to be compatible.
    As he turned away from the lagoon, he was in a benevolent frame of mind that made him want to please. He would go to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini tonight. Not only that but he would try to engage Clifford Voyd in a conversation that might set the Contessa’s mind at ease.
    There was no need to keep the Contessa wondering whether he would show up or not. He went back to the Piazza, to Florian’s. The rain had driven many into its warm, comfortable rooms. Most of the tables and banquettes were taken by tourists drinking their mandatory Bellinis. A few Venetians had their teas and cognacs. Two elderly women in dark tweeds had taken the Contessa’s place in the Chinese salon, a tray of sandwiches and pot of tea on the marble table next to a copy of Casa Vogue . They smiled at him hesitantly, as if they weren’t sure if they knew him or not, but returned to their conversation when he went back into the foyer and on into the bar. He learned from their waiter that the Contessa had left shortly after he had.
    As he was going out under the arcade, Angela Bellorini, Stefano’s wife, came hurrying toward him from the Piazza. She was drenched and carrying a small black leather portfolio under her arm.
    â€œHe’s still here then,” she said.
    â€œI’m afraid not, Angela. He was here for only a few minutes. Barbara’s gone now too.”
    She frowned. It did nothing for her narrow face and close-set eyes.
    â€œDid he go back to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini?”
    â€œI think he went back home to look for his sketches of the frames.”
    â€œFor these.” She held up the portfolio. “They were in here all along.” She shook her head with amusement and affection.
    â€œBarbara said he should bring them over tonight.”
    â€œTonight?” There was a blank look on her face, then: “Of course, the party. I see I’ve rushed for nothing then.”
    As Angela darted out into the Piazza, clutching the portfolio to her breast, Urbino wondered whether her haste in coming had been inspired by consideration for the Contessa or the generous commission her husband was getting. Yet Angela had never seemed anything but selfless to him. For more than thirty years she had been doing charity work in and around the Cannaregio quarter, spending her own money on the meals she brought from restaurants to the widowed and housebound. And certainly the childless couple had little reason to be concerned with money, having inherited a great deal from the elder Bellorini.
    Urbino felt guilty enough to quicken his steps toward the Mercerie. Hadn’t he been priding himself just a few minutes ago on his benevolent frame of mind? If he hurried, he might catch up with Angela and they could walk back to the Cannaregio together.

7
    IN a little trattoria