In the first installment, Dr. Kerr has arrived in London for a belated holiday but learned some sad news regarding the death of his former professor and mentor, composer Henry James Joyce, learning that, after decades of creative inactivity, he had apparently begun composing again. On his return to Phlaumix Court, he meets one of the strangest strangers he's ever encountered. A fellow with flaming orange hair and blabbering away in Italian, apparently himself a famous composer, he appeared to be more a magician with a bundle of tricks than some vagrant. But he did mention "Salieri" before he vanished into thin air. Meanwhile, at Phlaumix Court, Burnson Allan has a heart attack and spends a difficult night in the hospital, after which it is agreed he needs a break and his mother, Lady Vexilla, decides they should all go to her bungalow in the South of France. Though why the family decided they needed to take Dr. Kerr and his assistant is a mystery to her...
= = = = = = =
[Chapter 1, continued...]
With April's gradual approach came a slightly different kind of dreary, rainy weather – still dreary, still rainy, just not as cold – and with it, preparations for our departure for the sunny south of France. Nurse Woods was in charge of Things Medical, in regular contact with Dr. Gravesend and the cardiologists by e-mail and phone. Of the Phlaumix staff, only Sidney would accompany us, the combined butler, footman, and chauffeur as needed, without wearing specific livery. It made him feel quite bold – “liberated, even” – dressing in only “Civilian clothes.”
Over several weeks, Toni and I, discussing various topics about art and history, but especially music, set up daily, informal classes. One day, we would talk about music history, alternating with theory the next. Cameron covered the basics of math; Sidney, who'd wanted to major in science at university, filled in with biology and chemistry.
LauraLynn volunteered to handle anything necessary in English and literature classes, or even journalism which she thought might be more practical. Burnson developed a course in business basics geared to someone in the arts. Vexilla wondered who would teach her the “feminine necessities” like knitting, painting watercolors, or “deportment” which only made Burnson laugh.
But we mostly agreed, though they were low on Toni's priorities, she should learn how to cook a little, and take occasional exercise breaks with Sidney and Cameron unaware it was called “Phys Ed.”
Vexilla, never one to condone flying, insisted on the train, as usual, which Burnson was willing to endure for the impressively scenic journey down the Rhone Valley despite its being another chilly, overcast day. Once we'd gotten within sight of the Côte d'Azur, it started to pour. “Alas,” Lady Vexilla sighed, “il pleut des cordes!”
We left the train in Antibes rather than continuing to Nice – Vexilla much preferred Antibes: “everyone,” she complained, “went to Nice...” Sidney drove the rental car along the coast, then up into the hills.
 |
| Tourrettes-sur-Loup |
On the edge of a mountain, Tourrettes-sur-Loup clung to a precipitous outcropping overlooking a deep gash of forest and rocks below. Small winding streets and unprepossessing stone houses had views reaching to the sea.
The village was time travel itself, refreshingly stepping back into the Middle Ages – and this time, we weren't on a mission.
“Fortunately,” Vexilla explained on the way, “we've managed to miss the Violet Festival. The place is always crawling with tourists, nowadays. But when it's sunny, looking out toward the Mediterranean, I almost forget them. Rain isn't uncommon this time of year,” she apologized, “but at least it's not English rain which so demoralizes the spirit.”
From a distance, the village – at least the Old Town – was a pile of sandstone and gray on a spur of the impressive mountain jutting up behind it, which dropped steeply into the valley.
“It's been called 'Tourrettes-sur-loup' only for the past century; before that it was 'Tourrettes-sur-Vence' – I've no idea why they changed it. I've never seen a wolf here, either, so naturally I call it 'Tourrettes-sans-loup.' Apparently, that gorge down there,” somewhere below us as we drove over an imposingly high, narrow bridge, “is the Wolf's Glen.”
We parked in the only lot in town. Beyond that, the streets were too narrow, interrupted by steps and sharp turns. Some residents owned scooters or got around on bikes but mostly everybody walked. “The people who live here – not the tourists – are very rugged: it's good for the heart, all this walking.”
Burnson groaned.
Older houses were either mountain sandstone or granite, large-cut, uneven stones of all different sizes and shapes, small, large and in-between. Modern houses were slathered over with mortar or stucco painted pink or beige.
Whenever the bungalow was originally built, it was already old when the original Lord Ravensmoor bought the place in the 1720s, back when it was called La Petite Maison sur la Tanière du Loup. Sir Arthur Ravensmoor, her four-times Great Grandfather, renamed it 'Nevermoor', since, in a way, he missed the rolling downs of Devon.
This row of a dozen houses included a popular inn two doors down, built along the edge of the spur with its commanding views of the town's eastern side and the old medieval tower. Whether this archway was originally part of some old fortification or a monastery, it certainly took away a modern man's breath.
While Burnson and I sat down to enjoy the view as Crooks poured the tea, the others inspected the arches, leaned cautiously over the stone railing, inspected the ceiling's rough stucco looking for cracks. Cameron, more wide-eyed than usual, asked how they would've built this back then; simultaneously, Toni wondered why they had built it.
“How and why are both valid questions,” I began and joined them by the low stone wall, a kind of railing. But any further discussion was curtailed as Vexilla announced the luggage had arrived.
Upstairs, Burnson took over the role of docent, where one large open room, with two broad windows at the far end, looked out on the same view we'd been admiring from the Cloister below.
“In 1880, my three-times great-grandfather, Sir Gordon Ravensmoor, bought the two adjacent houses, combining all three into this more spacious one.”
Initially, this arrangement gave the family more privacy from their neighbors, he explained, using the outside homes for guests and servants. Unlike any earlier owners, this was only a summer residence for the Ravensmoors.
“Of course, it's still small, compared to a good English country home.” Vexilla swept in with Crooks and more tea. “But it's much better suited to an old lady like myself with simpler needs.”
I could see the glimmer of comprehension in Cameron's face once he realized why she referred to this as her “bungalow.”
It was nearly dark when Burnson started the tale how his grandfather's butler, Pym, had died here in a tragic accident. “I was only a child then, and Pym had always been very kind. It seems he was a little drunk one night, and in the dark, tripped over the stone wall of the Cloister.”
“Oh,” Vexilla scoffed, “I wouldn't call it 'tragic,' exactly – sounds so terribly theatrical. But it was a huge inconvenience for my father-in-law, hiring a new butler only a week before the Violet Festival Ball!”
Vexilla's butler, an old Frenchman named Ciboulot signaled a light supper was served and we ceremoniously trooped upstairs to the dining room, which looked out across the abyss-like Wolf's Lair – la Tanière – below. With a slight glimpse of the sea beyond, the distant lights of Nice were the only other signs of anything human.
After my initial impression of the entryway, a dingy backdoor off an old, barely used alleyway, the grand hall with its limitless view to far-away horizons was a revelatory contradiction. “Books and covers, indeed...”
There was also a viaduct, a tall arching bridge high above the valley against a backdrop of rocky hills and forests, its stone span the only other man-made intrusion, barely visible to the left. It looked so old, I thought, it could've been Roman, at least originally, only more recently converted into a modern highway.
Of course, Vexilla, as we processed toward the stairs, immediately corrected my improper use of 'grand hall,' babbling at me in a stream of rapid-fire French which lost me after “á français, mon cher...” In French, she scolded me, the main floor of “a grand house” is called the bel étage, literally the “beautiful floor.” The ground floors of both side houses – what Americans call the “first floor” – were given over to servants and the kitchen. The bel étage would basically be a glorified living room in the States.
Cameron was duly impressed, as we'd both been first walking into Phlaumix Court, old enough to smirk at wealth's general ostentatiousness but experienced enough to realize, considering his father's boorishness, this was “genuine class.” Unlike a Wall Street broker's lavish penthouse, much of what we saw, walked on, or sat in dated back five centuries.
The difference was, in Cameron's case, he knew Burnson and LauraLynn were each individually worth more than his father the broker who, in his excessive, gold-plated luxury, wore his wealth to impress other people. While they'd never be mistaken for nouveau riche phonies (like his dad), Cameron was glad they both lacked Vexilla's dripping blue-bloodedness.
I was more concerned how all this would impact Toni, a child growing up in foster homes with no financial stability. Would she become a snob like Vexilla or be more grounded like LauraLynn?
All these thoughts of Vexilla's “bel étage” reminded me of the Italians' use of piano nobile and how something like gran sala was peculiar to Venice, or so I gathered from reading Henry James. And from there, in the course of our “light meal,” another understatement, my thoughts turned to Henry Joyce's death in Venice.
Here I was, so close to La Serenissima, compared to being home in Pennsylvania or even staying with friends outside London: how difficult could it be to visit Venice and say hello to J.P.?
I would take Cameron along, of course – not that I'd necessarily want to do any traveling alone: he'd enjoy seeing Venice. We would hardly be missed for a few days while they settled in.
So that's the plan: while we're out, exploring this tiny mountainside village, I'll look for a travel agent, ask some questions.
In the center of the village, while Toni and Cameron went to examine the old chateau before lunch, I found “Laurent's,” a bookshop catering to tourists interested in antiquarian finds or the latest best-sellers. I browsed through the outside bargain bins and noticed the next door neighbor, a hole-in-the-wall travel agency called La belle aventurière</>.
How difficult could it be to ask about traveling to Venice from here – by train or perhaps a plane from Nice? So I went inside – the shop was completely empty – and rang the bell.
A middle-aged man, perturbed at the interruption, stuck his head out through the back curtain and demanded to know my business. His rude behavior was unsettling – “beautiful adventurer” aside, his appearance was indeed disturbing.
He looked like a slightly younger version of that stranger from the station.
“So sorry,” I stammered, and immediately backed out.
“What's he doing in Provençe, my mysterious interloper from Snaffingham – Ciapollo, wasn't it?” I could barely catch my breath, light-headed on this medieval village's street, faced with the grinning death's mask of Dionisio Ciapollo! The same unhealthy orange hair; the hawk-like, once-broken nose; the forehead lined from scowling; thin, almost invisible lips – even the smell!
“Why has he followed me here? What does he want? Who is he?”
Toni and Cameron strolled around the corner, surprised. I apologized for suddenly not feeling well and headed back to the house.
LauraLynn noticed how pale I was as soon as I entered the room – “So, how did the exploration go around the village?” – a bit concerned when Toni and Cameron didn't trail in behind me. “Burnson's upstairs with his morning exercises. Terry” – my friends always called me Terry – “did you run into a ghost or something?”
“Oh, it's nothing,” I said, steadying myself against the back of a chair, one that probably belonged to the Medicis once. “I must be more out-of-shape than I thought – haven't adjusted to the altitude.”
“We're not that high up – that's like having jet-lag from London. What happened?”
“I was thinking, LauraLynn,” ignoring my near-death's-head experience, “how would I make arrangements for a short trip to Venice? Is there a travel agent, someone reputable in town you'd recommend? Just for a few...”
“Why not just do everything on-line – tickets, reservations...?”
“Reservations for what?” Burnson walked down the stairs in fashionable exercise apparel, with a towel around his neck and matching headband. “Want to leave already?” he joked. “Mother's little bungalow too much for you?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” I chuckled, easily slipping into what Cameron called my Pseudo-Downton Accent. “I just thought maybe...”
“I told you about Terry's old friend from Faber who'd died last month,” LauraLynn said, “had a heart attack – in Venice...?”
“Not Tom Purdue, was it?” Burnson's brow furrowed as he tried to remember.
“No, but he was a professor of ours and something of a mentor over the years – Henry Joyce... in his mid-90s. I thought I'd take a few days, visit his partner, pay my respects.”
LauraLynn passed the teacups. “No need for travel agents, here: everyone's either on a tour or residents who're not going anywhere.”
“And,” Burnson added, expecting to be helpful, “you could just check the schedules on-line for trains or planes from Nice yourself...”
“Cameron could check that – I'd only screw it up, end up in Azerbaijan.”
“Azerbaijan can be nice this time of year,” Burnson said, sipping his tea. “Where in Venice does... – did your friend live?”
I didn't remember the exact address, somewhere not far from the Grand Canal.
“Well, that narrows it down a bit, Terry. Any other landmarks he'd've mentioned?”
“Ezra Pound used to live around the corner...”
Burnson thought that was worth Googling, finding an address on some historical website. “Someone that famous, poetry fans would go on a pilgrimage when they're in town – at least put you in the neighborhood. Then it's a matter of locating a hotel in the vicinity, then locating your friend's partner, if he still lives there.”
“Darling,” Vexilla said, making her entrance from somewhere behind me, “you know who would know that – your father's friend, Jimmy Newhouse? He lives just off the Grand Canal, around the corner from the Barbaro.”
“That's true, Mother.” Burnson explained Jimmy – though he preferred going by James – knew all the ex-pat artists and artsy types nearby. If he didn't personally know Henry or J.P., he'd know someone who did.
“And I'm sure he'd be able to put up a visitor or two.”
“Yes, if Terry could put up with James...”
Cameron and Toni returned from their jaunt around town – “not much to jaunt around in, I'm afraid, is there?” Vexilla sighed – as Burnson explained how they knew James Newhouse while scrolling through his phone.
“He was a friend of my father's even before he'd met Mother who was afraid James'd lead her poor husband astray.”
“Quite the dapper ladies' man, too,” she reminisced, with a knowingly nostalgic smirk. “He hasn't changed much, even in his 80s.”
“Except for one slight difference: now, they say, he chases after young men.”
The voice was more vital than I'd expected, younger-sounding than your stereotypical 80-something. Burnson introduced himself before putting Newhouse on speaker-phone.
“Burnsie? How unexpected! How delightful! How is your mother, the vivacious Lady Vexilla?”
“Hello, sweetheart, good to hear your voice again, but 'the vivacious Lady Vexilla' will leave you boys to chat away. Ta!”
The pointillistic tinkling of nondescript conversation and laughter surged up in the background. “Sorry,” Burnson said, “sounds like you have company.”
“Oh, nothing special, just a few old friends over for lunch. Chat away!”
“A friend of mine is trying to track down a former professor of his,” Burnson continued, “but all he remembers about his Venice address is he lived somewhere around the corner from Ezra Pound.”
“Oh, I knew him well, Pound – and his lovely lady friend, Olga Rudge – a block or two away, one canal over.”
Burnson mentioned Henry Joyce, “a composer, lived with his lover, a writer named...” – glancing toward me for the name – “J.P. Bonionne?”
“Boniágne? Didn't he write The Portrait of a Lady as a Young Man?”
It seems James didn't know exactly where they lived but he'd met J.P., at least, at several parties. “Very handsome, too! I wouldn't know how to find him, but I'm sure some of my friends would, perhaps somebody over at St. George's – the local Anglican church – they should know all the ex-Pats in the neighborhood.”
“We're staying with Mother in Provençe...”
“...Around the corner and over the Alps!”
“Just LauraLynn – that's my wife – and our daughter...”
“Married so soon and you already have a daughter? My, my! Previous marriage?”
“Well, it's a long story – and my friend Terry wants to visit Venice, since we're so close, and locate his friend.”
Burnson also mentioned I needed to find a hotel in the vicinity for a few days, if he could recommend one. “Wasn't there one a few doors up from you, something about Isaak Dinesen?”
“No need for a hotel, there's plenty of room in my little abode – it's very centrally located, just around the corner...”
“Yes, from the Palazzo Barbaro,” Burnson laughed. “I have been there, James, remember?”
“Well, I can easily put up your friend here for a few days. In fact, you should all come and visit!”
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
It rained steadily the past several days, now, an insufferably dreary stretch of weather that did more than dampen the spirit, making us feel, loading luggage onto another train, like refugees seeking the sun. With Nevermoor behind us, we hugged the coast, climbed into Milan, then, descending into the Po Valley, headed gradually toward Venice. My recently rejuvenated arthritis was having a field day in this unending dreariness; even Cameron preferred curling up with a book. Burnson, usually irrepressible himself, had turned inward and silent, especially toward his mother. Venice's reputation shimmered along the distant horizon, beyond the clouds and constant drizzle: its beacon of light urged us toward hope or whatever other cliché we could somehow conjure up to keep us going. I hoped our arrival wouldn't be a disappointment: until I saw the sunlight glistening off the canals, I imagined nothing else.
I'd put Sartor resartus aside, turning temporarily to a tattered second-hand copy of Henry James' Italian Hours found serendipitously at Laurent's, with its century-old impressions of Venice, its magic seven centuries in the making. The fiction I knew set in Venice, a place designed for travelers, – by James, Mann or others – involved only its tourists. Naturally, I quickly underlined things like “though there are some disagreeable things in Venice, there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors,” an observation I'm sure changed little over the years that separated us.
Once Newhouse discovered the real reason Burnson was in Provençe, he became even more insistent about our coming to Venice en masse so he could recuperate in the eternally relaxed ambiance of La Serenissima. Since Carnival was past, his home was practically empty, devoid of guests, especially lonely after the death of his belovèd Fu-Fù.
“Besides,” he argued, “there's nothing to do in Tourrettes-sans-Loup, but there's plenty to see even around my little patch of Venice – you have so much more time before you in which to avoid it.”
Sunshine aside, our arrival didn't quite stand up to what I'd imagined either, especially the stately approach by gondola down sultry canals gently modulating the world behind us into one with far less momentum. The fog began to lift once we'd stepped into our awaiting water-taxi, less romantic than I'd hoped, more noisy than anticipated.
At the Palazzo Barbaro, whose ornate façade Vexilla admiringly pointed out to us – a striking building and one I'd seen in countless generic photographs about Venice – the water-taxi turned right into a narrow side canal, then slowed to a crawl before pulling up in front of a less ornate house but one still quite impressive. A well-dressed white-haired man, no doubt our host, stepped out onto the steps as a shaft of sunlight framed the doorway.
Cameron winked at me. “Well, I'd certainly take that for a good omen.”
Vexilla was the first to greet him. “Jimmy, my boy!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him like a long-lost friend, then informed the rest of us this was none other than James Newhouse.
A small, rodent-like man, hunched over to appear insignificant, scurried out from behind him to start gathering some of our bags.
While Newhouse was busy hugging Burnson and kissing LauraLynn's hand, I squeezed Cameron's arm for support, getting out of the water-taxi, and gave him a badly whispered but extremely hoarse “That, however, is not!”
Dark, beady eyes peered out, glowering up at me from the servant's scrunched-up face framed by a ring of orange-red hair.
His other features, taken in quickly, included a hooked nose a little too large and reddish lips a little too thin.
“Yours?” he squeaked, but was his nod intended for my luggage or Cameron?
“It's hardly Palazzo Newhouse,” our stylish host tossed off with a self-deprecating chuckle. “It's officially Ca' Fóscari-Piccollini, after some earlier owners – the last ones died in 1576, during one of those plague years. Welcome!”
And with that, we swept into a dimly lit entryway, followed by Sidney and Newhouse's servant Mario carrying in the luggage.
Vexilla was explaining Jimmy knew her father when Newhouse corrected her. “Sorry, my dear, I also knew your grandfather, Sir Rudyard.” Plus his mother had been a cousin of Vexilla's great-grandmother, Lady Rowena Ravensmoor.
“Of course,” he continued, “like your father, my uncle inherited both house and title; all I got was a little money. When I bought this place in 1981, Fóscaris hadn't lived here for centuries. The ones who owned it in the mid-1400s were merely cousins of the Doge, hence Casa Piccollini or The Little House.”
While James gave us the tour of the gran sala – Vexilla's bel étage – Sidney distributed the luggage to our various rooms, some of us upstairs and the rest of us on the ground floor. Mario, a younger version of Signor Ciapollo I had hoped to avoid, took Burnson's family's suitcases up to the third floor. Cameron and I shared the ground floor's front room, looking onto the canal; Crooks' bedroom looked out over the tiny garden. Sidney had the bedroom in between, connected with ours by a common door.
Perhaps James had assumed Cameron and I were lovers – he wasn't the first – but fortunately there were twin beds, easily separated. The sitting room had a small table plus two armchairs by a fireplace. A couch faced the window but, sitting down, you saw only the houses across the street, or rather across the canal.
That evening, after dinner, joined by Sidney and then by Toni who'd come down to say goodnight, we shared some herbal tea and watched the disembodied heads of gondoliers float past while we talked.
The next morning, sitting on the couch with more of Henry James' Italian Hours, I realized I could no longer see any of the passing gondoliers despite hearing those familiar calls from their boats. Here it was now low tide; consequently, as it turned out, their heads no longer reached the frame of our windowsill.
Our first afternoon turned into a mild, sunny day for April. James – Newhouse, not Henry – suggested we get used to the relaxed rhythms of Venice with a laid-back gondola ride along the Grand Canal, “get a 'canal's-eye view' of the neighborhood and feel the pace of the outside world evaporate with its lack of momentum.” One usually “parked” across from the hotel, sometimes two, so he arranged for the regular guy, Taddeo, to set it up with a friend of his to divvy us up, a party of seven.
Taddeo, a fine strapping fair-haired young man, early-20s, was quite interested in Sidney, and, dividing our party between the two gondolas, helped him into the first one along with Burnson's family, including Lady Vexilla. She was rather put out Sidney – he was, after all, the butler in street clothes! – had been included with the family.
Momentarily unattended, a second gondola, not nearly as clean, was moored behind Taddeo's. Since we couldn't all fit into the one, Toni held back, then asked to join Cameron and me in the other. Vexilla objected, saying Sidney should go with us to make room for Toni, but LauraLynn said, “it's okay: what could happen?”
Soon we were all settled in our respective gondolas. Taddeo looked around and whistled impatiently, meanwhile giving Sidney a covert wink. “Ah, Guido,” he called out, “finally you decide to join us! Presto, avanti!”
A man in the traditional striped shirt and cap of the Venetian gondolier stepped into our boat, facing away from us when I turned to greet him, short and muscular with a broad back. When he turned, I recognized the sickly orange hair and hooked nose as if Dionisio Ciapollo had spawned generations of stalkers.
Perhaps, I thought, he was Mario the Servant's uncle or Ciapollo's second cousin, the likeness too similar to be a coincidence. Unaware, Cameron sensed something had upset me but I chose to say nothing.
 |
| Palazzo Barbaro |
Guido pulled back from the others. I worried they'd gotten too far ahead when he turned into a side canal. He proudly pointed out a large church with a famous bell tower: “the Frari.”
“Here buries the great Monteverdi,” Guido said, with great solemnity, “also Titian who died during the plague a few years earlier.”
How'd he know I'd be interested in that, emphasizing a musician over a painter most tourists would be more aware of?
“Monteverdi,” I explained to Cameron and Toni, “composed nothing during those plague years.”
“And,” our guide rambled on, “anyone in modern music, something Venice not known for – we do well the old music, no? – must visit the Gran Scuola di San Rocco – there. Strawinsky premiere his Threni.”
“Ah, Threni,” I said, “so austere, Monteverdian – “makes sense: he'd written it for Venice – and performed so close to Monteverdi's tomb!”
 |
| three of the Mocenigo Palaces |
“And there is the Mocenigo Palace – very powerful family in Venice – where Antonio Salieri stay as boy when first arrived, capisce?”
This struck me as a suspicious bit of trivia for him to mention: did he know the stranger at Snaffingham's train station had mentioned something to me about Salieri? What exactly was going on?
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
“So many steps, so much walking – even walking across a bridge involves steps. How do you get around with a wheelchair?” Burnson was having a bad day and let LauraLynn and I know it.
“You're not in a wheelchair, Burnson – yet. Plus the exercise will do you good. You need to walk more – every day!”
Burnson grumbled into his tea, knowing LauraLynn was right, and turned the page of yesterday's newspaper with a resounding, irritated thwack. “I can't even get this morning's London paper – I'm already a day behind!”
“Finish your tea, Mr. Allan, and put that paper away,” the nurse said as she bustled into the room. “Therapy Time!”
“Really...!” Burnson peered over his reading glasses, unable to hide his annoyance. “Already?”
Called home almost two weeks ago for a family emergency, Marjorie Woods, Burnson's nurse, had returned to Venice the day before.
Only days earlier, Burnson complained of a slight twinge, “hardly what you'd call 'chest pain', no need for such a fuss,” but LauraLynn was uncomfortable, especially as Nurse Woods wasn't back yet from England. She'd decided to call Dr. Gravesend immediately rather than rely on James' local doctor, even if he was an ex-pat, himself; and naturally LauraLynn asked Gravesend how soon Nurse Woods was ready to return. Burnson had suggested, if Nurse Woods was unavailable on such short notice, perhaps Nurse Pond would be able to come instead.
I'd noticed his look of disappointment when LauraLynn got off the phone to announce Nurse Woods could be in Venice tomorrow: “everything's under control” – the only way, Burnson complained, Marjorie Woods would have it. Soon, it would be back to exercising three times a day, even Sunday, with daily walks after breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
By contrast, Newhouse's Dr. Murray had advised “taking it easy, the Venetian way!” (Because he was always lagging behind, breathlessly calling out “una momento!” before he could catch up, friends called him “Momento” Murray.)
So far, Nurse Woods did little except rail against our being in Venice, extolling its evil influences with a preacher's tenacity, “its air, its atmosphere, the very malfeasance of time creeping into your bones!” Whenever her arthritis flared up as a result, she was quick to take it out on Burnson, much to his dismay.
Whether it was the air, dampness or malfeasance in general I was feeling, my arthritis was creeping into my daily life till I doubted a few short walks were sufficient to curb its influence, so I agreed to tag along on the family's walks, LauraLynn leading the way, Burnson dutifully if reluctantly strolling beside her, taking the promenade around the canal, up past the hotel, across the canal at the gallery entrance, down the other side to the Ponte Mezo, then back to Ca' Piccolini, hardly a great distance.
 |
| The view toward Newhouse's |
Other than a few widows in black or middle-aged men dressed loosely as laborers, I saw no one in the street and no idea where “around the corner” was to find Henry Joyce's home, trying to imagine if, some day, there couldn't be a plaque there, too, pointing out a famous composer once lived here.
I worked my way back to St. George's, the ex-pats' church, which I knew was “around a few corners” from Newhouse's; maybe this time I'd find somebody in the office or on the grounds.
Again, nobody was in when I stopped by this time either, until I walked around the side of the old church – since it was newer than most buildings in the neighborhood, that sounded odd – and found a young man, “young” compared to the “agèd vicar” Newhouse described, whose auburn hair gave me chills of apprehension. Dressed in faded, baggy corduroys and a gray, moth-eaten sweater, I assumed he was a parishioner hired to tend the roses, relieved to see any resemblance to the dreaded Ciapollo stopped with his hair.
He introduced himself as “the new curate,” laughing they would probably still be regarding him as new for ten more years. His bright green eyes, pleasant smile, and English accent put me at ease.
“I'm searching for a friend's house – an American, recently deceased... rather, his partner, anyway, who's either French, West Indian, or American.”
“Ah,” he said, setting down his pruning sheers, “that sounds like Jean-Paul Boniágne. I haven't seen J.P. since before Henry died. But I didn't really know Henry well; neither of them were big church-goers. I was sorry to hear he'd passed – my condolences. I knew J.P. was a writer; he'd mentioned Henry was a composer.”
With a bit of small talk, we walked inside to a small office where he located an address on Calle Zamboni – “about halfway down the next canal,” he explained, pointing, “on the left side.”
It wasn't difficult finding the street or alley or whatever calle really meant, quite literally around the corner from Pound's house. In a row primarily of earth shades, theirs was painted a pale green; the only other distinguishing feature was the number above the doorway and “Joyce Boniágne” on a small nameplate by the bell.
No one answered the door and I could hear nothing inside – without windows it was hard to tell – so I waited. A woman next door looked out, asking what I wanted, so I explained.
“Signor Già-Pé,” she nodded, “he's in Paris with family after Signor Enrico's death.” Not unfriendly, she still couldn't tell me how soon he'd be back, but she was reluctant to give me J.P.'s number. “I watch the house while he's gone, so I call him, yes?, tell him – your name, again?” Nodding, she disappeared inside.
Since La signora melted into the shadows before I gave her my number, I jotted down a carefully written note with my name, phone number and the address at Ca' Piccolini where I was staying, then slipped it through her mail slot hoping she'd find it eventually and call me when she'd gotten any news. She never called. So I adjusted my timing to check at different times, convinced when she didn't answer the bell, she either ignored me or was off to Paris to deliver my message personally.
The evening of Newhouse's “small gathering” introduced us to thirty of his friends. Crammed into the Gran Sala with everyone else, I decided to pump each one I met for any information about J.P.. Most knew of him – his one novel was quite the hit, it seemed – but, like Facebook, none were really “actual friends.”
Many of them were as old and white-haired with slight hints of decay around the edges as Newhouse and his home. Cameron and Toni, out of place, watched the proceedings from a distant corner. Both of them were amused if not confused by those understatements: Vexilla's “bungalow,” James' “little abode,” and now this “small gathering.”
Like the water in the canals of Venice, the guests managed to circulate effortlessly despite any lack of a defined current. Without moving, they swept slowly past merely through the mysterious force of tides.
One effervescent gentleman, oblivious to a shabby gentility too faded to be fashionable, positively beamed as he chatted up LauraLynn, going on how he'd been such a huge fan of her cousin, Robertson Sullivan. “And,” as I moored up beside them, “what an implausibly gob-smacking realization that here his cousin is married to my cousin.
“Swann,” he radiated, introducing himself, “Flanderson Swann. I'm a cousin of Lady Vexilla's.” Undoubtedly one of many distant relations she'd mentioned, Swann had little money and less likelihood of benefiting as a future heir.
“Kerr,” I said as he pumped my hand, assuming I too must be somebody, “Richard Kerr, just an old childhood friend.” I asked him about these old friends of mine who'd lived near here.
Unfortunately, he hadn't seen Henry Joyce in years and hadn't heard the news. “Didn't know this J.P. – interesting chap, I hear.”
A few minutes later I found myself pulling astern a rather stately pair of elegant gentlemen in their late-sixties, I imagined, whom Newhouse introduced to me as two famous musicologists I'd never heard of. Pentheo Agavinelli, the taller of the two, had published well-received papers on the influence of Salieri on 18th Century Italian opera. His partner, shorter, more stout and probably the older one, was Tiresio Creontini. He'd written an equally well-received book on the influence of Greek drama on 18th Century Italian opera. “Perhaps you've read us?”
Any interest in me faded immediately when, admitting I'd not read them – neither of them had yet been translated into English – they realized I was a composer and living composers were outside their concern.
For their part, casting themselves adrift, they'd never even heard of Henry Joyce, a composer who'd written nothing they'd ever heard.
“Well,” I whispered a little too loudly, “now he's just another dead composer.” I decided it was time to turn in, a bit nauseous after another dinner with too much fish for my taste. “I hope it's not a touch of cholera,” Cameron said, as I saw Newhouse's orange-haired servant, Mario, nearby, eying us up.
We made the usual excuses to our host and to Burnson who was also clearly bored and about to guide Toni upstairs. “Past my bedtime,” she winked, and gave us her best fake yawn.
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