Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich

said. “And Urbino says it could help you if you get sick, God forbid it!”
    Outside on the broad steps of the church, Urbino looked for the Contessa. The four of them had come to the Dorsoduro quarter in her motorboat. The Contessa had joined one of Frieda Hensel’s friends at the nearby Pinacoteca Manfrediana after arranging for the collection to be opened for them.
    Urbino didn’t see the Contessa, but her boat, with Giorgio standing in front of it, was moored to the left of the church. A chill wind was blowing.
    As they made their way across the little square to take refuge in the cabin and wait for the Contessa, a small crowd and raised voices by the vaporetto landing diverted their attention. Sitting on the damp stones was a thin, blond woman in her forties dressed too lightly for the cold weather. Two carabiniere officers stood above her in their full regalia. The woman was rocking back and forth, and speaking loudly in a language Urbino didn’t recognize.
    He approached the edge of the crowd, with Habib and Jerome behind him.
    â€œSend her back where she came from!” shouted a tall man in Italian. He held a little girl of seven or eight by the hand.
    â€œHow much more of this can we take?” an elderly woman with a muzzled cocker spaniel said. “They’re just thieves, all of them.”
    â€œYou’re right,” a bearded man said. “My cousin had his new car stolen right in front of his apartment in Milan!”
    The blond woman raised her head and stared straight into Urbino’s face. She started to speak to him in German in a desperate way. He was so startled that he responded in English and said he was an American.
    She scrambled to her feet.
    â€œPlease to help me, mister!” she shouted in English.
    She came up and touched the sleeve of his coat.
    â€œI am come here to help the Italians. They must to understand that Mussolini lives in a building in the Vaticano!”
    â€œWhat country are you from?” Urbino asked.
    The woman stared at him blankly.
    â€œI am artist! I make photographs!”
    â€œArtists come from many countries. Germany? Holland? Where?”
    â€œDon’t waste your time,” the bearded man said in Italian. “She’s a crazy Albanian.”
    The woman started to cry, then she ran over to the quayside.
    â€œ Sidi , she will jump in!” Habib cried out as he and Jerome gaped at the unfolding scene. “She will drown!”
    But the woman took off her shoes and started to dip them in the waters of the canal. She rubbed at them vigorously with her hand.
    â€œWhy are you doing that, signora?” the older officer asked. “Stop.”
    She put her shoes back on, and then scooped up water to splash against her pants.
    â€œWhy are you doing that?” the carabiniere repeated.
    â€œDon’t ask her,” Urbino said, surprised at the sharpness of his tone. More softly he added, “There’s no explanation. Can’t you see that she’s ill?”
    The hostile climate against refugees and immigrants had become worse during the period Urbino had been out of the country. The newspapers were full of reports of how smuggling gangs were victimizing them and how many ended up dead or, at the least, discarded on Italy’s shores and borders like human refuse. Perhaps this was part of this unfortunate woman’s story.
    â€œLook. She was very beautiful,” the younger officer said. He held out a sheet of proofs to Urbino. “It was in her purse.” All of the photographs were of the woman when she had been younger. She had indeed been beautiful. The officer pointed to one of the photographs. “Look. Pazza !”
    In this photograph the Albanian woman held a pistol, with the barrel between her lips. There were other photographs of her with the pistol in various positions against her face.
    â€œYou have to take her to the hospital,” Urbino said. “And call the