Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich Page A

Albanian embassy.”
    â€œBah! The Albanian embassy,” the older officer said in disgust. “They never help.”
    â€œYou must.”
    During the past few moments Giorgio had approached to see what the commotion was about. When she saw his handsome face peering at her, she got up and started to come in his direction.
    â€œHe will to help me!” she screamed. “Yes! Yes!”
    Giorgio looked startled and went back to the boat. The younger officer restrained the woman.
    â€œWe’ll take her back to our post,” he said to Urbino.
    â€œYes, and she’ll be treated like a princess by the government,” someone in the crowd said. “Just put her in a rowboat and push it off into the lagoon. Let her find her own way back.”
    â€œ Sidi , you must help the poor woman!”
    Although Urbino didn’t think that Habib had understood everything that had been said so quickly in Italian, he was sure that he had caught its essence.
    â€œShe probably gave all her money to get here,” Habib added.
    His voice seemed full of the wisdom and sympathy of someone who could all too easily imagine himself in the Albanian woman’s position.
    Habib’s response was an additional spur to Urbino’s own solicitude.
    â€œDon’t worry, Habib. They’ll help her,” Urbino said, with more conviction than he felt. He knelt down by the woman. “Do you have any money?”
    As soon as he asked it, he knew it was a silly question. He took out his wallet, and gave her most of what was in it. He wished he had more. She snatched the notes from his hand.
    As Urbino was getting up, he caught the expression of disappointment clouding Habib’s face before he averted it.
    In the motorboat, no one was in the mood to indulge in light conversation, and the cabin fell into silence. As the Contessa was walking toward them from the direction of the Pinacoteca Manfrediana, Urbino said to the two younger men, “There was nothing more that I could do.”
    Jerome nodded. Habib didn’t disagree, but an aggrieved look was planted on his face for the rest of the day.

14
    Frieda Hensel was the kind of hostess who seemed determined that her guests were going to enjoy any party she gave, even if it killed them. And the Contessa was her prime victim this evening.
    The Contessa, whose troubled mind had received no alleviation since the other evening, had a dazed expression as she received the blows of the German woman’s hospitality. Nonetheless, she managed to stand unbowed next to a large terrestrial globe, elegant in her silver-green dress.
    â€œI could never repay you, Barbara,” Frieda said.
    Her protruding, half-closed eyes gave her face a meditative look that softened the effect of her blunt haircut. Tonight she had foresworn one of her trademark colorful scarves, but had compensated with an orange tunic over a vivid blue blouse.
    Marlene Dietrich’s throaty voice infiltrated the small room from a player in the corner. Out of consideration for the different nationalities represented in the room, Frieda had chosen one of Dietrich’s recordings in German, English, and French.
    â€œAnother sausage, Barbara?” Frieda urged as Dietrich started to sing “Blumen Sin.” In her eagerness to cater to the Contessa, she had almost pulled the tray away from Silvia, who was helping out this evening. “I made them for you, special. What a happy day when we met in Gstaad! From the snow-covered Palace Hotel to this indescribably delightful doll’s house!”
    And indescribably crowded, Urbino thought, as he looked around the tiny parlor with all its furniture. Everyone was positioned like statues, including Silvia, who, instead of circulating with her tray, was standing in the middle of the room and extending it in different directions with mechanical movements. The only exception to the rigidly posed guests was Oriana, who had sunk regally into the