Liquid Desires by Edward Sklepowich Page B

paintings under glass, its amorino lamps, marble tables, and banquettes. Others wandered through the eighteenth-century salons as if they were rooms in a gallery, peering curiously up at the ceiling with its strips of dark wood and floral paintings, at the parquet floors and mirrors, and at the Oriental frescoes under glass. Photograph takers backed into the Contessa and Urbino’s table to get a good shot. Waiters bustled to the tables in the square and under the arcade, getting each other’s attention with kissing noises.
    Florian’s orchestra, on its stage in front of the arcade, played one Broadway show song after another.
    â€œâ€˜Frogs and lice,’” the Contessa suddenly said.
    â€œWhat was that, Barbara?”
    â€œIt just popped into my head.” Her face had a slight flush of embarrassment, and she rearranged the lace handkerchief in the pocket of her Valentino linen suit. “Last week I was reading a collection of letters by one of my countrywomen, Lady Montagu. It seems that she felt the same way about the crowds in Venice as I do—and that was two hundred and fifty years ago! Plus ça change, plus c’est la mênu chose! She said they tormented her ’as the frogs and lice did the palace of the Pharaoh.’ A rather apt image, even if she was talking about her own fellow Englishmen. You have to admit she had a point, caro . My own not so original image is that it’s like a circle of Dante’s Inferno.”
    â€œA circle reserved for whom, Barbara? For those who have sinned against charity by not wanting to have their fellow men around them?”
    The Contessa gave a sigh of pure exasperation.
    â€œDon’t get democratic on me, Urbino. You hate this just as much as I do—maybe even more! After all, I wasn’t the one who decided to sequester himself away in a remote Venetian palazzo in his prime. I married into Venice.”
    This particular distinction didn’t seem to give her any satisfaction this afternoon, however, and she was silent while Urbino ordered his Campari soda. Urbino didn’t interrupt her thoughts, but gave his attention to the swirling scene only a few feet away.
    â€œAt least the orchestra could play Strauss or Offenbach!” the Contessa said finally when Urbino was enjoying the first sip of his drink. “And our Signorina Brollo is atrociously late. I’ve already had a Coppa Fornarina .”
    She was now working on a plate of petits fours accompanied by tea—uniced, and made from the first-flush Jasmine brought over every month by Mauro, her majordomo at the Ca’ da Capo.
    â€œIt’s not much past four, Barbara.”
    â€œIt’s almost twenty past! Oh well, considering how the girl has acted already I suppose I can’t expect punctuality, can I?”
    Two young men with short blond haircuts strolled past under the arcade, their chests bare. Swollen money bags were belted around their waists, and hanging from their back pockets were their T-shirts.
    â€œCan’t these people keep their clothes on? And look at those obscene pouches!” the Contessa said. She looked away from the two men only to see a young man and woman embracing against a column. Once again she sighed. “What did Yeats complain about? ‘The young in one another’s arms,’ wasn’t it? Oh, it’s in the air here—in the Italian air!”
    She appeared to ponder this for a few moments.
    â€œItalians! Sometimes I think most of them live only for the sake of physical beauty,” she said, apparently giving Urbino the fruit of her brief reflection. “I know it’s a ridiculous exaggeration, but there’s more than a little truth in it. Italy is such a difficult country when you see your own beauty, however great or small, slipping away. The Italians!” But this time she said it with a sadder inflection. “There are moments when I’ve felt like crying when I see a