Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich Page A

love.
    Urbino’s mind had become less and less focussed as Frieda went on. He recognized some familiar elements in her tale from something he had read at one time or another, but, as she had just said, she had made them her own.
    â€œPlease, sidi , are you dreaming? You aren’t listening to me!” came Habib’s impatient voice. “I need good air! I do not feel well. We must go!”
    Making his apologies to Frieda and arranging with the Contessa to meet her at the dock in half an hour, Urbino managed to extricate himself and Habib, both socially and physically, from the overcrowded parlor.

16
    But once they were outside for a few minutes it was Urbino who didn’t feel well.
    It was a warmish night. Habib insisted on taking a walk. The fog drifting in from the lagoon soon swallowed the little green house behind them.
    â€œThis is better, yes, sidi ?” Habib said after taking a deep breath.
    He was wearing a dark brown burnoose, the capacious hood falling beneath his shoulders. It suited him, and in fact suited the damp, wind-swept calli of wintry Venice as it did the narrow street they were walking down now. Urbino, seized with a sudden chill, envied it. He drew the lapels of his tweed sport jacket against his chest and readjusted his scarf.
    They were walking away from where Giorgio would be waiting with the motoscafo , but Urbino knew Burano well enough to take the proper turns that would eventually get them to their destination. As they moved closer to the open lagoon, the fog became thicker. At one point they had to grope their way for several feet.
    Habib appeared to have regained whatever strength he had momentarily lost in the parlor. He began a spirited monologue about the deserted streets, the fog, the boots outside the entrances, the tolling of the church bell and the distant put-put-put of a boat’s engine. He seemed seized with a nervous excitement and his English came fluently as it usually did when he was alone with Urbino.
    Urbino made only an occasional comment as they walked slowly past the shuttered houses, with the illumination leaking through the slats. The more Habib spoke, the less Urbino felt like saying anything himself, or needed to. And the more energized his burnoosed friend became, the weaker he felt.
    They had been walking for about ten minutes when Urbino was seized with a violent fit of shivering. He stopped. Habib, caught up in a description now of the painting he was working on, walked a few paces ahead before he realized that Urbino had fallen behind.
    â€œWhat is it, sidi ?” he asked, retracing his steps.
    Urbino was standing, or rather leaning, against the corner of a building beneath the feeble glare of a lamp.
    â€œOh, my good God, you do not look good.”
    â€œI don’t feel very good, either.”
    â€œIs your stomach running away? You should not have eaten the sausages, sidi . It was pork!”
    Urbino didn’t feel like arguing that the sausages hadn’t been made of pork. In any case, he doubted it had been anything he had eaten at Frieda’s. He had been feeling a bit fatigued for the past week or two, and especially today. From his first months in Morocco he had occasionally been laid low by what he and his doctors referred to as a stomach virus. He feared that he was in for another bout.
    â€œI have to sit down,” he said.
    Habib looked frantically around for something for him to sit on. All he could find was a metal bucket. He turned it over, and set it close to the building.
    â€œ Sidi , you sit here and push yourself against the wall.”
    He helped Urbino ease himself down on the bottom of the bucket. Urbino’s head was starting to swim.
    â€œHere, sidi , you wear the burnoose.”
    He removed the heavy garment from his shoulders and draped it over Urbino. He stared into Urbino’s face and put a cool hand against his forehead.
    â€œLike a fire,” he said. He nodded his head slowly.