Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich Page B

“I was wrong. It is not the pork. It is the old lady’s evil eye! She threw it on us the other day, just as I said. I will be sick too, or have an accident. She is evil, and we are in her world now!”
    He looked into the surrounding fog and darkness as if seeking out Nina Crivelli. Urbino could feel the Moroccan’s fear and anger.
    â€œDon’t be foolish. It’s just a return of what I had in Morocco. I’m afraid you’ll have to go back to Frieda’s. Barbara will have to have Giorgio bring the motorboat as close to here as he can.”
    Urbino lifted his head to read the name of the calle written on the wall.
    â€œCan you remember that name?” he asked Habib.
    â€œOf course!”
    â€œBut wait. Ring one of these bells. The people will know where Frieda’s house is.”
    â€œWe do not want to disturb anyone. Don’t worry. I will take care of everything. The medina in Fez, it has many more turns and twists.”
    Before Urbino could protest, the fog swallowed up Habib.

17
    On this same evening of Urbino’s illness, as he waited for Habib to return, the Contessa paused at the open door of Il Piccolo Nettuno. Behind her fog was stealing away all forms and shapes. The restaurant was filled with distorted shadows.
    â€œIs anyone here?”
    Silence.
    A sickening odor of food, soap, disinfectant, and a backedup sewer assaulted her. The sharp sound of metal on crockery rang out from the kitchen. The Contessa started.
    â€œIs anyone here? Signora Crivelli? It’s the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.”
    Her voice didn’t sound like her own. A dull echo returned to her.
    She had the feeling that she was being watched. She glanced behind her into the Via Galuppi.
    It was deserted, at least what she could see of it through the fog. She quickly returned her eyes to the dark room. She sensed, rather than saw or heard, a movement from the back.
    â€œIs it you, Signora Crivelli? It’s the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.”
    Once again the echo came.
    She felt ridiculously frozen in place, poised as she was between the empty street and the dark room. For a few moments she had a feeling of paralysis, the way she did in nightmares when she knew she had to move but couldn’t. Except that now she had the additional problem of not knowing if she should go into the restaurant or back into the night. Slow, phantom footsteps sounded behind her. Were they from the Via Galuppi or some alley behind the buildings?
    She felt the wall on one side of the door, then the other. Her hand found the light switch. The restaurant became flooded in harsh fluorescent light. The upturned chairs were a thicket of arms reaching to the ceiling from the tabletops.
    A figure in a dark garment suddenly swam into view ahead of her. The Contessa gasped and took a step backward. But it was only her own dismayed image.
    Fear turned into irritation. She silently cursed the mirrors.
    She walked into the room, slowly at first, then less hesitantly. She ignored, but only with effort, the reflections of her own progress from mirror to mirror. She riveted her eyes on the open kitchen door at the far end. Her foot stepped on something. There was a cracking sound. Beneath her foot was a pair of eyeglasses. One of the thick lenses had become dislodged from the frame. When she lifted her head, shadows flickered in the kitchen. She called out Nina Crivelli’s name again. Silence.
    She had no intention of going any farther.
    It was then that she noticed another odor among the others. It was the smell of decay and death. It was a familiar smell. It was the smell of Nina Crivelli.
    Her eyes fell to the floor again. There, a short distance away, lying face up between two tables, was the old woman. Her black shawl was twisted beneath her body. Her eyes, unshielded by her thick glasses, bulged out at the Contessa. Pressed against her mouth was a lace handkerchief.
    Dishes crashed in the kitchen. A streak of