by Megan Chance
I eyed the facade dubiously—peeling paint and crumbling plaster and brick.
“It’s better than it looks,” Nero assured us.
He opened the door, and we were immediately assailed by scents of garlic and sausage, frying fish and sweat and wet wool. The place was tiny, clouded with tobacco and coal smoke, and so long and narrow we brushed up against people sitting at tables as we came inside. The floor was made up of little tiles in gray and black and white, cracked at the doorjamb to show the Istrian stone of the foundation, then slanting down and suddenly up again as if meaning to trap the unwary.
It was hot, both from bodies and from the brazier smoldering in the center of the room. Nero paused, glancing about, and then he nodded toward an empty table in the far corner, and we pushed our way to it. He grabbed a passing waiter by the arm before we’d even reached the table, growling out a long string of Venetian, and when we sat down at a shining ceramic tile–topped table, he said, “I ordered for us already. Otherwise we’d be waiting all day.”
It was only a few minutes before the waiter returned bearing three glasses and a jug of wine and hurried away again. Nero took up the jug and splashed wine into two glasses. When he went to pour the third, I put my hand over it.
“You don’t want any?” he asked in surprise.
“None for Samuel,” I said.
Samuel let out a frustrated sigh. “Can we please just forget about your strictures today and enjoy ourselves?”
Nero glanced between us. “He’s a grown man, you know. He can decide for himself what to drink.”
“Exactly,” Samuel said.
“Of course.” I lifted my hand from the glass. “You do know best, I suppose. And I imagine Venice is safe as houses, is it not? There are no cutthroats and thieves here waiting to rob you and leave you for dead in an alley.” Deliberately, I held Samuel’s gaze, willing him to think of Rome, of the drunken seizure that had led him to such a pass before.
He sighed again. “Only one glass then. I promise, Elena.”
Even allowing that was too much, but I also didn’t want to spoil the day, and the truth was that it didn’t seem important. I rejoiced in how clear were his eyes; no shadows lingered there now. The Rialto had worked wonders upon him. Here, I could almost believe he could be cured. I could almost pretend there was nothing wrong with him, that we were only three friends on an excursion. The future, his parents, and my mistake all seemed very far away.
Nero pushed a glass of wine toward each of us and lifted his in a toast. “To friends,” he said.
“And nurses who have at last learned to compromise,” Samuel added.
I made a face, but I raised my glass with theirs, and drank the wine, which was rich and fruity and good.
“Does he not look well today, Elena?” Nero asked. “Not the least bit insane.”
Samuel’s gaze leaped to me. “You think I’m insane?”
“No, of course not,” I lied, glaring at Nero, who looked unabashed.
“My aunt thinks you need a priest,” he said to Samuel. “What she thinks a priest can do for you, I have no idea. Beyond deliver last rites. Are you even Catholic?”
“Yes. Nominally, anyway. I was raised Catholic. It was the one thing my parents stayed true to, even faced with a sea of Episcopalians.” Samuel pressed his glass to his lips, sipping slowly, obviously meaning to savor and make it last. “It only made it harder for them to break into society, of course. I imagine my bride-to-be is horrified at the thought of it. Among other things.”
I rushed in to change the subject before he could move on to beasts and chains. “I’m surprised Madame Basilio has any faith in priests. She seemed angry with the church at tea.”
“Angry?” Nero asked in surprise. “Why would you say that? She’s the most devout woman I know.”
“She said the church believed that ghosts could only be demons. Given that she thinks her daughter’s ghost is an angel moving chairs about and tossing handkerchiefs, it’s not hard to imagine she might be annoyed.”
Samuel went quiet and stared down into his glass. Nero reached convulsively for the jug, though his glass was still half-full, pouring so carelessly it splashed onto the table.
Just then, the waiter returned, bringing a plate of fried minnows, piled high, and another of sardines in some shiny sauce that smelled of vinegar, studded with raisins.
“You are speaking about a woman who also believed my father spoke daily to the devil.” Nero dangled a minnow into his mouth, crunching with satisfaction. He poured more wine into my glass, though I’d only drunk a little. “Every time I think of coming home, I think, God, no. The house breathes melancholy—who can bear it? But then I return and I realize the sorrow comes from my aunt. It was not Laura’s natural state, despite how she died.” At Samuel’s quick look, Nero explained, “I’ve told Elena the real story.”
“You’re spilling all sorts of things these days.”
“I know. I surprise myself. Or perhaps I’m just weary of secrets.” Nero took a sip of wine. “I would prefer to think of Laura as she lived, not as a specter haunting rooms she despised. What a terrible fate. I would not wish it on anyone.”
“It’s better, I think, to not always be sad,” I agreed.
“Oh, I’m sad too. Often. But I know Laura wishes me not to mourn her, but to live.”
“I’ve no doubt of it. Isn’t that what any of the dead would want of the living?”
I said it because I hoped it was true, for Nero and for myself. I didn’t want to believe in ghosts, lingering spirits full of resentments and angers that hid in every shadow to punish us, damning us with their eyes, demanding penance. I wanted to believe in forgiveness and peace.
“A morir e a pagar se fa sempre in tempo,” Nero said.
“That one I know,” Samuel said to me. “God knows I’ve heard it often enough. There is always time for dying and paying.”
Nero said, “It’s true, yes? Life is short. One must dive in.”
I smiled because I could not help myself, because again he was so unlike anyone I’d ever known, and when he looked at me, he smiled too, and for a moment the rest of the world fell away.
His gaze was so intense that I dropped mine and took a bite of sardine, and as the sweet and vinegar flavors bit and sang on my tongue, I felt a stare. Samuel’s, thoughtful and heavy. A slight shake of his head, and I remembered his warning, and Madame Basilio’s, and Nero’s own. One thing they all agreed on was that I should keep Nero at arm’s length. But I was no longer certain I could. Or that I wanted to.
Chapter 21
We lingered while Nero and Samuel regaled me with tales of their exploits in Paris: an absinthe-fueled club that catered to contortionists; a night walking along the Seine that neither of them could quite remember except that they were alternately terrified and elated by hallucinations caused by something they were loath to reveal; a masquerade ball they’d attended dressed as sheep, where they followed any Bo Peep they happened upon—“There were six or seven,” Nero said. “Ten,” Samuel corrected. “And one was Robert Pennington.” Nero winced. “I’d prefer not to remember that.”
By the time the wine and food were gone, we were all laughing, and Madame Basilio’s ghosts were long forgotten. When I rose, the floor tilted slightly beneath my feet before I caught myself on the edge of the table. The café windows—small, shaded—had muted the sunlight, and the day seemed too bright when we stepped out into it, the afternoon sun starting to dip. We made our way back to the gondola, both Samuel and Nero steadier than I, in spite of the fact that Nero had drunk most of the wine. A street performer singing Verdi jumped in front of us, following us persistently, bellowing “Libiamo ne’ lieti calici” at the top of his voice, making me laugh and Nero make faces until Samuel finally palmed him off with a few centimes.
I did not want to go. It had been one of the best days
I’d ever spent. As we approached the gondola, Samuel stumbled. I caught his arm, and when he looked up, his gaze leaped beyond me, distracted, tense. His brow furrowed. I followed his gaze, but there was only the gondola, its toothy prow bobbing, Zuan waiting.
“Samuel,” I whispered.
His gaze cleared. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, but his smile was thin and troubled, and I didn’t believe him. The day had fooled me into thinking he was finally getting better, but now I realized it had only been a brief respite.
Nero was at the gondola. He had seen nothing, and his mood was still joyous as he settled into the cabin. Samuel was tense as he sat beside me.
I said, “Let’s never go back.”
“Agreed,” Samuel said, and I knew he was trying as hard as I to regain our earlier pleasure in the day.
Nero said, “Your wish is my command. Let’s just tell Zuan to keep going, shall we? Out in the lagoon and past the Lido and into the sea until we end up in . . . where would we end up?”
“Listen to you. You’d wander blind across continents if not for me,” Samuel said affectionately, relaxing into the seat, stretching out his arm so his hand brushed my shoulder. I saw the almost jealous way Nero tracked the movement, and could not help my joy at it. “Depending on the direction, Athens. Or Constantinople. Algiers. Barcelona.”
“Let Elena decide,” Nero said.
“I don’t know. I don’t know which is best.”
“Perhaps Samuel’s parents will pay for you to try each one.”
“Indeed. They’re very generous. Especially when it comes to getting what they want.” Samuel’s words were bitter. “I used to think my father could read minds; he was so very good at using what people wanted against them.”
“We’ll find a way out for you, amìgo,” Nero said fervently, and I had the impression it was a long-standing conversation. He looked at me. “And Elena will help us, won’t you, cara?”
I felt the lure of his persuasion. He knew already how bound I was. I had no idea how to change things. I almost resented him for his words. Almost. But there was a look in his eyes, too, that reminded me suddenly of the book beneath my mattress, the way his lips had brushed mine, and my mouth went dry. I wanted to do what he asked of me. But I didn’t know how.
Samuel slid a glance to me. “Is that so?”
“No one wants you to be unhappy,” Nero said.
“Really? I’d thought Elena had no real care for my happiness.”
“That’s not true,” I said quickly. “I don’t want you to be unhappy. It’s just—”
“It seems we are in negotiation,” Samuel finished. “About who should be doing the sacrificing.”
“It’s unfair of you to ask it, when you know how important it is to my family,” I said quietly.
“You’re a grown woman who should be looking at a life away from her family,” Samuel said, equally quiet.
“As an only son, you have a responsibility to your parents,” I retorted. “When do you intend to stop being a spoiled child and become a man?”
Samuel let out his breath in surprise.
Nero made a sound—a strangled laugh, I’d thought, but then, when I looked at him, I realized it wasn’t that. He was looking at Samuel and me as if he’d suddenly noticed something he’d never seen before.
We all went silent as the gondola made its sure and steady way toward the house where none of us wanted to be. As it approached the water stairs and the peeling, leaning mooring posts, dread was the only thing I felt.
Little wisps of mist already formed on the water, heralding evening, ribbons of fog tangling and dipping, dissipating only to re-form. The receiving court felt ominous and dead, the red-tinged shadows creeping with evil intent. The hazy light held ghosts within it. Samuel had one hand on the wall for support and was walking quickly, even with his limp, as if he meant to be away from me as soon as he could.
He rounded the mausoleum-like entrance of the stairs, disappearing ahead of me down the hall. I paused, turning to say good-bye to Nero, who would go up those stairs.
He was closer than I expected, nearly on my heels. Before I could say the words, he grabbed my arm, pulling me close, up against his chest, his hips to mine. I looked up at him in surprise and question, only to find him studying my face as if he meant to find some secret in my eyes. His were dark and intent, raising an answering desire in me, a terrible yearning. He was going to kiss me, I knew, and I waited for it, wanting it, my heart pounding.
A soft crack echoed down the hall, a rock, dislodged by Samuel’s foot, rolling across uneven paving.
Nero released me, backing away. His lips thinned, his expression changing from desire to something so barren and desolate it took me aback. What could cause that look in someone’s eyes? In his?
“Nero,” I whispered.
He turned away. He was on the stairs even as he was saying, “Good-night,” taking them two at a time in hasty retreat, and I was left to hurry after Samuel as if nothing had happened. Though in truth, I had no idea if anything had.
The day had been spoiled; there was no doubt. Samuel went to his room and closed the door quite definitively, and I closed my own too, leaning back against it, thinking of that look in Nero’s eyes, reliving the moment until it took on the quality of a dream, until I wasn’t sure I hadn’t made it up.
I went to the window and stared down into the courtyard, the smoking top-hat chimney of the kitchen, the fog from the canals on three sides beginning to coalesce, still formless and searching, easily blown apart by a breath or an air current. From below, a door closed; there was Giulia, hurrying across the cracked paving stones to the kitchen, and behind her, head bowed, his step slow and thoughtful, was Nero.
He did not look up. He followed Giulia to the kitchen and disappeared within, but I wasn’t certain she’d known he was behind her.
Or perhaps she did. Perhaps they meant to meet. Perhaps he was on his way to make her “happy.”
The thought tormented; I turned away from the window, and still the thoughts came. How long has he been with her? What are they doing? And then, of course he has gone to her. She knows what to do. She knows how to satisfy him. What do I know? Nothing. What was it Samuel had said to me? That I should know what it was I asked him to give up.
I glanced toward my bed. There it was, peeking out, that ragged yellow cover. It was absurd to think of reading it. How could it possibly help me now? Still, it seemed to tempt me like some ancient devil.
Perhaps it was time that I learned what it was I was longing for.
Before I could think about it too much, I strode to my bed and reached beneath the mattress, pulling out the tattered book, opening it to the place I’d left off. My gaze fell upon the line, “Now I think, Father Eustace, that poor girl has been on her knees waiting her penance long enough,” and I took a deep breath and began to read.
Chapter 22
I read until very late, and my dreams were the words on the page come alive. I woke exhausted and drenched in sweat even in the cold, the blankets tangled about me. My skin felt too sensitive; I longed to be touched, for more than that. It had been a bad idea to read The Nunnery Tales. Now I felt worse than ever, more unsettled, plagued by thoughts that would not leave me, no matter how I tried to distract myself.
Worse, I did not know how I would look Samuel or Nero in the eye without thinking of the book. I felt embarrassed already, and I had not even left my bedroom. Nero knew nothing about it, of course, and so perhaps he would notice nothing untoward, but Samuel would take one glance at me and know I’d read it, and that troubled me as much as anything.
But I couldn’t avoid him all day. He was my patient; I had a responsibility. Finally I forced myself to go to his room. Samuel stood at the balcony door, staring down at the canal.
“What color is it today?” I asked.
“Mu
ddy brown. There’s yellow too.” He turned to me, and I steeled myself against his gaze, but I realized immediately that he was in no shape to notice anything. The clarity that had been in his eyes yesterday was gone. He wore that haunted, distracted expression I’d grown used to, jaw clenched as if he struggled for control, a gaze that darted beyond me and then to the wall as if he expected to see something there and dreaded that he might.
“You didn’t sleep,” I said.
He raked his hand through his hair. “I can’t think. I’m so tired. All I do is see things that aren’t there. Yesterday helped, but”—his gaze shot to mine—“I could use some distraction.”
I thought of the last time he had asked for distraction, “Let me fuck you until we’re both exhausted.” And the time before, when I’d ended up with the book that would not leave my thoughts now. I felt a sinking churning in my stomach. Lower. No, distraction did not seem like a good idea. “A cold bath first.”
“They aren’t working, Elena. Why must you torture me with them? Even you believe I’m going mad.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t lie to me. Nero said it yesterday. I know you think it. I don’t blame you.” He sank onto the chair, throwing his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I feel it myself. Every day, a little worse. Yesterday I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter. I can barely remember the day already. Christ.” He swept his hand over his eyes.
I did not say, You aren’t mad, because I couldn’t bring myself to lie.
He went on, “I always knew this might happen. Your father told me the epilepsy destroys the brain a little at a time. But this is sooner than I expected. And I didn’t expect to be so aware of it happening. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. That I would be older and half-senile already. I thought it would be a blessing. But this”—he closed his eyes—“this is a nightmare.”
“Perhaps it’s time to go home,” I said quietly. “Back to your parents.”