There is one other thing. Her mother knows now what Cristina is capable of.
In her own room again, the fabric hisses when Cristina hauls the slip over her arms. She drops the thing onto the floor, pulls on her nightgown and climbs into bed. She keeps her eyes open until her vision adjusts to the dark and to the indistinct shapes within it.
Paradise Hotel
The Canadians had eaten all the jam. Also every packet of soft cheese, leaving the empty plastic sheaths on the white tablecloth. By the time the French and German couples descended to the hotel’s dining room, the only breakfast left was coffee and a few croissants.
Herr Heinemann set a pastry onto a plate. “I am surprised the young Americans left us the pots.”
“They are Canadians.” M. Dupuis was gratified to be able to correct Herr Heinemann, although the German’s English pronunciation was superior.
Mme Dupuis tossed her blonde head as if to gesture toward the door through which the Canadians had dashed the moment she set her foot upon the bottom step. She’d preceded her husband in order to flirt with the young Canadian and was disappointed to have missed him. “Oh, the young!” she said. “So full of appetite!”
Frau Heinemann dropped onto a chair and grabbed the cream pitcher. She knew about Americans. Karl once booked a holiday apartment on the Italian Riviera without first asking who’d reserved the neighbouring room. An extended family of Americans had kept them awake with loud conversations. During the day, they yelled like hooligans at a soccer match.
Mme Dupuis, noticing Herr Heinemann’s gaze, settled into her chair with a series of languid movements, adjusting the cashmere sweater she’d loosely draped across her shoulders.
Herr Heinemann unfolded a napkin. The sweater – sehr chic, was the perfect colour for the woman’s eyes. Her profile was classical, but her complexion was pale and bumpy like the hotel’s over-bleached towels.
M. Dupuis, taking his place across from his wife, set down his plate and waited for her to pour him coffee. She poured her own and set the pot down.
Frau Heinemann’s lips caved into a smile. She disliked Frenchmen in general and M. Dupuis in particular. Ein homosexuell. Married or not, he couldn’t fool her. She didn’t care, of course; it was the pretence she minded.
“I really do believe,” her husband had told her the night before, “that Frenchwomen have a natural affinity for loveliness.”
Frau Heinemann had tossed her large brassiere aside and grunted in relief when her flesh sagged into its natural shape. She was accustomed to Karl’s remarks about other women. As an art collector and curator, he was attracted to things of an aesthetic nature. She had no need to be jealous, though; he’d lost interest in sex soon after their marriage. For a year, she toyed with the idea of a separation, but he had, by then, become useful. He had an eye for choosing outfits that suited her figure and noticed which items needed laundering. (Myopic, she was unable to wear contact lenses and too vain to put on her glasses.) Karl put up with her tempers, amused her with his acerbic comments about their friends, cooked goose stuffed with sauerkraut just the way she liked it and never asked where she went on Saturday nights.
“Yesterday evening, I stood by the pool and saw a rat swimming.” Mme Dupuis lifted her nose toward the far side of the room where a window overlooked the back garden.
Frau Heinemann sucked in her breath. “Mein Gott.”
“A large rat.” Mme Dupuis directed her gaze to the top of her husband’s slicked hair. “He seemed to know where he was going.”
Frau Heinemann lurched to her feet and looked about, gripping the shoulder of her husband’s jacket. “Karl, you booked us into a hotel filled with rats.”
Signor Corba, the owner of Albergo Paradiso, charged into the room wearing an apron and braced himself like a man about to launch a spear. “Kein topo,” he said, mixing German and Italian. “No rats,” he repeated in English.
“Ja. She saw.” Frau Heinemann pointed at Mme Dupuis.
“My wife meant me. Isn’t that right, Claire?” said M. Dupuis.
“You?” Signor Corba looked at the Frenchman. “You rat?”
Mme Dupuis, disregarding all stares, smiled into her coffee. Frau Heinemann took the smile for assent and dropped back to her chair. Herr Heinemann smoothed the shoulder of his jacket.
Signor Corba wiped his brow with his apron. “No swim. Pool closed. Swim summer, only.”
M. Dupuis pushed himself from the table. “I did not swim.” He tossed his napkin over the half-eaten croissant. “Madame makes a joke.” He shoved his chair back into place. “Madame is always making jokes. Now – ” He bowed stiffly. “I go walk.” He strode from the room.
No longer required to defend the honour of his hotel, Signor Corba returned to the kitchen and his own wife who, through twenty years of a happy marriage, hadn’t once called him any name that wasn’t an endearment. He was in time to see the back door close behind their son, Andrea, who carried a tackle box in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.
~
Andrea yearned for his breaks from work the way a starving dog yearns for a handout. As he walked, he kept his eyes focused on the azure waves of Lake Garda, unwilling to risk catching the eye of one of his father’s cronies or to be recognized by former guests of the prison of a hotel. How he hated them. The smug Americans and snooty French and demanding Germans and even those Italians who dared complain about the sauces. Why was he wasting his life waiting on tables, told to get this and asked why isn’t there any of that? The tourists should rot in hell, every last one.
He skirted the gravel path leading to the shore and didn’t relax until he saw there was no one near his favourite spot. He wedged the tackle box between two boulders and set a lure onto his hook. After the line hit the water, he slid down the bank, making sure the only part visible was the back of his head.
Immediately, someone walked behind him: a man speaking in suggestive tones and a woman answering in giggles. The voices reminded him of the Canadians, who spoke in whispers and sat close enough to touch knees under the table. They were honeymooners not yet married. Young like Andrea, but free.
Two swans floated past. Andrea appreciated their quiet beauty, their dignified grace. M. Dupuis had dignity. Andrea gave his rod an impatient jerk. Why am I thinking of him?
And as if he’d been conjured, the Frenchman spoke from behind. “Una bella giorna.” M. Dupuis waited on the lawn with his hands clasped behind his back. He ignored the cutting glare of the lake reflecting into his eyes. Really, his Italian pronunciation was superb. But how dare the young scamp pretend not to hear? “A beautiful day,” he repeated louder.
Andrea didn’t bother hiding his scowl when he turned and gave the man a short nod.
M. Dupuis, angry with his wife about her rat remark, and having been angry with her for the past eleven years about her conduct in general, would not be put off. He was a paying guest. He had a right to be respected by an employee of the hotel, even if he was off the hotel property. “Is Sunday your holiday?”
Andrea swore under his breath and slid further down the bank.
Out on the lake, a speedboat roared toward the shore in a crazy zigzag. The swans spread their wings and glided away.
“Mon Dieu.” M. Dupuis, shielding his eyes with one hand, watched the boat. “What an exhibitionist.”
“Andrea!” The boat slowed to a near stop; the dark-haired driver raised an arm and waved.
Andrea, hanging onto the fishing rod with one hand, stood and waved back. “Daniele!”
“Who’s the guy with you?”
Andrea answered in the local dialect: “Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass won’t leave me alone.”
Daniele set one hand on top of the windshield while the boat rocked in its own wake. “He looks like a lonely stick. Is he rich?”
“No doubt his wife spends everything on her cashmere sweaters. You should see her. Horse face, no tits, wiggles her bum like a bitch in heat.”
Daniele laughed. �
�You’re coming tonight?”
“I’ll bring grappa.”
“Not the cheap stuff like last time. Steal something good from your old man. I’m bringing my new friend and he likes to be impressed. Ciao.” Daniele gunned the motor and the boat sped off in a sweeping arc.
Andrea sat again. He started when M. Dupuis spoke.
“People should not be allowed to drive boats recklessly.”
Andrea snapped the release on the line and began reeling it in.
“What are you doing, mon cher? Bothering the boy or planning to wade in?”
Her, too. Andrea took the lure from his line, dropped it into his tackle box, slammed the lid and stalked off. Mme Dupuis, watching him go, admired the slim swing of his hips.
M. Dupuis pivoted on his heel and strode to the path. She drives everyone away. First my mother, and then our son. One day she will drive me too far.
“Guy, wait.”
When people turned to stare, M. Dupuis halted. “Must you shout in public?”
“Really, Guy, a man your age should watch his temper. Think of your heart.” Mme Dupuis gripped his elbow.
“I have no heart. You broke it long ago.”
Herr Heinemann, with his wife on his arm, approached the lake in time to see Andrea rush off. He saw M. Dupuis frown at his wife, and Mme Dupuis arch her thin neck and laugh.
“They are not a happy couple.”
“Who?” Frau Heinemann squinted into the distance.
“Monsieur and Madame Rat.”
Frau Heinemann snorted. “Imagine trying to scare us with that story. I wasn’t fooled for a minute. I want to sit down now.” Herr Heinemann led her to a bench by the gravel path, sat and lit a cigarillo.
This was their first visit to the Paradise Hotel, which was proving to be less of a paradise than its brochure promised. Large, old-fashioned furniture cramped their room; the bathroom sink was stained and the corner shower let water onto the floor. The entire hotel smelled of mold. But the off-season price had been low and, truth was, a sour investment deal had left him temporarily short of funds. Still, the lake was lovely and the weather serene. Tomorrow he would browse galleries while his wife shopped.
“Karl.” Frau Heinemann slammed her hand across Herr Heinemann’s chest as if to prevent him from leaping from the bench. “How did he know?”
Herr Heinemann, accustomed to outbursts, waited.
“Herr Corba. How did he know what we were talking about? He was in the kitchen, and yet he heard about the rat. The man has big ears, but that doesn’t mean he can hear through the walls.”
While Frau Heinemann chewed at the mystery, Herr Heinemann watched a sailboat float along the centre of the lake. He imagined himself retired and gone from the gallery in Frankfurt. Dressed in white slacks, he steered his own boat through a gentle swell while another person worked the sails. Someone who did not at all resemble Frau Heinemann.
She poked his side. “Bug. He bugged the dining room.” She gave her husband another jab. “You booked us into a hotel run by an eavesdropping scoundrel.”
Herr Heinemann, continuing to smoke, watched the sailboat disappear into the horizon.
~
Hours later, Andrea carried bottles of sparkling water to the dining room and set them onto the tables. With so few guests registered, lunch wouldn’t drag, although on Sundays people tended to linger before heading upstairs for naps. Since their arrival before supper the evening before, the Canadians had spent no more than seven hours in their room. They’d hurried through their meals, eager to explore the town.
Andrea tugged at the folds of the white napkins and dropped them next to the pasta bowls. What was there to see around here? Nothing but tourist leeches and old people. One day he would leave this dump. Head for Milan or Rome.
Signor Corba marched into the dining room. “Wipe that sour look from your face. Remember. These people pay your salary, so be absolutely charming. Tell a joke. I want happy customers. I want them to come back. I want them to rave to their friends about the Paradise Hotel.”
Signor Corba viewed the table settings. He straightened a fork at the French couple’s table. A cruel woman, Mme Dupuis. How he pitied her husband. Of course, not everyone could be married to an angel like Signora Corba, a wonderful cook who magically turned pork chops into veal.
He turned from the table, satisfied that all was good enough, meaning both the cutlery and the chops.
Andrea headed for the kitchen.
“Hey, ragazzo!” his father called after him. “Smoke outside. And don’t be late for lunch.”
Andrea’s mother waved at him with a spoon red from the pomodoro sauce. He jammed a cigarette between his lips and went outside to the back garden.
~
Herr Heinemann closed the bathroom door. He hoped the shower water would be hot by the time he removed his clothing, which he carefully folded over the wash basin. Not even a hook for a robe. Although he would return to Lake Garda, he would not return to Paradise Hotel.
He caught his reflection in the mirror. His father’s face stared back. Leaning in, Herr Heinemann touched the wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. Living a lie has aged me before my time. He stepped into the shower and yanked the ineffective plastic curtain across the wire. He needed hot water to purge him of his bitterness, to swirl it into the drain and sewer. No use. He, a man known for his ability to spot a fake, was one himself. I’ve allowed her to hold me.
He ran his hands over his wet shoulders, down his arms and thighs, scrubbing at his own weakness. I should tell her. I will tell her. He shoved aside the curtain, dried himself quickly and reached for his clothing. But when he re-entered the bedroom, Frau Heinemann was no longer there. He went to the window and looked down at the garden where the swimming pool’s uncovered surface was littered with debris.
Someone smoking near the broken stone wall looked up.
~
When Frau Heinemann tried sneaking down the stairs, the steps squeaked. She gave up on stealth and clumped the rest of the way. Ah, gut. The dining room was empty. She could hear the hotel owner and his wife speaking in the kitchen; could smell oregano and tomatoes.
She would teach the eavesdropping Italian a lesson; let him know that not everyone was a fool. She heard the front door close, but when Frau Heinemann looked, there was no one. She took her glasses from her skirt pocket and slipped them on.
She searched the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, even lifting the two framed prints. After making a circuit of the room, she came to the buffet jammed beneath the window that overlooked the garden and its pool. And that’s when she saw her husband, who was nearly hidden between the chipped fountain and the crumbling stone wall. Saw her husband touch the hotel boy in a way he hadn’t touched her for a long, long time.
~
When the other guests entered the dining room, the Canadians had not returned. M. Dupuis wouldn’t look at Andrea as he entered carrying the two wine bottles, but Mme Dupuis’ silver-blue eyes chased Andrea’s every move. Andrea first went to the Germans’ table and opened a red Chardonnay.
Frau Heinemann grabbed her napkin and flung it onto her lap. “Is this what you ordered for me, Karl? This cheap sheis? Is this all I’m worth to you?”
Her words ricocheted to the tiny microphone hidden beneath the buffet table. Signora Corba, busy basting the chops, winked at her husband. He winked back.
“I’m sorry, meine liebe.” Herr Heinemann avoided looking at Andrea. “Bring us something better.”
M. Dupuis looked up in time to catch the expression on Andrea’s face as he crossed the room. So the boy, too, pitied Herr Heinemann. Nothing was worse than being shackled to an unworthy woman. M. Dupuis would forgive Andrea for his insolence at the lake’s shore, but he would not – jamais – forgive Mme Dupuis for how she’d ruined his life.
Mme Dupuis twisted spaghetti about her fork while watching Andrea bring another bottle from a side table. After lunch, she would have a hot shower, and then
a nap. What would the boy be doing? Her eyes grazed on his mouth while he poured wine for the Germans. After he poured her wine, Mme Dupuis thanked him with a smile. Unlike Frau Heinemann, she knew how to be charming.
The only sounds during the pasta course were the forks tapping the bowls, until Andrea gathered the dishes onto a tray. When he entered the kitchen, his father lifted an enormous silver platter by the handles. Signor Corba paused at the dining room’s threshold and, with a triumphant flourish, held the platter aloft.
“Ah, the veal.” Herr Heinemann could not keep the relief from his voice.
Signor Corba lifted the first steaming chop onto Frau Heinemann’s plate, then stood back as Andrea spooned the wine sauce. She stabbed the meat with her fork and sawed at it with her knife.
Herr Heinemann stared at his plate, murmured a thank you after being served.
When it was Mme Dupuis’ turn, she tried to catch Andrea’s eye by dipping her finger into the sauce, and then licking it. “How delicious. Wouldn’t you agree, Frau Heinemann?”
Frau Heinemann waved her fork at Signor Corba. “This is not veal.”
M. Dupuis sat straighter. “What? Not veal?”
Signor Corba held the platter against his chest as though to forestall an attack. “Is veal.”
“Nein. Not veal.”
Herr Heinemann took a bite and looked at his wife. “It may not be veal, my dear, but it is tasty.”
Frau Heinemann tossed her fork across the table where it struck her husband’s chest before rattling to the floor. “It is the pretence I mind, Karl! The pretence.”
Just then, the Canadians burst into the dining room. Not in the least tired, but oh so hungry.
The Marble Nymph
This time when Vittorio drove by the building – 2234 Via Scorta – a middle-aged man in some type of hospital uniform stood outside the front door, smoking. But this wasn’t a hospital; it was a nursing home for the sick and elderly, and this was the third time in the past ten minutes Vittorio had driven past. Again, he circled the town square where the marble nymph, her wet body artistically draped to reveal one breast, gazed down at the pool into which she poured water from a pitcher she held on her bare shoulder.
Sweet Life Page 10