Vigil

by Robert Masello

  Carter caught her eye. Still talking, she held out her free hand.

  She really expected him to just hand it to her?

  He did. She put it down next to her appointment book, smiled, and waved three fingers good-bye.

  Carter felt like he’d just had the most peculiar morning of his life, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. At least he’d have plenty of time to get to the airport and meet Russo. It was just too bad he couldn’t get home again first; he’d have really liked to see Beth right now.

  At the airport, he saw that Russo’s flight was due to land right on time, a miracle considering that it was an international flight. And since he was early, he had time to call home. Beth picked up on the second ring.

  “You know, I could have used you there this morning,” Carter said.

  Beth laughed. “I don’t think it’s allowed.”

  “Well, it ought to be.”

  “How’d it go? Was it weird?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I appreciate your going. It means a lot to me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m signed on for this project, too, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, softly. “And about this morning? I’ll make it up to you when you get home.”

  “That may be easier said than done. Don’t forget I’ll have about two hundred and fifty pounds of fine Italian luggage with me.”

  “You want me to go shopping and get some food? Maybe he’ll be tired and just want a quiet dinner at home?”

  Although Carter didn’t want to say anything, he knew that Beth’s idea of a quiet dinner at home was a light meal, heavy on salad and fresh veggies, with maybe one skinless chicken breast per person. Joe Russo would regard all that as an appetizer, and not a particularly enticing one, either. No, Carter was planning on taking him out, maybe to one of the steak houses like Morton’s or The Palm. “Let’s see how he feels when he gets here.”

  “Okay. I should be in and out all day.”

  Carter heard an announcement over the P.A., something about an Alitalia flight from Rome, so he said good-bye and headed for the arrivals area. After a long wait, he saw a surge of passengers emerging from the customs and baggage claim areas. Like the rest of the people waiting, he had to stand behind a glass wall and scan the crowd for the person he was looking for. But these definitely looked like Italians, a lot of them, in neatly tailored suits, sleek sunglasses, and small, polished leather shoes. A woman in a fur coat was carrying a Gucci bag with a tiny dog poking his head out of the top.

  And then Carter spotted his friend, lumbering along with a garment bag slung over one shoulder, a bulging cloth suitcase clutched in one hand, a battered valise tucked under his arm. Carter rapped on the glass as he passed by, and Russo looked over and raised his chin—the only part of him that was unencumbered—in acknowledgment. Carter pointed down the corridor toward the exit, then went to meet him there.

  “Mio fratello,” Carter shouted, his arms wide, as Russo came out.

  “Dottore!”

  Russo dropped his suitcase and garment bag, and he and Carter hugged, their hands clapping each other on the back. And even though Carter was over six feet tall and rangy, he felt himself dwarfed in Russo’s bearlike embrace. Russo carried that stale smell of the airplane cabin, and his beard—short and black and bristly—scratched the side of Carter’s face.

  “It’s great to see you,” Carter said, drawing back. “How was your flight?”

  Russo shrugged. “How are they ever? Too long—and not enough room.”

  Carter picked up his suitcase. “Come on, we’ll catch a cab outside.”

  “Yes. I am dying to have a cigarette.”

  “You’d better have it before we get a cab. There’s no smoking in the taxis here.”

  Russo rolled his big dark eyes, like a water buffalo stuck in the mud, and stopped. “And they say that New York City is civilized?”

  Carter cocked his head and said, “You’d never hear that from me.”

  Outside, the taxi line was interminable, which gave Russo plenty of time to light up a Nazionali and to tell Carter all about his recent appointment at the University of Rome, his new apartment, the paper he’d just finished on the olfactory bulbs—much larger than had previously been thought—of the T. rex. Carter filled him in on some of his work at NYU, but as if by tacit agreement, neither one of them brought up the big issue, the elephant in the room, the reason for Russo’s being there in the first place. It was as if it was simply too important to discuss while waiting in line for a cab, or even later, as they crawled through the dense traffic into the city.

  When they got to Washington Square, Carter paid the fare while Russo wrestled his bags into the foyer of the building. In the elevator on the way up, Russo said, “The university—it pays for this place to live?”

  “No, I do. I pay the rent, but they own it.”

  “But the university, it gives you the break?”

  “Yes,” Carter said, “a big break.”

  Russo nodded, as if in agreement. “I will tell this to the University of Rome. They should know how well American professors are treated.”

  Carter had the feeling that Russo was going to be making mental notes on all aspects of his American counterpart’s lifestyle, in order to make a case for academic improvement back in Italy.

  “And your wife, she is at home?” Russo said, as they dragged the bags to the door.

  “We’ll find out in a second,” Carter said, unlocking the door and swinging it open. “Beth, you here?”

  But there wasn’t any answer. On the foot of the sofa was a neatly folded sheet and blanket, and a pillow in a fresh case.

  “This will be my room?” Russo said, dropping his garment bag by the coffee table. “I like it very much.” He glanced at the framed prints over the sofa, two Audubon bird studies, and immediately understood the connection for Carter. “Dinosaur descendants?” he said, plopping his suitcase on the sofa and unzipping it.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Carter said, and Russo shook his head ruefully. It was one of the few paleontological points on which they did not fully agree. “If you want to wash up,” Carter said, “the bathroom’s down the hall.”

  “I would like to take a shower. The woman next to me, she was carrying a bag of Genoa salamis.”

  He pulled out of his suitcase a blue nylon toiletry kit, and ambled toward the bathroom. “Oo fa, I am so stiff still.”

  “Take your time. I don’t pay for the hot water.”

  “I love America.”

  While Russo was in the shower, Carter checked his answering machine—there was only one message, from Hank the custodian, telling him the overhead lights had cost thirty-five bucks over what Carter had allocated. Other than that, it seemed that the lab they’d improvised at the back of the bio building had pretty much come together right on schedule, and roughly on budget. He was eager to show it off to Russo.

  But he didn’t want to push him too hard, not today; he looked pooped. Maybe it was just the long flight, in a seat that was undoubtedly way too small for a man his size, but Russo didn’t look like his old hale and hearty self. His olive skin had a slightly yellow tinge; his eyes had bags under them; his expression, even when smiling, had a kind of haunted cast to it. Something wasn’t going well for him.

  Carter was just about to run downstairs to check the mail when the door opened, and Beth, her arms full of grocery bags, pushed it open. “Help,” she said, an oversized envelope clenched in her teeth. Carter grabbed the biggest bag, the one that was most in danger of spilling, and carried it into the small kitchen. The rest of the mail was stuck in the top of the bag. She followed him in, dropped the other bags on the counter, and let the envelope in her mouth fall on the little breakfast table. “I had to sign for that one,” she said.

  Carter glanced at the return address; his Italian was still good enough that he could easily make out that it was an Italian military address, a base in Frascati. He opened it up and saw a raft of do
cuments on onionskin, all notarized, stamped, and requiring signatures at places marked with a big red X.

  Beth said, “So, where’s our guest?” as she opened the fridge.

  “In the shower.”

  She put a bag on the floor and started transferring the items inside into the fridge and freezer. Carter was still studying the papers when Russo appeared behind him in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “That feels much better,” he said, and Carter turned to see that he was still damp and naked, except for a bath towel that was just barely tied around his waist. A St. Christopher medal on a silver chain dangled down on his hairy chest.

  Beth, kneeling and concealed by the open fridge door, stood up and said, “Hi, I’m Beth.”

  Russo, who had clearly not seen her, grabbed at the knot on the towel. “Maron,” he said. “This is not how I have wanted to meet you.”

  But he put out a big, wet hand anyway, while hanging on to the towel with the other. Beth shook it, and then gave up trying not to laugh. “This is exactly how I wanted to meet you,” she said, and Russo laughed, too.

  “You do not have a robe I could borrow?” he said to Carter. “I forgot my own.”

  “Yeah, sure. But take a look at these,” Carter said, handing him the papers before going to get the robe.

  Russo flipped a few of the pages—military paperwork, that was all it was—before saying to Beth, “I would help you with your things, but it could be dangerous,” he said, waving the papers at the flimsy towel.

  “That’s okay,” she said, turning back to the grocery bags. “I’m almost done. I didn’t know what you like, so I just bought an assortment of things—apples, arugula, tomatoes, some cheese, some bread, some wine.”

  “That was not necessary, but thank you.”

  “You had a good trip over?”

  “The lady next to him was smuggling Genoa salamis,” Carter answered for him, handing Russo a terrycloth robe.

  Russo gave him back the papers, then turned around and pulled the robe on over the towel. “These are all just forms and receipts,” he said of the paperwork, “but they say you must bring them and sign them tomorrow when we take possession of the fossil.” He lashed the belt of the robe. “Otherwise they will not release it to you.”

  “Did they say what time it would get here? I’ve got the head custodian on hold all day, to let us into the biology building.” Because it was a Sunday, it had cost Carter another hundred dollars.

  “It says morning, approximately eleven o’clock. But I do not need to remind you, these are my countrymen.”

  Carter wondered if it would get there at all the next day. The advantages to a Sunday delivery on campus were that there’d be very little traffic and the loading dock would be free. In addition, he’d made arrangements with the university’s cartage contractor to pick it up; normally, this company moved things like heavy machinery, but he had impressed upon them that they should treat this specimen—which might just look like a huge hunk of rock to them—as if it were the most delicate piece of high-technology equipment.

  “But let me go now and put on some clothes. I do have them,” he said to Beth.

  Carter stayed in the kitchen with Beth while she folded up the paper bags and stowed them away. In a low voice, she said, “So, the test this morning, it really went off okay?”

  “Yes,” Carter said, with a smile, “and so did I.”

  “That is so gross,” she said, not really meaning it. “Giuseppe—”

  “Just call him Joe—he prefers it.”

  “—seems very nice. And very big,” she said, in an even lower voice. “That robe barely made it around him.”

  “Believe it or not, I think he’s actually lost weight since I last saw him.”

  “Is he hungry? I also bought a pack of turkey cutlets. Or do you think he wants to go out?”

  Carter laughed. “It sounds like you’re talking about a dog. Don’t worry about it—he’ll tell me what he wants to do. One thing about Joe, he’s not shy.”

  “That much I noticed.”

  After he was dressed, it turned out that Russo wanted nothing more than to stretch his legs; he’d been wedged into airline seats and taxicabs so long, he just wanted a chance to walk again. The three of them went outside and into Washington Square Park. A Frisbee sailed lazily over Russo’s head as he stopped to light another Nazionali. Carter glanced over at Beth to remind her silently, I told you he smokes a lot.

  They walked around the crowded pathways, and Carter pointed out some of the local landmarks, such as the Washington Square Arch, where a steel band was banging away, and the Bobst Library across the street, where a steady stream of NYU students in backpacks and headphones was pouring in and out.

  “In Italy too, we have this,” Russo said, cupping a hand over his ear as one of the students passed by, nodding to the music.

  “Headphones,” Carter said, supplying the word.

  “Stupido. Why can they not talk to each other, instead?” He ground out his cigarette butt underfoot. “If people do not talk, they do not learn anything.”

  “You should come to some of my classes,” Carter said, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. “My students love to talk. You can guest lecture, if you want.” He thought of Katie Coyne, in particular—she’d never met a lecturer she didn’t like to grill.

  “That’s a great idea,” Beth said. “And if you’d like to see a bit of the art world, Joe”—she said his name as if she were trying it out—“you can come up and visit me at the gallery.”

  “Yes, I would like that. Carter tells me that you sell the Old Masters.”

  “We do.”

  “The Old Italian Masters.”

  Beth smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

  For dinner, they went to Sparks, where Carter splurged on porterhouse steaks for himself and Russo; Beth, of course, stuck to the Caesar salad and a baked potato stuffed with sour cream, butter, and chives. “They didn’t tell me it would be the size of my head!” she said. And although Beth abstained from the wine, Carter and Russo had no trouble at all knocking off a fine bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and a couple of brandies with dessert.

  When they got home, Carter thought Russo looked ready to fall off his feet. He and Beth made up the sofa, tucking the edge of the sheet under the cushions and spreading the blanket. They had hardly finished when Russo came out of the bathroom in Carter’s old robe and plopped himself down on their handiwork. “If I do not sleep tonight,” Russo said, “then I will never sleep again.”

  “If you want anything from the fridge, help yourself,” Beth said.

  “I will never eat again either.”

  “See you in the morning,” Carter said.

  “Buona notte, Bones,” Russo said, and Carter was inevitably reminded of the nights they’d bedded down with the rest of their expedition in the rough hills of Sicily.

  While Beth showered, Carter got undressed and cracked open the bedroom window. When she came back into the room, she was wearing a long white nightgown that went from her ankles to the base of her throat. “In deference to our guest,” she said.

  “Very kind. And let’s buy him a robe tomorrow,” Carter said, heading across the hall in his boxer shorts and a Godzilla T-shirt. When he returned, he closed the bedroom door, which they normally kept open, and slid into the bed.

  “I’d be surprised if he woke up before noon tomorrow,” Carter said, turning out the light.

  “He looks exhausted.” She put her head back on the pillow and her dark hair fanned out on either side. “You’ve had a long day, too.”

  Carter rolled over toward her. “It ain’t over yet,” he said, as he fiddled with the buttons on the top of her nightgown. “Did you actually have to button these?”

  “I read in Cosmo that men like a challenge.”

  “Not really.”

  He opened the buttons, then leaned down and nuzzled the bare skin of her neck. It smelled of her favorite sandalwood soap. Beth
closed her eyes. Reaching down under the blanket, he lifted the hem of her nightie, and she raised her hips to let the fabric slide more easily up her body.

  “Was it awful this morning, at the doctor’s?” she whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t want to wake Joe.”

  “A nuclear bomb could go off tonight and Joe wouldn’t hear it.” He let his hand run gently over her thighs, and then up onto her abdomen. “And yes, it was pretty awful.”

  “How did you . . . I mean, what did you think about?”

  “This,” he said, rolling over on top of her and planting his elbows on either side of her shoulders. When he bent down to kiss her, her lips were dry, and he wet them with his own tongue. Beth raised her arms and clasped them around him.

  “Did it work?” she mumbled.

  “Like a charm.”

  And then Carter silenced her with another prolonged kiss. Her legs opened beneath him, and he could tell she was already awaiting him. He put all thought of the clinic out of his head. He put all thought of everything out of his head and lost himself in the moment, in the warmth of Beth’s embrace, in the smell of her skin and hair, in the taste of her.

  So deeply was he immersed that he didn’t hear the creaking of the bedroom door, or feel the cool draft that now blew into the room. But Beth did, and the next thing he knew her fingers were digging into his skin, she was staring over his shoulder and urging him to “Turn around, turn around!”

  Carter grunted and reluctantly turned his head—and saw in the open doorway something blocking the light. He had to break away from Beth and look again before he realized that it was Russo, in the borrowed bathrobe, staring blankly ahead.

  “Joe,” Carter said, “are you okay?”

  “La pietra,” Russo said, in a monotone. “È all’interno della pietra.”

  The stone? Something inside the stone? Carter had picked up some rudimentary Italian in Sicily, but even that was rusty now. But he did know that Russo wasn’t actually answering him; he doubted his friend had even heard him.