It was cold on the balcony. So he came back in and, closing the French doors, went to sit at the piano. He put down his Scotch and resolved to focus on the music, a resolve that lasted less than a minute. He was soon playing aimlessly, his fingers wandering from one melody into the next.
His father’s birthday was in early February, and when Alessandro had asked him how they should celebrate, his father said he wanted to hear him play again—not in Alessandro’s apartment or even the villa near the Brenta River, but in a concert hall. “One of my greatest pleasures in life has been hearing you in concert. I miss it, and I keep hoping you’ll find some peace in it too.”
Alessandro had met Katarina at a recital he’d given at the church of the Frari. When it was over, she’d waited in the icy November rain for him to appear and asked him if he’d like to have a drink with her—that easily. And he’d said yes. That easily.
She was beautiful, talented, and gracious. Within days, they were the most talked about couple in Venice.
She was a glassblower from an ancient family of glassblowers, and he wasn’t only a pianist but also a race-car driver from an old Venetian family that made some of the world’s fastest and most expensive cars. She’d said Venetians love their cars because they were exotic to a people who spent their lives surrounded by water. And he’d said Venetians love their glass because it reminded them of water but didn’t threaten to drown them.
They married a year later in a lavish wedding attended by every old Venetian family, and everyone was still talking about it when Katarina died a year after that. Or was thought to have died. There was no funeral, as much as Katarina’s family wanted one, as much as his own family wanted one. But he kept putting them off, week after week, month after month. We don’t know. She could still be alive.
In the end, a mass had been said. They didn’t call it a funeral in the hopes that Alessandro would attend, but he’d refused to go anyway, even knowing that with his refusal, he’d added to their pain.
He blamed himself for what had happened, although the expensive psychiatrists his father had insisted he see had told him he couldn’t have known. They told him he was stuck in the cycle of grief. Grief, he was told, went through phases: denial, anger, depression, acceptance.
Most days, it seemed he was still in stage one. He frequently visited the next two stages, but the last one evaded him. While almost four years had passed, he often felt the loss as strongly as he had in that first week, still spent the first hour of every morning working up the courage to face the day without her.
Their last day together had started no differently than any other, though he remembered that as they made love with the early-morning light filtering through the gauzy curtains of their palazzo, she had seemed somehow freer, happier, less worried than usual. After breakfast, she’d called a water taxi and left for the glass studio while he’d sat down at the piano and thought how happy he was. It was a happiness that had persisted until the police came to the door.
A botched kidnapping, the police concluded. “Why didn’t she have a bodyguard?”
He said she’d refused, and wondered guiltily why he hadn’t insisted.
They told him not to hold out much hope. Given how much of her blood was found in the studio, she would have died quickly without medical intervention.
“We’ll see,” Alessandro had argued. “If they want their ransom, they’ll be sure to keep her alive.” He’d paced the floors all night, waiting, but no call came.
And when several weeks of sleepless nights had passed and still no call came, they told him it was time to accept that she wasn’t coming back.
He’d refused. She could still be out there. And if she was, he’d find her. And if she was dead, he’d find who was responsible.
Six months later, when the trail had long gone cold, he was already training for the Guardia di Finanza, a body of the Italian military police, which had been involved with solving kidnappings in the past. A year after that, he was working in the Venice office.
Columbo, the chief, had been skeptical at first. “You have revenge on your mind, and if you weren’t a billionaire, you would’ve been weeded out in the first round of recruitment interviews. But I suppose with the budget cuts, they’re hoping you’ll help out when they can’t meet payroll.”
Alessandro worked harder than anyone else on the team, earning Columbo’s and everyone else’s respect—but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten. He kept extensive files, cataloging every piece of information about Katarina’s case, following up on any lead, no matter how remote. His work led to plenty of convictions, but nothing brought him any closer to finding his wife, if she was alive, or her killer, if she was dead.
He stopped playing now, realizing that if anyone had said, That was beautiful, what was it? he couldn’t have told them. He picked up a file he’d been looking at the night before and spread it out over his music. It was a record of everyone who’d been interviewed in those first six months before the trail went cold. And there was a name—Olivia. Not the same Olivia, of course, but a clerk in the port authority office who’d been questioned at the time, and now he was distracted again.
It’s her eyes, he concluded. And it wasn’t just their unusual color. When he’d looked into Olivia Moretti’s lovely eyes, he’d seen confusion, fear, and some justifiable anger, but he’d seen something else, too: interest. Lots of women were interested in him. He knew women found him attractive, and then there was his money. He was wealthy beyond most people’s dreams, and when his father died, he’d be wealthier yet. But Olivia Moretti didn’t know about his wealth, and he didn’t think she was drawn to him just for his looks. There was something about trust.
But if he’d really wanted her to call him, he should have been a little clearer in his message. For all he knew, she might have taken the business card as an official gesture. Here’s my card in case you run into trouble. He should have just asked her out for a drink, or at least written something a little less cryptic. Something as direct as Call me. But then, no doubt, she’d have taken him for some sort of Mediterranean-gigolo type cheating on his wife.
She’d probably never call. And that was probably for the best. He couldn’t ask another woman to come second to an obsession. And it would remain an obsession until he found out the truth or the day he died.
Chapter 7
The skies opened just as Olivia was entering the Campo San Giacomo. She dived under the awning of the closest bar and looked toward the little supermarket in one of the palazzos that ringed the square. It wasn’t that far, but she could hardly make out the supermarket sign through the downpour. Indeed, she could barely see the large medieval church in the square’s center.
At first she was annoyed. She was tired and wanted to get home. While the main island of Venice is less than three square miles, it isn’t the easiest city to navigate; it would take another half hour to get home.
She almost laughed. How could she, after only one month in the most wondrous city in the world, let the little things bother her?
Marco had left for Iceland right after New Year’s, and every day since had been a whirlwind of working in the office and lunches with Silvio and his artists and dealers. Dinners too, just about every night, and at least a dozen parties. There would have been more, but the last two she begged off, telling Silvio she needed some early nights with her trip to New York only a week away.
Already Christmas seemed a distant memory. She and Marco had done everything as planned. Marco had rented a car and they’d driven to Padua, the city of her father’s birth, and spread his ashes on the Brenta River, where he’d rowed his boat as a child. They had found the perfect Christmas tree and decorated it with paper snowflakes and garlands of popcorn. They had shopped at the Venetian markets and cooked all her dad’s favorite meals, setting a place for him. They went to concerts of Christmas choral music so beautiful, in churches so beautiful,
that tears ran down their cheeks. On Christmas evening, she called her mother in Vancouver, where she was just getting up, and spoke to her for an hour, telling her about the trip to Padua and reminiscing over past Christmases with Dad. She thanked her for the chattering teeth, omitting all the trouble with the handsome cop. Every day she failed to screw up her courage to call him, and it was now feeling a little unreal.
As she huddled under the awning, she decided the supermarket could wait. She’d have a drink instead and wait for the rain to stop. If it didn’t, she’d run for the vaporetto, arrive home sopping wet, have a hot shower, open a bottle of wine, cook some pasta, and heat up some sauce out of a jar. She’d watch one of the action movies Marco had lent her and go to bed early. It was the perfect way to spend a rainy evening in Venice.
Still smiling at her new Zen attitude, she turned to go into the bar and almost collided with the man coming out.
“Olivia Moretti!”
Just like that. With no hesitation whatsoever, he remembered her name. Of course she remembered his—she’d looked at the card so often. But she was sure he’d have long forgotten hers.
Instead, he’d burst out with it as if he said it every day. Was it because he was happy to see her, or because those stupid plastic teeth had emblazoned her on his memory?
Finally she found her voice. “Hi, I’m fine,” she said before realizing he hadn’t asked her how she was. Then, losing all control of her tongue, she blurted out, “You can’t arrest me today—I don’t have my wind-up teeth.”
He laughed, a wonderful, genuine laugh. “I think you should know those teeth made me the laughingstock of every police department in Venice. And, once the video went viral on YouTube, all of Italy.”
Okay, so it was those stupid teeth.
“I’m sorry,” she stuttered. She’d met dozens of good-looking single men in the last couple of weeks, but none of them made her feel like he did. Just then, she comprehended the implications of what he’d said. “Oh no! Am I in that video?” She imagined a zillion people watching her scoop up her black lingerie.
“No, just me. Looking rather stupid.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .”
At that moment, someone else plunged under the awning, and they were forced to step aside.
“No, no. Not at all. Look, I owe you an apology. I was a bit of a jerk that day. I was hoping you’d call, but then I realized I probably should’ve been more direct.”
She was wondering if she should tell him how much she wanted to call but was saved from answering when he offered to buy her a spritz.
“A spritz?”
“You’ve been in Venice all this time and you haven’t had a spritz? Let me introduce you.” He seemed almost as nervous as she was.
“Okay, thank you,” she said, feeling this meeting was taking on all the awkwardness of a first date.
“Do you want to sit inside? Or should we sit out here and watch the rain?”
“Outside,” she said. The rain had tipped the day into night, and a waiter turned on the colored Murano-glass lights. They reflected yellow, red, and blue in the water now pooling on the stone square.
“Two spritz à Aperol, per favore,” Alessandro said as he held out a chair for her.
They were alone, and the rain pounded on the awning. It was damp and cold, but she didn’t mind. She pulled her collar up more to give her hands something to do than to warm herself. He was wearing the same black leather jacket as that day in the airport, and she liked how his thick black hair brushed the collar.
She tried to think of something to say. He was quiet too, and just when she wondered if he was now doubting this impulsive invitation, he held out his hand. “Let’s just start from the beginning. Hello, my name is Alessandro Rossi.”
She took it. It was strong and warm. “Olivia Moretti. Piacere.”
“Piacere,” he returned, and she couldn’t help but think he had held her hand a moment longer than necessary. “Would you prefer to speak in English or Italian?”
She put her hand, now warmer than the other, back in her lap. “English, please. I’ve been speaking nothing but Italian since my cousin Marco left, and it’s nice to speak English again.”
“That’s the cousin you were meeting at the airport?”
“Yes, that’s right.” He certainly didn’t forget anything. “He’s a partner in the gallery Silvio Milan. I’m working in the Venice office for the next few months. He’s in Iceland right now, checking out an art cooperative.” She didn’t say Marco had just sent her a text, a very enthusiastic one, about a man he’d met at an opening: I’ll be staying on for the next few weeks getting to know Aron. Silvio is okay with it. He’s very happy with my work with the art collective—some great finds. Will be back by the time you return from New York. She had a sneaking suspicion they’d soon be updating the gallery sign. Silvio Milan—Venice, London, New York, Toronto, and Reykjavik.
She smiled as much at this thought as at the appearance of their drinks. Bright orange in color, with an olive and a wedge of orange, they were a cheerful sight. “I’ve seen these,” she said, popping the olive into her mouth, “but never thought to ask what they were. It’s been so cold and these look so summery, so I always just order red wine.” She took a sip. “Very good—I’ve been missing out. What is it exactly?”
“Equal parts Prosecco, sparkling water, and Aperol. It’s a favorite aperitivo, especially with the students. My aunt goes on about the evils of the spritz. In her mind, it’s up there with devil worship.”
“What’s Aperol?”
“It’s a liqueur. Rhubarb, I think. Plus orange and herbs of some sort.”
“I don’t think I would’ve guessed rhubarb in a million years.”
She was feeling relaxed now. Or almost. It was hard to hold his gaze when she spoke to him, and she wasn’t sure what to talk about now that they’d covered the drink. Should she tell him her mother had made pies out of rhubarb?
No, that was dumb, but he saved her the trouble by asking her how Christmas went.
“Good,” she said. “I think I told you my father died last year . . .” Of course he’d remember that part; she’d cried all over that leather jacket.
“I remember,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry again for your loss.”
“My cousin Marco and I celebrated this Christmas for him, doing all the things he liked, and we took his ashes to Padua, where he was born.” She was amazed at how easily she could talk about this now, and how the happy memories were starting to replace her pain. “It really helped.”
“I’m very happy to hear it,” he said, and she thought she detected a slightly envious tone that she didn’t understand. But when he spoke again, his tone was light. “I was born near Padua too. My family home is there.”
“Really?” she said, glad for this connection.
“Yes, though now I live here, by Sant’Elena. As I recall, you live on the Rio de San Vio. And is your father’s home still in the family?”
“No, strangers live there now. His family moved to Canada in 1958, when he was still a baby. We stopped and took pictures to show my mother.”
“It’s nice that you were able to see it. And are you enjoying living in Venice?”
“I love it. I’m only here until June, but I’m already wondering if there’s any way I can stay longer.”
“Good. Not everyone feels the same way. It requires a certain patience to live here. Patience with the weather, the inconveniences, the tourists, the heat in summer, the rains and floods in winter. You know about the acqua alta?”
“The high waters. I’ve seen the raised sidewalks stacked up in some of the squares, ready to go just in case. And with this rain . . .”
“Not so much the rain. It’s a combination of tides and winds that makes the water rise especially high. You may see it yet.”
“I don’t want to say ‘I hope so,’ as I know the high waters cause damage, but it would be interesting. I like the idea of wading through San Marco in my rubber boots. And you—how long have you been a police officer?”
“Two years. And not exactly a police officer. I’m with the Guardia di Finanza. It’s a wing of the military. Corruption, white-collar crime, drugs, kidnapping, smuggling . . . that sort of thing. When I met you at the airport, we were helping out the Carabinieri, another wing of the military police, with the bomb threat.”
“And we both know how that turned out.”
They laughed.
“But only two years,” she said. “What did you do before that?”
“I was a concert pianist.”
“Really? How does anyone get from being a pianist to the Guardia di Finanza?”
She immediately regretted asking. She had never seen such a transformation. Whereas before he’d been relaxed, his smile had suddenly dissolved into something she could describe only as a profound sadness. “I’m so sorry . . .” she said.
“No, it’s okay. It’s a very long story. But in short, I lost someone very close to me.” He paused. “My wife was kidnapped . . . and murdered. The case was never solved, and I thought if I could do it, I’d finally have some closure, as they like to put it. I haven’t handled everything as well as you.”
She wanted to take a drink to cover up her discomfort, but it seemed somehow disrespectful. It clearly had caused him a lot of effort to say this, and she could see he wasn’t in the habit of telling strangers about it. It showed a lot of trust on his part, and she should be honored—if that was the right word—that he’d confided in her. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Though I’m not sure it’s the same thing. My dad died of cancer.”
Midnight in Venice Page 5