Death in Florence

by George Alec Effinger

  "Where have you been keeping yourself?" said Moore.

  "Nowhere," said Staefler. He wanted Moore to go away. He didn't even offer Moore the half of the chocolate bar.

  "Come on, come on, are you still grousing over that tussle in the snow? I've forgotten all about it."

  "No you haven't," said Staefler. "You just mentioned it."

  "Come on, Staefler," said Moore. "I just thought you were giving Eileen a hard time."

  "Did she complain?"

  "Yes," said Moore.

  "So go to hell. This is my vacation. You're standing in the middle of it."

  "This is Prague, Staefler. This is a city. This is the middle of Utopia 3 I'm standing in the middle of. Nothing belongs to anybody. Anyway, this is my city."

  "Your city?"

  "My city, is right." Moore heard the Arab kid walking toward them. He turned to look at the boy. He looked back at Staefler and then back at the kid. He shook his head. "Yes," he said to Staefler, "it's my city. Florence is Eileen's. Prague is mine."

  "I'm sorry if I've tracked mud all over it," said Staefler. "Didn't you tell me that Utopia 3 was going to make us all wonderful people? You once told me Dr. Waters was personally going to get us all out of Purgatory a month early."

  "You're crazy, Staefler. You're the kind who's going to ruin this for the rest of us."

  Staefler laughed. He looked down at Moore's shoes. They were brown and needed polishing. Moore wore white socks. "If you'd listened to Waters," Staefler said, "you'd know that Utopia 3 can't have any rotten apples, because it's making everybody into saints."

  "It will," said Moore, "if you give it half a chance."

  "Why should I give it anything?"

  "Because of what it's giving you."

  "So what am I getting?"

  "That ugly kid, for one thing."

  "I had him before I came here," said Staefler. "He's hard to get rid of, like a summer cold."

  "A lot of people have put a lot of sweat into making this thing work, and I don't want some creep like you spoiling it."

  "I won't spoil it," said Staefler. "Don't worry about me. If anybody spoils it, it's going to be one of those fools at the lodge. Or one of those mental midgets at the Utopia 3 offices in the towns."

  "They're very nice in Prague."

  "What have you asked them for?"

  "Nothing," said Moore. "I'm quite content."

  Staefler snorted. "Ask them for something. See what happens."

  "I have all I need."

  "So leave me alone."

  "Fine," said Moore. "I'll just be on my way."

  "Great," said Staefler. Moore turned around and headed back to his truck. "By the way," called Staefler, "Brant and I were laughing about you one night and she told me that she hates the way your hands get all clammy and sweaty."

  Moore stopped in his tracks and turned around. Staefler could see that he was furious. "Oh, no," thought Staefler. "Here we go again." Moore walked toward him. The ground was dry, the air a bit cool but a great deal warmer than the coldness on the mountain. Staefler was glad of that. He was grateful that there would be no snow down the collar of his shirt, that his hands would not burn in the frozen ice. Still, though, still he knew that the pavement would hurt, that tree roots and pebbles could scrape his skin bloody, that he could get grit and filth in his mouth, that his clothing could become unbearably dirty. "No, Moore," cried Staefler. "It's not true! Believe me, it's not true! It's only the kind of thing you say to someone when you run into him by accident in some weird place. We weren't talking about you at all. We were talking about someone else completely, somebody you don't even know! I "was just trying to be funny."

  The Arab kid moved between the two men, opened the car's door, and tossed the suitcase on the front passenger's seat. Then he folded the driver's seat forward so Staefler could get in. After Staefler climbed into the Toyota the boy folded the seat back and got in. He started the car and drove away from the curb. Moore was still standing on the sidewalk, his face slightly flushed. He hadn't said a word. "I'm sorry," Staefler yelled. "Really, I mean it." Moore didn't hear. The last sight Staefler had of him, Moore was walking across the middle of the street, shaking his fist vigorously. "That guy better develop some kind of punch," thought Staefler. "Either that or he better learn to control his temper." Prague opened its streets before them, and Staefler was not tempted to stay in the city longer. "Home," he said. "Home to Venice, where at least the funny language has some vowels in it."

  * * *

  "Hello! Welcome to Venice! This ancient city, one of the brightest jewels in the crown of the Caesars, is waiting for you to discover its treasures. And what a discovery it will be! Browse through the glamorous shops, choosing gifts from the world-famous Venetian boutiques. Bask in the glory of the Adriatic sun, swim in the azure waters, enjoy yourself in the playground of the Italian monarchs of the past! Dine at exclusive restaurants. Drink Rosso Antico on the rocks at Harry's Bar, made famous by none other than Ernest Hemingway himself! All this and more await you in Venice, the city of charming bridges into adventure, of hidden courtyards and surprising scenic views, and over three thousand, six hundred holes of miniature golf, located for your entertainment pleasure in the convenience of the Piazza San Marco, Venice's headquarters of history, elegance, and marble arches. Welcome to Venice! Or, as the Italians say, have a wonderful vacation!

  * * *

  Staefler had had no help writing it. At least, no one advised him. He stole some of the phrases from similar advertisements he found in some tourist literature in one of Venice's empty hotels. He was excited; doing something creative always made him jittery. Of course the miniature golf course wasn't finished yet, but it wouldn't hurt to begin spreading the word. If anyone showed up in St. Mark's looking for a quick eighteen holes, he had over seven hundred and eighty to choose from. Even the most discriminating athlete would be pleased. Where else in the entire world could one find a course with such exotic challenges? Where else was one invited to putt a golf ball up a ramp and into a hole cut around the mouth of Titian's "St. John the Baptist," which Staefler had trimmed down to size and mounted horizontally on wooden blocks? Where else would one find a miniature golf course with an obstacle constructed of a thirteenth-century reliquary of gold and silver, with depictions from the life of an anonymous saint and embossed with winged lions on every side? Staefler was proud of his work, and he knew that the golf course would be even more impressive as the months passed.

  Staefler sat in a motorboat as the Arab kid navigated the narrow inner canals of the city. They were heading toward the Grand Canal and expected to come out into it somewhere near the Rialto Bridge. They passed through shady waterways, by the windows and doors of abandoned homes and shops, whose entrances were only inches above the water. Staefler wondered if European immigrants to Venice had ever forgotten where they were and had absentmindedly stepped out for a stroll into the sluggish green water.

  They passed under a small bridge. Staefler loved the bridge better than any other in the city. It was the Ponte della Tetta, the Bridge of Tits. During the sixteenth century the city compelled prostitutes to live in this neighborhood. Venice taxed the women, and so tried to encourage the male citizens to patronize them.

  "See the Bridge of Breasts!" said Staefler, inventing a new parar graph for his brochure. "See the spot where unfortunate women were forced to stand in shame, stripped to the waist, on the commands of the city fathers themselves!" He turned and looked back at the bridge. "The city fathers didn't know much about the sex business," he thought.

  They turned into the Grand Canal. Staefler saw that there was a sign on the Rialto Bridge; there hadn't been a sign there four days ago. It was a large sign. Staefler couldn't read it, but he made out the word "Greetings!" in large black letters at the top. As they came closer he could read more of the message. "'Greetings!'" said Staefler. " 'This is Dr. Bertram Waters, the founder of Utopia 3. I'm here to ask a favor of you, one that will cost you not
hing, but rather pay off handsomely to your benefit. For details, see the Utopia 3 representative here in VENICE. The office is located on the island of San Michele. You can find this address on any local map. I'll be waiting to hear from you. Until then, good luck and may God bless!'"

  They passed under the bridge. Staefler saw that there was another copy of the message on the other face of the bridge. "I wonder what Waters wants from me," thought Staefler. "Maybe a free pass to the golf course."

  * * *

  "Can I help you?" asked the woman at the Utopia 3 center on the island of San Michele.

  "Hi," said Staefler. "You remember me."

  "Sure," said the woman. "You're the failure."

  "I'm the reinstated failure. I'm a success now. A tremendous success. That's why Dr. Waters wants me to do him a favor."

  The woman laughed. "Oh, that," she said. "I put that sign up the other day. I figured I'd see you sooner or later."

  "Well, here I am. I'll be happy to do a favor for Dr. Waters, if he'll do one for me."

  The woman frowned. "Dangerous talk, Moore," she said. "That kind of thing can land you back at the lodge again."

  Staefler smiled. "Back in the arms of Eleanor."

  "Who?"

  "Never mind. And I'm not Moore."

  The woman sniffled and took out a little ball of a handkerchief. She dabbed at her nose. "Look," she said, "what Waters wants is to get your option on some of Utopia 3. He's ready to make you quite a good offer."

  "Offer?" asked Staefler. "Option?"

  "Right. Let me check here. Right. You're Moore. Let me see." She ran her finger down a mimeographed list. "He's interested in your option on France, Luxembourg, and Switzerland. You're living in Prague, so you won't miss it very much."

  "What option? What won't I miss? And I'm not Moore. I'm Staefler."

  The woman gave him a wide smile. "Sure," she said, "I'm so sorry. I should have remembered. You're living here, aren't you? So let me see. Staefler. Here we are. He wants your option on the southeast corner. Hungary and the tip of Yugoslavia. He's prepared to buy your option on that territory. In return, you will sign a statement saying that you will never travel in that part of Utopia 3."

  "I don't get it," said Staefler. "Why is he doing that? I'm not planning on going there, anyway, but what's his line?"

  "It's very simple," said the woman. "He's going to buy up options from everyone over a period of time. He will acquire from you options on all of Utopia 3 except the area around Venice. He will, in effect, end up with a gigantic private estate, with the utopiates living as rent-free tenants in widely separated locations."

  Staefler couldn't think of anything to say for a moment. "That really kills me," he said at last. "Don't you think it would get awful lonely?"

  "Not at all, not at all. Dr. Waters is very popular. He has a large following. Lots of women, sycophants, that sort of thing."

  "I don't mean for him. I mean for me. There wouldn't be anyone visiting here, would there?"

  The woman smiled again. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose you'd have Dr. Waters himself dropping in on you every now and then."

  "That's something to look forward to. By the way, what is he planning on buying my option with? I have all the money I need, which is absolutely none."

  "He would give you something that you can't get for yourself. It's different for everyone. That's on another list." She shuffled papers until she found the right one. "Staefler," she said to herself, "Staefler, Staefler. Okay. His first offer is, let me see, Eileen Brant."

  "He thinks I can't get her myself? I'd rather get her myself."

  "You can't."

  "You watch. What's his second offer?"

  "I can't tell you yet. Are you going to accept his first offer? Think it over. You can take a few days if you want to."

  Staefler wished that he could punch the woman in the face. "I'll just do that," he said. "I'll think it over."

  "Good," she said. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "No," said Staefler. "Everything is just fine. I'm doing just great. I have no needs and no wants. Everything is just as perfect as it can be. I love everything. I don't have the least unfulfilled desire. I wish I could tell you how absolutely perfect everything is."

  "I'm glad to hear it," said the woman. She looked past Staefler. "Next," she said. When Staefler turned around to leave he saw that there was no one there.

  * * *

  Taurus was better to Staefler than Aries had been. Staefler made a great deal of progress on his miniature golf course. He had achieved a better relationship with the Arab kid, by allowing the boy to have Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, and by not requiring the boy to do windows. There were a lot of windows in Venice. In the Ducal Palace alone there were more windows than the Arab kid could hope to wash in a month. All in all, Staefler was growing content.

  On the first of May there was a knock on the Porta della Carta. That entrance to the palace was the length of the building away and one floor below the Great Council Room, where Staefler was still asleep. The Arab kid, however, had awakened early and was walking around the magnificent building studying the art treasures. By an astounding coincidence he just happened to be coming down the vast staircase between the statues of Mars and Neptune. He heard the knock and hurried to answer.

  "Good morning," said Eileen Brant. "Is the lord awake?" The Arab kid motioned that she should come in and make herself comfortable. She found that very difficult to do in the Doges' Palace. She waited for the boy to run upstairs and awaken Staefler.

  "Hello," said Staefler as he came down the stairs a few minutes later, rubbing his head and yawning.

  "Nice place," said Brant.

  "I like it," said Staefler. "Can I offer you some coffee?"

  "Sure."

  "What do you want in it? All I have is sugar and some packages of non-dairy coffee whitener."

  "Never mind," said Brant. "Just black. How are you?"

  "All right. Why are you here? Didn't Waters buy your option on this part of the world?" He signaled to the Arab kid to go make the coffee.

  "What option?"

  "You haven't been home lately, have you?" asked Staefler.

  "I've been at my vacation home."

  "Where's that?"

  Brant shook her head. "I'm not telling. If I did, it wouldn't be either a vacation home or mine anymore. What do you mean, option?"

  They walked outside, toward the Piazza. "Dr. Waters is buying up the whole thing, piece by piece. Pretty soon we'll all be tied to the soil, like serfs. This is going to be the biggest medieval estate the world's ever seen."

  "I don't believe it," she said. "Look. There are a million pigeons going potty on your playground."

  "Do you like it?"

  "Like what? Pigeons going potty?"

  Staefler made an impatient gesture. "This," he said. "The largest miniature golf course in the world. Almost eight hundred holes. A masterpiece of design. I have made Venice the leisure activities capital of the world."

  "You're crazy."

  "It's a real triumph, like the Colossus of Rhodes or the Astrodome."

  "You're crazy. This competitive thing you've got is almost psychotic."

  "Look," he said, "Hemingway shot things. I—"

  "You wish you could," she said, laughing.

  Staefler turned to face her. His face was flushed red. "Eileen," he said, "I wish—"

  "Call me Miss Brant."

  "I wish you wouldn't act like that."

  She looked startled. "It's all in fun, Bo. It's really just a joke."

  Staefler only stared at the ground and chewed his lower lip.

  "I'm sorry, Bo," she said. "It's really just all in fun."

  "Let me put you up here," he said. "I have plenty of room. You can have the Hall of the Council of Ten. It's a nice room. You can have your own Veronese, too. It's, uh, Juno giving a crown to Venice. Take it with you if you can get it off the ceiling."

  "All righ
t, Bo," she said. "And tell the boy that I don't want my coffee, after all."

  "Do you want to play some miniature golf later?"

  Brant smiled at him. "No," she said.

  * * *

  A few days later Brant left Venice to return to Florence. Staefler missed her immediately. All the unfriendliness between them had disappeared. Even without Dr. Waters's intervention, Staefler had had a memorable time with her, sitting in sidewalk cafes, cooking with her, drawing eyeglasses and beards on minor masterpieces. Now Staefler had the prospect of having only the Arab kid for company and only his miniature golf course for an occupation.

  He dreaded returning to work on it. Already salt water had left a white crust on the gold chalices. He had taken them from St. Mark's to use as obstacles on a few holes. The paintings which he had used in various ways were not standing up well to the elements, either. He thought of spraying them with some kind of lacquer, but it all seemed like too much work. It didn't seem like fun anymore.

  A few days after Brant left Venice, Staefler decided that he needed to get away again. He didn't feel like making a long trip to Vienna or Munich or Budapest, although he wanted to go to Hungary or Yugoslavia, just to spite Waters. He called for the Arab kid. "I want to go to the Lido," he said. Venice's famous beach resort facing the Adriatic had been a popular vacation spot for centuries. Staefler had been there only twice, because the long gondola ride across the lagoon made him ill. Now, though, he wanted to see the Lido again, to look back across the lagoon at Venice's domes and spires, to see the distant mountains in the background, to turn and look out over the blue Adriatic toward the invisible Dalmatian coast, to walk the white sands where so many laughing German families and sensitive English poets had wandered, to sit on a folding canvas chair and wait for his skin to burn a bright and painful red, to get the grit in his eyes and mouth, to sting his eyes with the salt water, to watch the Arab kid digging in the wet sand like a fool, to wait and wait for a ship or a swimmer, and never to see either... .