A House in Naples

by Peter Rabe

  “Pack your stuff,” he said.

  She didn’t understand.

  “Pack up and blow. I got a replacement coming. Blow, don’t you hear?”

  When he walked out the door he had one arm around Bantam’s shoulder and that’s how Martha saw the two men walk to the steps.

  She saw them with the light slanting low now and Joe squinting his eyes because he was facing the bay where the sun was and he was laughing. He leaned close to Bantam and Martha saw Bantam nod while Joe acted as if he were telling a joke. She didn’t hear what they said.

  Martha got up from the wall and stood still so the bushes hid her. The low sun made a warm, friendly glow on everything, but Martha felt cold. Fear was a physical presence that squeezed her ribs, pressing her arms to her side. If Charley were here he could tell her, he could push it away and tell her he was back with her now and nothing to fear any more. But he wasn’t. There was only the evil she felt coming from down below, where Bantam and Joe walked down the steps and turned toward the square. Even with Charley not here — if at least she knew where he was. Bantam would know, and Joe, laughing down the street. She ran back to the house because she had almost called out and was afraid to do it.

  At first she tried to work in the kitchen, and then she thought it might help to sleep. She lay down, got up again. She walked out to the veranda and considered the Judas tree. Perhaps she could trim it. Back in the house she tried working again, but after a while it got worse. When she saw her scarf she took it down from the hook, draped it over her head and then, on the street, she looked like every other woman who might be hurrying to meet somebody.

  She did not need to think, but walked to the osteria. That’s where they would be going and from there, perhaps, to meet Charley. She would ask them. Except for an old man sniffing his wine, and a girl who was cleaning the espresso machine, the osteria was empty. They should be here; she had seen them turn into the place. The basement? Charley had said they had a room down there in order to talk. In the hall to the back was a telephone and when she passed it the bell rang. She took the receiver and said, “Yes?”

  “Did you complete your call?” said the voice.

  “Did I — ”

  “Did you complete your call?”

  “There is no one here,” she said and hung up because she could not delay any longer. She went down to the basement.

  The dank air, or the sight of the lock on the door, made her feel taut. She held the scarf so it stretched tight over her head and came to a point where her hand held it. In the dim light of the basement she could have been any woman; she looked like any woman suddenly fearful and alone. So she made no sound when she heard the voice.

  “… because he’s as good as dead,” said the voice.

  She stood by the closed door and listened to Joe’s hard laugh.

  “Never act like it’s done,” she heard Bantam say, “until the time. Not before eleven.”

  “Relax, Bantam. If those guys know what they’re doing, it’s as good as done.”

  “Not till eleven. All that’s happened is I made a phone call. All that’s happened is they got their instructions and now they wait. Now we wait.”

  Joe said more, and then maybe Bantam said more, but Martha wouldn’t have known even had she stayed. The sun wasn’t down yet, but once it was, and then eleven o’clock, there would be Charley’s death.

  They didn’t know where he was in the osteria and the man in the yard only knew that Charley had taken the Bugatti. There was no one else to ask.

  • • •

  No one knew on the street or on the square, but they had seen the Bugatti. He had driven to town. She would take the short cut over the old bridge. When she came out again, further down where the houses started, she recognized the street he must have taken by car, and she saw the gas station. Sometimes Charley had stopped there to fill up. No, they didn’t know, but he had gotten some gas and they told her he had gone into town. The quay, he had said. What part of the harbor? Any one of the quays —

  It took her an hour. She had run most of the way and then she had taken a streetcar, the wrong one. The sun was red over the bay and Martha had nowhere to start, everywhere to look. She had cried at first, and asking from place to place her sobbing had become like a dry cough. When the sun was half gone she had covered her small, ridiculous stretch of the waterfront and was going on with miles more curving ahead of her around the bay. She had stopped crying and the only thing that kept her from feeling dead was that Charley was still alive, that there was more to go, that she had to find him.

  It might have taken all night had she kept it up. Or maybe all of the next day. She stopped when it had been dark for a while and most of the quays were deserted except for the tourists.

  She walked back into the city. It took her longer this time because it was uphill. She walked, saving her strength, no longer frantic, and the calm on her face might have been indifference or determination, or it might have been that there was no strength to make any particular kind of expression. She never slowed down when she went up the steps. Twelve one way, thirteen the other. A piece of wild garden, the kitchen door open, a yellow light on the bare kitchen table. Only Francesca was there. Martha stopped at the table and asked her.

  “Where is Joe?” she said.

  Chapter 21

  He heard Martha the first time, but made no sound on the bed. He lay very still, almost as if he didn’t care what went on in the kitchen, and he listened to the two women until it sounded as if Martha might leave. Then he got off the bed and opened the door.

  When Martha turned he had to look at her face. It was very white, and her large eyes had the black shine of onyx. Then her scarf slipped off her head.

  “Where is Charley?” she said, and though he couldn’t have known why she asked the question it made him wary.

  “Joe, you must tell me. Joe — “

  “You’re all worked up,” he said. “How about some aranciata?“

  She reminded him of the other time, turned to stone. He rubbed his palms up and down the sides of his pants. He kept that up, feeling them prickle, the feel that wanted him to ball his hands and make fists. He had a crazy thought that he might hit her, anywhere, but she was stone and the skin would crack over his knuckles. Joe wasn’t the kind to have thoughts like that and it made him feel mean.

  “Or beer. You know I drink beer. Comes in a can, though.”

  Then she stood close to him and he didn’t remember that she had moved. Her voice was low. It penetrated as if she were screaming.

  “By all that is holy to you, Joe, you must answer my question. Please, Joe, even though you might hate me, tell me now where Charley is. This one act in your life will make you good, no matter what else you are. Stop him, Joe, stop them and tell me where Charley — “

  “What are you talking about?” he said and went past her to the hearth.

  “Joe. I heard Bantam and you in the basement.”

  He had guessed that she might have, so he wasn’t surprised. And it was so much better this way, her knowing what was going to happen at eleven o’clock. Almost another hour and a half. He picked up a scallion from the basket by the hearth and bit into it. The sound was as if he had spat at her.

  “What basement?” he said.

  “Oh, dear Lord — ” she said because she saw no way out, only Joe enjoying the game and chewing, slow and with a crunch.

  “You mean about that eleven o’clock deal, I guess.”

  Her voice rang like a blow on steel. “Murdering Charley, I mean. Joe, I have never begged as — “

  “So don’t start,” he said and picked up another scallion.

  She went back to the table, and if she hadn’t looked so straight it might have been a move to support herself. One hand went down flat on the table and she held her scarf with the other. It almost looked as if her fingers just rested there.

  “And I have never threatened,” she said. “Stop this now, Joe, or I go to the carab
inièri.“

  “With what?”

  “To tell them you are murdering Charley, tonight, at eleven o’clock.”

  “Yeah? Where? You gonna show them where?”

  “I will tell them enough so they will kill you.”

  “I know,” he said. He tossed the end of the scallion under the sink, watching it land. “You can do that,” he said, “after he’s dead.”

  It was true, and it showed in her face. Joe started to laugh, head back, and it seemed the rock would never stop bouncing. “After he’s dead,” he kept guffawing, “after he’s dead — ” when he stopped suddenly and talked normal.

  “Unless I get to a phone by ten-thirty, at least.”

  The switch confused her and she repeated, “Ten-thirty? A phone by ten-thirty — ”

  “Yeah. It’s a quarter to ten now.”

  “You have — you have forty-five — ”

  “No, kid,” he said. “Not me. You have,” and he sucked his teeth.

  She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see him for a moment, and she listened to the sound of the blood in her throat. It made regular thumps, so regular that she wondered about it The sound was so calm that she wondered whether this body were her own. Her body did not know what she knew.

  “What do you want, Joe?”

  “One guess.”

  “And you will make the call so Charley lives.”

  “Afterwards.”

  “Before the forty-five minutes — ”

  “I work fast. Hey, Fanny,” he said, “tell Martha how — ”

  “Don’t make her say anything!”

  Joe shrugged and kept watching her. He said, “Well?”

  “Of course, Joe,” she said.

  He kept watching her, wondering if she might cry, or look mean, or maybe try playing her games, but now she looked almost asleep. “Now, Joe?” She swung the scarf off her shoulder. “That’s what I meant.”

  “Bring the light,” she said. “I cannot see the bed.”

  “Never mind.”

  It made her turn back before getting halfway to the door.

  “And stop with the buttons,” he said. “Keep it on. I know what you look like.”

  “Joe — ”

  “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” He nodded at the pine table. “We’ll do it here.”

  She almost broke then, but Joe never saw it. She was like stone when she went to the table and he told her to lean. He told Francesca to take the lamp off the table and hold it, and when the edge of the wood touched Martha’s legs from behind she put back her arms, hands on the table.

  Her body was not her own, and later she heard Joe say, “It’s just after ten.” She remembered that he left and that she heard his steps going down to the street. She remembered leaving herself, going through the weeds in the garden.

  Chapter 22

  At ten-fifteen, Joe had gone to the osteria. That’s where the phone was. He had thought maybe Martha would follow him, but she never did. He drank beer and looked for her to come through the door, to check if he had really called, but she didn’t come.

  At ten-thirty the two men who had sailed the yawl Lucrecia into the Capri harbor left the restaurant near the docks, because it would take them half an hour to get the ship ready the way it had been arranged. They had received their last phone call and ten-thirty was the time for them to leave.

  At ten-forty-five the small speedboat made its first arc through the periphery of the harbor. It was an unassuming boat, with no cabin, open in back, just a short canopy with a spray shield, where Charley stood at the wheel. But the motor had a sweet sound. On his second sweep he foamed close to the rim of light where the pilothouse sat on the dock, and when it looked as if the boat would churn right into the pilings Charley throttled all the way back, making the boat squash flat into the water. He sidled her up to the mooring smooth as silk, and kept the motor running.

  “Olà!“ said the old man in front of the pilothouse. “Are you the one from the Susa Company?”

  “The same!” Charley secured his boat, jumped back into the rear, and came up again with a box marked Susa Company, Pier 29, Naples. It also said, “Authorized dealers for marine parts Alfa Romeo, Chrysler, Pratt Whitney, Fiat.”

  “You took your time,” said the old man. He watched Charley come up the gangplank and scratched his head. Then he put the sailor cap back on with the button that showed he worked for the harbor master.

  “You know how it is, grandfather. Those rich they have no respect for the poor. They break their expensive playthings, and immediately, in the middle of the night, they lift the telephone and summon the poor to fix them.” Charley wiped salt spray from his cheek. “But the shop was closed and the boy who delivers could not be found. I think he has a young girl someplace, grandfather, and — but as I was saying, they got me to bring it.” Charley shrugged. “Of course, I was just there reading the paper, you understand — “

  “I know how it is,” said the old man. “You brought the things for the repair?”

  “It’s all here. Lift how heavy.”

  The old man lifted.

  “I thought all they needed was a small but important gasket.”

  “Of course, grandfather. But I also brought a little valve, an expensive carburetor, and a pump. Or did you think I came all the way across from Naples just to sell them a gasket!”

  “Serves them right,” said the old man. “They have a sailboat but they will not sail it as long as the motor does not run. It serves them right.”

  “Where is the boat?” said Charley, and looked over the water.

  “You see the one with the sail flapping? Her name is Lucrecia. They keep it flapping much longer and she will pull herself free. Real sailors, those rich ones. Serves them right.”

  Charley said, ”Addio,” and went back down the plank, to his boat. He dropped the box in the back, cast off, and jumped behind the wheel. He fed the big motor slowly because he had to wind past moored boats, out to the spot where the Lucrecia was. There would now be nothing strange about the motor launch making fast next to the sailboat, and a Susa mechanic boarding in the middle of the night to make an emergency repair. Then they would drift out to test the motor and shortly afterwards the mechanic with his box marked Susa Company would again take off toward Naples.

  It was eleven o’clock.

  They were both on deck. Since the auxiliary motor was not supposed to be working, there were no lights on the Lucrecia. Charley saw they were both tanned, but neither of them was Italian. Sardinian, perhaps, judging by their accents. They said, “You are late. Did you bring the box?”

  “The old man sent me.”

  “Did he say to repair our motor?”

  “No. He said to repair your valves.”

  “Come aboard,” they said and sounded less formal. They had exchanged the passwords, and now came the maneuver with the boats. One of them secured Charley’s launch bow and stern and the other one took Charley’s box. He had a narrow, dark mustache that seemed to make his mouth twice as wide. The other one was just a kid. He carried a knife in his belt. While they untied the mooring rope Charley watched from the stairs that went down to the cabin. They worked silently, with no wasted motion, and when the yawl had cast off, the one with the mustache turned the boat leeward. The Lucrecia started to lean, then move.

  Charley went into the small cabin and waited. The young one came down carrying the box, and took it forward where the door led to the engine compartment. He came back and closed the blinds over the portholes. Then he struck a match and lit an oil lamp that hung on the wall. After that he sat down. He sat on one bunk, Charley sat opposite. They sat and listened to the water under the hull and the rope noises from above. Once the kid shifted because his knife was in the way. Charley took out a pill and chewed it. They waited like that until the water started to slap hard against the hull, which meant they had cleared the harbor. Now they would turn on the motor so it would sound like testing.

  The kid g
ot up, crawled into the forward compartment, and started the motor. It coughed nicely, went high and low, but it was not loud enough to cover the other sound. Charley didn’t have to go topside to check and make sure; there was no other sound like it. The man who had been at the wheel was furling the sail.

  When the kid came back the sail had stopped snapping and clattering as it slid down the mast. The kid even came back carrying the duplicate box which held the ampules. That made it all look right as rain, only the waves were slapping the other side of the hull now. Had the sail been up they couldn’t have done it that easily. The yawl was heading out to sea.

  Charley got up slowly, and his smile was calm. The kid saw it, but leaned into the bunk to set the box down, because everything was right as rain and it was better to be out a little bit further.

  Charley too thought it was okay, but right now, not much later. His stiff hand went after the kid’s kidney like spearing a potato.

  It was all right, except after the first gasp the kid would gather air and scream with the pain. That’s how it was with kidneys, so Charley went after him again. One hand yanked at the belt to clear the kid out of the bunk and the other was ready to slice him in the back of the neck. Only the kid hit his head coming out of the bunk and Charley missed. It hurt clipping him on the bone of the head, and worse, it did no damage.

  The kid flung sideways, came free, and when he fell to the floor rolled on his back. He would have had the knife out if his kidney wasn’t bothering him, and lying on his back made it worse. His face was screwed up with the pain and a harsh scream pressed out. If the one at the wheel had heard it — But the kid’s foot caught Charley in the chest. Not much of a kick, but it made Charley do the wrong thing, grab the foot, never remembering that no arm is as strong as a leg.

  He remembered when the foot kicked out of his hands and came up to cut the side of his head. He remembered there had been enough time for the kid to get at his knife, pain or no pain, and Charley dropped to the floor without waiting to see what next The kid had scrambled around, and the bare knife was pointing long and sharp out of his hand. He held it like an expert, not to throw but ready to slice; not like Joe had but low and weaving back and forth, the way a snake feels the air before the strike.