The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  The boat had reached Venice, and they were moving slowly past the stone lions that guarded the Arsenale. The morning was lighter now, though still muffled in gray chill. A few people were about, walking briskly along, their breath condensing in white puffs.

  Normal conversation was now possible. “Where will the boat stop? San Marco?” Francine asked Ursula.

  “Not at all. I will have him take us directly to my door.”

  Francine shook her head. “I’m not coming back with you now.”

  Ursula’s lower lip sagged. “But of course you are! You’re terribly tired. You must have a good sleep.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I have to go to my pensione”

  Ursula gripped Francine’s arm. “You’ll come later today? For lunch? For tea?”

  “Yes. Later.”

  Ursula let go of Francine’s arm but continued to regard her dolefully. “Cara,” she whimpered.

  “Later.”

  “What’s the name of your pensione? You never told me.”

  Francine hesitated. She remembered a sign she had passed, she couldn’t remember where. “Albergo Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo.” Ursula lingered wistfully on each syllable. “I will be waiting impatiently for you.’’

  After leaving the boat and Ursula, Francine walked through the nearly deserted Piazza. Sweepers were cleaning up the cans, bottles, paper, confetti, broken glass, and other trash that littered the pavement. Two people in costume drifted by— a tousle-haired witch and a balding clown holding hands, their heads leaning close to one another.

  She walked through the cold, quiet streets, the squares with their empty bandstands, past masks staring blankly from closed shop windows, until she reached a campo near the Rialto Bridge. Among the buildings sagging against one another on the little square was her pensione, the Al Ponte. As she crossed toward it, a man sitting at the base of a stone wellhead in the center of the campo got up. He took a few steps toward her and said, “Francine?”

  She stopped and peered at him. She knew him, yet she couldn’t think who he was. Suddenly she realized it was Tom. He had shaved off his beard. The plumpish contours of his cheeks, the fleshy chin, were completely unfamiliar.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, and came closer.

  Involuntarily, she took a step back.

  “I want to talk with you,” he said, and when she still didn’t reply, he added, “Please.”

  She nodded. “All right. But we must be very quiet. People are sleeping.”

  “Yes,” he said, and followed her into the sleeping pensione and up the stairs to her room.

  IN THE PENSIONE

  Tom rubbed his chin where his beard used to be. He couldn’t get used to the cold air on his naked face. A draft was coming from somewhere. He peered around Francine’s little room, with its faded wallpaper and its sagging but neatly made bed. A window might be open. “Isn’t there any heat in here?” he asked.

  Francine didn’t answer. As if to belie his feelings of chill, she loosened her tie, took off her suit jacket and dropped it on the bed, then rolled up the sleeves of her rumpled white shirt. She sat on a wooden chair next to the window and crossed her arms. “What do you want?” she said.

  Tom wished he had a tape recorder, so he could get everything exactly. “I’ve got bad news,” he said.

  He hadn’t realized he was still caressing his chin until he felt goose bumps rise under his fingers at his own words. He took a breath.

  Francine said, “Brian is dead.”

  Tom felt the goose bumps subside. “How did you know?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “How did you know?”

  Bitter disappointment invaded him. “I know, that’s all!” he said. He couldn’t keep himself from raising his voice a little.

  “Please be quiet!”

  Infuriated, Tom turned his back on her. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a little Venetian-style mirror, festooned with blue glass flowers, hanging on the opposite wall. God. There he was without his beard. His hand rose inexorably to his face.

  Behind him, Francine said, “I suppose you’ve been talking to the police.”

  He continued to watch his reflection as he said, “You know better than that. Did I talk to the police in ’68? I don’t talk to those assassins.” Tom was pleased with his speech, but not with the way his jowls shivered as he gave it. He looked toward Francine. “Why? Have you?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  This encounter wasn’t progressing as Tom had hoped. He tried another tack. “Brian dressed as Medusa,” he said.

  Francine shifted her body impatiently. “Yes. Even his final gesture was a mockery.”

  “A mockery?”

  “Of me. Of Sartre.”

  Tom wished he could take notes. “Dressing as Medusa was a mockery of Sartre? How?”

  Francine tightened her crossed arms. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Tom could tell she wasn’t about to explain voluntarily. He’d have to trick her. “I don’t think it had anything to do with Sartre,” he said. “I think the Medusa was a symbol of Brian’s sexual ambiguity. I mean, Freud said the Medusa represents the female genitals.”

  “Freud is the only person in the world who was stupider than Brian.”

  “No, really. See, the snakes are pubic hair, and—”

  “And presto! We have the creature whose visage turns others to stone.” Francine’s tone was scathing.

  Tom stared. “So it was you,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “That poem. The creature whose visage turns others to stone. What a monstrous act of hostility.”

  “You’re mad,” said Francine promptly.

  Tom took a step toward her. “Who do you think you are? Sending me poems, jerking me around?”

  “Stop shouting!” said Francine in a furious whisper. “I didn’t write the poem. I didn’t know Brian would dress as Medusa, did I? I received a copy, too.”

  Tom thought about it. “Yeah, but if you had done it that’s exactly what you’d say.”

  Francine shrugged. She got up, went into the bathroom and closed the door. Tom heard the toilet flush, and water running. He could still feel a draft on his face. He checked the window, but it seemed to be tightly closed.

  Francine emerged from the bathroom, rubbing her face with a towel. “I wonder where Brian and Sally were staying,” she said meditatively.

  “Albergo Rondini.” Distracted by the mysterious draft, Tom had spoken without thinking. He stood very still, hoping Francine hadn’t caught what he’d said.

  She stiffened. “I see.” She crossed to face him. “Albergo Rondini. And how would you know that? You haven’t been spying, have you?”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom said.

  “Yes. Yes, you were,” she said slowly. “You had on a silver robe with symbols on it, didn’t you, and a silver mask with a white beard. I saw you in the Piazza, and now I remember that I saw you here, too. Outside, hanging about in the campo, spying on me. You’re a cheat and a spy.”

  “Now look, Francine—”

  “A pathetic, filthy spy.”

  “Shut up!” Tom shouted, and Francine hissed, “Keep your voice down!”

  Breathing heavily, they regarded each other. Then Francine said, “I saw you somewhere else, too. At the Rio della Madonna.”

  Tom saw the scene again. Brian’s streaming body, his ruined face. The murmurs of the crowd, a woman whimpering, a man saying in a British accent, “Killed him, by God.” Tom looked at Francine’s trousers, her loosened tie. She’d been padded around the middle. That had fooled him.

  “I was there, and so were you,” he said. “I recognize you now.” The frustration of the past hours, days, years boiled up. “What were you dressed as? A troll? A troglodyte?”

  Francine’s eyes were wide. “Get out,” she said.

  “A troll! A spiritually deformed freak—”

  “Get out of here!” Francine screamed. “You�
�re a fool! You understand nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!” She stamped her foot, hard, with each repetition of the word.

  He heard voices in the next room, and a door opening and closing somewhere in the house. He crossed to the door. “Don’t call me a fool. I’m warning you,” he said.

  They exchanged a last, furious look before he left, giving the door a shivering slam behind him.

  ANOTHER SLAMMED DOOR

  Tom stormed down the stairs, brushing past a beefy, sleepy-looking— and possibly also angry-looking— man in a red terry-cloth bathrobe who was on his way up. Outside, he didn’t allow himself to run, but walked briskly away at a pace calculated to put him out of the immediate neighborhood before the beefy man had a chance to get dressed and come after him, if that’s what the beefy man decided to do.

  Tom was trembling. At this rate, Brian’s death would be a complete waste, and Tom’s efforts and humiliations would count for nothing. Why had Tom said those two words, “Albergo Rondini”? It was as if he were trying to sabotage himself. He’d heard of criminals doing that, out of guilt and a subconscious desire to be caught.

  Tom didn’t want to be caught. He wanted to do everything right— starting now— and pull this off.

  Albergo Rondini. Like a jackass, he’d said it. As much as he’d tried to forget the damn place, forget the snotty concierge saying, “Can I help you, sir?” and “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. Perhaps you can locate your friends tomorrow.” Tom flushed. What was the two-bit Albergo Rondini doing with a concierge who acted as if he worked for the Gritti Palace Hotel?

  At least Francine hadn’t gone to the police. That much was very fortunate.

  Tom stopped abruptly halfway up the steps of a bridge. A man behind him, who was wrestling a dolly loaded with empty soft drink bottles up the steps, looked at him inquiringly as he laboriously pulled the dolly around Tom’s motionless body.

  Sally. Shit, yes, Sally would talk to the police. And not only that. When the police started asking questions at the Albergo Rondini, and the concierge started telling his story, and Sally said, “Oh, that description sounds like Tom—”

  God damn Sally. She was as much of a troublemaker as Brian.

  Tom entered a brightly lit cafe, where a few men who looked like workers were clustered at the bar drinking espresso. He sat at a Formica table next to a jukebox and ordered cappuccino and rolls. His hand kept straying to his face, his fingertips moving over the flesh and incipient stubble. He didn’t like the cold air, the rough feeling where the hairs that protected him so long had been rudely and precipitously chopped off. He looked at his distorted reflection in the polished chrome of the jukebox. With his beard, he had looked wise. Without it he was afraid he looked like what Francine had said he was— a fool.

  He finished his cappuccino and wiped the foam from his naked upper lip. He wasn’t far from the Accademia Bridge. If he crossed there, it would be only a short walk to the neighborhood of the Salute church, where Jean-Pierre’s hotel was located. He would start again.

  A watery sun was breaking through the mist as he climbed the wooden steps of the bridge. He stopped in the middle, leaned on the railing, and gazed toward the point where the Canal opened into the Basin of San Marco, at the gleaming golden globe on top of the Customs House. A barge piled high with refuse churned along beneath him. Then a gondola slid by, and Tom caught a few bars of the tune the gondolier was whistling. The passengers were a man and woman muffled in hats, coats, and scarves. They were holding hands. Two suitcases sat in front of them in the gondola.

  Taking a romantic gondola ride to the train station, Tom thought. The idea made his chest ache.

  He wondered what he was hanging around here for instead of going on to see Jean-Pierre. Tom’s face was chilly again. He’d have to buy a wool scarf to wind around his neck and chin. Or a mask. A mask would keep the air off.

  When he got to Jean-Pierre’s hotel, he checked the breakfast room first, but Jean-Pierre was not among the people drinking caffe-latte and eating rolls and jam at the crumb-littered tables. Tom trudged upstairs. He had gotten everybody’s room number when he called around. He found Jean-Pierre’s room and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer. He knocked again, more forcefully, and said, “Jean-Pierre?”

  Tom heard footsteps, and then the door opened and Jean-Pierre looked out. His face was bloated, his eyes swollen nearly shut. Tom knew he looked shocked at Jean-Pierre’s appearance, and he could see his own surprised expression mirrored in Jean-Pierre’s puffy eyes. Then he remembered. “It’s Tom,” he said. “I shaved off my beard.”

  Jean-Pierre was dressed in slacks and a pullover. He stood back to let Tom in. His room was in complete disarray— the bed not just rumpled, but sheets and blankets wadded, pummeled-looking pillows flung on the floor. On the floor, also, crumpled under a chair, was a black-and-white Pierrot costume. A mask with a shiny tear embedded in the cheek lay in a corner. Tom had, he remembered abruptly, predicted to himself that Jean-Pierre would dress as Pierrot. He had been right. Yet now he realized that his own reasons for thinking of Jean-Pierre as Pierrot and Jean-Pierre’s reasons were probably completely different, and that he couldn’t imagine what Jean-Pierre’s reasons might be.

  He looked again at Jean-Pierre’s face. “What happened to you?”

  Jean-Pierre didn’t answer. He leaned against the dresser.

  It was time to begin. Tom cleared his throat. “About Brian,” he said.

  Jean-Pierre held up his hand palm out, like a policeman stopping traffic. “I will not speak about Brian,” he said. His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

  “I came to ask you—”

  Jean-Pierre shook his head. “I have told you I will not speak about it.”

  “Look, Jean-Pierre—”

  “You look.” Jean-Pierre’s voice cracked. “I will not say anything, I will not listen to anything. You came here, yes. But I do not have to talk with you or hear you or see you.”

  Tom’s anger flooded in again. “Right. You don’t have to talk with me or hear me or see me,” he said. “I don’t even have to talk with you or hear you or see you.” He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  His fury was molten. He flung himself downstairs and out into the pale sunshine. The bells of the Salute began to peal.

  A NEW MASK

  The sound of the slamming door reverberated through the room as Jean-Pierre collapsed on the bed. He had been sure it was the police. How had Tom found him? Breathing through his mouth, he blotted perspiration from his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  In a little while he felt calmer, if a state of dull agony could be called calm. Thank God Tom was gone. His face had looked naked without his beard— unprotected, like a newborn animal. Jean-Pierre sat up and looked in the mirror. Horrible.

  Gazing at his swollen face, Jean-Pierre wondered why he didn’t take the next obvious step and kill himself. Why continue to breathe the grief-laden air in this hotel room, to look at his wretched reflection, to feel this torture that would never abate? That he could descend the stairs like any other human being and eat breakfast, that he could walk in the winter sunshine on the streets of Venice, was unthinkable. Yet he knew that was exactly what he was going to do.

  Exactly, yet not exactly. He would eat and walk like any other human being, but he himself would know that he had been transformed, as if the composition of every chemical in his body had been altered.

  He couldn’t forget the poem. The hateful, taunting Medusa poem that had poisoned and changed him. One person, and one person only, had reason to taunt Jean-Pierre, and that person was Sally. Sally had been so quiet, so sly, waiting in the background. She had brought on the destruction of what had been so beautiful, and it was that knowledge, the knowledge of who was to blame, that was keeping Jean-Pierre alive.

  It was time to go to breakfast now, but he didn’t want to be seen with his face like this. It was less a matter of vanit
y than an unwillingness to call attention to himself. He could have breakfast sent up, but that would mean waiting, and all at once he was claustrophobically anxious to get out of the room.

  He could wear a mask. Carnival revelers often wore masks and costumes at breakfast. To put on his Pierrot mask was unthinkable, though.

  He remembered that a French champagne company was giving away thousands of yellow cardboard eye masks imprinted with the company’s name. They were passed out in the streets and left in cafés and hotels, and there was a bowl of them on a table at the end of the hall.

  Jean-Pierre slipped out and took a mask from the bowl. Back in his room, he tried it on. It was flimsy, the elastic wouldn’t last long, but it would do until he could get a better one. When he wore it, his face didn’t look quite so awful.

  He took one of the hotel’s plastic laundry bags from the closet. In it he crammed his Pierrot costume and mask. He wadded the bag up and wrapped it in his jacket. Then he went downstairs to breakfast.

  ON THE GIUDECCA

  Rolf was asleep, or almost, but a bar of sunlight was teasing his eyes. He tossed, trying to escape it, and raised a cloud of cat hair from the sofa on which he lay in his sleeping bag. As the hair invaded his nostrils, he sneezed, and his eyes flew open.

  Shit. He sneezed again. Downstairs the kids were screaming at each other, and then Rosa joined in with “Basta! Basta!” What was it about Italians, that they had to conduct their business at the top of their lungs? If they weren’t yelling, they were singing.