Rolf didn’t speak. He heard her. He saw her. She was there.
She said, “Are you looking for Michèle?” Her voice was shaking.
Rolf couldn’t move. He couldn’t move, then he could. He turned and ran down the hallway, bouncing from wall to wall, desperate to get out.
ROLF’S ESCAPE
Sally’s voice, high and thin, calling “Michèle!” reverberated in Rolf’s head as he stumbled down the staircase. Perspiration washed over his face under the Pierrot mask. All he knew was that he had to get away.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he had had a semi-rational thought: He should get rid of this costume. The doorkeeper had been attacked by Pierrot. Sally had seen Pierrot.
Rolf ducked into the trunk-filled storage room. There was no sound from the next room, where the doorkeeper was probably still unconscious. He tore off the skullcap, mask, satin blouse, and drawstring trousers and left them in a heap on the floor. He opened the door and listened. Nothing. He ran for the garden door and in moments was on the street.
Once in a more populated area, where costumed crowds surged under a darkening sky, he had time to think. Sally was alive. Who, then, was the dead Medusa, the creature whose visage turns others to stone? He had been so sure it was Sally. The words fit her perfectly.
A burst of applause and jangling bells disturbed his thoughts. An acrobat in a jester’s costume was performing to an adoring crowd in a corner of a campo. Rolf passed by without stopping. In a way, everything made more sense now. He had thought, during the struggle, that Sally was surprisingly strong. But if it hadn’t been Sally, who was it?
Brian. Of course. It was surely a member of the group, and Rolf had seen all the rest of them sitting in the campo. The Medusa had been Brian, and Sally was alive, and she was staying with Michèle Zanon in his palazzo.
At the thought of Michèle Zanon, Rolf’s anger began to seep in again, crowding out the shock and confusion of his unexpected meeting with Sally. He had acted like a chickenshit jerk, running as if he’d seen a ghost, which he guessed he’d thought he had. He had let it throw him off, and he’d lost his advantage and knocked out the doorkeeper for nothing. They’d be doubly on guard now, although that wouldn’t stop Rolf if— when— he decided to go back.
When he did, nothing would stop him.
He had to make plans, but first he would meet Rosa and get his backpack. He pulled out her map again. He wished he and Rosa could communicate a little better. What he thought he had told her was that he felt uncomfortable staying in her home since they’d started this romance, and he needed to find another place. What he thought she had told him was that her cousin, or somebody, had a room above a coffee house called the Colombiana. The cousin worked for a family that had gotten out of Venice for the duration of Carnival, so the place was empty, and Rosa had a key. She was meeting him there with his stuff, since he hadn’t wanted to carry it with him on his foray to Michèle Zanon’s.
Having her cooperation was a stroke of luck, but Rolf wasn’t sure how well she’d handle it when the police turned up on her doorstep asking about him. Since he was now fairly certain they were going to, her cousin’s room could be only a pit stop.
The Colombiana was little more than a smoke-filled hole-in-the-wall with a bar and two tables crowded with people drinking espresso. None of them was wearing a costume. Obviously, this was a working-class hangout where people didn’t have time to prance around pretending to be what they weren’t. Rolf was doubly glad, now, to have shed the Pierrot disguise.
The stairs were off to one side, through a glass door. They smelled like coffee and smoke. Rolf climbed to the second floor and tapped at a door on the drab little landing. He heard Rosa’s voice asking who it was, and he said, “It’s me. Let me in.”
She was overjoyed to see him, pulling him into the room and embracing him, pushing her body close to his. This was one place, anyway, where he was still in charge. When he kissed her, deeply, she rubbed her thigh against him, making noises of admiration and gratification. Rolf felt good again, powerful again, ready. He walked her over to the bed he had barely glimpsed when he came in, and they collapsed on it.
She was as ready as he was, had probably been thinking about him the whole time they were apart, and she had already contracted, gasping and mumbling in Italian, pulling on handfuls of his hair, when he pulsed and shot, with Sally’s scared face wheeling through his mind.
After that, all he could hear was his own hoarse breathing and Rosa’s in his ear, and it was a long time before he opened his eyes and saw Rosa’s husband Gianni standing in the doorway.
SALLY MAKES A PLAN
Sally sat at the dressing table, tying on Antonia’s gold mask with the black chin-length lace. When the mask was adjusted, she put on the black gaucho hat. Antonia’s cascading white ruffles tumbled over Sally’s lap nearly to the floor. The skirt was almost long enough to hide the fact that Sally was wearing her own boots instead of Maria’s shoes. The señorita had returned.
It was time for Sally to leave Palazzo Zanon. She had hesitated, lingered. Even after she overheard Michèle’s conversation with Jean-Pierre she had wanted to confront Michèle rather than run away. She had been searching for him, ready to tell him what she’d overheard. Slime is the agony of water, words from the letters Brian received in Paris.
Then had come the strange and frightening encounter with the Pierrot.
It had been obvious that the costumed figure wasn’t just a friend of Michèle’s who had dropped in for a Carnival visit. He had seemed furtive, an interloper. The most terrifying aspect of the encounter, though, had been how frightened he seemed to be of her.
No matter what the police said, no matter what Michèle said, it was time to go.
Sally believed she was in danger. She knew it. If she got out of here she couldn’t go as Sally. The only alternative, imperfect as it was, was to go in Antonia’s señorita costume.
Once she was out of here, she could go where she wanted and nobody – but Michèle— would know who she was, and she intended to stay well away from Michèle. The señorita costume had fooled even Francine. As for the doorman downstairs, if she encountered him she would simply insist that he let her out.
Under the black lace, Sally’s lips were trembling. She pressed them together, hard. She had never in her life felt so alone.
She could see from the window that it looked like rain. She wrapped herself in the red shawl and picked up her tapestry handbag. She turned out the light, closed the door behind her, and hurried down the hall. At the top of the staircase was an umbrella stand containing a green umbrella. Its curving wooden handle ended in the carved claw of a bird, and the claw held a round green stone. She took it from the stand and started down the staircase.
EXPLANATIONS
Ursula, wearing a dressing gown of cerise quilted satin, was slumped in a chair, moodily smoking. A yard or so away from her feet in their feathered mules lay two tightly crumpled balls of paper and a yellow rosebud, now wilted to brown. Francine wondered if Ursula would slap or kick her if she tried to pick up the balls that were, she had confirmed in the brief moment when Ursula had shaken the paper under her nose, the two halves of her copy of the Medusa poem. The poem and the rosebud had been in Francine’s suitcase. Francine now realized that Ursula considered going through Francine’s possessions without her permission to be natural behavior.
Ursula, it seemed, had awakened fairly soon after Francine went out. By the time Francine returned, she was in a frenzy. She shrieked that Francine had gone to see Michèle Zanon. While she, Ursula, slept, the treacherous Francine had slipped away to Michèle!
Since this was exactly what Francine had done, Ursula’s accusations grated on Francine’s nerves. Francine turned her back on Ursula and said coldly, “I refuse to respond to baseless, ridiculous accusations.”
“Baseless!” Ursula bounded in front of Francine. From the pocket of her dressing gown she pulled the limp-looking rosebud.
“Who else but your wonderful Michelazzo wears a yellow rose in his lapel every day! You must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”
“Not at all. I think you’re the world’s biggest sneak!” Francine had intended to maintain icy control, but her voice was rising.
“And this!” Ursula pulled a piece of paper from her other pocket. She unfolded it with trembling fingers and shook it under Francine’s nose. “Poems! He sends you poems! That’s all the impotent fool is good for!”
Stumbling a little over the English words, Ursula read aloud:
The creature whose visage turns others to stone
Changes trusting friends into people alone.
She stopped and narrowed her eyes at Francine. “The two of you mock me,” she hissed. “He sends you poems that make fun of me.”
Francine shot Ursula a look meant to convey consummate scorn, marched to the sofa, and sat down. She let her head loll back against the sofa cushions and gazed upward. Carved scrollwork, gracefully curved, divided the ceiling into three concentric areas around the chandelier. The center was painted a rich cream color; the next division was a subtle peach; the outermost, light sea-green. Francine heard a tearing, then a crumpling sound. She heard the scratchy impact of what might have been two wadded-up halves of a poem hitting the carpet. She heard a heavy thump that was probably Ursula dropping disgustedly into a chair. She heard the flicking of a cigarette lighter and smelled smoke.
Francine raised her head. She wondered if she should try for the poem. She would leave the rosebud, which she’d been silly to keep. She gauged the distance to the balls of paper. If she rushed forward and picked them up, then ran for the door, Ursula might not be able to catch her. Francine could barricade herself in her room and decide what to do next.
Ursula looked at Francine. Her eyes were brimming. “Why do you do this to me, cara?” she whimpered.
Francine relaxed a little. Perhaps the worst was over. “If you would only listen to me, my— my cara” she said. The Italian word felt strange on her lips, but Francine couldn’t bring herself to use any of her more accustomed endearments.
“You want to betray me every moment. With that awful señorita, with Michèle—”
“That isn’t true. Let me explain.” Francine licked her lips. Ursula looked at her expectantly.
Francine said, “Could you give me a cigarette?”
Ursula could have simply tossed her red leather cigarette case and gold lighter to Francine. Instead, she got up and crossed the room, put a cigarette between Francine’s lips, and lit it, keeping her eyes locked with Francine’s all the while.
Francine took a long drag on her cigarette and let the smoke drift slowly out of her nostrils. She said, “In a sense, you are completely correct. I am very interested in Michèle Zanon.”
Seeing Ursula’s jaw tighten, Francine continued, “It isn’t at all what you think. You have accused me of having romantic feelings for him, but in fact I am pursuing him in the interest of justice.”
“Justice?” Ursula’s tone implied that Francine was still very much on probation.
“Justice. Do you have a copy of today’s newspaper?” Francine knew Ursula did, since she herself had snatched a minute to look at it earlier.
With a resigned look, Ursula got up and brought the paper to Francine. Francine turned to the story about Brian’s death, which, perhaps understandably in a tourist-conscious city, had not been given a prominent position or a great deal of space. Handing the paper back to Ursula and pointing, she said, “Read that.”
It took Ursula longer to get through the article than even Francine had imagined it would, but at last she looked up and said, “Well?”
“Well. I knew the man who was killed, and I’m investigating his murder. I believe Michèle Zanon may have been involved.”
Ursula gave a scoffing laugh, but she looked interested. “Michèle Zanon involved in murder!” Ursula jeered. “He may have killed a fly once.”
“I didn’t say he killed anyone. What I suspect is that he is harboring the murderess— the señorita you remember so clearly, who plays such an important role in your accusations of me.” Francine felt, and knew she sounded, triumphant, and she saw that Ursula was impressed.
Skepticism crept back, however, and Ursula said, “Investigation? Are you a member of the police?”
Francine raised her eyebrows. “Hardly. How anxious do you think the police would be to inconvenience Count Zanon?”
Ursula frowned. “Then this investigation of yours—”
“Strictly private.”
“The poem? The rose?”
“Clues.”
Ursula lit a cigarette and stared at her feathered toes. At last she said, “I don’t understand. Why would Michèle be— what did you call it— harboring this murderess?”
“You see”— Francine leaned forward— “that’s exactly what I must find out. That’s why I must return to the palazzo and continue my inquiries.”
Ursula didn’t answer. Unbelievable as it seemed, she still looked dubious. Francine thought Ursula would drive her mad, but then an idea came. She said softly, “Actually, I’ve been thinking. If you’re willing, there are ways you can help me.”
SALLY FINDS SHELTER
Wet wind swept the Piazza San Marco. Straw gondoliers’ hats hanging on souvenir stands pulled at their cheap elastic straps. Pigeons, feathers ruffled, perched on the edge of the roof of the Procuratie Vecchie, ignoring the damp grain on the pavement. The volume of the recorded music seemed abruptly diminished, the sound carried away by the gusts. Some of the thousands of dancers gave up and left to seek protection. Others danced doggedly on.
Sally watched the scene from the doorway of a closed shop. Behind the iron grille covering the plate glass windows was a display of handmade lace tablecloths from the island of Burano. In another life, Sally might have had a use for a lace tablecloth. She could hardly imagine, now, what such a life would have been like.
She had gotten out of the palazzo so easily it worried her. There had been no sign of the doorman. Michèle hadn’t appeared, either. On every step of the stairs, through the ground-floor room, out into the garden, she had expected to hear him calling her back, asking where she was going. Only when she was out on the street did it occur to her that Michèle himself might be in trouble.
True, Michèle seemed more like a man who caused trouble than got into it involuntarily. But where was he, then, and where was the doorman, and who was the invading Pierrot?
The wind tore at Sally’s shawl, and she wrapped it more tightly around her. She wished she could decide whether she wanted to escape from Michèle or protect him. She would try to call, maybe, once she got situated.
Which brought up another question: Situated where? Her dearest wish had been to get out of the palazzo as fast as possible, and now here she was. She was standing at the Piazza San Marco, waiting for a storm to break, with nowhere to go and nothing with her except her handbag and a green umbrella.
If she went to the police, they would surely call Michèle and tell him to come get her. No, what she needed was a place to stay for tonight. Tomorrow, Carnival would be over, Pierrots and Medusas wouldn’t be stalking the streets.
The cold iron grille dug into her shoulder. She had money enough to pay for a night in a hotel. At the thought, objections crowded her mind: She had no luggage. She couldn’t speak enough Italian to ask for a room. Everything would be filled, anyway.
On the other hand, she definitely didn’t want to spend the night on the pavement, where even now a couple of fat raindrops were making round wet blobs. She took firm hold of Antonia’s umbrella and started off to find a hotel.
After the first several tries, she had developed a routine. Walk in; ask if the person behind the desk speaks English; after the person says— almost always— yes, ask if there is a room; listen to the person say the hotel is full; walk out.
When she had gone through the routine ten times or so, Sally began to get
a clutching feeling that this wasn’t going to work.
Still she continued, automatically, until, in a dusty little lobby, she asked the man behind the desk if he spoke English and he replied, “Sure do, honey.”
He was bald on top, with a thin fringe of red hair hanging below his earlobes. His eyes were brown and slightly popped. Sally stared at him. At last, she said, “Where are you from?”
He started to smile. “Eufaula, Alabama. You?”
“Tallahassee. Tallahassee, Florida.”
He extended his hand. “Well, hey, cousin. My name’s Otis Miller.”
Sally clung to Otis Miller’s hand. “Good to meet you,” she said in a quavery voice.
“Tallahassee,” the man said. “I had a friend went to the university down there. Before your time, I reckon.” He looked at her curiously. “How can I help you, ma’am?”
Sally drew in a long breath. “I’m looking for a room,” she said. She felt tears spring into her eyes, put her hand up to wipe them, and remembered her mask. She untied it and took it off, and fumbled in her bag for a tissue.
Otis nodded. “I’ll tell you. The place is full, but—” A phone at his elbow rang, and he picked it up. He said, “Pronto,” listened for a moment, and began speaking rapidly in Italian.
Sally felt as surprised as if Otis Miller had suddenly levitated. After a brisk conversation he put the receiver down and said, “Where were we?”
“You really can speak Italian,” Sally said.
“Hell, I’ve lived here ten years. Came over to paint after I got out of Auburn. Thought my daddy would have a fit.” He picked up a pencil and bounced the eraser on the counter. “Now, about a room. Our regular guest rooms are full, but I could put you in Carla’s room, over in the annex. They wanted her to be here extra time to help in the kitchen during Carnival, but the pressure got to her. She threw a plate of pasta at the cook and went back home to Mestre. It’s not really good enough for a Tallahassee lassie, but it’s the best I can do.”
The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries Page 56