Sally stood up. When they were face to face he said, “Antonia. Carissima.” The next moment they were dancing.
PART FOUR
INTERLUDE
Tonight, there are masked balls all over Venice. In a palazzo, dancers whirl beneath the painted antics of cupids. Across town, on the basketball court of a high school gymnasium, teenagers in Halloween masks contort their bodies to deafening music. Revelers who are too drunk, too carefree, or too wet already to mind the rain dance in the Piazza, where the streaming domes of San Marco loom over all.
On this night, St. George and the dragon may join hands and waltz, a priest and the devil drink each other’s health, a lion and a lamb embrace, full of the fevered knowledge that they will soon lie down together.
During it all, the tide is rising. Parts of the Riva degli Schiavoni have been washed by occasional waves for some time now. Across the Bacino, water slops against the steps leading to San Giorgio Maggiore. It threatens the fondamenta of the Giudecca. The Venetians who have not joined the tourists in dancing, drinking, falling in love, and making mistakes they will repent for the coming year and perhaps longer, turn on the weather report. Yes, the Adriatic tide is molto sostenuto. They dial a telephone number to hear the same news: The tide is high; by tomorrow, there may be acqua alta.
The Venetians are accustomed to this by now. In the closet are their high wading boots of sturdy, olive-green rubber. Platforms for those without wading boots stand ready to be assembled. If there is indeed acqua alta, everyone will know when the sirens go off.
In the lobbies of chic hotels, preparations for the high tide are under way. Staff members roll up carpets, leaving the terrazzo floors bare. They ready planks to be put down for guests to walk on if the Grand Canal, which is now licking at, even encroaching on, the landing stage outside, should slide inexorably under the doors and spread across the terrazzo, creating a treacherously slippery pool, washing against the lowest step of the wooden staircase where former tides already have left a high-water mark. Curtains must be tied up, antique tables and chairs moved to safety, signs put out saying Attenzione.
It is all routine. Tomorrow, cold Adriatic water may flow through the streets, stand in the Piazza and the campos. A few hours later, it will be gone. The inlaid patterns on the Basilica floor will dry. Venice will not sink under the waves before the end of Carnival.
IN THE BALLROOM
Because she was Antonia, Sally was able to dance, her feet in the damp, clumsy boots as nimble as if she were wearing satin slippers. Michèle’s hand barely touched her back, and his grasp on her fingers was so light she was hardly aware of it. Together, yet barely connected, the two of them moved across the floor. Drops of rain shimmered on the delicate leaves and flowers of the Harlequin’s lace collar. The drops spread out and turned warm under Sally’s hand. Sally’s joy at seeing Michèle alive and unhurt overwhelmed yet disturbed her. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. She was bereft, in danger, alone. And yet to be here dancing with Michèle, breathing the music like air, to be Antonia, dancing in this Venetian ballroom, was a moment of magical suspension.
They danced without speaking until the music ended. When Michèle had bowed an elaborate bow, almost a parody of courtliness, he said, “They called and told me you were here.”
He had spoken in English, so he didn’t think she was Antonia after all. She wondered, bleakly, if she had actually fooled anybody — except herself. “Who called?”
“My friends who met you at the Fenice.”
“What did they say?”
Michèle smiled. “They said Antonia was here, but she seemed very quiet and sad. They urged me to come dance with her and cheer her up.”
So she had pulled it off. She had been Antonia. “What did you think?”
“Why, of course, I thought Antonia had come back to me,” he said in a mocking tone.
The music began again. Michèle kissed Sally’s knuckles. “We must go,” he said.
She followed him through the crowd and at the door took a last look at the dancers under the cupid-crowded sky. She wanted to stay, to be the one Michèle had hoped to find here. She turned away, and let him lead her down the marble staircase.
“I was sure you had been abducted,” said Michèle as they redeemed his coat and her shawl and umbrella. “I had to go out unexpectedly, and when I returned, both you and Sandro, the doorman, had disappeared. I was frantic, and became even more so when I found Sandro in a storeroom, bound and gagged. He said he had been attacked by your friend Tom, who was dressed in a Pierrot costume.”
“Tom?”
“The Pierrot gave Tom’s name. Do you think Tom is capable of that sort of violence?”
Sally wondered. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “But I saw the Pierrot in your dining room, and I don’t think it was Tom. He was too— I don’t know— too quick.”
Michèle took the red shawl and wrapped it snugly around Sally’s shoulders, the way he must have done with Antonia. They were ready to leave. Sally looked with foreboding at the massive front door. “The Medusa came back,” she said.
Once she had started, the story tumbled out— leaving her room at the hotel, hiding in the boat, being saved at the Fenice by the woman in white. Michèle’s eyes, behind the black Harlequin mask, were attentive. When she finished, he said, “He followed you even though you were wearing Antonia’s costume. That’s very strange.”
“Yes. I had the mask on and everything.”
After a moment of thoughtfulness, Michèle gave her a hearty clap on the back. “We shall defy the Medusa, and walk home together with stout hearts,” he said. “No monster would dare attack the two of us.”
Sally wanted to tell him it wasn’t a joke, but at the same time she felt cheered by his mock courage. She took his arm, and they emerged into the rainy night.
There was no sign of the Medusa. As they walked, Michèle said, “I have a question to ask you.”
“What?”
“If you weren’t abducted, why did you leave?”
Why had she left? At first, Sally could barely remember. She had left because she thought Michèle had stolen Brian’s letters. She had heard him quoting one of them to Jean-Pierre. Then the Pierrot had terrified her. For now, she limited herself to saying, “I was scared when I saw the Pierrot. He acted terrified of me. I couldn’t find you. I wanted to get out.”
“How could anyone blame you?” Michèle said. “And yet, Sally, I must tell you that you were not wise. I thought you had been kidnapped, and notified the police. The police, instead of taking my view, became suspicious that you had run away out of guilt— possibly with the help of the Pierrot who attacked Sandro. That was bad enough. Now, things are worse. I heard only a short while ago that they have received a letter accusing you of Brian’s murder.”
FRANCINE WAITS
Seething with frustration, Francine lit another cigarette. On the murmuring black-and-white screen, a fashionably dressed man and woman spoke intently to one another. The man gave the woman a bouquet of roses, and the woman’s eyes brimmed with tears.
The young man in the blue smock shifted in his chair, his eyes focused on the television set. The older man with the bandaged head snored on the sofa. Francine was tempted to get up and run out of the room and up the stairs, but she restrained herself. On the screen, the woman flung the bouquet down and turned her back on the man.
Seeing Michèle Zanon had become a project infinitely more difficult than Francine had anticipated. First, he was out. Second, he was out. Third, he had returned, but was about to go out. On that occasion, she had actually managed to see him briefly as he rushed through the ground-floor room in his Harlequin costume, an overcoat thrown over his shoulders. He had greeted her pleasantly, but seemed distracted.
“I heard you were asking for me,” he said. “Certainly we can talk, but at the moment—”
“It is important.”
“Yes, of course.” He glanced around. “Could you wait here? You’ll be warm
and dry at least, and Sandro and his son will entertain you. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Francine had wondered why she couldn’t wait upstairs, which would have suited her intentions perfectly, and she cursed herself for not asking. As it was, she had now spent a considerable part of the evening in the doorkeeper’s lounge, watching Italian television. Far from entertaining her, neither of her companions spoke either English or French. She couldn’t have sworn they spoke anything, judging from the extremely few words they had exchanged.
Francine thought of Ursula and gritted her teeth. Ursula would never believe Michèle had been out. She would be convinced that Francine and Michèle had spent the evening in passionate embraces, and there would be another tiresome scene. Perhaps it was time for Francine’s association with Ursula to end. Francine wondered if she could get her things out of Ursula’s apartment without having to see her.
On the screen, the woman was sitting on a balcony overlooking the sea. She looked melancholy. Francine detested the woman, just as she detested this room and the two men in it, and the foul-tasting cigarette she was smoking. If only the young man would go to sleep, as his father so noisily had, Francine could slip out the door and up the stairs. She glanced at the young man again. He was riveted to this idiotic program and obviously in no danger of nodding off.
Francine was fed up. She ground out her cigarette and stood. Then she heard the outside door open.
The young doorman left the lounge swiftly, and the older one groaned and sat up, putting his hand to his head. Francine moved to the door and peered out. Michèle had come in, and with him was the señorita— Sally. Sally was looking around in an apprehensive way. Francine didn’t want to meet Sally, especially now, and she hoped Michèle wouldn’t call her to join them.
He didn’t. He had a short conversation with the doorman, and then he and Sally started up the stairs. The young man reentered the lounge and nodded at Francine. He pointed upward and said, “Momento. Okay, Signorina?”
Fine. Francine would have preferred a different scenario, but she would carry on. On the screen, the man and woman were locked in an embrace. Francine watched as she waited for the summons to ascend.
ROLF IN HIDING
Rolf crouched at the top of the staircase, away from the faint illumination from the floor below. He heard Count Zanon’s voice. When another, fainter, voice made a soft reply, his stomach lurched. Sally. It was Sally, at last.
He had been hiding in the palazzo for what seemed like hours. The dizzying charge he had felt from getting inside, being able to wander around stealthily like a menacing and silent animal, had worn off now. Pulse racing, he had moved from room to room— listening, smelling, exploring. At first, the place had seemed empty. The phone rang, and nobody answered. After a while, though, he heard somebody moving around and he had located a woman, the housekeeper, he presumed, in the kitchen, where she was taking off her raincoat and shaking out an umbrella. He heard her sigh as she sat down at the kitchen table. She had never glanced toward the pantry doorway where Rolf, in his devil mask, stood motionless, indistinguishable from the shadows. Rolf had left her still unaware and continued exploring. He had found the salon, with its paintings and silk-covered furniture and wall of bull’s-eye glass, and from there he moved to the dining room, where he had seen Sally earlier. Everything was quiet. He drifted on through the half-light cast by small lamps in corners.
He did find Sally’s room. He hadn’t known for sure it was hers until he looked in the closet and spotted, on a hanger, her awful sweater with the geese flying in front of the moon. Rolf ran his hands over the sweater, and his breath came faster. He took handfuls of it and squeezed hard.
Now he knew where to find her when she came back, when the time was right. He had been moving down the hall again when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
That was the time Count Zanon had returned alone. Luckily, Rolf had already located a secondary back staircase. He concealed himself and heard Michèle calling, “Maria!”
The count was back, but where was Sally? Rolf had waited on the staircase, heard the count talking with Maria, heard the telephone ring again. This time Michèle answered, and after that it rang at least once more. Rolf couldn’t understand what Michèle was saying, but he thought he heard consternation in Michèle’s voice.
Rolf waited. Not too long afterward Michèle left again, and Rolf began to wonder if Sally had gone to stay somewhere else. Then he reminded himself that her clothes and suitcase were still in the bedroom and told himself to be patient.
He had been patient, and at last she’d arrived. Rolf couldn’t see her, but he heard her footsteps. Now it wouldn’t be long at all.
TWO NUNS
The hem of the nun’s habit was heavy with rainwater, and when Tom walked it dragged against his pants legs. He couldn’t believe he had left brandy and a roaring fire for this. He hadn’t had to do it. He had been more than kind to Ursula already. But if he’d said no, he knew Ursula would come by herself. Since, for his own reasons, he wanted to visit the palazzo, it had seemed easier to go along with her plan.
Ursula was setting quite a pace. She was better able to handle these damn skirts. Every time she got several steps ahead, she turned around to see where Tom was, as if she were afraid he’d duck into an alley and take off, which maybe he should.
She turned now, her wimple fluttering, her whorish mask gleaming at him through the rain. Tom hoped he didn’t look as ridiculous as she did, but he knew the hope was vain, since his costume was the twin of hers. What in hell would Count Zanon think of him, showing up at this time of night in this garb? Tom’s head throbbed and he regretted, not for the first time, the brandy that had gotten him into this.
Ursula, her spirits apparently restored, had presented the idea as a bit of a lark. Tom had protested, he was sure he had. “Why do I have to be a nun?” he remembered asking.
“It’s the only costume I have that will fit you. You can wear it over your clothes,” Ursula wheedled. “A friend and I wore them last year. It’s funny. A funny joke.”
Hilarious. Tom stumbled as the wet skirts tangled with his legs. He thought of Stefan. If Stefan ever heard about his father dressing up as a nun, Tom would die. The only saving grace was this: zipped up in Tom’s jacket, below the nun’s habit, was his beautiful notebook. Every time its corner dug into his rib cage, he was reminded of the work he intended to undertake.
The closer they got to the palazzo, the deeper was Tom’s disquiet. He wondered if the count would be angry at their disturbing his romantic interlude with Francine— if that really was what was going on. When Tom had broached this subject before they left Ursula’s, she shrugged airily and said, “He’ll be delighted to see us. Michèle loves to laugh and play. He loves Carnival. He dresses as Harlequin and plays jokes. He gets bored if things are slow.”
She could be right, but in that case, why was she insisting that Tom ask to see the count, while she herself remained incognito? This part of the plan worried Tom most, but Ursula had steamrolled his objections: “We are going to see what is happening and to make a surprise. I will be the surprise. It will be funny. You’ll see.”
Only an urgent need to talk with Francine and Count Zanon would have made Tom consent. Ursula was beckoning. He picked up his skirts so he could walk faster.
A WATCHER AT THE ARCHWAY
Jean-Pierre stood at the edge of the Grand Canal, watching the gate of the Zanon palazzo through a stone archway. He saw two nuns approach the gate, then realized they weren’t nuns at all, but revelers in nuns’ costumes, wearing lascivious-looking masks. Jean-Pierre’s lips stretched in a thin smile. Perhaps Count Zanon was giving a party. Jean-Pierre had seen him return not long before, dressed as Harlequin, accompanied by Sally in the señorita costume. In the few moments he could see them, Jean-Pierre had leaned forward avidly, wishing he could touch them.
Jean-Pierre barely felt the rain, barely felt the hard, damp stone under his gloved hand. Behi
nd him, the canal glimmered, lights from the palazzos reflected in the dark water. Occasionally, a vaporetto droned by. For the most part, the only sounds were of wind and water. Slime is the agony of water. Desire is defined as trouble. Jean-Pierre didn’t feel tired, or cold, or hungry. He felt light, unmoored, as if he might float away.
To anchor himself, he fastened on memory. He wanted to think about Brian, but Brian’s face kept remolding itself, becoming first Michèle Zanon’s, then Sally’s, then Michèle’s again. Then it shimmered and became the face of Jean-Pierre’s beloved dog, Hercule, killed by an automobile when Jean-Pierre was a child. Jean-Pierre stood in the window of the country house, looking at Hercule’s fresh grave in the sunny garden below. The shutters were open, and bees tumbled in the trumpetvine flowers overhanging the window. Jean-Pierre looked down on the green tops of trees, tossing hypnotically in the light wind. He teetered forward and back, forward and back, and then there was a rushing sound, and his mother caught him around the waist and, crying his name in fear and anguish, pulled him from the ledge.
If Jean-Pierre had succeeded, he and Hercule could have rested in the garden together. Jean-Pierre would not have had to learn more about death. He leaned in the archway and watched the gate.
A TALK WITH MICHÈLE
Sally stood in the doorway of Antonia’s room. She was cold. Somebody had written to the police accusing her of involvement in Brian’s murder. How could she defend herself? She had discovered Brian’s body and then left the scene. She had disguised herself and gone to Torcello hours after the murder. And she had run away tonight after being told to stay at the palazzo. She looked guilty. She felt guilty, too, sick and heavy with guilt for everything wrong she’d ever done.
The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries Page 61