Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  The fact that one of the killers was still at the scene of the crime when the police arrived, although they’d been summoned by the terrorists themselves, was generally considered very puzzling. The only explanation the police could come up with was that he must have gone back for something incriminating that he’d left there. After all, that same evening they managed to leave the gun behind. The description of this man was comfortingly vague, and referred to his probable Veneto origins. I wished I could boast about my linguistic accomplishment to someone.

  The communiqué for Osgood’s death, left the next day in a bin near St. Mark’s Square, contained more or less the same concepts as the Busetto communiqué in a more or less equally confused fashion, ending with the words, “Thieves and parasites, beware!” A further message had been phoned to the Gazzettino, proclaiming “Onore al Compagno Morto,” and promising that Gerosa’s death would be avenged.

  So these surreal days went by. I progressed from my mattress to the armchair, from bowls of müesli to pasta dishes, from occasional scatty exchanges to proper conversations. Alvise was at home much of the time: an Italian academic’s timetable was not exactly backbreaking, I gathered. He spent hours reading on a kitchen chair, occasionally asking me words, which were never the Scottish dialect grunts I feared; hours were spent reading through theses, and he would break off to swear and read aloud the worst bits of jargon (“Thus we can establish the main semantic isotopies of the macro-text”), adding his comments on the colleague who was behind each particular piece of verbal lunacy. I got to know most of the professori in the department, together with their unofficial titles of windbag, buffoon, pompous idiot, cretin.… Both he and Chiara were scrupulously careful in not bugging the invalid with too many policemanlike questions, Alvise merely supplying me with newspapers, and discussing the articles with me if I felt like it. He pointed out a reference in La Nuova to the Englishman who’d had an altercation with Busetto, and with whom the police would like a word, but made no further comment. Neither did I.

  I don’t think I’d read papers so thoroughly since my trial, and this time I could do it without the anger—just the worries. And even the worries began to die down—at least the tom-tom in my temples did—as I became more and more domesticated. I did the washing-up and some cleaning and, by the end of my convalescent period, even helped to change nappies (well, I handed Alvise cotton wool while he did the dirty work). I could feel myself winding down.

  In my more meditative moments I naturally thought of Lucy and what had happened between us. Another triumph for Phippsian tact and gentleness in personal relations there. Well, in addition to silliness and irresponsibility, prison had obviously added excessive touchiness to my list of qualities. I’d just have to accept that that was the way I was. Lucy and the postprison version of Martin Phipps were not destined to make it together, and to try to pretend otherwise would be, well, silly and irresponsible—and unfair on her.

  It was a pity this left me still feeling as if my insides had been kicked out.

  On the Thursday evening we had supper together, and I was dressed for the first time; I had actually been intending to go out for my first walk that afternoon, but had then stayed in to baby-sit while Chiara did some shopping. Federica was sitting in her high chair, with Chiara alternating mouthfuls of pappa for her and mouthfuls of pasta for herself. I announced that I would finally leave them the next day and Alvise said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Get out of the city,” I said.

  “And go home?” Chiara asked.

  “Well, I’ll have a few days’ holiday first,” I said. “Somewhere.”

  “So you’re just going to forget all about the paintings,” Alvise said.

  “Isn’t that what you said I should do?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. But I didn’t think you’d take my advice.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not used to people taking my advice. And then you seemed to have some kind of special—special mission with regard to these paintings. Or am I wrong?”

  “Well, I like them a lot.”

  “But why must it be you to discover them? Yes, I know, you don’t want to get other people into trouble, like Francesca and Toni. Yes, Francesca is simpatica but I don’t know if her brother is worth so much trouble. Poor little confused Toni, remember, was able to fool everyone around him for years with his innocent looks. And now he wants those paintings for money, nothing else. No?”

  “Yes, well, I never said I was particularly brimming over with sympathy for Toni.”

  “So why this refusal to have anything to do with the police?”

  I glanced across at Chiara and she caught my glance and turned straight to Federica. What had I been expecting? Instant understanding from a fellow ex-con? I said, “I’ve been to prison too.”

  Chiara looked up again. Alvise said, “Ah.” Then, after a pause: “Sorry.”

  “So was I.”

  “How long?” Chiara asked.

  “Six months,” I said. “Nothing compared with you. Oh, and I was guilty too.”

  “Yes. That makes a difference,” she said.

  “Okay,” Alvise said, “we’ll say no more about the police and such things. Maybe you’re right; just go and have a holiday.”

  “Yes.”

  They both tactfully asked no further questions. Alvise changed the subject and told us about the recent inauguration of the academic year at the university, a ceremony the students had not been allowed to attend. “You should have seen how happy most of the professors were. I think they’d prefer it if the students weren’t allowed into the university at all.”

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  It wasn’t the first time that callers had come, but this didn’t mean I’d gotten blasé about it. The other times I’d retired to the bedroom, a quivering mass, while Alvise had gone downstairs to explain that he had a lot of work to do; fortunately the callers, not being terrorists or policemen, had accepted this and left. On each occasion I’d felt that even if I were to offer to change Federica for the rest of her nappy-wearing life, I wouldn’t really repay my debt as a guest. And yet they made no complaints. Now Chiara merely raised her eyebrows in good-humored resignation and Alvise moved toward the answer phone. I rose from the table, swallowing a last strand of spaghetti and opened the bedroom door. I heard Alvise ask in Italian, then in English, “Who?” I stopped in the doorway and looked around. He said, “Lucy who?”

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  He raised his shoulders questioningly toward me, one hand twisting his beard. I shrugged back and he said, “Come on up, first floor,” pressing the button that opened the front door.

  “You’re sure it’s her?” Chiara said calmly as she shoved another spoonful into Federica’s mouth.

  “Oh, dio,” said Alvise, looking suddenly worried. He didn’t open the door.

  We all looked at one another in a rather hopeless way, except for Federica, who just screamed for another mouthful. Then there was a timid knock.

  “Who is it?” Alvise called.

  “It’s me,” Lucy’s voice said.

  “That’s her,” I said.

  The door was opened and she looked in, a little puzzled. Her eyes lit on me and her face at once expressed relief.

  “Ciao,” she said to me, and then to Alvise, “Sorry about the time.”

  “Come in,” he said.

  Introductions were made, and further apologies given about disturbing the meal, and she refused anything to eat but accepted a glass of wine, and asked about Federica’s age, etc., and then she said, “Martin, I’ve been so worried.”

  “Well, I’m all right. I had the flu.” Now don’t be silly and irresponsible, I cautioned myself. Keep a sensible distance.

  “Ah.”

  “Possibly it was coming on when I left you, I don’t know.”

  “I see.”

  “So if I was exceptionally rude, put it down to that.” />
  “Nobody apologizes quite like you.”

  Alvise was looking puzzled. “When did you leave her?” Of course as far as he was aware, she had left us at the Bar al Teatro that evening.

  “We met the night I came here.”

  “We met?” Lucy said. Her voice was dry, ironic.

  I gave one of my all-purpose shrugs. “How did you track me down?”

  “I didn’t know you were here. I just thought Alvise might know where you were, and I got his address from the university.”

  “But how did you know about me?” he asked. “We met that one time, but I didn’t tell you my name.”

  “I was told about you.” She looked at me. “You keep things secret, do you? Is that for the sake of my reputation or what?”

  “I couldn’t see any point in dragging you into things,” I said. “Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Back home.”

  “You decided that two seconds ago. Or possibly three.”

  “Yes, but better late than never.” I changed the subject. “Have you had trouble from the police?”

  “No, though Derek wanted us to change hotels.”

  “Well, of course, what would the parents say?” I said in a fair imitation of Mr. Robin’s voice.

  “Exactly. But then he realized he’d paid in advance.” She looked at Alvise and Chiara. “I’m sorry, this is all very rude. But you do understand I’ve been out of my mind with worry.”

  They both made not very convincing gestures of comprehension.

  She said to me, “You’ve seen the bit about you in the paper?”

  “No,” I said. “And that’s the story I’m going to stick to.”

  She shrugged. “Okay,” she said, “if that’s the way you’ve decided to play it. Well, look, there’s no need for us to inflict our bickering on Alvise and Chiara. I’m glad I found you still alive. Anyway you know where to find me if you change your mind.” She picked up her glass, and I noticed that for all her pose of cool self-possession her hand had a nervous—or perhaps angry—quiver as she took it. She finished the wine, said good-bye warmly to Alvise and Chiara, and left.

  “Mi no go capìo un casso,” said Alvise. “I haven’t understood bugger all.”

  “Gnanca mi,” said Chiara. “Me neither.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “It doesn’t really matter.” I wished it were true.

  * * *

  About half an hour later the phone rang.

  “Pronto,” said Alvise. “Ah, hello. You want to speak to Martin again, yes?”

  At that moment I was lying on the floor holding Federica above my head and saying something along the lines of “Wheeee, you’re an airplane.” I brought her to land on the carpet, and she at once squirmed over to an inviting pile of books, and I got up and took the receiver from Alvise’s hand.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” said Lucy’s voice. “Look, I’d like to speak to you but in private.”

  “What do you mean?” I heard the thunk in the background of the books going over, and Alvise’s stern, “No!”

  “Well, I thought it best not to say anything in front of the others,” she said. “I mean, I’m still not sure of Alvise’s role.” Her voice sounded strained, as if speaking to me was a duty.

  “What do you want to say?” I raised my voice over Federica’s wail of complaint.

  “Well, could I see you?”

  “What, now?”

  “If possible. I mean, you looked better to me.”

  “Well, yes I am, but what’s it about?”

  “I’ve got a line on Toni.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I can’t tell you over the phone. You come here. I’m in a bar on the Zattere, by the San Basegio boat stop.” That was about five minutes’ walk away.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll be along.”

  “And, um, I’ll sing our song.”

  “You’ll what?”

  She whistled a few bars of Celeste Aïda and then put the phone down. I was left extremely puzzled. Was she going to be in disguise?

  I explained to Alvise and Chiara—at the top of my voice, as Federica was explaining her point of view at the same time—and then I put my coat on and left the house.

  My first breath of fresh air. It wasn’t the most welcoming weather for a postconvalescent walk—cold and misty—but I was relieved to be outside again all the same. Just to stretch my legs I walked all the way around the church of San Nicolò. Behind the church there’s a house with a garden covered by netting where someone keeps monkeys, but very sensibly they were inside, no doubt watching television. I walked on down the fondamenta and crossed the first bridge. To the right was a piece of scrubby waste ground with a diagonal path across it: it was probably, I thought, a shortcut to the Zattere. I set out along the path, and as I walked felt lonelier and lonelier. I suddenly stopped and listened: there were footsteps behind me. There was, of course, no reason why there shouldn’t be, but nonetheless I speeded up, wishing I’d chosen a more frequented route. I glanced around but saw only mist.

  I reached a long wide alley with blocks of houses to my left and a high wall to the right. I hoped I was right and this alley was going to come out by the bridge near Campo San Basegio, and not turn out to be a dead end.

  No, I was lucky: the bridge appeared before me. I felt a sudden surge of relief. Then I saw there was a man standing at the top, looking into the canal. I had a second sudden surge—of fear. He turned and looked down at me: black beard, glasses, beret. I turned around myself: the footsteps were close and another man appeared from the mist—another dark-clothed, dark-bearded figure. He was holding a gun. I opened my mouth to shout, and suddenly heard the man jumping down from the bridge. I swiveled and saw something raised high above my head: and then it came down.

  18

  I SUPPOSE I must have blacked out for a second or two. The next thing I was aware of was pain—a pulsing supernova at the back of my head. Beyond this conflagration I had a dim realization that somebody was being lowered like a sack of potatoes into a boat. Quite probably the somebody was me, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Then the same somebody was being trussed with his arms behind his back and shoved facedown onto the damp boards. He made a vague groggy noise of protest and a wad of cloth was thrust into his mouth, and another cloth tied around his eyes. Then an oily tarpaulin was thrown over him. There: now he could go to sleep.

  Gradually, in this damp, gagged darkness, the somebody and I merged, and I became aware enough to feel sudden and total panic. This was me in the shit! I gave a thrash of a protest with my legs—and something hard whammed into the pit of my stomach.

  “Keep still, we’ll tell you when to move,” a voice said in Italian.

  I kept still. There was the noise of an engine, and the boat started to move.

  I have no idea how long the journey lasted: forty minutes, four hours, four days.… A long time, which I spent trying to work out ways not to go mad with fear. This meant hosing down all my powers of reasoning and logic, which at that moment were dancing in the flames of my brain’s supernova. I lay there and tried to deduce as many things as possible from the tactile and aural evidence I had about me.

  First, the speed of the boat—or what the throbbing of the engine and the juddering of the floor suggested was the speed—seemed to indicate that we were out in the lagoon, not in the canals of the city. This also made sense of the journey’s length. At the beginning of the journey I heard the occasional noise of other engines, and once or twice the mournful hoot of a fog siren, but after a while these died away completely.

  Second, I had been expertly tied and gagged, and apart from the bash on the head and that one kick in the stomach hadn’t been physically maltreated. They were quite enough, however. I desperately wanted to touch the back of my head—just to check that it was intact.

  Third, there were two people in the boat with me. They exchanged occ
asional words, mainly about the direction to go in and the need for care in the fog. Their accents were Veneto. I didn’t know whether I’d heard them before. Presumably they were the two who’d attacked me. One of them never completed a sentence, confining himself mainly to grunts and occasional imprecations. The other spoke rapidly, but not very clearly. I imagined the grunter as large and oxlike, and the other as squat but wiry. I was basing my guesses on the voices and on the dark glimpses I’d had of my attackers and was probably quite wrong, of course.

  I passed on to wider questions, like what was Lucy’s part in all this? She couldn’t be in with them, could she? Could she?

  And even as I asked myself the question I knew she couldn’t. I knew that I knew Lucy as I knew no one else in the world, and if there was one thing she wasn’t, that was treacherous. So presumably she had been coerced into making that phone call. Maybe that line about Celeste Aïda had been her desperate attempt to get a warning across to me: it had become our danger signal as well as our song—and I’d been too dumb to realize it. But why hadn’t she kept away from me in the first place? It was obvious no good could come from it.

  And then I realized that she must be their prisoner too and I felt instant crushing guilt at these peevish thoughts. Oh, hell. I had definitely not been good for her.

  The engine juddered to a halt. The tarpaulin was lifted and somebody hauled at my shoulders. I was pulled to a standing position while the boat rocked. The supernova became more frantic, more intense, and suddenly I knew my head was going to explode. Well, that would show them, I thought, and I crumpled gently at the knees. I was jerked to attention again. I heard a woman’s voice, and then hands grasped my side and lifted me bodily out of the boat. There must have been two people doing this. They might have been the woman and one of the two men from the boat; I couldn’t be sure. I was plonked down onto muddy ground and left to stand there; cold gunge seeped over the top of my shoes. I started to crumple again.