“I mean it’s a tragedy really, because I think the book would have been an enormous commercial and critical success. I’m sorry, Rebekah. Even if we write this off as an amazing coincidence, great minds thinking alike or something, it’s still very embarrassing. I’m sorry to tell you this at your wedding.” She let out a nervous laugh. “Anyway, everything’s really lovely.” I looked over at Sascha deep in conversation with the scowling Robbie Finch. I loved Sascha so much at that moment for being my sister and for showing up, it suddenly seemed like the only important thing. “I know you’ll be able to come up with something else for us.”
The room was spinning and then I saw Isaac and it stopped.
I kissed my editor on the cheek and thanked her for coming and then went to stand next to my husband.
He was talking to Ivy Vohl.
“I have good news and bad news,” Isaac said, taking my hand. “Ivy has forgiven me for not giving the Quille the Arthur Weeman exclusive.” He didn’t specify which one that was, the good news or the bad news.
“Money’s money,” Ivy said.
“What’s the . . . other news?” I asked. From the way Isaac was gripping my hand, I was starting to get worried.
“We’re going to have to postpone our trip to Italy.”
“It’s not a trip, it’s a honeymoon,” I said.
“Ivy needs me to work. There’s a big benefit in New York next week. I have to be the one to photograph it. We can go to the benefit and then leave for Italy right after. Postponing it one week won’t matter. Venice will always be there.”
I hated when people said things like “Venice will always be there.” They were the kind of people who never went to Venice or anywhere.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “I’ve heard it’s sinking.”
“Oh look, your first fight as man and wife and I’m to blame,” Ivy said.
“I’m sorry, honey. We’ll just have to put it off a week or two.”
“I’m not postponing my honeymoon,” I said.
26.
At 34, she embarks on what will forever be remembered as ‘the midnight ride of Rebekah Kettle
I highly recommend honeymooning alone. Being a bride is stressful and the last thing you need to have to worry about right afterward is being married.
First I invited Sascha to go with me, and I could tell she was considering it, but she said no. I met her at the Veselka, the plane tickets in my bag, but she couldn’t be convinced.
“Why not?” I asked. “Two sisters together.”
“I want to,” she said. “But I have to work. And I don’t even really know you.”
“What do you mean? We’re sisters.”
“We’re strangers,” she said, smiling warmly at me. I didn’t feel that we were strangers. “I don’t think we’re ready for a honeymoon. ”
“We’re friends.”
“I don’t go to Venice with my friends. I go to the movies with them, or a bar, or Chumley’s for a hamburger, or someplace like this.”
“Maybe we’ll go to the movies some time then,” I said.
“That sounds nice,” she said. “We’ll have dinner too, Dad’s treat.”
I laughed. It was possible that she was prettier than me, I couldn’t decide, but I was more successful. She hadn’t finished college.
“Maybe we will go to Italy together one day,” she said.
“It’s a date,” I said.
I kept staring at the Star of David she wore on a chain around her neck which was so different from anything I would ever wear. I was still secretly stalking her, looking for clues, even when we were face-to-face.
“My mother’s having dinner with Dad tonight,” she said. “I think they might get back together. They talked a lot at the wedding.”
I felt a pang of jealousy. I couldn’t help but wish that “Dad,” as she called him, had talked to my mother instead. As far as I was concerned, “Dad” belonged with the woman I called “Mom.”
When I’d left her on the corner of Ninth and Second, we’d hugged again.
I waited on line for a water taxi. “Grazie,” I said to the driver. “Gritti Palace per favore.”
“Ah, Americano,” he said, smiling at me. “Welcome to Venezia.” He put my luggage on the boat and helped me in, taking my delicate bridal hand in his enormous Italian one. I couldn’t help notice the difference between him and the average New York City taxi driver. He had beautiful black curly Italian hair and huge sandaled suntanned feet. “What brings you here to Venice?”
“I’m on my honeymoon,” I said.
“But you are alone.”
“I know,” I said happily. In six days I was going to meet Isaac in Capri, but until then I was going to enjoy every minute of my time alone.
We sped through brown water past tall wooden posts, each with its own Italian seagull perched on top.
“Do you want to drive the taxi?” he asked.
“No,” I laughed.
“Come on, it is happy.” He took my hand again and pulled me toward the steering wheel. Then he took his hands off the wheel and stepped away, and I had no choice but to grab it. I didn’t know how to tell him that I’d never even driven a car before and now I was steering his boat toward Venice. “I can show you the sights later.”
“I don’t think my husband would appreciate that,” I said. I had used that line for so many years, it was strange to actually be married and say it.
He took over the driving and we pulled into the tiny dock at the Gritti Palace. He wrote his name, Davide, on a scrap of paper with his phone number and handed it to me. “You call me?”
I shook my head. “I really am married,” I said, presenting my sparkling rings.
“But you are not very married. It is not yet a habit.”
“I’m married enough,” I said.
“Ciao, Signora,” he said, climbing back on his boat, and turned to wave at me as he drove off.
I tucked his number carefully into my wallet to keep always. I would put it on my refrigerator at home as a reminder that, married or not, there was always a man named Davide waiting for my call. My honeymoon was off to a fantastic start.
I checked into the Gritti. “I’m in the honeymoon suite,” I proudly told the woman behind the desk. It sounded so glamorous.
“Of course, congratulations, Signora,” she said. She looked behind me. “And where is your husband?” she asked.
“At home in New York,” I said.
The woman made a surprised frown.
“Of course, Signora. At what time is he arriving? I can place an order for a water taxi.”
“He’s not,” I said, cheerfully.
“Do you still require the honeymoon suite, Signora? It is the time of the film festival and we are very full, perhaps you would prefer a single room?”
“No, I’m on my honeymoon,” I assured her. “Could you have room service send up a bottle of Dom Pérignon?”
I handed her my credit card.
“Rebekah Kettle,” she said. “Are you Rebekah Kettle, the author? ”
“Yes,” I said.
“I am a big fan of your book La Sezione Solida. I read it in just two days.”
“Grazie,” I said. I didn’t know how to make any wisecracks in Italian.
“If you do not already have a reservation for dinner tonight, I’m afraid it will be impossible.”
“I have a reservation at Harry’s Bar,” I said. I started to walk away and then turned back. The lobby was filled with paparazzi taking pictures of everyone who walked in the door in case they were famous. There were celebrities and models everywhere and tourists gawking at them. The Gritti practically had its own red carpet. “Do you know,” I asked, “if Arthur Weeman is here in Venice?” Even though it didn’t matter, I just had to ask. It was a habit, as Davide would say. Not that I really cared, but if he was here, I knew he’d be at the Gritti.
“I don’t know, Signora,” the woman said, “but I do know he has just purchased
a home here in Venice, just across from us on the other side of the Canale.”
My heart started pounding in spite of itself. “Do you know which one?” I asked, trying to act normale.
She smiled. “Of course. It is the yellow house just across from this hotel.”
As soon as I got to my room I stepped out on the balcony and looked out at the Grande Canale and the magnificent yellow house on the other side. I laughed at myself, thinking how ironic it would be if I spent my entire time in Venice on the balcony trying to catch a glimpse of him.
Then a light came on in one of the windows.
“Don’t do this,” I said, forcing my eyes closed. I was on my honeymoon, and the last thing I was going to do was waste one minute of it on Arthur Weeman.
Although I was tempted, I did not call Davide and went out by myself that night. I had a romantic dinner alone at Harry’s Bar and wrote postcards to Isaac and Mrs. Williams.
Ciao Isaac!
I am really enjoying our honeymoon. I am getting many phone numbers from many Italian men. I’ll drink a bellini for you.
Love, Rebekah
Ciao Mrs. Williams!
I am really enjoying my honeymoon. I am getting many phone numbers from many Italian men. I’ll drink a bellini for you.
Love, Rebekah
I paid my check with wedding money and was just about to get up, when the waiter brought me a telephone. “You have a man on the line,” he said.
“Hello?” I asked, tentatively. It was Isaac.
“I miss you,” he said.
“I miss you too,” I said.
“Well, you won’t miss me for long,” he said. “I’m at JFK, about to get on the red-eye. I’ll see you in the morning. We have to consummate this thing.”
“We already did that,” I said.
“That was in New York. We have to consummate in Italy.”
“What about Ivy?” I asked, smiling.
“You know what I figured out about Ivy?” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“She’s kind of a bitch,” Isaac said.
When I left the restaurant, a little before midnight, it started to rain and I bought the same bright-green hooded plastic poncho that everyone was wearing, the Venice equivalent to the New York $3 umbrella. I started back to the hotel but then, I felt so festive in my Venice poncho, so a part of everything and at the same time so exotic and incognito, I thought I would stay out longer and take a romantic walk by myself.
As I walked toward San Marco Square, I became aware that a man was following me. The streets were crowded, so I couldn’t be sure, but when I stopped to look at leather books in a shop window, the man stopped suddenly a few feet away. I couldn’t see him too well in the dark, foggy night but from his green hooded poncho I figured he was a tourist too. When he saw me looking at him, he turned away and adjusted his hood.
I stopped again in front of a crowded caffè and caught another look at him. Under his hood, I saw he wore a baseball cap pulled down all the way to his glasses. I tried to read what his cap said in the moonlight, and finally made out that it was from the Strand bookstore. The last thing I wanted to see in Venice was a baseball cap from the Strand. He was probably one of those middle-aged men who hung around the ninety-eight-cent bins and wore shorts in winter.
But then I noticed a heavy gold watch glinting on his thin wrist, and the glasses. . . . I stopped dead in my cobblestone tracks. I could almost have sworn it was Arthur Weeman. That was crazy, I thought, starting to walk again. I was crazy. It was just some sleazy tourist and I started to get really scared. I picked up my pace, almost running in my red-and-white polka-dot honeymoon shoes.
When I turned a corner, I saw a bridge with a gondola just pulling up beneath it, and I ran down the stone stairs, without stopping to look behind me. A couple paid the gondolier and started up the stairs, and I stepped onto the gondola. The man might not have even seen me duck down the stairs, and if we could pull out quickly, I might actually have gotten rid of him. To be safe, I thought, I’d ask the gondolier to leave me off at another bridge or take me directly to my hotel.
“I’m sorry,” the gondolier said, “but it is now midnight and I am out of duty.” He stood defiantly on the stone dock and began to rock the gondola menacingly with his oar, as if he was trying to shake me off it like a fly.
“Please,” I said, “per favore, can you just take me to my . . .”
“Would you mind terribly if we shared the ride?” the man in the green hooded poncho asked, carefully descending the last three stairs and standing next to the gondolier. He put his hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus, you follow me all the way to Venice, and then you run away from me like a cat. You won’t be happy until you’ve killed me.”
The gondolier was so surprised he had lifted his oar from the boat and hadn’t noticed that I had started drifting away from the dock.
“It is Mr. Wee-a-man, no? It is an honor, Signore. I am a large fan of you,” the gondolier said.
“Uh, thank you, but the girl, could you get her back?” Arthur Weeman said, and the gondolier’s long oar quickly dragged me back in.
“Please, Mr. Wee-a-man, prego, it would be an honor. . . .” The gondolier put out his hand to help Arthur Weeman onto the velvet cushion facing me and then took his position looming high up at the stern, and as we pushed off in the inner canal, I pushed off into the air. I became more and more weightless, separating atom by atom, until I was the fog.
“I wanted to talk to you back at Harry’s Bar,” Arthur Weeman said, “but there were so many people there.”
I didn’t say anything because I was fog.
“I’m a big fan of yours,” he said.
It was such an absurd thing for him to say to me that I let out a lone American laugh, as if I was watching one of his movies at the Ziegfeld. He took off his hood and smiled. I wanted to reach very slowly and casually over to him and put both my palms on his cheeks.
“So,” he said. “Two writers alone in Venice, taking in the sights.”
I’m not ready for this, I thought. I cringed, realizing that, at my feet like a dead fish, was my manuscript in a plastic bag. I had lugged it all the way to Venice because I’d had the idea to scatter its pages in the canals, and I was waiting for the right moment, although I knew I probably wouldn’t do it at all.
“So, Rebekah Kettle. I, I guess I don’t know what to say. Is there anything you want to say to an awful writer like myself?”
“Don’t tell me you expect me to write the dialogue,” I said. “I think I’ve already written enough.”
“Fine, I’ll do the talking, but, I hope you won’t try to throw me in the water.” The way he said it was so funny that I laughed, picturing myself doing it. “First of all, I know everything about you. I had you followed by an agency man.”
“What’s an agency man?” For a moment I thought he had me followed by someone from William Morris or CAA.
“A private investigator.”
“Why?” I asked. It was the craziest thing I had ever heard. I wished I had dressed up a little more over the past few months, taken a little more time to put myself together. I cringed, thinking of my jeans and skeleton T-shirt, no makeup.
“Look, I thought you were a little girl, but, you know, I could get into big trouble with that, so I tried to find you, but when there was no ‘Thalia’ registered at the Gardener School, I started to get suspicious. Then when you gave me your address, the address of that old lady, I had the building put under surveillance. The agency man saw you walk by my house several times and got a close-up shot of one of your letters while you were mailing it. I even had your brain looked at by a top surgeon in New York. I know your novel, I know you work for your father, I know that dementia case you take care of, and that dick paparazzo you sold my soul to. Is he here? Because I’d really like to punch him in the nose.” He looked around and shook his fist in the air a little. “I cast an Academy Award-winning actor— Phil
ip Seymour Hoffman—in the role of him. I should have saved my money and cast a weasel or a small squirrel or something. ”
“No, he’s not here,” I said. “But I did marry him.” I showed him my ring.
“I need your binoculars to see that thing, no seriously, it’s very tasteful, you know, if you like small diamonds. Jesus, why didn’t you tell me? That’s terrible, I mean, how wonderful. I have to send a gift. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Seriously, you picked a great man,” he said sarcastically.
“And Mrs. Williams isn’t a dementia case.” I said it as convincingly as possible, but I remembered the last night I had spent with her just a few days before, when she’d begged me not to make her go to bed. “Please let me stay at the party, Mama,” she’d said. Maybe she was a dementia case but hadn’t I been a dementia case too? In a way, hadn’t I too begged to be at a party that didn’t exist? Being a fan was a kind of dementia, I realized. You did more than suspend your disbelief, you stabbed your disbelief to death with a machete and left it bleeding on the concrete. What on earth had I been thinking?
“Fine, she’s completely lucid,” he said, and I laughed out loud in spite of myself.
We entered a narrow canal and another gondola grazed us as it passed. Arthur turned away and put his hood back up.
My poncho was making a rustling sound, and I realized I was shaking with a kind of excitement from head to toe. Endorphins darted like fish in the water all around me.
The rain stopped and his glasses cleared. A plane flew overhead and yet it seemed to be flying under me.
Suddenly I wondered if I was being put on, or filmed, or if I might even be in jeopardy. Maybe he was going to kill me off. For all I knew, I could be riding in my own coffin with my manuscript at my feet. The scenery was so eerily beautiful. Looking up, I saw the crumbling houses, the magnificent windows and wrought-iron balconies, hundreds of years of peeling paint in colors that just didn’t exist, laundry hanging from clotheslines. Venice was as impossible as Hollywood.
In lit-up windows I saw two-hundred-year-old beams and Murano chandeliers. Arthur was talking but all I could hear was water splashing on wood and stone.
Little Stalker Page 32