The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  She always slept quickly, easily, without remembered dreams. He liked to kiss her eyelids, her soft open lips, her throat hollow, then lie back in one of her outstretched arms, for a while observing her closed eyes, the curve of her nose, the smiling lips. Then on his back, he would stare into the rays of moonlight, knowing that he was in love and unafraid (except of death) and eager to go on and on. And then, at last, he would slowly sink into sleep, his body satisfied and his mind at peace. But with morning, and the sounds of Venice drifting up from below, he would gradually become conscious of his real position, of the hostile universe beyond this bed and this island, and his mind would become apprehensive and uneasy, and his body tense.

  It had been that way last night, before sleeping, and this morning, upon awakening.

  The gift of two weeks had not been a gift, after all, but a loan, time borrowed, hope borrowed, and now it was the fourteenth and final day, and the time could not be extended and the hope must be forfeited.

  He listened. She was no longer showering. He swung off the bed, dropped his cold cigarette butt into a tray, hitched up his pajama bottoms, and went barefoot to the bottle of Fuiggi water on the table. He poured a glassful. The water felt tepid, but welcome on his dry lips and inside his parched mouth.

  In the open doorway to the bathroom, he paused to consider Lisa and enjoy her. She was wearing only a thin lace brassiere and brief pink panties, and she was a perfectly symmetrical picture of femininity, as she leaned against the washbasin, head close to the mirror, concentrating on darkening her eyebrows with an eyebrow pencil.

  Without looking at him, she said, “You’re up, darling. I thought you’d fallen asleep again.”

  “I’ve been up all the time,” he said, entering the bathroom.

  He came behind her and gently kissed the back of her neck, so that involuntarily, she squeezed her neck muscles and contracted her shoulders, and she gradually exhaled. She studied him in the mirror. “I love you, darling.”

  He stroked one bare shoulder. “I love you more, Lisa.”

  “I bet.” She held the eyebrow pencil poised before her brow. “What would you like to do today?”

  She knew what day it was then, he thought, and she’d been thinking about it. “Whatever you’d like to do. Let’s start with breakfast. Maybe in the Piazza.”

  “Good.” She resumed with her makeup.

  He drew the soggy shower curtain across the tub, untied his pajama trousers and let them drop. With one foot, he flipped them into the air, caught them, and hung them over his pajama top on the bathroom hook.

  He realized that she had stopped again and was watching him in the mirror. He was tempted to suck in his stomach, but he did not bother.

  “You’re handsome,” she said, seriously.

  “You’re beautiful,” he replied, “if somewhat overdressed.”

  “Silly.”

  Gingerly, he climbed into the wet bathtub, and behind the curtain he took up the hand shower and started the spray. It was warm, and he began adjusting it. He wanted colder water to dash on futile dreams.

  He heard her: “Matt, what were you doing in there this past hour?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you.”

  “Oh, sure. If you were, you wouldn’t let me leave Venice alone.”

  There it was, the beginning of the litany to a special death in Venice. “Honey, to quote myself, if this is meant to be, if we are meant to be, it’ll all work out, some way, somehow, in due time.” Then, to prevent any more of this, he turned up the shower spray full blast.

  Twenty minutes later, shaved, refreshed, dressed in a seersucker sport jacket, open-collar sport shirt, and gray linen slacks, he found her at the window, the metal shutters open. She was moodily staring out at the campanile and dome that crowned the island of San Giorgio Maggiore—Boschini’s jewel set in crystal—across the shimmering lagoon.

  “How can anyone leave this?” she said quietly, almost to herself.

  He was determined to divert her mood. “It doesn’t have a chance against you.” He turned her around and held her off. She was wearing a pale blue wool-jersey chemise. Sleeveless and low-necked, it revealed her shoulders and unadorned throat.

  “What a lovely dress. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

  “I was saving it for an occasion. I guess this is an occasion. The color matches my mood.” Then, seeing his. gravity, she slipped her arm into his and forced a smile. “Sorry, forgive the vapors, Matt. I’m no good before breakfast. Take me to the pigeons.”

  Hastily, they left the room, went downstairs in step, and passed through the busy lobby corridor, cordially waving to the head concierge, who was an ally of all lovers of love and Venice.

  Emerging into the sunlight of the Riva degli Schiavoni, they both turned away from the sudden glare to grope for their sunglasses. Lisa looked up at the red front of the Hotel Danieli, at the crimson awnings over the miniature white balconies, and she said, “It was a palace once, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Named after Doge Dandalo. He helped supply the Fourth Crusade with men.”

  “I wish he’d help my crusade with one man.” Turning her back to the hotel and with determined practicality, she said, “Don’t let me forget my suitcase, Matt.”

  “The concierge is sending it over to the Gritti by porter.”

  “Oh. Then this is it. Okay. Let’s eat.”

  They traversed the bridge, hearing the noon cannon go off behind the Doge’s Palace, and strolled along the waterfront promenade, brushing against a curling breeze. Circling between the two granite columns of the Piazzetta, pushing through dense crowds, they attained the shaded area between the San Marco arcade and the towering Campanile, and without pausing, quite naturally, they headed for the Café Florian.

  Seated at their outdoor table, they picked at their light breakfasts in silence. When this had happened two days ago, Lisa had wondered how they, unlike most other couples, could spend such protracted periods without conversation. Brennan had meant to say to her then, “Well, perhaps because we have less to talk about than other people, Lisa. We have only the past and the present. We don’t have the future.” He had not said it, because it had an overly sentimental ring to his ear, and besides, it simply was not his style. And he did not say it now, whether she wondered about their silence or not.

  But after the late breakfast, and their first good cigarettes, they were once more in a mood to talk. He had forgotten her schedule of activity in Paris, and he asked her about that. Her New York fashion associates from the House of Fernald would be arriving at the Plaza-Athénée tomorrow, and she would be there to meet and confer with them. On Monday the new fall showings of the French couturiers would begin, with their accompanying cocktail parties, and she would be on the merry-go-round for two weeks. A month ago, this promise of excitement had filled her every waking hour. Now the promise was an empty one, and the prospect of being alone in New York was hateful. What would Matt do after she left?

  He did not dare tell her the truth, since he foresaw that his relapse into the old pit of despair would be deeper. He could not allow her to feel that their encounter had been futile. And so he acted out the role of the inspired swain. He would, he told her, be more ambitious, more determined about conquering those new languages and pursuing the position with the import-export firm in Genoa. And simultaneously, motivated by her, he would make another effort to clear his name. He would, he promised, vigorously renew his search for Nikolai Rostov and the evidence that would be proof of his loyalty. If he succeeded—well, Lisa would hear from him.

  It had rung false, his playlet, and he knew it and knew that she knew it, but both submitted to acceptance of the pretense of a future together. Seeking safer ground, he changed the subject.

  “What time does the Simplon Orient leave tonight?” he asked.

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “Well, that means you’d better start for the depot about seven-thirty. A
re you packed?”

  “I haven’t seen my room in days. I’m sure it’s a complete mess.”

  “Then you’ll need a couple of hours for that.” He consulted his wristwatch. “It’s two-fifteen. I should get you back to the Gritti by five-fifteen, no later. Well, Lisa, we have three hours. My house is your house, as the Spaniards put it. What do you say?”

  “Not Venice,” she said. “Not today.” For several moments, she was lost in thought. At last, she considered him with a wistful half-smile, which she had unconsciously borrowed from him, and which replaced the buoyancy of her former smile. “Maybe the beach, Matt. Would you like that? Just sun and air and water.”

  “Perfect. Let’s go.”

  They started back to the Danieli to take the hotel motoscafo to the Excelsior Palace across the way, but then Lisa decided that it would be more fun to travel—as she liked to describe it—“peasant.” They continued on to the San Zaccaria station, and when the vaporetto arrived, they stepped aboard and located a free wooden bench next to the railing.

  The water bus chugged and wallowed across the lagoon, and after two stops the ancient boat overflowed with camera-laden tourists and chattering Italians with their rambunctious, squalling offspring. A half hour later, they reached the bobbing station behind the Casino, and with the dozens of others, they disembarked on the island of the Lido. Hand in hand they climbed from the dock to the street, and breathless, they strode along the Lungomare Marconi, halting only once under the cool arcade so that Lisa could admire silk prints in the show window of the Emilio Pucci dress shop.

  Presently, inside the Excelsior Palace Hotel, where the concierges and management personnel on either side greeted Signor Brennan as one of them, they hastened through the immense lobby and out onto the open-air terrace. Seen like this from above, the rows of colorful tented cabanas stretched out like the wings of a giant bird that had settled over the yellow sand. Before them, the blue-green expanse of the Adriatic lay like a luxurious carpet, leading to mysterious and exotic lands that hid beyond the indelible border of the distant horizon.

  They descended the broad hotel staircase to the beach, and strolled along the narrow walk behind the cabanas, ignoring the diners still at lunch in the dim recesses of the outdoor beach restaurant. They hastened past plump Italian girls in ruffled bikinis, and elderly Italian businessmen in jock swim trunks. Then, at the rear of Cabana 67, they stepped off into the sand and trudged to the front of their tent. While Lisa went inside to change, Brennan ordered towels and two Camparis. After that, he waited in the sand, his drawn face lifted to the sun, absorbing its heat, wishing the solar disk could drain him of the accumulated poison of so many years, wishing it could give him youth and a fresh start.

  When Lisa emerged, and he saw her, his heart ached. In her two-piece, low-backed navy blue swimsuit, the bra held in place by thin bands around her neck and ribs, the side-slit bottoms buttoned up each hip, she was tall and as graceful as a goddess. But no, not a goddess, he thought, watching the feline movements of her muscles beneath the smooth flesh, as she removed sunglasses, watch, and beach sandals. The silky texture of her skin, he imagined, was similar to that of Phryne of Thespiae, the courtesan so admired by all Athenians and at last possessed by Praxiteles. Like Phryne, his Lisa of Venice was essentially modest, both in her public appearances and in private lovemaking (for, like Phryne, his Lisa would make love only in darkness). But then, just as Phryne had appeared annually at the Eleusinian festival, stripping off her robes in the portico of the temple to walk in nudity to the sea and pay homage to the gods, his Lisa now walked in nudity (at least in his eyes) to the sea to celebrate the last of their summer’s love.

  He wanted her for eternity, and under the spell of love he was tempted to cry out for her not to leave, to forsake all others and remain with him in Venice forever, and he knew that she would happily do so, just as he knew that in the end, in the years ahead, it would be ruinous to their love.

  “See you in the water, Matt,” she called, her features again vivacious and alive.

  “See you in a minute,” he replied.

  Briefly, he watched her lope through the sand. With a sigh, he turned away, entering the darkness of the cabana, again alone, the spell broken. He had survived his weakness but was left with only regret.

  After that, it was, at least for the time that they were in the mild sea, great fun. He waded far out before the water reached his armpits. He swam in strong overhand strokes to meet her, and they gamboled in the water, racing each other to the jetty, then wrestling, then kissing beneath the sea. They trapped a floating striped ball, and played catch, and then they swam again.

  Finally, exhausted, they returned to the cabana and slumped in their beach chairs, drying in the blaze of sun, as they sipped their Camparis.

  It was Lisa who sat up first. “Matt, how much time do we have left?”

  He found his watch in a shoe. “Better than an hour.”

  “Let’s go to San Lazzaro. That’s what I’d most like to remember.”

  They dressed hurriedly, and within fifteen minutes, they had crossed through the underground corridors of the hotel, come out on the rear wharf, and hired a private motorboat to take them to his island.

  They sat at the back of the low-slung motorboat so that they could enjoy the spray and the wind. As the boat’s sharp prow cut through the waters of the lagoon, Lisa lay back in Brennan’s arm, nestled close to him, and she pressed even closer when the waves of a passing craft made their own craft bounce and roll.

  When they had covered about a third of the distance from the Lido to Venice, Brennan peered ahead and was able to define the. tiny island of San Lazzaro, his island, his special refuge, but then not his alone. Another Western expatriate, driven from his homeland by scandal just as Brennan had been driven, had discovered the virtues of San Lazzaro a century and a half before him. “A small island situated in the midst of a tranquil lake,” Lord Byron had noted, and, from Venice, had written to his friend Moore, “In the mornings I go over in my gondola to hobble Armenian with the friars of the Convent of St. Lazarus.”

  Actually, it was Lord Byron who had guided Brennan to this island hideout. Like so many men who were thinkers, not doers, Brennan had always been fascinated by literate men of action, intellectuals like himself who also possessed the traits of daring and boldness, and had preferred personal adventure to armchair adventure.

  Byron’s reckless activities had always enchanted Brennan, just as the lives of Sir Richard Burton (the subject of one of his own favorite college term papers), Francois Villon, and Giacomo Casanova had always intrigued him. In fact, it had been their mutual interest in the intellectual and creator as man of action that had drawn Brennan and Nikolai Rostov into an even closer friendship at the Zurich Parley.

  Rostov had been Brennan’s counterpart on the staff of the Russian delegation. Both had been students of peace, experts on disarmament, and both had fought (Rostov especially well, since his training had included intensive courses on the Far East) to convince the Communist delegates from the People’s Republic of China that their nation must be prepared to junk its hard-earned nuclear arsenal totally if it was to enjoy membership in a peaceful world community of nations.

  During many of their evenings together, as if to escape the grim and frustrating afternoon diplomatic discussions about pacifism, Brennan and Rostov had sat for hours in the Cabaret Voltaire or the Bierrestaurant Kropf evaluating the madcap and daredevil lives of their historical favorites. In fact, Rostov’s interest in, if not his knowledge of, Lord Byron and Sir Richard Burton was greater than Brennan’s, for Rostov’s avocation was collecting rare books and manuscripts, and his collection on Burton, an Orientalist like himself, was substantial. It had unsettled Brennan, upon his first visit to the San Lazzaro library, to find a rare set of Sir Richard Burton’s books—some of them erotic volumes, all of them autographed by Burton—the collection the gift of a millionaire Egyptian. It had unsettled Brennan because he ha
d arrived on this isolated Armenian isle as a result, he then suspected, of Rostov’s treachery (or, at the very least, Rostov’s inhuman desertion of their friendship). And the first hosts on this island had been the shades of Byron and Burton, the very ghosts who had introduced Brennan to Rostov in a city on the neutral island of Switzerland.

  Resenting the intrusion of Rostov upon the memory of his island, and on this day, Brennan pushed the Russian from his mind and devoted himself to San Lazzaro, unsullied and his own. Watching the small campanile, the monastery, the waterfront garden loom in his vision, he held Lisa close and he tried to remember.

  After the Congressional hearing, the divorce, the joblessness, the disgrace, the despair of righteous wrath, he had fled to Europe. He had wandered without purpose, until in Venice, feeling less oppressed than anywhere else, he had stayed on, meaning to remain only three weeks or three months, yet somehow remaining three years. Perusing the history of the quaint city, he had had his reunion with Lord Byron, and unexpectedly had learned of the poet’s association with San Lazzaro. And so, for want of anything better to do, Brennan had paid a visit to the Armenian island.

  For him, it had been love at first sight. The groves of olive trees and rows of cypresses, the quiet and contentment of the out-of-the-way haven, had enchanted him and permanently won his troubled mind and heart. Above all, his appreciation of the unobtrusive, kindly, yet urbane and worldly Mechitar fathers and the lay brothers had been reciprocated. They welcomed his intellect and understood his agony. Based on mutual esteem, their fraternity became a lasting one.