The Disappearance of Grace

by Vincent Zandri

  I try speed-dialing her.

  I get the same automated “mailbox full” message that I got before. I set the phone down on the harvest table, beside a stack of white bowls and a tower of cereal boxes beside it.

  Taking a step back I take a quick survey of the room.

  In the light of the naked overhead bulb I see stacks of white plates on the small kitchenette counter. In between the stacks of plates are carefully positioned boxes of pasta and rice set beside towers made from can goods. I say “carefully positioned” because the boxes, cans and plates don’t seem to be randomly placed there. It’s like I was placing them in that position on purpose.

  It’s the same story for the harvest table.

  I’ve made myself a model city of boxes, bowels, plates, with knives and forks placed end-on-end to mimic roads or maybe rivers. The dream I was having while I was sleepwalking must have really been something. Now I am designing cities.

  I go to return the boxes and plates to the shelves and cupboards, but as soon as I place my hands on them, I decide to leave them be. My gut speaks to me, tells me to listen to my dreams. In this case, it insists that I see my dreams for real.

  * * *

  I check the time on my watch. The vision of my hand is growing blurry, distorted, which tells me it’s about to be lights out again for my eyes. Something I have to accept for now.

  My malady…

  I try the cell phone one more time and it’s the same story. Grace’s mailbox is full.

  When the phone on the wall explodes in a cacophony of electronic chimes, I think my heart is about to pop out of my chest. I make my way to the phone, yank it off the cradle.

  “Yes!” I bark. “Grace!”

  The receiver is filled with static or a bad reception. Maybe a little of both.

  “I. See.” says a voice. A man’s voice. “I. See.”

  My heart pumps.

  “Is Grace with you?”

  “I. See.”

  “Do you have Grace?”

  “I. See.” he repeats.

  “Listen to me, please. Do you have my fiancée?”

  I’m trying to hold back from screaming into the phone. Trying to stay calm and not anger the man. If he does have Grace, I don’t want to risk him causing her pain. I don’t want to give him an excuse to break off contact.

  “Please, please,” I beg. “Who are you? Have you taken my Grace? Please.”

  “I. See.” he says yet again.

  “Please!” I scream.

  And then the phone goes dead.

  Chapter 19

  I SET THE PHONE back onto the cradle and frantically check my mobile phone again. No calls. Once more I speed-dial Grace’s number. The automated message is the same. Mailbox full. Grace’s phone is missing or out of a charge or both.

  My body is beginning to tremble over the realization that Grace’s disappearance is for real. Did she walk out on me? I refuse to believe that she has. Was she taken somehow by that man in the long brown overcoat? My gut tells me it’s true. Was that him on the phone? Again, I can only believe it is.

  So what do I do now as my eyesight returns to a dull, fuzzy severe blur?

  Contact the police. Again.

  Chapter 20

  I PULL THE DETECTIVE’S card from my pants pocket, stare down at it.

  I’ll be a dumb son of a bitch.

  I can’t read the card. My eyes won’t make out the numbers. It’s not even close.

  I never thought to add his number into my mobile. But then, he never offered to do it for me. Maybe they think I’m faking it. My blindness. Maybe they think I’m making it all up. I guess I don’t look like a blind guy. That’s because I’m not always blind. It’s possible the detective and the uniformed cops don’t believe me. If they don’t believe me, I suppose it’s possible they will think that I had something to do with Grace’s disappearance. Or maybe I don’t want to go there yet. I’m just being paranoid and sick with worry. Grace’s and my relationship has always been perfect. Not by a long shot.

  My mobile rings.

  I nearly drop the phone trying to answer it. Instead of issuing a “Hello” or the customary “Pronto,” I shout out, “Grace!”

  But it’s not Grace. It’s the detective.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Angel,” he speaks softly into the phone. “But I have some information I would like to share with you.”

  “I’m listening, Detective.”

  “You just received a phone call. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “We traced the number.”

  Me, breathing into the phone.

  “It’s a cell phone and a local number,” he goes on. “Which means that whoever owns the phone probably purchased it somewhere near Venice or any town north of Firenze. At the very least they live north of Firenze. Or the phone could be stolen. You can imagine how many cell phones go missing on a daily basis in Venice. The gondolas are full of them, as is the bottom of the Grand Canal.”

  “I understand,” I say. “But what are you trying to tell me?”

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Captain, is that the owner of this phone…a one Francesco Cipriani…might not actually fit the description of the man in the long brown overcoat which you provided us with earlier.”

  “Have you contacted Mr. Cipriani, Detective?”

  “We have made contact with Mr. Cipriani. He is relieved that we have found his cell phone. He and his wife spent their ten-year wedding anniversary in Venice during the Carnival back in March of this year. The phone was pick-pocketed from out of his coat pocket, perhaps by your overcoat man. Thousands of visitors pour into and out of Venice on a daily basis during Carnival. So you can imagine the endless opportunities if you are a thief.”

  “So where does this leave us, Detective? What does it all mean?”

  “It means that I have no reason not to believe Mr. Cipriani’s story. He checks out. I contacted the hotel where he stayed and they confirm his reservation. Mr. Cipriani is an accountant working in private practice in Milan. He hardly fits the description of a man who would kidnap your wife, Captain.”

  “But the overcoat man does.”

  “Si, he does. A scary looking gentleman judging from your description. However, we have at present no way of finding him, other than to keep an eye out for him.” He pauses, the sound of his lighting a cigarette oozing over the receiver. “Tell me, have you received any text messages or calls from your fiancée since we last parted?”

  “I think I would have told you that already, Detective.”

  “Indeed you are still sharp, Captain,” he exhales, “despite your blindness. We have our police keeping an eye out for her all over Venice. But until she is missing for forty-eight hours, we do not consider her an official missing person.”

  “I consider her missing. I consider it official that she is not sitting here safe and sound with me right this very minute.”

  “I’m sure you do. However, as difficult as it is to believe, I’m afraid it is still quite possible that she simply has left you. And if that is the case, we have little right to interfere.”

  “I understand,” I choke, knowing that I have no means of fighting the rules.

  “But do not worry, Captain,” the detective goes on. “In consideration of your condition, and your being a member of a NATO military force, we have issued an early alert to every airport, train station, taxi operation, and bus depot in the country. Even bicycle and motorbike rentals will be notified. If your fiancée’s passport shows up at any of these places, she will be questioned, and if need be, detained.”

  “Her passport,” I repeat.

  “She did take her passport with her when you went to have lunch at the café in San Marco?”

  I try and think. It’s been our habit since arriving in Venice to carry our passports wherever we go. It’s the safe thing to do should the studio get robbed while we’re gone. But I couldn’t see when we left the room earlier
this afternoon.

  “I can’t be sure,” I say. “I can try and check.”

  “Please do so,” requests the detective. “In the meantime, Captain, try and get some rest. I know this is difficult to believe, but nine times out of ten, the person who goes missing returns home within twenty-four hours. It’s no different from a child running away from home.”

  “A child,” I repeat. “I get it. But I’ll remind you once more: We weren’t fighting and we’re being followed by a man in a long overcoat.”

  “One does not need to fight with one’s spouse in order to make the decision to leave and the man in the long overcoat could just be a simple coincidence. Keep your mobile phone charged. I will be in touch if we discover anything else.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  He hangs up without a goodbye.

  Chapter 21

  I WALK THE SIX steps to the bed. There’s a space between the wall and a stand-alone closet where Grace and I have stacked the few pieces of luggage we brought along with us. I approach it. Blindly.

  With my hands and fingers, I feel for Grace’s two travel pieces, hoping I can recognize them without having to actually physically eye them. I only brought one bag with me. It’s not a piece of luggage but a North Face backpack I purchased at the Army commissary in Frankfurt prior to the my embarking on my first Afghanistan tour, which means the two suitcases left over can only belong to Grace.

  I find them both easily enough and set them out onto the bed.

  I open them and, beginning with the one on the left, start rummaging around through the neatly folded clothing with my hands and fingers. I recognize a pair of jeans and a skirt. Some T-shirts, socks and underwear. I run my fingers along the fabric-lined interior walls, and all along the bottom.

  No passport.

  But then there’s also no sign of the emergency cash and credit card that would almost certainly be stored inside the case. I feel a small droplet of cold sweat slide down the length of my spine.

  I search through the second case in the same manner, this time plowing through a dozen shoes. Still no passport, cash or credit card. I double and triple check each case and each time, come up with nothing.

  I sit myself down on the edge of the bed and think.

  Did Grace bring her passport with her to the café in San Marco? Almost certainly she did. I brought mine along with me, the passport presently being stored inside an interior pocket in my leather coat. Was she simply being overly cautious by bringing along the extra cash and credit card? Or maybe the real question I need to ask myself is this: Did Grace leave the apartment with her passport, emergency credit card and extra cash because it was the safe and prudent thing to do? Or did she do it because she had every intention of leaving me?

  * * *

  My feet are pressed against the floorboards, but I don’t seem to feel them. My head is a buzzing beehive of adrenalin. I don’t know what feels worse: The possibility that Grace was kidnapped right before my blind eyes, or that she simply left on her own, leaving her wardrobe behind. I can’t help but think about the police. The detective. He believes it’s entirely possible Grace took off on her own. As a top cop, he’s seen it happen dozens of time. Lots of lovers leave one another in Venice. Breakups happen even in the most romantic of places. Maybe it’s me who’s being blind to the possibility of Grace going because she wanted to go. Maybe it’s not over after all between her and Andrew.

  But the detective doesn’t know Grace like I do. He doesn’t understand how in love we are. How much we need one another. Yes, the past year has been fraught with the difficulty and heartbreak that can only come from my being absent and having needs go unfulfilled. From my being at war. From Grace fighting a war of loneliness.

  But I’m not at war anymore.

  Correction…that’s not exactly right.

  I’m not at war in Afghanistan, I should say. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still at war with myself. The blindness that overcomes me nearly one hundred percent of the time proves it. A bullet has never so much as grazed me. The shrapnel never came close. I am a casualty of my own frayed nerves.

  I recall a time not so long ago, but that now seems like a lifetime ago. It was a freezing cold, pitch dark winter morning. I was packing for the embarkation to Frankfurt. I would be gone for at least nine months. Perhaps a year or more. Grace lie on the bed in our bedroom, still dressed in her T-shirt and panties, her face buried in the pillow.

  “Why do you have to go?” she begged, in between sobs.

  How do you answer a question like that when you’re going off to war?

  I remained silent while I packed knowing in my heart that I was doing the right thing, but also knowing that I was doing a wrong, most hateful thing. Still I packed, until my knapsack could hold no more. When I was done and I was dressed in my travel camos and spit-and-polish combat boots, I came around to Grace’s side of the bed, and I sat down beside her. For a time I held her while pressing my face into the nape of her neck.

  “I love you,” I said, whispering into her ear, smelling her rose petal scent, feeling the wetness of her tears on my freshly shaved cheek. When she wouldn’t respond, I said it again. “I love you.”

  But she just wouldn’t say it back.

  When the horn blared outside the bedroom window announcing the arrival of my ride, I had no choice but to let Grace go. I got up from the bed and left Grace all alone in the cold dark silence of the morning.

  * * *

  I get up from the bed, stumble the twelve steps towards the kitchenette. My right arm deflects a stack of plates I placed on top of the harvest table while I was sleepwalking earlier. They come crashing down, the noise deafeningly loud. I make it the last few steps to the counter.

  I fumble blindly for the whiskey bottle we store out on the counter. I knock over some boxes, and some coffee cups, one of which shatters.

  But I find the bottle.

  Unscrewing the cap, I take deep drink, set the bottle back down. The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it has an immediate calming effect on my heart.

  I slam my fist against the counter.

  “God. Please. God.”

  My eyes well up with tears. I am helpless. Grace is out there somewhere. For all I know, she’s gagged and bound, being held captive is some rancid basement. Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe she’s been raped. Maybe she’s dead already.

  Dead. Already.

  I’m up here in this apartment, all by myself. I’m doing nothing while Grace is out there alone. I can’t see. What can I do to get her back if I can’t see? How can I possibly help my fiancée?

  I’m a useless sack of rags and bones.

  I slam the counter again.

  “We’ll see just what it is I can or cannot do.”

  Grabbing my keys, cell phone, and leather coat, I make for the door and leave the apartment, blind to the possibilities of what can happen.

  Chapter 22

  I STEP OUT INTO the cold damp darkness of Venice. I feel the cobbles beneath my booted soles, and the moist air against my face. The only thing I can remotely make out with my affected eyes are small, indiscernible blobs of light when I peer directly into a lamplight or one of the moving lights that are mounted to one of the motor boats slowly cruising the nearby feeder canal. I hear the footsteps of the tourists passing by in both directions. I feel their presence the same way a psychic will feel a world full of ghosts and spirits surrounding her. They make my pulse soar and steal me of my oxygen.

  Swallowing a deep breath, I take a step forward. And then another. Until I run directly into a brick wall of a human being who is passing by. The collision nearly sends me to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re walking, mate!”

  It’s a man. An Australian, judging by the accent. I fought beside hundreds of Australians in both my wars. They are born voyagers. I regain my balance, try desperately for a point of focus. But without hearing his voice, I can only pretend I know where he’s standing.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry,” I say, making believe that I’m looking into his eyes. But I could be aiming my gaze in any given direction. “Clumsy of me.”

  A weighted pause fills the air along with the cold humidity.

  “You okay, mate? You don’t look so great, you don’t mind my saying. Your eyes are rolling around in their sockets.”

  I nod.

  I tell him I’m fine. But I don’t dare take another step or else risk knocking into someone else. I can feel the Australian standing before me. I smell the liquor on his breath. I feel stupid and exposed.

  “You sure you’re going to be all right?” he pushes. “Because you don’t look so good. Maybe a little too much to drink.”

  I know now that he isn’t about to make a move until I walk away first. The only thing I can do is take a shot and move forward. I do it. I take a step, and then another, until I feel two hands clutching at the collar on my coat, and I’m down on my back.

  “Jesus, mate, you were about to walk right into the canal. You’re blind as a bat.”

  Footsteps. A crowd is gathering all around me. Voices. Some of them in languages I cannot understand. Others in English. This was a big mistake. Venturing out. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Call a cop!” somebody barks. An American.

  “Please,” I beg. But it’s no use.

  “You must be bloody soused,” the Australian laughs. “Blind and drunk. Just stay down, before you fall down again.”

  In the distance I hear sirens. Didn’t take the cops very long to respond to my desperation. My stupidity. They are coming by boat. Coming for me, the blind man. The man who bombed a village where a little boy lived. The man who lost his fiancée. The man whose world has become a dark private hell.

  Chapter 23

  WHEN THE BOAT ARRIVES, I hear an English speaking, but Italian accented bull-horn-amplified voice insisting everyone clear the area. Then I hear the pounding of jack boots on the cobbles.

  “Mamma mia!” comes a voice I vaguely recognize. One of the uniformed police who escorted me to my apartment a few hours earlier. Then, “Call the detective. Tell him he is about to have company.”