by Joseph Kanon
“What happened during the war? I mean, was it a military hospital?”
“No. It was never a war zone here. You know, behind the lines it’s a kind of peace. Things keep going. The hospital too. There was always food. In the south, with the fighting, it was different. Terrible shortages. Here at least no one starved, we could manage.” We were crossing a bridge out of the campo, and he indicated the houses on the other side of the canal with their running sores of fallen plaster. “But no paint, no wood, nothing like that. See there? No repairs, not for years. The city is falling apart. Of course the visitors, for them it’s always falling apart, they love the decay. Your mother thinks that. Don’t fix it, it’s all part of the charm. Well, maybe it’s lucky for me she thinks that way. At my age, I’m falling apart too.”
I laughed, the expected response.
“You know we have become good friends,” he said.
I kept walking, not sure how I was meant to answer.
“She has a gift for that, I think. A rare quality. To make people happy. Here we are.”
He turned toward a door. No getting out of it now. But what excuse could I have found?
The restaurant was in the little campo that faced Santa Maria dei Miracoli. In summer there would be tables outside, people writing postcards and looking up at the marble walls. Now it was a poky room with a bar in front and just enough space in back to be intimate without being noisy. Gianni was evidently a regular, known to the waiter.
“You like granchi?” Gianni said to me. “He says it’s the special today.”
“Yes, fine,” I said, toying with my fork, already uncomfortable.
“Wine? I can’t, but if you like-”
“No, water’s fine.”
For a minute or so we watched the waiter pour the mineral water.
“I’m glad we have the chance,” Gianni said, “to meet like this.” Leaning forward, opening.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, steering away. “For the ceiling especially. I never would have seen it otherwise. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask-who are the Montanaris?”
His forehead wrinkled for a second, then cleared. “Ah, in the box. Who are they? They made an impression on you?”
“The other way around. I don’t think they approved. They left early.”
Gianni laughed again. “They always leave early. They come for the interval, to see her friends. The music?” He brushed away the idea with his hand. “Ah, the crabs,” he said, leaning back for the waiter.
“I just wondered who-” I began, but he’d moved on from the Montanaris, speaking before I could finish.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said and then stopped. He sipped some water, hesitant, as if he were putting the words together in his head. “You know I admire your mother very much.”
I waited.
“Very much,” he said again. “We have a love for each other. This seems strange to you, maybe. At your age, I remember, it is impossible to think this happens after-what? Thirty? Forty? To have these feelings. But we do. Sometimes even more so. We can’t be so careless anymore, we know how valuable, to find someone. You’re embarrassed, that I’m talking this way to you?”
“It’s not that.”
“Yes, embarrassed, I think. It’s my English. What I want to say-”
“Look, the point is, you don’t have to say anything. If you and my mother-it’s none of my business.”
“But now, yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It is your business now. We want to marry.”
“What?” Blurting it out, as if I hadn’t heard properly.
“Yes, to marry. You’re surprised?”
“But why?” I said, another involuntary response, not even thinking.
“Why? Because we have a love for each other.”
“Yes, but-I mean, why not just go on as you are?” While it lasts.
“You don’t understand my feelings for her. Do you think I have no respect for her position?” Affronted, as if I’d stepped over some cultural divide.
“It hasn’t bothered you up to now.”
He raised his eyebrows, then softened. “That’s what you think-I take advantage. You know, we are not children. Maybe it was-a convenience for both. Now it’s something else.”
“When was all this decided?”
He shrugged. “Some days ago now. You don’t decide all at once.”
“And she didn’t tell me?”
“Don’t be angry with her. I wanted to tell you. She was a little nervous, how to say it. And you know, it’s traditional,” he said, smiling, “for the man to approach the family.”
“You’re asking for my blessing?”
“I’m asking you to be happy for us. It’s important to Grace for you to be happy. It’s important to me too.”
This last was a question. He was looking at me, waiting for me to nod, give some assent.
“When is all this supposed to happen?”
“As soon as we can arrange it. While you are still here.”
“And you’ll live here?”
“Of course. It’s my home. And now yours, whenever you like. I know you’ll be in America, but you’ll come back sometimes. Where we live there is always a home for you too.”
On her money. The thought, always buried somewhere, now flashed to the surface. Would they stay at Ca’ Venti? No, he must have his own, the family house, plaster crumbling, untended these last few years. The daughter with bills in Bologna. Cognacs at the Monaco. All paid for now, taken care of with the scratch of her pen across a check. He was smiling at me again, intimate, the same easy charm that must have taken her in. Gray hair, sober suit, not even young-no warning signals at all.
“You don’t say anything.”
“I’m just trying to-it’s a lot in one gulp. I didn’t expect-”
“You know, neither did we. Not at first.”
“It all just seems a little fast. To decide something like this. I mean, it’s only been-” I let it hang there, waiting for him to finish, but instead he smiled again.
“Only the young have so much time. At our age it’s better to hurry. And you know, the wedding, that’s your mother’s idea, to have it before you go back to America. She wants you to-such an expression-to give her away.”
“The father does that.”
“Well, the family. Why not the son?”
I shrugged.
“Good. She’ll be pleased.”
But it was Gianni who was pleased, smiling broadly, and I realized that in his mind I had somehow consented, given in, and could now be brought into the planning. There would be an engagement party. A friend had offered to perform the ceremony. I picked at my crab and half listened to one detail after another, the whole impossible scheme already worked out, discussed while I’d been somewhere else. Now there was nothing to be said.
And later? I saw the sensible talk with my mother back at Ca’ Venti, straining to stay calm, the inevitable hysterics. Bertie would be better-one of his bracing heart-to-hearts. I wondered if he already knew, could get to her before things spun completely out of control and sense became a kind of public embarrassment.
Gianni was ordering espresso, another endless meal, and talking about a trip. But perhaps it was better just to stay in Venice. There were so many details to arrange. To get the house ready for my mother, repairs he wanted to make, a new decorating scheme they’d discussed. It might be better to go away later, a long trip, somewhere new. What they must have talked about over brandies, their new life together.
“Maybe even America,” Gianni was saying. “It’s many years now since I was there. Many changes.”
She’d give a party to introduce him to her friends. The whispered conversations later: Did you see what Grace picked up in Italy? No longer just impulsive, a figure of fun.
“I went all the way across to California. A wonderful country.”
He had put some bills on the saucer and was standing up, smiling at me.
“And now Ame
ricans in the family,” he said airily, and as I folded my napkin, trying to smile back, I felt the real implications of his news rush over me, like a prickling of the skin. Not just a folly, not just one of those things. All our lives changed, one way or another.
Outside, the sun was shining just enough to brighten the marble on the church. We started back toward the hospital, Gianni full of more plans. I tried to keep up, an eggshell politeness, but my mind was elsewhere, so distracted that I didn’t even look at the group of GIs coming over the bridge, just felt the sudden hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, Adam? I didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”
I blinked for a second, taking in the breezy American voice, the sound of my own life coming back.
“Joe. What are you doing here?”
“Seeing the sights. I’m over in Verona, but they let us out once in a while.”
“Still chasing rats?”
“Rat files. Some of Kesselring’s boys. They come up for trial next month and they left a paper trail all the way to Verona, so somebody’s got to look. You know. But you-what is it, a month now? Two? What the hell are you still doing over here?”
“My mother lives here.”
“Lives here? People live here?”
“For now, anyway,” I said, then stopped, suddenly aware of Gianni at my side. “Oh, sorry. Joe, this is Dr. Maglione. He’s-” Who was he now, exactly? My mother’s fiance? My new stepfather? Looking at Joe’s open GI face, I felt Gianni’s foreignness for the first time. Was she prepared for this? Years of not quite getting jokes, living half in translation. “A friend of my mother’s,” I said. “Gianni, Joe Sullivan.”
“Lieutenant,” Gianni said, decoding the bar on his collar and shaking his hand. “You see, people do live here, a few of us.”
“Sorry. I didn’t-”
“Oh, no. Sometimes even I think we’re all visitors here. Of course, Verona, it’s different. You’re enjoying it there?” Now he was charming Joe, second nature.
“Well, enjoying. It beats Germany, anyway.”
“You were friends in the army?”
“G-2. Bloodhound detachment. Sniffing for Nazis. Happy days, huh?” he said to me.
“Every single one. When do you get out?”
“Never. They like my accent. Maybe June, though. Memphis in June, like the song says.” He glanced at the group behind him, too large to introduce. “Well, I’d better push. Live here. I wish I’d known-cadge a bed next time.”
“You need one tonight?”
“No, that’s all right. We got a special deal at the Bauer. Can’t get away from the krauts, huh?” he said, grinning. “Come have a beer if you can. We’re there a few days. Nice meeting you,” he said to Gianni. He jerked his thumb toward the city behind him. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”
Gianni didn’t react, just watched him go, then started again for the hospital.
“He’s a good friend?”
“We worked together.”
“Finding the Nazis. That’s who decides?”
“He just finds them. Someone else decides.” I paused. “He likes to kid around. But he’s not as dumb as he sounds.”
“I didn’t mean-well, perhaps a little. The world is simple for him.”
“Sometimes it is simple.”
“You think so? I never find it that way. Look at us. We have lunch. Happy news. But for you I think not so simple-a little difficult, even. Who is this man? You worry about your mother. Yes, you do. It’s natural. What can I say to make you feel easy? There hasn’t been time for us to become friends. Later, I hope. For now, I only ask you to be happy because we are happy.”
“If she’s happy, fine.”
“But you are still uneasy,” he said, watching me as we walked.
“I just don’t understand the why of it. Why not-be the way you are.”
“And not marry, you mean. Why marry now, so late? Not for children, to make a family. Not for-what? Propriety? We don’t have to be respectable, your mother and I. No one cares. Not even you, it seems.” A half smile. “So why? I wish I could tell you exactly. Sometimes I think to marry is a kind of insurance.”
“What, for old age? If one of you dies?” Another thing I hadn’t considered. What if?
“No, not so pragmatic. I think a way to ensure the love does not go away. To make it feel permanent.”
“Even if it’s not?”
“Sometimes, you know, it is. Don’t you wish this for us?”
I hesitated, embarrassed, but we were coming down the bridge into the campo and Gianni turned to me, not waiting for an answer.
“It’s late for us to be a family. You don’t need a father, I don’t ask that. But your mother must have her son. So you and I, we must try to be friends. Will you do that?”
“Of course. I never said-”
“No, but how you feel, that’s something else.”
I looked away. “How does your daughter feel?”
“Well, that’s next. I do the warm-up on you.” He smiled, amused either by the phrase or by the idea that I was the easier of the two. “She will be suspicious. Who is this woman? What does she want? Like you, but the reverse, the other side. You see, nothing is simple when there are two sides.”
“And there are always two.”
“At least. But all of them smiling at the wedding, eh?” He took my hand. “Be easy. Everything will be fine. You have my word.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I said pleasantly, meeting his eyes.
He nodded and turned toward the hospital. I started across the square, relieved to get away, but when I was past the equestrian statue I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that he had stopped to look back too. We stood for a minute like that, turning the space between us into a mirror, watching each other.
As it happened, Mimi had come to lunch at Bertie’s and was still there when I arrived.
“Adam,” Bertie said. “You might have let me know. There’s not a crumb left.”
“No, I’ve eaten.”
“How’s Grace?” Mimi said, kissing my cheek.
“Flourishing.”
“So they say,” she said, her eyes almost twinkling. “Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just dropping in, then?” Bertie said, slightly annoyed.
“Darling, don’t be dense,” Mimi said. “Too late for lunch, too early for a drink. He wants to chat. Which means I’ll be in the way, so I’d better be going.” She turned to me. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s being pigheaded, as usual. Won’t help with the ball. Won’t even come. Pigheaded.”
“And you’re being wicked,” Bertie said, pecking her on the cheek. “A ball, during Lent.”
“Yes, and they’re all dying for a break. Everyone’ll come, you’ll see.”
“Not everyone.”
“Hm. You and the Holy Father, fasting at home. It’s too ridiculous. You know you’re dying to come.”
Bertie smiled. “It’s a close-run thing. Very bad of you to tempt.”
“All right, I’m off.” She gathered up her purse and gloves, looking at me. “So what’s he like? I’m dying to know.”
“Who?”
“Who. Dr. Kildare.”
“Oh, Gianni. He’s too old for you,” I said, kissing her good-bye.
A throaty laugh, flirtatious. “Bertie, I’ve been dismissed. He must have got that from you. That out-the-door charm. What if I got the monsignor to come? Would that make a difference?”
Bertie was walking her out of the room. “Not even the pope. It’s a matter of principle.”
“Darling, aren’t you funny? How would you know?” She turned at the door. “Don’t bother, Elena’s there. Adam, talk to him. He just wants coaxing.”
When she was gone, Bertie came back to the coffee table and lit a cigarette.
“Two hours and I’m exhausted. I don’t know how she does it-she must sleep the rest of the time. Now, what’s on your mind? Barging in
like this. Only happy thoughts, I hope.”
“Very happy. They think so, anyway. They’re getting married.”
“Who?”
“My mother and Dr. Kildare.”
“You’re joking,” he said, putting down the cigarette, not just surprised but shaken.
“That’s what I thought when he told me at lunch. But no. Death do us part. Surprised?”
For a minute he said nothing, just stared at the smoke drifting up. “Marriage,” he said, still taking it in. “The Magliones, any of those families-you know they don’t marry out of-”
“Unless they’ve got a helluva repair bill to take care of.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Money. We can whisper if it bothers you.”
He glanced up, annoyed.
“Sit down and behave yourself. What’s gotten into you?”
“You don’t like it either,” I said, sinking onto the couch. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all.” He handed me the cigarette box. “Here. Now let’s take a breath and think a bit. This would come after Mimi-one’s head just keeps buzzing. Why marriage?”
“They’re in love.”
“Adam.”
“And there’s her money.”
“Oh, I don’t think so somehow.”
“But do you know? If he were American, I’d know a hundred things about him. All those clues people carry around. But here-how much does he have?”
“No idea. One doesn’t, in Italy. I’m not sure why. In France you know right away. Of course, there is the palazzo, you know. He’s not on the dole.”
“Which they never sell. Just try to keep up.”
“You’ve been reading things. Of course they sell. How do you think I got mine?” He watched me light my cigarette. “That’s better. Get some color back. You can’t stay shocked, you know.”
“But you were. Why? Don’t you like him?”
“Like him?” he said, uncomfortable. “He’s my doctor. What does like have to do with it?”
“You invite him to your house.”
“He doesn’t pee on the carpet, Adam. He’s a Maglione. Anyway, we were all young together. Your mother, Gianni, his brother-”