by Joseph Kanon
“Stop it.”
“Then come. It’s our chance now, before it’s too late.”
“And leave Moretti to them? You could do that?”
She walked over to the window. “Today it’s him. Then something else. And we stay and stay. Under their noses.” She gestured out, as if the police were lurking beneath a tree in the campo. “This cat-and-mouse. Waiting to be caught.” She turned. “Maybe that’s what you want, to be caught. There are people like that. They want to be caught.”
I said nothing, waiting it out.
“But I don’t.” She looked away, then busied herself closing the wardrobe and checking the bathroom, her silence itself a kind of apology. When she came back to the window she looked up, across the roofs of San Polo to the campanile of the Frari. “And now it’s going to rain,” she said, weary, a last straw.
“Come and sit,” I said, moving the suitcase.
But she stayed at the window, looking out. “If I don’t go now, it’ll be too late. I’ll get caught in the rain.” She paused. “Listen to me. What difference does the rain make? I’m talking with my nerves. No sense.”
“No one’s going to get caught,” I said evenly, as if I were stroking her arm.
“But I’m afraid.”
“You? You’re not afraid of anything.”
“Yes, now I’m afraid all the time,” she said, facing me, moving away from the window, her hands so jittery that she folded them under her arms, holding herself to stay still.
“Of what, exactly?”
She began pacing again, but near the bed, in tighter circles. “Everything. That I’ll say something.” She stopped in front of me. “No. That you’ll say something.” She lowered her head. “I’m afraid you’ll say something.”
I looked up at her, stung, and for a minute neither of us spoke, everything fragile, even the air. “All right,” I said finally. “Then marry me.”
“What?”
“A husband can’t testify against his wife. Isn’t it that way here too? They could never use anything I say.”
For a second she froze, then her shoulders twitched, that peculiar shudder that moves between laughing and crying, unable to settle on either. She sank down onto the bed next to me.
“Wonderful,” she said. “Marry somebody to keep him quiet. To protect yourself.”
“No,” I said, reaching over and brushing back her hair. “For all the other reasons. The usual ones.”
“The usual ones,” she said, looking down at her lap. “With us, after this, the usual ones. But also just in case. Just in case. Brava.”
I dropped my hand. “I just meant you’d never have to worry.”
She stared at her lap for another minute, then got up, turning to me. “No, and then neither would you. Is that why you want to?” She went over to the night table and lit a cigarette, her eyes avoiding me. “A wonderful marriage. Because we’re afraid of each other.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Just the way I always imagined it.” She went back to the window, blowing smoke and staring out, letting the quiet settle over the room. “I was right,” she said finally. “Now it’s raining. Where did your mother go?”
“Paris.”
“So you want me to come to Ca’ Venti. Yes, why not. I can’t stay here.” She smiled wryly. “I was going, but-”
“You can still get a train if you want,” I said, staring at her. “You can do whatever you want.”
She came over to the bed and put her hand in my hair. “Oh, no strings.”
“No.”
“No. But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? We’re tied now, with this thing. No matter what. So why not Ca’ Venti? Maybe it’s my fate.”
“What is?”
“You. I never thought, when it started-” She took her hand away. “But that was before.”
We waited until the rain stopped, not saying much, then took a vaporetto to Accademia and walked the rest of the way home. In the downstairs hall she hesitated for a moment, looking through to the water entrance, and I saw that she was imagining Gianni there again, his head on the steps. But then Angelina appeared, wanting to take her suitcase, asking her where to put it, making us feel, oddly, as if we were checking into a new hotel.
Without my mother, the house seemed even larger than before, and instinctively we avoided the big reception rooms, staying in the sitting room with the space heater. At one point Claudia wandered out to the room where the engagement party had been, but it was empty and gloomy, barely lit, and there was nothing to see, not even in memory. She fiddled with the radio for a while, the static somehow like our own strained jumpiness, then made drinks. When we weren’t talking, you could hear the clock.
Dinner was roast chicken and a creamy polenta, nursery food, and afterward we sat with a fire and listened to the house quiet down, footsteps in the upstairs hall, running water, then nothing. When we made love later, I thought of how it had been after the ball, the clutching, everything unexpectedly exciting. Now it was more like having too much to drink, a grudging pleasure that made it easier to sleep. We stayed in my room, Claudia curled beside me, just what we’d always wanted.
We both slept fitfully. Claudia tossed next to me, restless, and I drifted in and out, sleeping and then lying on my side with my eyes open, making out shapes in the dark room. Nothing was wrong-we were safe-but my eyes stayed open, my mind picking over things at random. Moretti, who had to be saved somehow. Cavallini, searching the canal for the right mooring. Claudia in the hotel room, anxious, looking out the window to see if they were coming to get her.
I turned onto my back and looked up at the ceiling and the faint moving reflections of the moonlit water outside. It was back again, the uneasiness of those first weeks, waiting for the sun to come over the Redentore. But that had been the dread of being suddenly at loose ends, a kind of decompression. This was a formless worry. Claudia moved next to me, rolling to her side. Not formless. I saw her again in the hotel room, turning to me. And then neither would you. I’d always thought of it one way, me reassuring her, safe as long as I held her. But of course it had to work the other way. I was only safe as long as she held me. And now she was frightened, ready to run off, sure they knew. Afraid I would say something. Afraid she would say something.
She moved again, rolling farther away, and I slid quietly toward the edge, slipped out from under the blankets, and tiptoed toward the closet, grateful that the marchesa had scrimped on the squeaky parquet floors, a luxury for the public rooms. Here, on noiseless carpet, I could get my clothes and leave the room without a sound. I stopped at the door, checking, but Claudia hadn’t moved. I dressed and made my way to the stairs, not even aware of the dark, everything familiar from the sleepwalking nights.
But why would she say anything? For that matter, why would they believe her? I had lost a fortune-the one man in Venice Cavallini didn’t suspect. Unless he wanted to. Nothing was predictable. You met a girl at a party, and the next morning, on a boat, you have the first clear idea you’ve had in months. I thought of her as we pulled into Salute, intrigued, the start of it. Then looking out the hotel window for shadows. Lying in the same bed now, afraid of each other. But these were four-in-the-morning thoughts, irrational, gone in the daylight, like mist burning off. I turned the door latch carefully, making only a click as I stepped into the calle. Nobody was going to say anything.
It was breezy on the Zattere, and my head felt clearer, wide awake now. Across the channel the giant brick Stucky factory loomed over the gardens of the Giudecca. There were shouts and clanging sounds up ahead at the warehouses behind the maritime station. The city would be awake soon-bakers, the first dog-walkers, everything normal. I would check in with Cavallini. Maybe Rosa’s lawyers had managed to get Moretti out. If we could just get Cavallini to back away, the boy might not even be tried. A case any defense could fight, a trial nobody wanted. Then we could leave, go anywhere Claudia liked. I went into the workers’ cafe opposite San Sebast
iano, feeling better. Nobody would say anything. The barman nodded, as if it had been a day, not weeks, since I’d last stopped in, and handed me a coffee still foamy on top. I stood at the window, looking across at the church. Veronese’s church, the dreary stone facade, then the riot of color inside.
She must have been standing outside the steamy door for a few minutes, hands stuck in her pockets, before I noticed the movement in the corner of my eye. She was biting her lip, not sure whether to smile, pleased with herself for having found me but slightly embarrassed. Or maybe waiting for me to be pleased. Then someone opened the door and she was in anyway, standing next to me.
“I thought you were asleep,” I said.
“I thought you were.”
“Coffee?”
She shook her head, then glanced around, taking in the other customers in their blue coveralls and caps.
“What is this place?”
“It opens early. I come here sometimes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. How did you find me?”
“I looked out the window. I saw you on the Zattere. I didn’t know what to think.”
“I went for a walk.” I paused. “I was coming back.”
She looked away. “I just didn’t know where you were going. I was worried.”
I held up the coffee cup. “Sure?” She shook her head again and I finished it. “Come on,” I said, guiding her with a hand on her back. A few of the men turned, amused, making up their own stories.
“I didn’t want to be alone in the house,” she said outside, explaining. But it wasn’t the house. “It’s so stupid. To be like that,” she said, shaking a little, just as she had in the hotel.
“You’re cold.”
“There’s only the coat,” she said, drawing it closer. “I didn’t have time to dress.”
I glanced at her. Once it would have been fun, nothing underneath, our secret in the cafe, something to laugh about when we got back to bed, warming ourselves. Now I thought of her throwing it on, racing down the stairs, making sure of me.
“Come here,” I said, folding my arms around her. “You’ll freeze.”
She let her head fall against my neck, so that I could feel her breath, quietly shaking like the rest of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, then tipped her head back, and I saw that there were tears, the shaking stronger.
“Claudia-”
She took a breath. “Nothing. It’s nerves.”
“Ssh,” I said, moving her closer. “It’s the cold, that’s all.”
She rubbed her face against my coat. “I didn’t want to be with anyone again. Remember, I told you? At La Fenice? I was afraid of that. And now? I’m afraid when you’re not there. So the joke is on me, yes?” She wiped her eyes.
“No joke,” I said, lifting her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No? So it’s what you wanted. You wanted us to be together.”
“Don’t you?”
“Oh, me,” she said, brushing the question away, another tear. She looked up. “You’re still so sure?”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly filled with it, a certainty you could touch. Seeing her face at the water gate, her eyes looking at me as we moved the tarp. And after, at the hotel, clutching each other, no one else, no doubt at all.
“Yes, and at the nurse’s, I saw your face. You thought for a minute-yes, you did-is it all a story? Something I made up. The hospital. The camp. What if she’s-”
What I had thought, just for a minute.
“Why would I make it up? But you thought that.”
“Claudia, I’m not going anywhere.”
She looked down. “So we can watch each other.”
“No,” I said.
She raised her head, waiting.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said again.
She looked at me, then nodded, a kind of concession, her eyes moist again. “No, we can’t. Not now. It doesn’t matter why, does it? It’s the only way we’re safe.”
“That’s not-” I said, but she was leaning into me, away from the wind off the Zattere.
“I know. It’s all right,” she said, her voice muffled. “So come home.” She turned, crooking her arm through mine, something she’d done a hundred times before, and suddenly I felt as if we had been snapped together. I looked down at the arm, curved around mine like a link in a chain. Tied now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Claudia and I were married at a magistrate’s office in a ceremony that lasted less than fifteen minutes. Mimi and Bertie were the witnesses, and because there was no party, no real wedding, they insisted on taking us to lunch afterward at the Gritti. I had called my mother and told her not to come, and after a squeal of protest I think she was relieved not to have to make the trip. We’d have a proper celebration later, she finally agreed, but why the rush? Claudia wore an off-white silk dress with a coral belt that we bought in the Calle Frazzaria, off San Marco, and Bertie somehow miraculously found a corsage of hothouse flowers that set it off like a giant tropical brooch. A man took souvenir pictures after we signed the registry, and we are all smiling in them. It was not the wedding any of us would have imagined, but Venice made up for the missing bridesmaids. The weather was beautiful, warm enough to eat outside on the Gritti’s floating dock, with all the canal traffic going by. We joked that Salute, gleaming across the water with its marble icing, was our wedding cake.
“And you’re already here for your honeymoon,” Bertie said. “Think of them all, pouring out of the station. All swozzled and cranky before they even begin. Well, cheers.” He lifted his champagne glass. “ Auguri.”
“What do you suppose they do?” Mimi said.
Bertie sputtered, smiling. “Mimi, dear-”
“During the day. I mean, you don’t want to look at Tintorettos on your honeymoon, do you?”
“Gondola rides,” I said. “With accordions.”
“What does Signora Miller want to do?” Bertie said, tipping his glass to Claudia.
“Signora Miller,” she said, trying it out. “It is, now, isn’t it?”
“Mm,” Bertie said. “I’m a witness.”
“It started with you, you know,” I said. “Your party. You introduced us.”
“I wish you’d introduce someone to me,” Mimi said.
“Oh no,” Bertie said, holding up his hands. “Anyway, as I recall, Adam, you introduced yourself. Bold as brass. And now look.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at Claudia, pretty with her flowers, the bright sky behind her.
“Signora Miller doesn’t want to do anything,” she said, as if Bertie had been waiting for an answer. “She’s happy to sit right here.” She looked over the blue midday water to the palazzos on the other side. One of the traghetto gondolas was weaving its way across, graceful as a dancer on point. “I could sit here forever.”
“Yes,” Bertie said, following her gaze. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”
We finished the wine, talking idly, then Bertie excused himself, and a few minutes later I followed. In the men’s room he was leaning on the marble counter, dabbing his face with a cold towel.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, certainly. Why wouldn’t it be?” He looked at me in the mirror, then blotted his face again.
“I mean, are you in pain?”
A longer stare now in the mirror, then a resigned look away. “Somebody’s been reading medical reports.” He wiped his hands on the towel. “It’s all right now. It won’t be soon. Does that answer it?”
“No. Talk to me.”
He shook his head. “There’s no point. If you’ve read my file, then you know everything I know.”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“It means enjoy the beautiful day outside. I intend to. And that doesn’t mean going on about things that can’t be helped. Or things that-well, things. So let me enjoy it, please. I mean it, Adam. And not a word to Grace, either. Rushin
g back on trains and making me a cause. I know just what she’s like.”
“Bertie-”
“No,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Now let’s not ruin the day. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life.” He looked up at me. “Hers, anyway.”
“Did you get another opinion?”
“Yes, I’ve been through all that. Gianni was a perfectly competent doctor, you know, whatever else you may think he was. If he was.” He turned away. “Find anything else in his files?”
I shook my head. “Just you.”
“Serves you right. Snoop.” He threw the towel in the wicker hamper underneath the sink. “Better go before Mimi comes in after us. Don’t think she wouldn’t.” He started for the door, then stopped. “I almost forgot. Here.” He took an envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to me. “For the happy couple.”
“Bertie.”
“I know, I shouldn’t have, but I did. Now put it away before you-know-who sees it.”
I stepped closer and put my arms around him, surprised a little when he hugged back.
“All right, all right,” he said, breaking away, touched. “It’s not a funeral, it’s a wedding. Such as it is. So let’s have a drink, and if you’re good, I’ll get Mimi away and you can have the day to yourselves.”
It took two drinks but then they were gone, taking their conversation with them. We sat quietly for a while in the sun, rocking on the wakes of the passing boats. The waiters, paid by Bertie, had disappeared inside.
“Is there anything you’d like to do?” I said. “See Tintorettos?”
She kept facing the water, squinting a little against the sunlight.
“I’d like to see my father,” she said finally. “Would you mind?”
I shook my head, waiting, not knowing what she meant.
“But it’s so far to walk. These shoes. Do you have money for a taxi?”
I patted my jacket pocket. “We’re rich. Bertie gave me a check. Where?”
But she was already getting up and walking over to the landing platform. A bellman helped her into the motorboat, then I followed, both of us sitting back against the cushions as the boat headed up the canal. The motor was too loud to talk over, so we watched the city go by, under the Accademia bridge, past the turn where Ca’ Maglione stood, brightened now with pots of geraniums on the balconies, then up the busy stretch to the Rialto, the water crowded with delivery boats. The view from Bertie’s window. What would happen to the house? I wondered. One of the assistants, perhaps, unseen but devoted, there in the end while the rest of us were kept away. Bertie’s real life, whirling in its own mystery.