Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  “Nothing.” Stella finger combed her hair and put on her coat and hat. At least, her beautiful hat hadn’t been completely destroyed, just the feather, and Grandmother’s pin completed the illusion of a woman who wasn’t dead broke and just shy of desperate. A quick glance out the window told her she might have a chance if she hurried. It wasn’t too late, not yet.

  She tucked the pistol, her new passport, and the train schedule in her pocket and kissed Nicky’s forehead, leaving a perfect lip print of oxblood red. “I’m going to see about dinner. Be right back.”

  His eyes fluttered and she hustled out, just in case he decided to be coherent. She paused in the hall and looked at the key in her hand. Maybe locking it wasn’t the best idea, but she couldn’t have someone coming in while Nicky was out of it and taking a look. He wasn’t wearing his briefs. It wouldn’t take but a second to find the wound. Connecting the bullet wound to Peiper to the water taxi theft was just logical. Any fool could put it together and they’d end up in jail.

  She bit her lip and locked the door, hoping it would be fine like it was when Florence locked Uncle Josiah in the pantry after a particularly bad bender on Armistice Day. He said he was celebrating, but it looked more like grief to Stella. When he glugged down half a bottle of wine, produced a pistol, and started yelling, “They should’ve shot me instead,” Florence and Mother started taking it seriously. Then he blindfolded himself with his own shirt. Mother had to wrestle the pistol out of his hand as Florence shoved him in the pantry with the help of William the chauffeur and in spite of the voluminous complaints of Cook, who said he’d ruin her supplies.

  When they opened the door thirty minutes later, they found him passed out covered in flour, sugar, and butter. Florence thought that he’d tried to bake himself and attempted to get him to a psychiatrist, but no one would have him. Cook was not amused and said he only needed a good beating.

  At least, Nicky wasn’t that drunk and they had no baking supplies to ruin. Fire was her only concern, but, in the continuing downpour, she figured any fire wouldn’t last long.

  “All right then,” she whispered. “Here I go.”

  “What was that?”

  Stella jumped and spun around to find the new guest coming down the hall.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Mr. Bast.

  She put the key in her pocket. “It’s fine. I just…it’s been a long day.”

  “How is your husband?”

  “Better. Sleeping in fact. Dr. Davide says he may only have a cholera-like illness.”

  He pushed his glasses up and looked her over. “Going out? It’s still raining cats and dogs.”

  “Dr. Davide suggested a special tea for his stomach. I’m going to get it. He needs all the help he can get,” said Stella, giving him one of her most winning smiles, but it didn’t work.

  He merely looked at her and frowned. “On a Sunday evening?”

  “Cholera, or whatever this is, wasn’t polite enough to wait for Monday, so Sunday night it is.”

  Something in him changed. Stella felt it, rather than saw it. Something about that pleased him and she was pleased, in turn, to have thought of it so quickly.

  “Can’t one of the staff go for you?” he asked.

  “They’re busy and it’s not far.” Stella plucked a street name out of the air. “Calle del Forno. I won’t be long.”

  He smiled jovially. “Well, you’ve got the boots for it, but at this rate you may need a gondola.”

  “Let’s hope not. “Mister,” Stella paused for effect. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.”

  “Bast. Leonard Bast.” He held out his hand. They shook and he kissed her hand. “I’m pleased to make such a lovely lady’s acquaintance.”

  Bast, Stella thought. That really was his name. Mr. Leonard Bast. She’d heard the name before, but she couldn’t place it, but it was right there, so close she could almost touch the memory.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bast,” she said. “I have to go. I don’t want to be late for dinner.”

  He patted his bulging belly and chuckled. “I understand completely.”

  Stella rushed off making sure she didn’t limp at all and then left by the front door, managing to avoid seeing anyone else. She opened the small umbrella she snagged from the coat rack, took a breath, and went left. She could’ve gone right, to the hotel, the luxe Bella Luna. They knew her and more importantly they knew their families, the Bleds and the Lawrences. That hotel had been at Nicky’s mother’s insistence. Their room had come with a butler, for crying out loud, which Abel had thought was hilarious. So hilarious, Nicky had threatened to get him a servant of his own.

  Their butler, Daniel Burgess, was an ice-cold Englishman, at least until Nicky charmed him into sampling a new martini recipe he’d learned at Harry’s Bar. It involved Angostura Bitters and one sniff kept Stella from sampling. After a night of martinis, Nicky and Daniel were fast friends. She could probably persuade him to lend her a few bucks for a telegram and then they’d be flush again.

  But the wallet had to be the priority. Maria wanted the money, of course, but she might not know what else she had. Paul Boulard’s card was in there. Nicky’s card. Their wedding photo. If Maria gave that wallet to her Nazi contact or Peiper, their gooses would be well and truly cooked. They’d have wanted posters, if they didn’t already. She might as well stick a knife right in her mother’s heart. A drunk uncle in the pantry was bad enough. This would kill the saintly Francesqua Bled.

  And then there was the Boulards. She couldn’t bear to think about them. Peiper wasn’t stupid. If he saw that card, that brand new card, and made even the slightest inquiry into who the Boulards were, he’d find out they were just in Paris and been seen at their hotel in the company of a couple beat-up Americans. Peiper would be after them. The Boulards weren’t ready for that. Paul already thought they were going to die.

  Stella increased her speed, splashing through roads that had become ponds and trying desperately to remember how to get to the train station. Keeping close to the Grand Canal was her only hope and it worked.

  She came out of a small walkway right at the bridge where they’d abandoned the water taxi. On the other side of the canal, a group of men were struggling to pull the submerged boats out of the water, using another larger boat and a hoist fixed to the deck. From what she could tell, it wasn’t going well. Even through the rain and passing boats, she could make out the cursing. To make it worse, she was pretty sure their captain was over there, standing in water up to his knees with a bruised face and defeat written all over him. Poor man. She’d done it again. Destruction wherever she went. If she could’ve done something for him, she would’ve. That boat was his livelihood. He probably had a family. Stella clenched her fists. She had to stop thinking about that. Later. When it was all over, she’d find out who he was and help.

  That thought pushed the guilt into a neat, little box next to her heart. The place was getting quite crowded with thoughts she couldn’t think, the harm she couldn’t undo. She took a breath and sauntered over the bridge, swinging her hips, but keeping the umbrella low. It wouldn’t do to skulk by like she was guilty of something. She had to be the old Stella, happy and carefree, some would say careless and they’d be right. So she was careless, disinterested in the world’s problems and the men struggling in the water. She didn’t see them. They didn’t matter.

  Stella got over the bridge and disappeared into the warren of buildings. If anyone had noticed her, they gave no sign of it and she didn’t expect them to. She was different than the girl on the taxi. The captain probably couldn’t have picked her out of a crowd.

  Fifteen minutes later, she emerged at the Scalzi bridge next to the train station. The sun was going down and the lights in the windows were a warm glowing yellow. The rain had lightened up to a drizzle and, through it, Stella saw the romance of Venice that she’d forgotten. The old palazzos became elegant, elderly ladies in the dim light that helpfully hid what they
wanted to hide, but the romance couldn’t diminish her nerves. She splashed through the walkway, swallowing them down, only to find the train station more alive than she’d ever seen it. Carabinieri and polizia both were gathered in clumps on the steps and she nearly turned around.

  But her legs kept walking with a mind of their own and she came onto the piazza, joining the other tourists and keeping the old Stella as her shield. They wouldn’t recognize her and if they questioned her she’d have Mavis’s accent at its most incomprehensible.

  But no one questioned her. She did get glances and second glances, but the kind that she was used to having, admiration and interest. Her hat was fabulous and the netting obscured her eyes, so people saw the style, not the girl wearing it.

  Inside the station were more soggy tourists fleeing the rain that didn’t stop “domani” and they weren’t happy about it. It was easy to stroll around and blend in. The train from Geneva that Dr. Davide said had several first-class carriages for Maria to target hadn’t arrived yet, so she had fifteen minutes to spare.

  After walking through the entire station twice, Stella found a niche next to a column where she could watch the train come in. She waited with rising frustration. Maria hadn’t appeared and a deep weight started pressing down on Stella. Of course, Maria didn’t show. Stella had her merchandise and she had nothing to sell, except herself, Stella thought with repugnance. How Maria could do that was beyond her comprehension. As desperate as Stella had been before finding the Boulards, she never considered that. It hadn’t crossed her mind. Perhaps she hadn’t been desperate enough, but Maria seemed all right. Nice clothes, her cheeks full, hair shiny. She wasn’t starving. But perhaps that was why.

  A train whistle blew and Stella stepped out of her cubby to see the train far down the track. The tourists gathered on the platform and the next thing she knew vendors were all over the place, swarming over the crowd to hawk their wares. Questionable-smelling dried sausages hung from poles, pastries on platters, rugs, beads, and maps came at the tourists with surprising ferocity. They were much worse than before Vienna and Stella thought it was bad then. The letting up of the rain must’ve brought them out in droves to make up for days of lost sales, but she didn’t think they’d get far. The miserable tourists didn’t want to spend another nickel on Venice and Stella could imagine all the tales of how much they hated the canal city when they got back home. She couldn’t blame them. If all you saw of Venice was a continual downpour, flooded streets, and drowned rats, you wouldn’t remember it fondly. The weather had been intermittently nice before Vienna, but Stella could barely remember the sun shining, and being dry outside was a distant, almost unreachable memory.

  The crowd stepped back, moving as one, when the train chugged into the station, blowing its whistle and grinding the brakes. Before it had even come to a complete stop, people were clambering onto the steps and it became a comedy of thrown elbows, dropped luggage popping open and spilling unmentionables, and conductors getting bowled over and literally tossed out of the way and onto the platform. People tried to get off, but there was no hope.

  Stella turned away from the disagreeable display, her eyes searching for Maria through the increasing madness as more people and vendors rushed into the station. A vaporetto must’ve arrived and what had been chaotic became a mob scene. Stella couldn’t see Maria’s distinctive brassy blond hair, but, with so many umbrellas up and everyone wearing hats, it was hard to tell if she really wasn’t there, trying to make a buck like all the other vendors.

  A hand lighted on her shoulder and Stella jumped a foot.

  “Mrs. Myna,” whispered a voice.

  She turned and looking down at her was Father Giuseppe, his young, handsome face crinkled in concern. He said something in rapid Italian, but, even if she was fluent, she couldn’t have heard it well enough over the din to understand.

  She shook her head and he jabbed his hand at the exit.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t go.”

  He tried to push her out and she pulled him to her. “Maria. I have to find Maria.”

  Father Giuseppe took a sharp breath and glanced around at the pressing crowd. Then he made a motion like empty hands and said, “No rosari.”

  He thought Maria wouldn’t be there as she had nothing to sell and Stella smiled at his sweetness. She wouldn’t disabuse him of that notion, not that she could. How in the world could she gesture about what Maria could sell?

  Instead, she mimicked a wallet and said, “Mr. Myna’s. I need it.”

  He frowned and she could see him wondering why. Then he pulled out a handful of coins and tried to press them on her.

  “No, no. I need the wallet.”

  He attempted to put the coins in her hand, but she refused. She couldn’t take money from the church. Taking from Maria was one thing. The church was wholly different. The priest looked back at the insanity on the platform and muttered something that might’ve been profane as he was jostled forward into Stella. He blushed at being pressed against her and started pushing her toward the door. “No Maria. Vai, ora.”

  She refused to go and pointed at the train. The passengers were managing to force their way off with the help of the polizia and porters. Father Giuseppe hesitated, but he went for the train, looking for some poor refugees, and Stella was torn. She needed Maria to be there, but that wasn’t good for Father Giuseppe’s people. She hadn’t had time to figure out the woman’s pattern from her book yet, but that had to happen and soon.

  But what Stella wanted didn’t matter. She looked and looked, not finding Maria. The woman would be easy to miss in that crazy crowd and she found her mind thinking about what she had to do next. The thought of begging for help and money from Daniel Burgess was embarrassing and she regretted not taking the priest’s coins. She supposed she could go after him and ask. He was still there, having pushed his way to a third-class carriage where he was questioning a conductor. The man nodded and then looked behind him.

  The men stepped aside and a young woman with weary, frightened eyes and an infant on her shoulder squeezed onto the platform. Father Giuseppe shielded her and they made their way through the crowd slowly. Stella took another look, going up on her tiptoes, but she didn’t see Maria anywhere, so she decided to go ahead and borrow from the priest. Just borrow. That was okay. The money would go back and then some.

  Stella stepped out into the crush and was swept up toward the train. She pushed back and when she looked for the priest and his charge, she was startled to see his brown eyes trained on her as he looked over his shoulder. Then he jerked his head forward, ducked down behind a man hawking maps, and disappeared from her sight. If it hadn’t been for his charge’s green hat, she would’ve lost him all together. They were moving through the crowd much faster and Stella’s stomach got the worst sinking feeling.

  And then she saw her. Maria standing in her old spot next to the newspaperman’s stand and scanning the crowd. Father Giuseppe would be directly in front of her in another fifteen feet. The crowd was pushing them closer. She would see them, a priest in a crowd of tourists, he stood out with his uncovered head and stark white collar. Maria couldn’t miss him and she didn’t.

  Maria’s eyes lit up and Stella could practically see the dollar signs in them as she craned her neck to try and see who the priest was with. Stella took a breath and charged through the crowd, elbows swinging and using the sharp point of her umbrella to great effect. People yelped and jumped away. Stella was on Maria in seconds and the woman didn’t see her coming. Stella cracked her upside the head with her umbrella and Maria went down with a screech.

  “Scusi, scusi,” called out Stella, using Sofia’s accent.

  She had Maria down against the wall. She was dressed for business in a tight red dress with a high slit and low, sequined décolletage. No coat. No place to hide Nicky’s wallet, except a cheap handbag. Stella lunged for it and they tussled over the bag, each with a hand on the strap.

  “Ladra! Ladra!” yelled Maria
and Stella shoved the umbrella in her face. The strap broke and she tumbled back into the crowd. Dazed, Maria lunged after her, grabbing her arm. Stella tried to shake her off and their eyes met. It took a split second, but Maria recognized her. She smiled. “Ladr—”

  Stella smacked her with the umbrella and screamed, “Help! Help! She tried to steal my handbag! Polizia!”

  The crowd had thinned a little and a polizia spotted them instantly. He ran over as Maria yelled, “Ladra! Lei è il ladro!”

  “Help! Help!” Stella waved at the polizia frantically. Maria sneered and tightened her grip.

  The polizia got to them and seized both their arms. Maria yelled at him in Italian, aggressively complaining and spewing spittle. Stella watched and then widened her blue eyes, got tearful, and said, in what Uncle Josiah called her little kitten voice, “Sir, she tried to steal my bag. Can’t you help me, please?”

  The polizia looked them over, Maria in her harlot on parade outfit and Stella in her fur and pricey hat with its long pin and pearl, not noticing that she actually had two handbags clutched to her chest. A tear rolled down Stella’s cheek and he let go of her, turning on Maria to yell, “Lascia stare i turisti, puttana!”

  With his back turned, Stella dashed for the exit, jostling the map vendor into the sausage vendor. The two collided and their wares flew into the air along with bellows of outrage. Stella got hit with several sausages and tripped on one. She caught herself before falling and ran for the exit past a group of confused carabinieri coming in to see what all the fuss was about. She got past them and through the doorway. Something hit her, ramming her sideways into the door itself. Glass shattered and someone was at her, grabbing at her hands. She shoved at them and found herself in a fight with a boy about her height. She dropped the umbrella and held fast to Maria’s handbag. He yanked it back, pulling Stella off her feet and tumbling backward into a couple entering the station. They fell back against the stone archway, exclaiming in Dutch. The boy didn’t let go. He was small, but a good deal stronger than he looked. Stella tried to twist the handbag out of his grip. He glared at her with such ferocity that she almost let go. There was nothing but hate in his eyes and he grunted in oddly-accented German, “Lass los, Schlampe.”