by A W Hartoin
“You’re a Jew and it is illegal for Dr. Davide to treat you.”
“I am not and, no, it isn’t.”
He got in her face and the smell of fish and sweaty armpits washed over her. “You ran from me yesterday. I know you did. You’re hiding something. You’re a Jew from Germany.”
“I’m a Catholic Canadian,” said Stella, refusing to look away and reaching up for her cross. He saw the gesture, grinned, and ripped open her blouse. “I knew—”
Sofia screamed and smacked at his hands. “Stop that. She is my guest and a foreigner.”
Bartali stepped back, looking at the cross in consternation. “I know you are lying.”
“She is Catholic,” said Sofia. “She went to mass yesterday. I sent her to Father Girotti or will you doubt the word of a man of God, too?”
The carabinieri glared at Stella. “I want your passports.”
“Why are you bothering us?” asked Stella. “We’re tourists. This is a tourism city.”
“Show me your passports,” he said with a knowing smile, but Stella smiled right back. “Let me get them.”
She went in the room, got the passports, and something equally important. When she walked out again, she said, “Do you still doubt my husband is ill?”
“Very much.”
She handed the other carabinieri a bucket and whipped off the towel. The smell of vomit flowed up and the man gagged. “My husband has a cholera or a cholera-like illness from your water.”
Bartali put the towel back and said, “According to the drunken Davide.” He tried to push his way past Stella, but she stood her ground and shoved the passports at him.
He looked through them, his face growing red and his jowls shaking.
“Please go,” said Stella, using the voice her mother used on Uncle Josiah, a combination of weary anger and downright disgust. “I’ve had enough.”
“Davide is no proof of illness. He can be bought.”
“Why would I want to buy him? For what purpose?” Stella reached in her pocket. She didn’t want to do it and it could go wrong, but she needed him to leave and hopefully never come back. “Can Dr. Spooner be bought?”
“You’ve seen Spooner?” he scoffed.
She held up the card. “I have. Feel free to question him. I understand he’ll be at the Hotel Bella Luna today.”
“Dr. Spooner only treats certain patients.” By that, he meant rich patients and Stella had to think fast.
“I’m lucky then. He owed a friend of mine a favor,” she said, straightening her blouse. “Perhaps you’d like to rip open his clothes and question him. He’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
“Will he?”
“He will.”
They were toe to toe and Stella felt like she would throw up and that it showed on her face. But the carabinieri blinked and stepped back. “I will be speaking to Dr. Spooner.”
“Do that.”
He looked ready to go in the room in spite of it all and Stella’s knees shook. She couldn’t stop him from pulling back the covers and seeing the bloody bandage. He didn’t know about Maria or the boy. If he did, he would’ve said so. But that wound would connect them to Peiper. He had to know about the shooting.
Bartali watched her carefully, a little smile flickered on his face, and moved in closer, saying, “I know you’re hiding something.”
“I’m trying to hide that you disgust me,” said Stella. “How am I doing?”
Bartali growled as Randolph Hutchins turned the corner and saw them. The American rushed up, saying, “How is Mr. Myna? Is there anything I can do?” The American gave the carabinieri a funny look like a man like him ought not be allowed in hotels and continued on, “Dolores was up half the night worrying about an outbreak.”
“Outbreak?” asked Bartali.
“Of cholera. Her husband has it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Bartali eyed him critically. “You believe Mr. Myna is ill?”
“Believe it? The man vomited right in front of us. My wife hasn’t quite recovered from seeing that herself. A man like Mr. Myna would have to be on death’s door to do that. What is that terrible smell?”
“Vomit,” said Stella. “They wanted proof.”
Randolph recoiled. “You wanted proof of cholera? They’re Canadians. Canadians don’t lie. They’re Canadian.”
Bartali flipped open a little green notebook. “Who are you?”
“Who am I? Who am I?” asked Randolph in complete umbrage. “I am Randolph Hutchins of Des Moines, Iowa. An American. Make sure you write that down. American.”
Bartali’s mouth twitched. Stella couldn’t see what he wrote down, but she doubted it was American in capital letters.
“You have a passport?”
“I do,” said Randolph, becoming more imperious by the moment.
“Give it to me,” said Bartali.
“Why? I’ve done nothing.”
“I am a representative of the Italian government. I do not have to give a reason.”
Randolph put his fists on his hips. “Oh, you don’t, don’t you? If this is how you treat tourists that bring in buckets of money, it’s no wonder this city is sinking into the mud.”
“Give me your passport.”
“I’ll give you my passport. Right in the kisser. Didn’t you hear me? I’m an American. I have rights.” Randolph’s outrage echoed around the hall and Stella couldn’t stop watching. The carabinieri was holding his ground, but she’d have put good money on Randolph.
“Darling?” called out Nicky from the room and the men stopped. His voice was weak and tremulous. On hearing it, Randolph caught fire and stuck his finger in Bartali’s face. “And that’s the man you think isn’t sick? He’ll probably end up in the hospital, if you even have one in this swamp you call a wonder of the world. When’s it going to stop raining?”
“Domani,” said Bartali, automatically.
“Domani? Domani? All I hear is domani. What does that even mean? Never?”
Stella leaned over to the other carabinieri and tapped the bucket saying, “How about you dump that for me? I’ve got a sick man to care for.”
He may not have understood her words, but he got the meaning, and he wasn’t happy. Sofia cheerfully directed him toward the bathroom with a sly wink at Stella and herded the hapless officer away. Stella ducked back in the room and closed the door, putting her back to it, finally allowing herself to breathe as heavily as she liked.
Nicky looked at her from the bed and struggled to get up. He tossed off the blanket and revealed that his bandage was less bloody than she expected. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
“Who’s yelling?”
She pushed him back down and lifted the bandage. “Looks pretty good.” She said it like she really knew something about healing bullet wounds but being cheerful and convincing was half the battle or so she told herself.
“Don’t change the subject,” said Nicky.
“I’m not.”
“Who is yelling? Sounds American and—”
She quickly told him about Randolph and Bartali, but instead of being relieved as she had expected he tried to roll over saying, “We have to get out today. This morning, if possible.”
“It is not possible and you know it,” said Stella.
“You still want to stay? You are obsessed with the Sorkines.”
“I am not.” That might well be true, but she could hardly admit it. “We might need money to get out. Have you thought about that?”
The angry voices faded in the hall and he settled down, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’ve been thinking. What about Daniel Burgess at the Bella Luna? I’m sure he’d let us borrow a few bucks to telegram.”
Stella sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on her galoshes. “Great minds think alike.”
“Is that where you think you’re going?” he asked.
Stella swallowed a tart reply. He had been shot after all, so s
he’d save it for later when he was walking. “I think I’m going to breakfast. And I know I went to see Daniel last night.”
Nicky jerked to the side and then gasped in pain.
“Don’t do that. You’ll aggravate it.”
“You’re aggravating me. You can’t go to the Bella Luna on your own.”
“That’s a shocking statement seeing as I already did.” She stood up, popped a couple of aspirin in her mouth, and washed them down with some of the whiskey left in the glass. “Yuck. That’s horrid.”
“Stella!”
She slammed down the glass and turned on him. “What do you want me to do? Sit by your bedside, dabbing at your forehead like a good little nurse? We have things to do.”
“We, not you.”
“There’s no we right now. It’s all me and I took care of it.” She whipped the bandage off his rear, picked up the whiskey glass, and tossed the remains on his butt. “Look. There’s another thing taken care of.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I’m a Bled. We’re all crazy. Haven’t you heard?”
He drew back in shock. “Stella, what is—”
“Look at me and you had better listen, Mr. Nicolas Lawrence of the New York Lawrences. I’m going to breakfast and then I’m going to see if my father replied to the telegram Daniel sent. If there’s money, I’m going to get it. Understand?”
He stared at her. His expression was unreadable and she didn’t know if she’d gone too far. But she quickly realized that she didn’t care if she had.
She hid the bloody bandage behind the wardrobe and got out a new one, placing it gently on his swollen rear, and covering him to the waist. “That’ll hold you for a while. Do you want me to send a telegram to your parents?”
“No.”
Not one word of explanation. What kind of family had she married into?
“They might be worried,” she said.
Nicky didn’t reply, watching her with that damn blankness in his eyes and it infuriated her.
She took a breath and asked, “Do you want something to eat?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“No.”
“Well then, I’m off. Wish me luck,” said Stella, picking up her coat and handbag, tucking her Italian dictionary inside.
“Stella.” Nicky had turned his head to the window and it felt as if he’d retreated to a distant place far from her.
“Yes?”
“They’ll have released Peiper by now. If Maria’s given him my wallet…”
She put her hand on the door lever. “Don’t worry about that. I stole it back and threw it in the Grand Canal.”
He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Our wedding picture was in there.”
She looked back, but his face was still turned away.
“I know,” she said, deciding not to say why she did it. That would only upset him more.
He didn’t respond and she went into the hall and closed the door, locking it and then putting her hand over her mouth, blinking back the tears that wanted to come streaming down her cheeks. But she couldn’t cry. There simply wasn’t time.
The breakfast room was full up and Stella almost didn’t go in, but she needed coffee like she’d never needed coffee before. She hoped it would wake her up and a little bucking up wouldn’t go amiss. Uncle Josiah called whiskey liquid courage. Her liquid courage came with sugar and cream. Whiskey burned and sterilized wounds. She’d take coffee every day of the week.
“Mrs. Myna,” called out Randolph from his table. “How are you?”
Stella hung her coat on the rack and walked over smiling. “I’m fine and Douglas is a bit better, I think.”
“I can’t believe that awful man,” said Dolores. “Imagine wanting to disturb a sick man in his bed. Unbelievable.”
“It is, but Randolph was wonderfully helpful.”
Dolores patted her husband’s hand. “He can be a real firebrand when riled. I could hear him all the way down in our room.”
Randolph smiled smugly. “I put the servant back in public servant.”
Stella struggled to keep her nose from wrinkling in distaste. The man had done her a bigger favor than he knew.
“You did. Thank you.” She looked around and all the two-person tables were full. Only three seats were available and they were at the four-person table where Mr. Bast had taken up residence with stacks of paper and, more astonishingly, his typewriter. The portly Englishman was scribbling on a notepad and chewing on a sausage the size of a bratwurst without cutting it.
Randolph leaned over to Stella and whispered, “I can sit with him, if you like, and you can sit with Dolores.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she answered. “Sit with your wife. I’m only going to get something quick and go out shopping.”
“Shopping?” Dolores’s eyes lit up.
“Nothing exciting I’m afraid,” said Stella, quickly. “I have to replace the things in our lost luggage. Nicky is badly in need of pajamas. He’ll feel much better when he has some.” She excused herself and marched over to Mr. Bast, whose sausage was now a nub on the end of his two-pronged fork.
“Excuse me,” she said.
He coughed, dropped his sausage on his plate, and struggled to get up.
“No, no, Mr. Bast. I just wanted to know if I could join you. There are no other spaces free.”
Mr. Bast pounded his chest and gestured to the chair opposite him. He hastily cleared the papers and coughed again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Myna. How inconsiderate of me. Please, do sit down.”
Stella sat, hiding her reluctance and asked Antonio for coffee when he came over to ask what she wanted. “It’s no trouble. I just need some coffee to start the day.”
“And a dreary day it is.” He smiled at her from under his walrus mustache and a wave of déjà vu came over Stella. She didn’t know him from Adam, but he felt so familiar.
“Mrs. Myna?” he asked. “Are you feeling well?”
“Sorry. I’m just tired. My husband. It was a bad night.”
“I imagine so. If I may ask, when will he be better?”
“Doctor says a couple of days.”
“And will you go then or stay to tour the city?” he asked.
“In this rain?” she scoffed to change the subject.
He laughed and speared another sausage. “Haven’t you heard? It will stop domani.”
They laughed together and then Stella got up to fill a plate with rolls and jam. She didn’t want to eat, but thought it would look odd if she didn’t.
“So where will you go?” he asked companionably.
Why did he have to ask questions? Stella’s brain was murky, even after the coffee and she wasn’t sure she could get her story right.
“Oh, I don’t know. Douglas will have a plan. He does love to travel.” She glanced around at the papers and typewriter. “You’re clearly not touring. Why are you in Venice?”
“As a matter of fact, I am touring. Professionally, that is.”
“Professionally?”
Mr. Leonard Bast was a travel writer of some repute. He wrote under several pseudonyms that he wasn’t allowed to reveal. Stella pelted him with questions and kept him well away from asking her a single thing. Why Venice? What was his favorite city? Favorite museum? Had he been to the Vatican, etcetera?
When she paused to finish her roll, he saw his chance and he took it. “So where did you grow up, Mrs. Myna? Your accent, I can’t quite place it.”
Stella chewed, not too slowly, she hoped, and tried to form an answer that wouldn’t prompt more questions, but what popped out wasn’t what she planned at all. “Prince Edward Island.” She’d wanted to say some place that no one could possibly be familiar with like Witless Bay or Moose Jaw. Stella had once come across her uncles planning a trip to Canada for the brewery. They were in their cups and having a grand time deciding where they should visit. Uncle Nicolai thought it would be fitting for Uncle Josiah to visit Witless Bay or Sobe
r Island, but Uncle Josiah thought Spread Eagle Lake or Big Beaver was more his style, not that Stella would ever have chosen one of Josiah’s favorites. That was just asking for interest as was Prince Edward Island.
Mr. Bast threw up his hands. “Prince Edward Island. I know it well. What town or should I say village?”
Stella almost said Avonlea. It was right there on the tip of her tongue, but she saved it at the last second and spat out the second town she remembered so well from Anne of Green Gables Carmody.
He smoothed his mustache and said, “Of Anne of Green Gables fame?”
She had to go with it though she wasn’t even sure if the town was real. Avonlea wasn’t. “That’s the one. It’s much less interesting than people think. Not like living in London. Where do you live exactly? I’ve read about London so many times, but I’ve never been.”
Was she talking too fast? It felt like she was, but if Mr. Bast noticed he gave no sign of it.
“Well, I’ve moved around as you might expect for a writer. I came from Hertfordshire originally.”
Stella got the funniest feeling when Mr. Bast said, Hertfordshire and she wanted to dash away, but Antonio came over and, without asking, refilled Stella’s coffee cup. Now she couldn’t escape. She had to drink it. “You said, ‘lately of London’. Do you live in London now?”
“Yes, I did say that. Good memory. First, I lived in Wickham Place, but I’ve moved once again to Camelia Road.”
The funny feeling got worse, like a memory that she couldn’t quite recall and wouldn’t be pleasant if she did.
“Do you know Camelia Road?” asked Mr. Bast softly.
“I don’t believe so.” Stella swilled the coffee and burnt her tongue. “Do you like it?”
“It’s a basement flat and it suits me.”
She looked up and found him watching her rather intently. “A basement suits you? Why is that?”
“I like feet, Mrs. Myna,” he said. “I find them fascinating.”
“Feet?” asked Stella, genuinely astonished.
“Yes, indeed. Feet tell you so much about a person. Where they’re going. Where they’ve been.” He stuck out his leg and pointed his fork at his heavy brown shoe, a lace up that was of good quality but well worn. “Take my foot for example, Mrs. Myna. What does it tell you?”