Alibi: A Novel Read online

  After a nod to Signora Cavallini, he led my mother out to the floor, leaving us to make small talk with his wife. It was a pity about the rain, but the ball was lovely, the way Venice used to be. So much food. Of course, it was easier for foreigners. When even this ran out, I looked at my mother, chatting happily while she danced, and I felt queasy again.

  Signora Cavallini, whose English was poor, must have been as bored as we were, because she led her husband away before he could ask for another dance. They drifted into the next room, where supper would be served later, picking up glasses of champagne along the way.

  “My god, what a country. Even the policemen go to balls. Imagine at home,” my mother said.

  “How does Mimi know him?”

  “His wife, I think. Of course, with Mimi you never know. She casts a pretty wide net. Look at them all,” she said, waving to the room. “And she was so worried. ‘They won’t come out in the rain.’ Well, they’d come out in a monsoon. You’ll never guess who’s here. Celia de Betancourt. I thought, the war really must be over if she’s back. Venezuela all this time. Imagine the boredom of it.”

  “Who?”

  “Darling, you remember. You were fascinated by her when you were little. On the beach. She would just tan and tan.”

  I made a helpless gesture.

  “Well, anyway, she’s here. Still brown as a berry too. Of course it’s sunny there, I suppose. That’s her, over with Mimi. Remember?”

  I looked across the floor at a woman in a strapless taffeta gown, her dark neck entirely covered in diamonds.

  “That’s some necklace.”

  “The jewels are past belief. I think even Mimi was stunned. They said the war would put an end to all this, and just look.”

  “I hope it’s all right,” Claudia said, touching hers. “About the necklace.”

  My mother said nothing for a minute, her face soft and pleased, then put her hand on Claudia’s. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? Adam’s father gave it to me. Awful to think of it just sitting in a box somewhere. It’s nice to give it some air.”

  “Like a pet,” I said.

  “You know what I mean. What’s the point of having them if you don’t wear them? Anyway,” she said to Claudia, “I’m glad you did.” She turned to me, her eyes moist. “You look so like your father in those clothes. So like. He loved to dress up, you know. Parties.”

  While you were—where? I thought, then felt dismayed for thinking it.

  “So handsome. Well,” she said, and then, making a connection known only to herself, “You know, it’s not like him, not really. I’m worried. It’s all very well that policeman pooh-poohing, saying men are late, but he wouldn’t be late for this. What did he say to you?”

  “Just that he’d see you here. It’s not that late,” I said, glancing at my watch. “He’ll be here.” Suddenly I wanted a cigarette, anything to steady the jumping in my stomach.

  “But I called his house. He left hours ago.”

  “Maybe he stopped for a drink somewhere.”

  “A drink. And then fell into a canal, I suppose,” my mother said, dismissive. “Tonight of all nights.”

  “The inspector didn’t seem to think—”

  “Oh, I know what he thinks. Some woman. Why else would a man be late? A little stop along the way. I wouldn’t put it past him—he practically winks at you when he talks. But that’s not Gianni.” She put her hand on Claudia’s again. “I hope Adam explained things. What he’s like. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know. He wouldn’t know how.”

  Claudia moved her hand, looking away.

  “Anyway, you’ve come to dance, and I’m just fussing and ruining things. Off you go. I’ll wait here like Penelope with my weaving.” She made a shooing motion with her hands toward the dance floor.

  The orchestra had switched to a piece of generic ball music, lilting and sweet without being recognizable as anything in particular, something to talk under as we danced. People were passing back and forth between the ballroom and the food tables next door, balancing little plates of hors d’oeuvres.

  “What are you going to say to her?” Claudia said when we’d moved away from the edge.

  “Nothing.”

  “But if they never find him—think how it will be for her. Never to know.”

  “If they never find him, we’ll be safe. She’ll be—”

  What? All right? Frantic? Waiting for some word, the phone to ring. How long before a disappearance becomes painless, just a mystery? I looked at Claudia.

  “We can’t say anything. You know that, don’t you? We can’t.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll get her to go away somewhere. Maybe Mimi—”

  “She won’t leave now. She’ll look for him.”

  “She can’t look forever. It’ll pass,” I said weakly, not even convincing myself.

  We stared at each other for a moment, not talking, just moving our feet in aimless circles to the music, then her eyes grew shiny and she turned her face away.

  “Oh,” she said, a moan, cut off, turned suddenly into a kind of nervous giggle that caught in her throat. She pitched her head forward onto my shoulder to stifle it, steady an unexpected shaking.

  “We have to get through this,” I said. “Then we’ll be all right.”

  “Can’t we leave now? Everybody’s seen us.”

  “If they find the body, they’ll try to fix a time of death. People have to think we were here all night.”

  “How would they find it? You said he’d go to the bottom. In the lagoon.”

  “If they find it.”

  “Oh, god. And then what?”

  “Then we were here all night. Having a good time.”

  I pulled her hand to me, bending my head to kiss it, then saw my own fingers and froze. There were little rims of rust under the nails. No, blood. When I’d clenched my hands earlier, had I dug them in so deep? I opened my hand. No marks on the palms. His blood. Where anybody might see it if he looked closely enough. Cavallini hadn’t noticed, shaking hands, but what if we met again? I might be lighting a cigarette, bringing my fingers up, the rims suddenly visible, unavoidable. The smallest thing could give you away.

  I turned Claudia’s hand over, spreading it. “Let me see. No, you’re all right.”

  “What?” she said, startled, clutching her hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, letting my arms fall. “Have some champagne. Right back.” Turning away, not even waiting to see her expression, explain anything. Time enough later.

  The nearest men’s room was on the other side of the stair landing, unmarked but guarded by a footman placed there to direct ladies down the hall. Inside, another servant was acting as washroom attendant, turning taps and handing out towels. Count Grillo stood in front of the toilet bowl, still supported on one arm, his pee a trickle that barely made a sound as it hit the water. I dug my fingernails in again, waiting.

  When he finished, flushing and then slowly buttoning up, I stepped forward to take his place, but nothing came out. I was too anxious now even to pee. But I had to—otherwise why had I come? And then the attendant turned on the tap, the sound of gushing water like a cue, and it was all right. I slumped a little, my breath spilling out too.

  Count Grillo took forever to dry but finally shuffled away. I rubbed my hands around the bar of soap, lathering them, keeping my back to the attendant. My knuckles were raw, not broken but scraped—what happened to hands in a fight. I ran one nail under the others and dug at the dried blood. More soap. When I rinsed, there was just enough blood to stain the water, a thin pale stream. I stood for a minute staring at it, light rust, like something that might have come out of an old water pipe. There all along. Shaking hands with Cavallini, with scraped knuckles and blood under my fingernails. But he hadn’t seen, hadn’t thought to look. And now it was too late, the red running into the soapy water, then out some ancient drain to the lagoon. Safe.

  “Prego.” The attendant had leaned forward, holding
out a hand towel, the word loud in my ear. Had he been close enough to see? It didn’t have to be Cavallini. Anybody. Just one glance at the basin, the eye drawn to the unexpected stain.

  “Momento,” I said quickly, turning my shoulder to block his line of sight. What if any of it had stuck to the porcelain? But I couldn’t wash the bowl, not with him standing there. I lathered once more, then rinsed, holding my hands out for the towel but keeping the water running, a last chance to let it wash away. The attendant reached over and turned off the tap. Not looking at the water, busy now with the towel, taking it from me and putting it in the hamper. Involuntarily I looked down at my hands. Pink from all the soap and water, but no more rims, no evidence. When I looked up, I found the attendant staring at me, his eyes a question mark. I dropped my hands, folding the rough knuckles out of sight. He kept staring and for a minute, feeling chilled, I thought he had seen, was trying to decide what to do, but then he held up a clothes brush and I saw that he was just waiting for me to turn around so that he could dust me off, make the rest of me as clean as my hands.

  An hour later we called Gianni’s house again, this time using Claudia to speak Italian.

  “Non in casa,” my mother said, “that’s all I can get out of them. Well, I know he’s not at home.”

  Claudia took the phone and spoke rapidly for a few minutes, but learned nothing more. He’d left the house on foot before eight. Dressed for the party. Did he say he was going anywhere first? No, he said he had to hurry, he was a little late.

  The hospital knew even less. He’d left at the usual time. For home? Yes. And he hadn’t been back? No, he was going to a big party.

  My mother now fidgeted, genuinely worried, as if Claudia’s Italian should have produced different answers.

  “But it’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “No one just vanishes.” “No,” Claudia said. “So he must have a reason.”

  I looked at her, expecting to see her eyes dart away, but she met mine evenly, no longer skittish, her balance restored somehow by having to lie to my mother. Or maybe the lies were becoming real to us, what had really happened.

  “Maybe he did fall into a canal,” my mother said. “You think I’m joking. Bertie says it happened all the time during the war, in the blackout. Several people died. Funny, isn’t it? The only war casualties. No bombs. Just people falling into canals.”

  “Where is Bertie, anyway?”

  “He always comes late. Always. He doesn’t dance, you know. He just turns up for supper and a good look around.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s coming with Bertie.”

  “Gianni? Why would he do that? They’re not chums, really. No, something’s wrong. I know it. Seriously, what should I do?”

  “I don’t know. Where else would he be? With friends?”

  “Darling, instead of me? Something’s happened.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Inspector Cavallini,” Claudia said.

  I looked at her, but she ignored me, concentrating on my mother.

  “Yes, but what do I say? I don’t want to ruin Mimi’s party.”

  “Ask him to call the Questura. If there has been an accident. Somebody in the canal. Anything like that.”

  My mother hesitated, frowning. “They’d report that, wouldn’t they?” She nodded, thinking to herself, and turned away, touching my arm absentmindedly as she left.

  “You’re sending her to the police?” I said, watching my mother head into the other room.

  Claudia shrugged. “He won’t do anything. But maybe he’ll remember. That we went to him before anything was wrong.”

  Inspector Cavallini, indulging my mother, made the call to the Questura. Nothing had been reported, no accident, no body stumbled over in a dark calle. He asked someone to check the hospitals for anyone brought in with a heart attack, a stroke, anything sudden, but Venice had been quiet, huddled in out of the rain.

  “You know, she’ll make it worse,” he said, drawing me aside, his voice confiding, man-of-the-world. “A man stops somewhere, sometimes it’s difficult getting back. Maestre, perhaps, somewhere on the mainland—many go there. And then a delay, the train is late. So, the arguments. Often this happens. A part of life.”

  “He wouldn’t go to Maestre in white tie.”

  “He was in white tie?” Cavallini said, looking at me.

  “I suppose so,” I said quickly. “They said at the house he was dressed for the party. I just assumed—anyway, too dressed for Maestre.”

  “Somewhere in Venice, then. A visit. It’s usually the case.”

  “Or someone sick. A medical emergency.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, dubious. “But then he would call, yes?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick himself.”

  “Then someone will find him. Meanwhile, make your mother easy. Maybe sick, yes, but maybe delayed, a simple matter. Ah, Signora Miller,” he said as my mother came up. “Nothing has been reported. So I think it’s a matter for the patience.”

  “But they’ll call you here if anything—”

  “Yes, I asked them to do that. Don’t upset yourself. I think next you’ll hear the apologies.”

  “Thank you,” my mother said, still frowning, concerned.

  Then Mimi was with us.

  “Grace, I’ve been looking—is anything wrong?”

  “No, no,” my mother said, brightening.

  “Don’t tell me he still hasn’t shown. It’s Maggie and Jiggs. You need a rolling pin. They’re all stinkers, aren’t they? Have you had supper?” she said to the rest of us. “There’s lovely food. I’m going to borrow Grace for a minute.” She took my mother’s arm. “Come on. Ernesto’s in a pout, and you always know what to say to him.”

  She was moved off, a boat in tow, and we were alone with Cavallini again.

  “Thank you for doing all this. I’m sorry—at a party.”

  He shrugged. “These things happen. She’ll be angry, yes? When he comes.”

  “Yes.”

  He gave a sly smile. “Yes. Another night would have been better.” An old hand at slipping out. I wondered if he kept a girl in Maestre, in a small flat near the factories, for visits.

  “Dance?” I said to Claudia, eager to get away.

  The orchestra, looser and more confident, finally upbeat, was playing Cole Porter. It was the music everybody had wanted, what they’d flirted to on the Lido, and the floor was crowded. Soon the older guests would begin to drift away or settle themselves with plates of food, but just now the whole room seemed to be dancing, moving back and forth in flickers, like the candles. The stairs were empty. Everyone who was coming had already arrived. How long before even Cavallini became alarmed? He was watching from the edge of the floor, a knowing smile still on his face. Knowing nothing. And I realized then that no one knew, not anyone in the bright, crowded room, and the secret carried with it a kind of perverse pleasure. No one knew. We were a couple dancing to “Night and Day,” that was all—something for Cavallini to gossip about later with his wellborn wife.

  “Not too much longer,” I said.

  “All right,” Claudia said, preoccupied. She moved with the music for a few more minutes, then said, “What will she do?”

  “She’ll go back to Ca’ Venti. She won’t stay here. Not with Mimi. But we don’t have to wait. We should do what we would normally do.”

  “Can we eat something first? It’s terrible, I know, but I’m so hungry.”

  Food had been available all night, passed on trays and anchoring long tables in the next room, but now a new buffet had been set up, a lavish late supper, hot in silver chafing dishes, with waiters to carry your plates to a table. There were glass bowls of caviar and carving trolleys of roast veal, fruit arranged in pyramids. It was, in its way, more opulent than the ball itself, as if rationing had never existed, imaginary. Even in Venice, which had had an easy war, it was disturbing to see so much food.

  “You go,” I said to Claudia. “I want a smoke fir
st.”

  I went over to the balcony windows facing the canal, lit a cigarette, and almost at once became nauseated, the queasiness I’d felt all evening suddenly lurching in my stomach. It might have been the close room, the sight of the rich food, the smoke on an empty stomach, but I knew it wasn’t, just what was left of the nervous energy that had started when I’d pushed him against the wall. Everything up and down, the freezing rain in the lagoon, then a ballroom hot enough for bare-shouldered gowns; pushing his head down in the water, my fingers still streaked with blood, everything in me pumping, willing me to do it, then polite evasions, the puzzled, hurt look on my mother’s face. I opened one of the windows and gulped in some air. It was surprisingly cold, like the air in the lagoon, stinging on my warm face. Below, a vaporetto heading to Salute was passing Mimi’s water entrance, still busy with lights and boats tied to the striped poles, gondoliers waiting on the dock with cigarettes cupped in their hands. A murder had been committed, and no one knew. I took another breath, then drew on the cigarette again, steadying myself. He was gone. This is what it felt like—not remorse but a grim satisfaction, and this tension in the stomach. No going back. A constant tremor on the surface of your skin, alert, because all that mattered now was not getting caught.

  Getting caught. My stomach lurched again and I found my shoulders shaking, my body heaving, not bringing anything up, just gasping for air. He wasn’t going to come late. I’d choked the life out of him, the last breath. How could it not be in my face, a red stain? My shoulders moved again. Somebody would see. I’d give everything away, out of control.

  “Adam, whatever is the matter?” Bertie said to my back. “Are you all right?”

  I tossed the cigarette and gripped the window frame, willing my shoulders to be still. Nothing escaped Bertie. I nodded, keeping my back to him.

  “I just felt funny for a minute. Some air.” I drew some in, making a point.

  “Funny?”

  I looked down again at the men on the dock. The rain had let up. You could hear the music coming from the ballroom. It might be hours before anyone asked for his boat. One of the gondoliers passed a bottle, something to hold off the damp. No one knew.