Alibi: A Novel Page 2

  He lit the cigarette, looking over the flame with an arched eyebrow. “Well, I hire them. Oh, don’t be vulgar, I don’t mean like that.”

  But I grinned anyway, thinking of the long line of research assistants, young men known to be in the house but rarely seen, like upstairs maids.

  “One would think you were still twelve years old. Ten.”

  “Almost,” I said, still grinning. “Anyway, too young for your black book.”

  “Oh, there’s bound to be someone. People have sisters, don’t they?”

  And cousins, as it happened. Or, rather, the cousin’s friend, a connection so tenuous that by the time it had been explained we were already introduced.

  “He always does that,” I said, as Bertie walked away to join another group. “He says it gives people something to talk about. It’s Claudia, yes?”

  She nodded, watching Bertie. It was one of his afternoon drinks parties, too late for tea but early enough to catch the sunset on the Grand Canal outside. Bertie’s palazzo was near the Mocenigo on the Sant Angelo side, just before the canal makes its last bend toward the Accademia bridge, and in winter the late-afternoon light on the water was muted, almost a pale pink. What sun was left seemed to have moved inside to the burning fireplaces making small circles of heat on either side of the room. The crowd was Bertie’s usual mix—pale-faced curators from the Accademia, where he was “attached” without being officially on staff, a few attractive men whom I took to be former research assistants, overdressed expatriates with drinks, and Venetians rich or idle enough not to be at work at five in the afternoon. I had seen her earlier, standing alone by the window, looking out of place and stranded, like someone who’d been promised a drink and been forgotten. She was fingering her collar button, an unconscious distress signal, then caught my eye and stopped, dropping her hand but not looking away. I started over to rescue her, but Bertie suddenly appeared, moving her back into the crowd, still awkward but at least talking to people. By the time he made his way to me, any shyness was gone, her stare frank and curious.

  “What do you usually talk about?” she said, her voice almost flat, as if the effort of speaking English had lowered it, brought it down an octave.

  “Anything. Where you learned English, for instance.”

  “In London. Before the war. My father wanted me to know English. But of course it’s difficult, these past few years. To speak it.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, looking at her more carefully now. She was the first person I’d met here who had referred to the war at all. She was thin, with dark curly hair and a long neck held erect, a dancer’s posture. She had come in office clothes, a gray suit with padded shoulders over a white blouse. Given the cocktail dresses around the room, she should have receded, drab against all that plumage, but instead the suit, with its pointed lapels, gave her a kind of intensity. She held herself with an alert directness, full of purpose, so that everything about her, not just the suit, seemed sharply tailored.

  “No, it gets rusty. Rusty, yes?” she said, waiting for me to nod. “I need practice. That’s why I asked to meet you.”

  “Really? I thought Bertie—”

  “Yes, I asked him. You’re surprised?”

  “Flattered. I guess. Why me? Practically everyone here speaks English.”

  She smiled a little. “Maybe now it’s not so flattering.” She glanced toward the room. “The others look—”

  I turned to follow her glance—maids passing trays, everyone talking loudly through wisps of smoke, laughing as the light faded behind them through the window.

  “Frivolous,” I said.

  She looked surprised, then bit her lip, smiling. “Yes, but I was going to say old. And you were standing by the fire.”

  “So I got elected. What if I’m frivolous too?”

  “Signor Howard said you were in the war. So it’s different. You were in Germany? In the fighting?”

  “At first. Then a kind of cop. Hunting Nazis, for war crimes.”

  She stared now, taking this in, interested. “Then you know. How it was. Not like them,” she said, waving her hand a little to take in the room.

  “Maybe they’re the lucky ones. Like Venice.”

  “Like Venice?”

  “You get off the train here, it’s hard to believe anything ever happened.”

  “Well, from Germany. But even here, you know, wartime—it’s not so easy.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, imagining the lines, the shortages. “I just meant, no bombs. You were here?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “A true Venetian.”

  “Not for Venice. My family was from Rome. It was my grandfather who came here.”

  “Your grandfather? In America, that would make you a founding family.”

  “Founding?”

  “Old.”

  “Ah. No, but in Rome we were an old family. Since the empire.”

  “Which empire?”

  She hesitated, not sure what I meant. “Rome.”

  “What, with chariots?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “Claudia. A Roman name,” I said, watching her sip from her glass, easier now, even the sharp lapels on the suit somehow softer. “How do you know Bertie?”

  “I don’t. He invited everyone from the Accademia. I work there. His friend has a cousin who knew—”

  “I heard. I couldn’t keep it straight then either. I haven’t been yet—the Accademia. Maybe you’ll give me a tour. Now that we’ve broken the ice.”

  “There, that’s one,” she said quickly, ignoring my question. “You can help me with that. What does it mean, break the ice? I know, to be friendly, but how does it mean that? Like breaking through ice on a lake? I don’t understand it.”

  “I never thought about it,” I said. “I suppose just a general stiffness, when people don’t know each other, breaking through that.”

  “But not melting the ice—you know, the friendship making things warmer. It’s breaking.” She looked down at her drink, genuinely puzzled.

  “All right, melted then. But now that is, would you show me around the Accademia?”

  “You should have a guide for that. I’m not really an expert on the paintings.”

  “I’m not interested in the paintings.”

  “Oh,” she said, unexpectedly flustered. She looked away. “Are you in Venice long?” A party question.

  “My mother’s living here—for now, anyway. She’s one of the frivolous people over there.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, she is frivolous. It’s part of her charm. It’s what everybody likes about her.”

  “Including you?”

  “Sure.”

  “A son who loves his mother. Very Italian.”

  “You see how respectable. So, how about it? Some lunch hour? I’ll help you with your English.”

  She looked directly at me. “Why?”

  I stood there for a second, not knowing how to answer. “Why?” I said finally. “I don’t know. I’m in Venice. I should get to know some Venetians.”

  “They’re Venetian,” she said, moving her hand toward the others.

  “None of them asked to meet me.”

  She smiled. “Don’t make too much of that. It was for politeness. And now you want to go out with me?” she said, trying “go out.” “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know your people go way back. So that’s all right. And you’re the first person I’ve enjoyed talking to since I got here.”

  “But it’s you who are talking.”

  I grinned. “Okay. You talk.”

  “No, I have to go.”

  “And leave me with them?” We turned. “Look, now it’s priests.” Bertie was greeting a priest in a flowing scarlet cassock, who extended his hand in a royal gesture, barely moving his head, standing in front of some unseen throne. “Who’s that? Do you know?”

  “No.”

  “I thought everybody h
ere knew everybody. He must be a monsignor or a cardinal. Something. I wish I knew the difference. You’re from Rome—can you tell by the colors?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a Jew,” she said quietly.

  “Oh,” I said, turning back to her.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Why should it be a problem?”

  “Jews are not so popular. Not in America either, I think.”

  “So you don’t know,” I said, ignoring it, “if he’s a monsignor.”

  “No. Don’t you? You’re not a Christian?”

  “I’m not anything. Not a Catholic, anyway.”

  “But not a Jew either.”

  “Part. My grandfather.”

  “Miller?”

  “Muller. Changed. My father was a mischling.”

  “One grandfather.”

  “It was enough in Germany.”

  She looked at me, then held out her hand. “Thank you for the English. I have to go. It’s already dark. Do you see Signor Howard?” She glanced around the room.

  “He’s getting the Church a drink. Come on, no one will miss us.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “No, it’s far.”

  “Nothing’s far in Venice.”

  She laughed. “How well do you know it?”

  My mother intercepted us at the door, glass in hand.

  “Darling, you’re not going. Gianni will be here any—He’ll be sorry to miss you.”

  “Not too much.”

  “Of course he will. Don’t be silly. The army certainly hasn’t done very much for your manners.”

  “You say hi for me,” I said, pecking her on the cheek. “I have to run. This is Miss—I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  “Grassini. Claudia Grassini,” she said, nodding to my mother.

  “How nice,” my mother said, shaking her hand. “Finding someone new at one of Bertie’s parties. You probably think we’re the waxworks.”

  “We have to run,” I said.

  “Perhaps you’d like to join—” my mother started, looking carefully at Claudia, assessing.

  “Another time,” Claudia said.

  “Of course,” my mother said, a pas de deux. “Did you say goodbye to Bertie?” she said to me.

  “He’s in confession.”

  She giggled. “Oh, Bertie and his priests. You have to admit, though, he’s the best-dressed person in the room. How did they manage, do you think? During the war. I mean, did they have coupons?”

  But by this time we were out the door, walking down the stairs to the hall.

  “What was that all about?” I said to Claudia. “That look between you?”

  “She’s a mother. She wants to see if I’m all right. You know, like in the market. You feel the fruit.”

  I laughed. “How did you come out?”

  “She’s not sure. She’s a widow?”

  “For years.”

  “What did he do, your father?”

  “Have fun, mostly. Then he got sick.”

  “Fun?”

  “It was a different world. People did that then—have fun.”

  “These people,” she said, lifting her head toward the stairs, then turning to the maid who was holding her coat. “You don’t have to do this. It’s a long way. I can meet you at the Accademia if you’d really like that.”

  “No, I want to see where a real Venetian lives.”

  “A poor one, you mean.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, of course. Who lives like this now?” she said, looking up the staircase to the piano nobile. “Only foreigners.”

  We were alone at the vaporetto station, huddling in the corner against the cold. The fog had come in, blocking out the opposite side of the canal, so dense you felt you could snatch it in handfuls.

  “So what do you do here?” she said, hunching her shoulders, hands stuffed in her pockets.

  “Walk. See the city. What does anyone do in Venice? Meet people.”

  “At Signor Howard’s?”

  “You disapprove?”

  “No, no. It’s not for me—” She stopped, then turned away, stamping her feet for warmth. “Signor Howard helped me, at the Accademia.”

  “Bertie likes doing that. Helping people. But you still don’t like his friends.”

  She looked up at me with a half smile. “Do you?”

  “Not anymore. I’m not sure why. I mean, I’ve known some of them for years. It’s just that everything seems different now.”

  “For you. Not for them.”

  “No, not for them. It’s the same party.”

  “I used to see them in the windows, from the canal—all the parties.”

  “And now you’re inside.”

  “You think so? Ha, brava. The international set. But now it’s like you—it’s all different. I don’t care.”

  “I’m glad you went to this one, anyway.”

  “Well, for Signor Howard. It was hard to get work when I came back from Fossoli.”

  “Where?”

  “A camp. Near Modena. Where they put the Jews.”

  “There were camps here?”

  “You think it was only in Germany? Yes, here. Beautiful Italy. Not so beautiful then.”

  “When was this?”

  “Forty-four. The first roundups were in forty-three. At the end. But I went later. It was a holding camp. From there, they shipped people on.”

  “To Poland?”

  She nodded. “So you know that. No one here does. No one here talks about it.”

  “You?” I said, involuntarily looking down at her sleeve, as if I could see through to the tattooed numbers.

  “No, I stayed at Fossoli.”

  “So you were lucky,” I said, thinking of the piled-up carts.

  “Yes, lucky,” she said, turning to a bright light coming toward us on the water. “At last. It’s so cold.”

  The boat, finally visible through the mist, slammed against the dock.

  Inside, we found seats toward the back, the windows steamy with condensation, so that it seemed the fog had moved in with us. There were a few other passengers, tired people going home with string bags, teenagers smoking. In the harsh light of the cabin everything seemed public again, the easy intimacy outside somehow part of the dark. The boat moved slowly, following the cone of its headlight, the motors groaning at the reduced speed, too loud for quiet conversation. But in the sudden warmth we were no longer hunched over. When Claudia sat back and crossed her legs, one came out of the coat, an unexpected flash of white, exposed.

  “Do you live with your family?” I said, looking away from her leg.

  “No, they’re dead. My mother years ago. My father just last year.”

  “Oh,” I said, and then there was nothing to say, nothing worth saying over the engine anyway, drawing attention. Instead we sat quietly, suddenly awkward, rocking with the boat, the swaying movement pushing our bodies together so they barely met, then pulled back, like waves. It was a kind of dancing, a permission to touch in public, aware of each other, the warm skin under the coats.

  The other passengers sat nodding to their own rhythm, looking up surprised when station lights suddenly appeared, then gathering their packages, unsteady on their feet until the ropes were tied. After San Marco the boat began to empty, until no one else was in the cabin but an old couple who appeared to be asleep. Outside, everything was still suspended in the fog, the lamps on the Riva just pinpricks of light.

  “Where do we get off?” I said, leaning to her ear to say it, so that now there was the smell of her, wool and skin and the faint trace of some perfume she must have put on for Bertie’s.

  “Soon. I told you it was far.”

  “The Lido?” I said, an excuse to stay close to her face.

  She smiled, turning to me. “Not that far. Two more stops,” she said. Then she was silenced by a foghorn off to our right on some invisible ship.

  We got
off at the public gardens, leaving the old couple to keep drifting out into the lagoon. After a dark stretch bordering the park, the calles took on the usual twists through small deserted campos lit by hooded single bulbs at each corner. This was the tag end of Venice, neglected and out of the way, soundless except for Claudia’s heels on the pavement and a few radios chattering behind shuttered windows. The fog was thinner than it had been on the water, so that even with only a few lights we could see the façades of the buildings, plaster peeling from some of them in large patches. Occasionally, overhead, laundry still hung to dry in the damp air, as if someone had simply forgotten to bring it in.

  “You see it’s not the Danieli,” she said as we walked along a misty canal. “But still, a water view. That’s San Isepo. I’m just there.” She pointed to one of the peeling houses. “Can you find your way back?”

  “Is this where you lived before?”

  “No. In Cannaregio. The ghetto. It’s a Venetian word, you know that? We all lived there, so it was easy to find us. And after, when I came back from Fossoli, I thought, no, anywhere but there. So I found this—the other end of the city. It’s far, but I like it here. At least I can’t hear it anymore, in my head.”

  “Hear what?” I said, looking at her closely. We had stopped by the bridge just before her building.

  “Nothing. A figure of speech. When I see the streets there, the ghetto, it reminds me. Of the sirens. Here it’s different, it looks different, so the memories aren’t like that.”

  “What sirens?”

  “For the air raids.”

  “I thought Venice wasn’t bombed.”

  “No, drills.” She looked away, then back at me. “You want to know? What it was like? They used the air raid sirens so nobody would hear. When they rounded us up. So late, all the screaming and the pounding on the doors, anybody would hear it. At the Casa di Riposo—how do you say, old people’s home—all the patients, so much noise. So they used the sirens to cover up the noise. So no one would hear.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, embarrassed to have said anything.

  “They took all the patients. Even the ones too sick to move.” She turned away. “Well. Enough of that. Do you have a cigarette?”

  I lit it for her, studying her face in the glow of the match. She leaned back against the wall of the bridge.

  “So now you know all about me. Where I live, where I work. Now even my memories. I don’t go to Harry’s. I live here. Not Signor Howard’s Venice. Not yours, either.”