Alibi: A Novel Page 4

  “One look, then. I’m getting out,” she said, pulling herself up and posing with her hand on her hip, a kind of burlesque wiggle, then folding her arms across her chest in a shiver. “Oh, this cold.”

  “Here,” I said, wrapping one of the thin towels around her as she stepped out. I held her for a minute, letting the towel blot the water, then began rubbing her dry with another one. “Come back to bed. It’s warm.”

  “No, it’s late.”

  “Have dinner.”

  “No, it’s time to go home. I have to keep respectable hours. For the neighbors,” she said, slipping on her underpants and hooking her bra. “To be respectable.”

  “You’re not,” I said, smiling.

  She came over and put her hand in my hair. “I used to be.”

  I picked up my shorts. “All right. I’ll take you home.”

  “No, not tonight.” She looked at me. “It’s better. You stay here.”

  “What am I going to do here?”

  “You can watch.” She slipped on her skirt, her face sly, as if she knew this covering up would turn erotic, each simple move, even lifting a blouse from its hanger, a secret between us, her body something only we knew, more ours than ever as she hid it from everyone else, piece by piece.

  She came over to the bed and looked down. “And you want to go on the vaporetto?” She leaned down, taking my erection in her hand while she kissed me. “Sometimes, you know, when it’s like this, we want to think it’s something else. But it’s not, it’s just what it is, that’s all. It’s enough for me, what it is. You understand?” She ran her fingers up the side of my penis, then moved her hand away.

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For the day. For the room.”

  “Tomorrow?” I said.

  She looked at me, then smiled. “But somewhere nearer. I’ll have to go back to work. Not all day, like this.”

  “Anything. The Gritti?”

  “No, somewhere cheap. With sheets like this.” She gestured toward the rumpled bed. “So we don’t care what we do.”

  I got up to follow, grabbing part of the sheet to cover myself, making her giggle.

  “Very funny.”

  “Well, it is, though. How is that? So serious and then it’s funny. You think it’s funny for the animals?”

  “No, but they don’t go home early, either.”

  She laughed. “One o’clock.”

  I went over to the window and waited to see her come out below, the wide shoulders of her coat as she moved into a line of umbrellas, people hurrying home from work, none of them turning around to look back, none aware that anything had happened.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My mother picked that evening, when my head was groggy, still flooded with sex, to put her foot down about dinner with Gianni.

  “He’s going to think you’re avoiding him. I waited until the last possible minute. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Looking at art.”

  “Art.”

  “I’m not avoiding him. I’m just tired.”

  “You’re always tired.” She bit her lip. “Do this for me, would you, sweetie? I don’t want to have to make apologies again. It’s rude, aside from anything else.”

  “Well, I can’t go like this,” I said, patting my soaked jacket. Everything crumpled, like the sheets. It occurred to me that I might even smell of it, the whole sweaty afternoon. “I have to wash.”

  My mother sighed. “All right. Meet us at Harry’s. I’ll send the taxi back and tell him to wait. You won’t even need the traghetto. But darling, quickly, please?”

  “All right. Chop-chop. What do you want me to wear?” I said, looking at her, primped, even some of her good jewels.

  “We’re going to the Monaco, so something decent. You know. Not the uniform, please. That wasn’t funny at all, at Mimi’s. How do you think it makes them feel?”

  “It was the only thing I had at the time.”

  “Well, not at the Monaco.”

  “God forbid.”

  She looked at me. “You’re not going to be in a mood, are you?”

  “Promise. Actually, I’m in a good mood.”

  “I can see. The art, no doubt.” She raised an eyebrow. “I can smell the wine from here. Go easy at Harry’s. As long as you’re doing this, you might as well make a good impression. He’s nervous about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the only family I have. You know what Italians are like about families.”

  “What about Aunt Edna?”

  She laughed. “Darling, she’s what I use when I want to get out of something.”

  I looked at her. “What do you want to get into?”

  She turned away, picking up her purse. “Nothing. I just want us to have a nice dinner.” She looked back. “I live here now, you know. Gianni is a good friend. It’s not too much to ask.”

  “No.”

  “You used to be so charming. I suppose it’s the war.”

  It seemed such an extraordinary thing to say that for a minute I couldn’t think how to answer. But she had caught my look.

  “You know what I mean. I know—well, I don’t know, that’s the problem. But you never say, either. And anyway, it’s over, that’s the main thing. Now look at the time. I’m going to be late.”

  “He’ll wait.”

  She smiled. “That doesn’t make it right.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be long. And no politics.”

  “Why? What are his politics?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I never ask. And I don’t want you to, either. It always ends in arguments, no matter what it is. Besides, it’s their country—things never make sense to outsiders.”

  “All right. No politics. Art?”

  “Art.” Her eyes were laughing, full of their old spirit.

  “Maybe we’ll just talk about you,” I said, smiling. “What could be more interesting?”

  “Mm. What could?” she said, throwing me a look, then heading for the stairs. Below us, I could hear the motorboat taxi churning water at the canal steps. “Good thing I’m going first. I can tell him you’re adopted.”

  I was ready by the time the taxi returned. It was still raining, and after we rounded the tip of the Dogana and headed across to San Marco even the lights seemed blurry, as if the city were actually underwater. The campanile disappeared somewhere in an upper mist and the piazza itself was deserted, with nothing to fill the empty space but lonely rows of lamps.

  Harry’s, however, was snug and busy, all polished wood and furs draped over chairs and eager American voices. The bar was hidden behind a line of uniforms, officers on leave. My mother and Gianni were both drinking Prosecco, their second by the look of the half-filled olive dish.

  “Ah, at last,” he said, getting up. “I’m so happy you could come.” A polite smile, genial.

  “Sorry to hold you up. Should we just go over?” I gestured to the door and the Monaco just across the calle.

  “No, no, there’s time. Have a drink.”

  A waiter appeared, summoned apparently by thought.

  “Well, a martini then,” I said to the waiter, ignoring my mother’s glance.

  “What is the expression?” Gianni said. “Out of wet clothes and into a dry martini.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

  “Yes,” I said. “Look, there’s Bertie.”

  He was at the far end of the room, drinking with a woman in an elaborate hat. Between us was the usual crowd, half of whom had probably been at his party.

  “Yes, we saw him earlier,” my mother said. “Gianni, who’s he with?”

  “Principessa Montardi.”

  “Really a principessa?”

  “Well, the prince was real. And she married him. Her father was in milk products. Milanese.”

  “The things you know.”

  “It’s a small city. We know each other maybe too well. Ah, here’s your drink.”

  The martini was strong
and I felt the heat of it right away, pleasant, like the warm light of the room. Bertie had waved, the others who vaguely knew us had noticed, and now we could retreat to ourselves. I felt lightheaded, wanting to grin, still thinking about the afternoon. And there’d be tomorrow, another room. Then another. Afternoons of pure pleasure. In Germany there had been an army nurse drunk at a party, and one German girl, who had asked for tinned meat afterward, both times sad, furtive, closed off, like the country itself now. Here everything was pleasure—sex and buildings glimmering on the water, even Harry’s green olives. I realized—was it only the martini?—that I was happy.

  “You look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” my mother said. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Just how nice this all is.”

  “You’re enjoying Venice, then?” Gianni said.

  “Yes, very much. Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Most, yes, I think. Even we do sometimes,” he said.

  “Does it bother you, all the visitors?”

  “No, it’s important for us. How else could we live? Of course you cannot choose your visitors. The Wehrmacht loved us, for their holidays. In the spring all the tables in San Marco, nothing but uniforms. Their city. So that was difficult.”

  “Awful,” my mother said automatically.

  “You have been in Germany, Grace said?”

  I nodded. “What’s left of it.”

  “The bombs, you mean.”

  “The cities are gone. Flat.”

  “So that’s how it ended for them. You see how lucky we are. Imagine Venice—” He shuddered. “How long will you stay?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “He’s been looking at art,” my mother said wryly.

  “Yes? Then you will never leave. There is always more art in Venice. Where have you been? The Accademia?”

  I nodded. “No one’s there this time of year. You can look at The House of Levi for hours and not have to move.”

  “Really,” my mother said, surprised.

  Dr. Maglione smiled in agreement. “Veronese. Maybe the finest of them. Tintoretto, it’s too much sometimes. You must see San Sebastiano, Veronese’s church.”

  “Yes, off the Zattere. Before the maritime station.”

  My mother was now looking at me in real surprise, aware suddenly that my time here was unknown to her, something I did between meals.

  “So you know it. I can see you don’t need me for a guide,” he said pleasantly. “Now Grace—” He smiled at her.

  “He thinks I’m hopeless,” my mother said.

  “Hopeless, no.”

  “I follow those yellow signs with the arrows and I still have no idea where I am. They always say Per Rialto and I never want to go there.”

  “No, especially not there,” Dr. Maglione said, laughing.

  A look passed between them, so intimate that I went back to my martini, feeling in the way. Even with my skin still flushed with it, I couldn’t make the leap from the damp sheets of my own afternoon to whatever time they were remembering. I had not imagined anything beyond friendship, a way to pass the time. And yet there must have been sex, maybe even with sweat and gasps, open mouths. I looked at him, now lighting a cigarette. Thinning gray hair brushed back at the temples, intelligent eyes. But what did she see? He caught my glance, meeting my eyes through the smoke in a question.

  “Turned up at last, has he?” Behind me, Bertie had put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hello, Bertie,” I said. “Where’s your princess?”

  “In the loo. So I thought I’d say hello. I hate staring at an empty table, don’t you?”

  “Join us,” Dr. Maglione said.

  “No, no, she’s quick as a bunny usually. I don’t know how you do it,” he said to my mother. “All those layers.”

  My mother laughed.

  “And where did you get to last night?” Bertie said to me. “Now you see him, now you don’t.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt. You were about to go into confession.”

  “And so should you, once in a while. I know I don’t want to be caught unawares. Between the old stirrup and the ground.” He looked at me. “You haven’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you? Heathen. A fine job you’ve done, Grace.”

  “Still, he went to the Accademia,” Gianni said. “So maybe that was his church today.”

  “Did you?” Bertie said, looking at me, letting the phrase hang in the air.

  “Would you join us for dinner?” Gianni said, polite. Or was he already beginning to tire, seeing the evening before us in our odd triangle, idling talking about Veronese but looking at one another, wary, pretending to be a family?

  “Molto gentile, but you’d never forgive me. The boredom of her. Old hunting days in the Piedmont. You don’t want to hear it, I promise you.”

  “What about you?” my mother said, laughing.

  “Well, I have to. One of life’s little crosses. The husband was a peach, you know. Funny how people find—oh, look sharp, the Inquisition. Been up to anything?”

  I turned to find a thickset man in a natty suit coming toward the table. Neatly trimmed mustache and shiny face, a man who might just have come from the barber’s. Gianni stood up, frowning.

  “Dottore,” the man said to him. Then a stream of Italian, obviously friendly. He put his hand on Bertie’s arm. “And Signor Howard. I’m sorry, don’t let me interrupt.”

  “No, no. My friend Mrs. Miller. Her son Adam. Grace, Inspector Cavallini.”

  Cavallini bowed, a stage gesture.

  “Inspector?” my mother said. “Police inspector?”

  “Yes. Have you done anything wrong?”

  “Do people tell you?”

  He smiled. “No, usually I have to catch them.” He nodded and touched my hand halfheartedly, glancing at Dr. Maglione.

  “And he does. Always,” Bertie said.

  “Here? At Harry’s?” my mother said.

  “No, here I take Prosecco. Off-duty.” He was enjoying my mother. “You don’t think it would disturb the customers?”

  “I think it would make their night.”

  He laughed, then said something in Italian to Gianni that I took to be a word of approval, and bowed a leavetaking to the rest of us. “Signora, a great pleasure. Signor Howard, you are behaving yourself?” He wagged his forefinger teasingly.

  “Me? I’m one of the good. As you know. Practically Caesar’s wife.”

  Cavallini smiled. “Yes, practically,” he said, and headed for the frosted glass door.

  “Bertie, give,” my mother said, interested. “How on earth do you know him?”

  “I’m a foreign national, you know. We had to report during the war.”

  “Report? I thought they locked you up.”

  “Irish passport, lovey. Thanks to me dad. So there’s that to be said for him anyway. Convenient being a neutral just then.”

  “But weren’t you both?”

  “Not here. Green as a clover. Had to be. Otherwise, you know, I’d have had to leave. My pictures, my house. Then what?”

  “Yes, then what?” I said.

  He looked at me sharply, then back at my mother. “Anyway, they couldn’t have been nicer. Came to the house, had a drink, and that was it. Never even had to go to the station. Now that it’s over, I rather miss it, the little visits.”

  “Oh, Bertie, you don’t mean it. He’s creepy.”

  “You don’t find him charming?” Bertie said.

  “The police?”

  Gianni smiled. “Police are men too. In America maybe it’s different.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, they’re not drinking at Harry’s. How can he afford it, aside from anything else?”

  “Grace, dear,” Bertie said, “that is exactly the sort of question one should never ask. Not here.”

  “You mean he’s—” My mother started, eyes wide, imagining, I suppose, black-market storerooms and goods hidden under raincoats.

  “Be
rtie makes a joke, I think,” Gianni said, calming her. “It’s not so expensive, one drink. Even at Harry’s.”

  “But imagine a policeman at ‘21’,” my mother said, still toying with it.

  “There she is,” Bertie said, spotting the principessa. “What did I tell you? Less time than it takes to—fresh lipstick too. She’s a wonder. Enjoy your dinner.” He hurried away, intercepting her at their table and helping her with her coat.

  “We must go too,” Gianni said. “Have you finished your drink?” He turned, surprised to find me looking at him.

  “How is it that you know him?” I said.

  “Inspector Cavallini? Sometimes they come to the hospital for help. Medical evidence.”

  “Really?” my mother said. “Did you ever solve anything?”

  Gianni smiled. “Not yet. Shall we go?” He leaned over to wrap my mother’s fur around her shoulder.

  I got up. Dizzy for a second, I pressed against the table for support.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, a doctor’s voice.

  I nodded. “Just a drink on an empty stomach. I forgot I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Too busy looking at art,” my mother said, amusing herself.

  The dining room at the Monaco was formal and starchy—waiters in black tie, silver serving trolleys, soft, flattering lights. Gianni made a pleasant fuss ordering us schie and polenta to start, a winter specialty, then took his time with the wine list. I had a cigarette and looked around the room—a light crowd, off-season, but dressed for an evening out, elegant, as if they, like the quails on the serving cart, had somehow been preserved in aspic. The room was almost as warm as Harry’s, immune to fuel shortages. There were arrangements of winter branches, like abstracts of flowers, ice buckets, the smell of perfume. At one point I noticed Gianni smiling at my mother, and I followed his eyes, wanting just for a minute to see what he did and realized that for them the room was somehow erotic. Not cheap hotels and tepid baths, worn sheets and bare skin, nothing that had made my afternoon exciting. For them the furs and perfume and rich food were part of what sex had become. He was looking at money.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” I said, drawing their attention back to the table. “Is he an inspector now?”

  “Yes, of course.”