Alibi: A Novel Read online

  For a minute he said nothing, just stared at the smoke drifting up. “Marriage,” he said, still taking it in. “The Magliones, any of those families—you know they don’t marry out of—”

  “Unless they’ve got a helluva repair bill to take care of.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Money. We can whisper if it bothers you.”

  He glanced up, annoyed.

  “Sit down and behave yourself. What’s gotten into you?”

  “You don’t like it either,” I said, sinking onto the couch. “I can tell just by looking at you.”

  “I’m surprised, that’s all.” He handed me the cigarette box. “Here. Now let’s take a breath and think a bit. This would come after Mimi—one’s head just keeps buzzing. Why marriage?”

  “They’re in love.”

  “Adam.”

  “And there’s her money.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so somehow.”

  “But do you know? If he were American, I’d know a hundred things about him. All those clues people carry around. But here—how much does he have?”

  “No idea. One doesn’t, in Italy. I’m not sure why. In France you know right away. Of course, there is the palazzo, you know. He’s not on the dole.”

  “Which they never sell. Just try to keep up.”

  “You’ve been reading things. Of course they sell. How do you think I got mine?” He watched me light my cigarette. “That’s better. Get some color back. You can’t stay shocked, you know.”

  “But you were. Why? Don’t you like him?”

  “Like him?” he said, uncomfortable. “He’s my doctor. What does like have to do with it?”

  “You invite him to your house.”

  “He doesn’t pee on the carpet, Adam. He’s a Maglione. Anyway, we were all young together. Your mother, Gianni, his brother—”

  “Cozy.”

  He looked over his lunettes. “Not like that. Grace adored your father. There was never any question of that.” He paused. “Do you think all the time Gianni—? Hard to imagine him—” He drew on the cigarette, back on the Lido again.

  “A long time to carry a torch, don’t you think?”

  “All these years,” he said to himself.

  “What else?”

  “What what else?”

  “I don’t know. Who he is, what he thinks about things.”

  “How would I know? He had a wife who died—of natural causes,” he said with exaggeration, raising his eyebrows. “He has a daughter, I think, whom I’ve never seen. An old name. As for what he thinks about things, I haven’t the faintest. Why don’t you ask him yourself? After all, he’s going to be your stepfather, not mine.” He stopped, looking slightly embarrassed, not having meant to become snappish.

  “Five minutes ago you were shocked—surprised,” I said quickly, catching his glance. “Now you’re throwing rice.”

  “What exactly is it you expect me to do?”

  “Talk to her.”

  “Talk her out of it, you mean. No. In the first place, people never listen.”

  “She’d listen to you.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even try. She’d never speak to me again. And she’d be right.”

  “But it’s possible it’s the money, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me, not answering, then lit another cigarette. “Anything’s possible,” he said, then sighed. “You know, it’s possible she’s in love with him.”

  “Or something.”

  “Well, call it whatever you like. I’m not shy. But she’s happy. So what does it matter?”

  “It will. When she realizes.”

  “Now I want you to listen to me,” he said. “Very carefully.” He paused, waiting for me to look at him. “If you have any sense, you’re going to take your—qualms, and leave them right here in this room.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Your mother has been lonely for years. And a grown son off fighting the war isn’t much of a substitute—which you don’t want to be, by the way. She comes here, not even sure why, and now she’s in love, or infatuation, or whatever she’s in. Happy for the first time in years. It doesn’t really matter if he’s in love with her or in love with her money. He obviously has some regard for her. The family name’s important to a Maglione. You don’t give it to someone if all you want is a bank loan. He’ll give her a life and he’ll make her happy, whatever his motivations are. And that’s assuming he knows what they are. Do you know yours?”

  “I don’t want her to get hurt, that’s all.”

  “Well, very nice, if that’s all. It rarely is, in my experience. But never mind. Just pack it up with whatever else is floating around up there,” he said, pointing to my head, “and put it away. He’ll never desert her, you know, not if she’s Signora Maglione, and if he—well, everybody goes through a rough patch sooner or later. But you never know. And here’s a chance and she’s taking it.”

  “Even if she breaks her heart doing it.”

  “Oh, hearts. They can take a lot of wear and tear. Adam, don’t meddle. She wants you to be pleased. Go home and tell her you’re thrilled to death.”

  I got up, walked over to the windows, and looked out at the loggia where you sat on warm days to watch the boats. A city so beautiful even the Germans agreed not to fight in it. What she’d have every day.

  “It might be all right, you know,” Bertie said. “It really might.”

  I walked back to the couch. “Will you do something for me? Find out what money he has. You can ask around. You know everybody.”

  “Not his banker, I don’t. And everything else is just gossip. Let’s hope for the best, why don’t we? Now smile. She’ll be watching your face, to see how you’re taking it.”

  I made a face.

  “Well, it’s a start.” He giggled to himself. “Mimi. Goodness, she’ll be cross. Now there’s a face I’d like to see.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then looked at me. “Adam, I’m right, you know.”

  “So am I.”

  “And if you are, what’s the good of it?”

  I said nothing.

  “None at all,” he said quietly. “Not for her.”

  “Would you find out about the money anyway?”

  “And if he’s poor as a church mouse?”

  “Then we’ll know.”

  “Yes, and you’d be right. And still wrong for her.” Bertie sighed. “What a scourge children are.” He stood up. “You’d better go. She’ll be waiting to hear how lunch went. Smiles all around, right? Happy Families. It’s done.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Things went wrong with the party from the start. There were no flowers to be found, not even the scraggly winter asters you usually saw in the Rialto market. The weather had cleared and then turned sharply cold, the wind rushing up the Giudecca channel and through the window cracks until even the space heaters felt cool to the touch. One of the power cuts that plagued Italy that season hit in the afternoon, plunging the kitchen into gloom just as Angelina, sneezing with her permanent cold, was trying to arrange the canapés. After I spent an hour rounding up candles, the lights, perversely, sputtered back on, but since there was no guarantee they’d stay on, I spent the whole evening glancing up nervously, Noah waiting for rain.

  My mother noticed none of it. Her skin glowed pink, part bath steam, part happiness, while everyone around her turned slowly blue and rubbed their hands by the ineffectual heaters. She looked wonderful—a new dress with a sequined bolero jacket, hair up, every bit of her in place—and as I watched her move through the room, smiling, pecking cheeks, I thought for a minute that everything had to be all right. How could she be this happy otherwise? Gianni, next to her in a double-breasted gray suit, was smiling too, switching from English to Italian and back again, everybody’s friend.

  There were Venetians tonight, not just Bertie’s set, and I had a glimpse of what my mother’s world would be like now—Mimi winking over her martini glass, but
also the formally polite whitehaired woman holding out her hand for Gianni to kiss, proper as a doge. I wondered how long it could last, the romance of it, and then I looked at my mother’s face, beaming, and thought, why not forever? Wasn’t it what everyone wanted? The fairy tale with no glass slipper.

  On her bedroom dressing table I had noticed there were now two pictures, me on one side, in front of a jeep in Germany, and Gianni on the other, bareheaded in the cold on the Zattere. One more than before, not competing, not replacing, just one more. Why not be grateful he’d come along to fill the extra space? Why shouldn’t we all be happy? Even the party, for all the cold and spotty electricity, was working now. Except that Claudia hadn’t arrived.

  “No, don’t pick me up—I’ll come by myself. You’ll be busy,” she’d said, but where was she? “I don’t think we should walk in together.” Still reluctant. And now late.

  I took another champagne from a passing tray.

  “Who are you looking for?” Bertie said.

  “Hello, Bertie. I thought you didn’t go out during Lent.”

  “I’ll say my beads later. I couldn’t miss this. You should have heard Mimi. Hissing like a puff adder. Oh, these ladies.”

  “So she knows?”

  “Everybody knows. Grace never kept a secret in her life. But do admit, have you ever seen her looking so well? Not in years.”

  “Happy as a bride,” I said, taking a sip of champagne.

  He looked over his glasses at me. “And you, have you been smiling?”

  “Nonstop,” I said, nodding. “Seen the ring?”

  “You haven’t tried to bite it.”

  I laughed. “No, it’s real. Family, apparently. His mother’s.”

  “Very nice,” Bertie said, then sighed. “Oh dear. But she does look radiant, doesn’t she? So where’s the harm? Now what? Not speeches.”

  There had been a tinkling against glass, the usual rippling ssh, people clustering. Gianni stood with my mother, waiting for quiet, then began speaking in Italian, presumably a welcoming toast, received with a few ahs and general approval. I just let it roll past me, that indistinct liquid sound of someone else’s language, and looked again around the room. Where was she? He paused—were we supposed to applaud?—and then started to repeat the speech in English: thanks to us for being there, the reason no surprise to anyone who’d seen them together, the wonderful, unexpected thing that had come into his life, their double good fortune, of which this speech was an example, in being able to express joy twice, in Italian and English, the honor she had bestowed on him, their hope that all of us would be as happy as they were. All said nicely, charmingly, every note on key. More ahs, raised glasses, a public kiss, and, finally, applause.

  “Well, it’s done,” I said, raising my glass to Bertie. “Cheers.”

  “God bless.” He took a drink.

  “Now what?”

  “Kiss the bride,” he said, pointing to the group forming around my mother.

  “They’re not married yet.”

  We were starting toward the other end of the room when Claudia came through the door. She looked slightly flushed, as if she’d run up the stairs, and the color made her pretty, more striking than her muted blue dress intended.

  “Hello, there’s Claudia,” Bertie said, surprised. “With whom, I wonder.”

  “Me, actually,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. He turned to me, eyes peering over his glasses, assessing.

  “Really,” he said.

  “We met at your party. You remember.”

  “And now you’ve become friends.”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “What a family. The guests aren’t safe with either of you. Next you’ll be running off with the help.”

  I smiled. “Not yet. Excuse me,” I said, about to head for the door.

  “Adam,” he said, stopping me, voice lower. “You’re not serious about this.”

  “Bertie, some other time? She doesn’t know anyone in the room.”

  “Well, no, she wouldn’t, would she?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, don’t snap. I just meant it might not be suitable, bringing her here. What will Grace think?”

  “She’ll think we’re friends.”

  Bertie sighed. “Never mind. It’s always talking to a post, isn’t it? Just have a care, that’s all. You don’t want things to get complicated. Rush into things.”

  “Tell her,” I said, nodding toward my mother, still hugging people. Bertie followed my gaze.

  “Well, Grace.” His face softened with fondness. “She’s not the type, is she, to look behind things? We’ll have to keep an eye out for her. She was always like that, you know. Always wanted watching. So one does, somehow.” He turned back to me. “But I can’t take on two.”

  Claudia was still near the door, looking tentative. When I finally pushed my way through the crowd, she smiled, relieved, then retreated again when I kissed her.

  “Not here,” she said.

  “It’s all right, no one’s looking.”

  “But in public.”

  “Come meet my mother.”

  She touched her hair. “Where is the ladies’ room?”

  “You look fine.”

  “No, not for that. For the toilet.”

  I laughed. “Sorry. Downstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  But before we could move out of the room, Mimi came over, martini glass in hand.

  “Adam, there you are.” A cheek kiss. “Are you making a speech too?”

  “I’m saving it for the wedding.”

  “Thank god for that,” she said, then looked expectantly at Claudia.

  They nodded to each other as I introduced them.

  “Where has Adam been hiding you? I hope he’s bringing you to my ball. If he doesn’t, I’ll ask you myself,” she said to Claudia.

  “Thank you,” Claudia said, not sure how to respond.

  “Oh, purely selfish. Try finding anyone under forty these days. Though I must say,” she said, turning to me, “Grace looks ten years younger. Ten years. I suppose that’s love?” Her voice arched up.

  “I suppose.”

  “Maybe we should all try it. Except I have. Much good it did me.” She glanced again at Claudia. “But how long have you—?”

  “We met at Signor Howard’s,” Claudia said, placing us.

  “Bertie, the old cicerone. Lucky he didn’t match you up with a priest,” she said to me. “What can it mean, all the padres? In and out, all day long. What do they talk about?”

  “What’s new on the Rialto.”

  “Just like—chums. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? To me they still seem—I don’t know, something you see on the bus, not anyone you’d ever meet. Of course, Marian says in Rome it’s nothing but. Priests everywhere. But that’s Rome. I’m sorry,” she said to Claudia, “I hope I’m not—”

  “No, no.”

  “Thank god. I’m forever getting myself into trouble. You say the first thing that comes into your mind and then you see the faces. Not like you, darling. Always so careful.”

  “Am I?”

  “Grace says you’re thrilled. I thought, really? Or is he just being his usual diplomatic self? Our own little nuncio.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be thrilled?”

  “No reason in the world,” she said, a quick return. We looked at each other for a minute.

  She turned to Claudia. “You will come, won’t you? To my ball? It’s going to be very special, like the ones before the war. Modern dress—I hate period. Carnival’s the worst. Those wigs, all itchy and hot. You wonder how they stood it. Oh, here she comes. Clever Grace.” A smile for my mother, making her way toward us.

  “Excuse me,” Claudia said. “A moment.” She slid away from us and darted down the stairs.

  “Adam,” Mimi said, her voice low, no longer chirping, “what’s all this?”

  “Ladies’ room. She’ll be back.”

  “No, this.” She wa
gged her finger between me and the spot where Claudia had stood. “The way she looks at you.”

  “Does she?” I said, grinning.

  “Don’t gloat.” She looked at me and laughed.

  Then my mother was there and Claudia was put aside. There was someone she wanted me to meet. Mimi wanted to know about the caviar, which you couldn’t get in London now for love or money. Gianni knew a man who got it from Russia somehow. I smiled, thinking about the old Venetian trading routes, evidently still going strong. We had more champagne. My mother was happy. Where was Claudia?

  I started down the stairs to check and stopped halfway, spotting her over the rail. There was no one else in the hall, and in the quiet she was standing at the water entrance, brooding, looking across the moldy landing stage to the canal. My mother had had the arched doorway opened and the steps lined with torches, in case anyone wanted to arrive by water, but no one had. Instead the lights flickered on the lonely utility boat we kept there and a jumble of paving stones covered with a tarp, once intended to repair the landing steps but abandoned by the marchesa until some money was found. In the cold, Claudia’s breath steamed.

  “Get lost?” I said, coming up to her.

  “It’s like a dungeon. So damp.”

  “I know. Even at low tide the steps get covered now. Come on, you’ll catch cold.”

  “What did she say about me?”

  “Mimi? She likes the way you look at me.”

  “Oh yes? Well, it’s the suit.” She reached out, smoothing my lapel.

  “Ah,” I said, leaning over to kiss her.

  “Wait. They’ll see,” she said, glancing into the hall.

  I reached over and closed the door. “Better?”

  We kissed for a few minutes, her hand at the back of my neck. Through the door we could hear the party going on, making it all somehow like sneaking kisses in a closet. Then after a while the sounds receded, as if we had left the house, and all we could hear was the slap of water against the landing stairs and our own breathing, loud in our ears, almost panting. The torches sputtered, making shadows.

  “We don’t have to stay.”

  “No, how can we leave? They saw me.”

  “We can take the boat.”

  “Oh, yes. On the lagoon. In the night.”