“Where have you been all night? I’ve been worried sick.”
My mother, still in her silk wrapper, was having coffee in the small sitting room, curled up in the club chair next to the electric fire. Her hair was loose, just brushed out, her face pale, with not even the usual morning dusting of powder. An ashtray with a burning cigarette was perched on the arm of the chair, the wisp of smoke rising to mix with the steam from her coffee.
“Although I can guess. Bertie said you’ve become friends with that girl. Really, Adam. She’s obviously a neurotic-hadn’t you noticed?”
“She’s not a neurotic.”
“Well, call it whatever you like. She’s obviously something. Have some coffee. What a spectacle. I mean, you like a party to have a little-but not quite that much. Gianni’s been wonderful about it, but of course it’s embarrassing. The worst part is that since she’s your friend, he can’t help but wonder-well, you know. Which is ridiculous. I said you looked as stunned as anybody. But you might give him a call. You know, talk to him a little. You don’t want him to think-”
“Did he tell you why she did it?”
“Apparently she thinks he caused her father’s death. Of course doctors have to deal with this all the time. You know, somebody dies in hospital and who’s to blame? Anybody will do, really-doctor, nurse, anybody.”
“So he doesn’t know who she is?”
“Doesn’t have the faintest. She must have seen him at the hospital and-well, you know, when you’re in that state.” She looked up. “Adam, I hope you’re putting an end to this. I’m sure the poor thing needs help and it’s very sweet of you, but you don’t have to be the one to do it. They have people for this. I mean, for all you know she could be deranged. Murdered her father. Really.”
“They were at medical school together.”
“Who?”
“Gianni and her father. He knows who she is.”
She was reaching for her cigarette but stopped, surprised by this. “And he murdered her father, I suppose,” she said finally, sarcastic.
“No. He handed him over to the SS so they could murder him. They were rounding up Jews in the hospital. Her father was too sick to move. Gianni handed him over. So what does that make him, an accessory? In her eyes it comes to the same thing.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Especially when it’s true.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Gianni wouldn’t do such a thing. Is this what she’s going around saying?”
“She was there. She saw him.”
“Well, darling, not exactly the most reliable source, considering.”
“Then ask him.”
“Of course I’m not going to ask him. Why would he do such a thing? What possible reason could he have?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he was an anti-Semite, a collaborator. Maybe he was just a sonofabitch. He handed a sick man over to a death squad. What does it matter why?”
My mother looked at me for a second, then stubbed out her cigarette, taking her time, and gathered herself up out of the chair, balancing the cup over the ashtray.
“Adam, I want you to stop now. I won’t have that tone. And I won’t have any more of this. Last night was bad enough. You seem to forget it was my party, my evening that got spoiled. I didn’t ask for the extra dramatics. So all right, let’s put that behind us. Not your fault if she’s-But now it’s over. I won’t have you saying these things about Gianni. I won’t.”
“Not even if they’re true?”
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know him. He’s a wonderful man.”
“So was Goebbels, to his children. Before he poisoned them.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? Is it this girl? Have you lost all your sense? Is Gianni supposed to be a Nazi now? Maybe it’s not her. Maybe something happened to you in Germany.”
“Yes, I met a lot of people like Gianni. Wonderful. And they didn’t think twice about putting people in boxcars.”
“Adam, what is the matter with you?” she said, her voice finally distressed.
“The matter is you won’t listen.”
“Not to this, I won’t. Not anymore. I’m going to have my bath.” She put down the cup and started to move away from the table. “This isn’t Germany, you know.”
“Why, because it’s beautiful?”
She stopped and turned to face me. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Trying to ruin everything.”
“I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m trying to help you. You almost married this man.”
She looked at me. “I am marrying this man.”
“You can’t. You can’t marry someone like this. Are you that far gone?”
She tried to smile, her eyes moist. “Yes, I’m that far gone.”
“Have you been listening at all? A man like this-”
“A man like what? Don’t you think I know what kind of man he is?”
“No. I don’t think you know him at all. You’ve just rushed into this like you rush into everything else. Except this time it might be harder to get out. Not to mention more expensive.”
“Oh,” she said with a small gasp, deflated. “What a hateful thing to say.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, seeing her eyes fill, but she waved me away.
“No one can hurt like a child.” She brushed her hair back, rallying. “Is that what you think? Well, darling, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Or him, for that matter. But really, I’m not Doris Duke. Isn’t it too bad? Of course I’ve told him that. But if you like, I’ll tell him again. So he can be absolutely sure what he’s getting. All right?”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Yes, you did. You’re full of meanness today, I’m not sure why. Maybe you don’t want me to marry anyone.”
“I just don’t want you to marry him. Neither would you, if you’d stop and listen for two minutes.”
“Oh, just him. But the thing is, darling, no one else has asked me.”
“Mother-”
“So we’ll do this. I’ll tell him again I’m not rich.”
“It’s not about the-”
“And if he still wants to go ahead-just on the off chance that he’d like me for myself-will that make you feel better?” She stared at me for a second, then turned to the door. “Good. Now can I have my bath?”
After she left, I just stood there, not knowing what to do. Follow her and keep arguing? For what? More tears and stubborn indifference, past listening. What Claudia had predicted; the last thing I’d expected.
I picked up the coffee, tepid now and slightly bitter, and finished it, then stood looking at the wall, the light from the water outside moving on it in irregular flashes, out of rhythm, jumpy.
He’d tell her some story. A hysterical response to a hospital death. Who would say otherwise? Were there hospital records? Another name, she’d said. Not even a paper trail. I walked over to the window. On the side table there was a new picture-not the jaunty Zattere one on the dressing table but Gianni in a more formal pose, seated at a desk, with papers in front of him for signing. I picked up the photograph and looked at his eyes, half expecting to find some peering intensity, visible evil. But of course it was only Gianni. How easy had it been for him to point Signor Grassini out? A struggle? Routine? Something he’d done before, in the habit of informing? There wouldn’t have been only one.
I looked again at Gianni at his desk. Papers to sign. There was always paper somewhere. Almost without thinking, I slid the picture out of its frame and put it in my pocket. More reliable than memory, sometimes, the paper of a crime.
