“No,” Claudia said softly.
“So, an actress. Maybe still acting.” He turned to me. “This is what you want? A wonderful witness. The camp whore.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“No, it doesn’t stop, once it starts. How can you stop it? Hold up your hand, like traffic? You think I won’t fight back? You make this trouble and then you think you can stop it. No, not when you like. So you shame her and it doesn’t stop there. Until everybody’s dirty. Then what? Nothing. You will win nothing.”
“I don’t have to win,” I said. “I just have to let them see you.”
He stared at me again for a minute. “I’m not going to let you do that,” he said finally. “Understand that. Never.”
His voice was low and steady, the same calm menace I’d heard in the restaurant, and I felt a prickling. It had already started, beyond fixing now, any polite truce.
“That’s what you think,” I said.
“Never,” he repeated, his voice still low. “Go home.”
“I’m not leaving her. Not with you.”
“You don’t know how it is. You don’t know anything. A fool. Like the father. Just like the father. He saw nothing. Under his nose, still nothing.”
“Saw what?” I said, feeling clenched, as if his hand were pushing me again.
“You think it’s the first time, with your mother? You know nothing. The father’s son. Another fool.”
A snap in my head, like the click of a safety.
“Shut up,” I said. “Just shut up.”
“Both of you, fools.” Each word like a prod with a stick.
“Shut up,” I said, my hands springing up without my being aware of it, pushing him back, away from me.
The shove caught him off-guard, so he staggered before he could catch his balance, his weight pulling him back toward the wall, his head hitting the edge of one of the sconces.
“Adam!” Claudia said, somewhere out of my line of vision.
Gianni put his hand to the back of his head, then looked at it, streaked with blood. I saw the white of his dress shirt, his blank expression, the smeared hand, everything utterly still, and then the blood seemed to jump, alive, as he lunged for me. I reared back, keeping my throat out of reach so his hand struck my chest. Then we were both falling, his hands now pounding at me, wild. The smell of blood. Claudia yelled something.
“ Cazzo!” Gianni said, punching me.
I had never fought anyone hand to hand. Combat had always been a few kilometers away, even across a field. Now I could feel his breath on me, that close. I rolled away, not thinking, instinct. Protect your eyes. Get up. Now. No pattern to it, a blur, slaps and grabs and sudden bursts of pain.
I pulled at his shirt, the stiff white front, to draw him closer, immobilize his arms, but he pushed me away, landing one hand on the side of my face. I felt a dull burning and moved back. One of his shirt studs had popped out, opening up a patch of hairy skin in the evening clothes, suddenly primitive, what was real underneath.
I looked at the furious eyes, the disheveled hair, and saw that he was right, it wouldn’t stop now. His hand caught me again, my ear went hot, stinging, and I punched back until both of us were wrestling, close in, falling to the floor again in a heap, pulling each other down the hall, trying to find a position, any kind of advantage. Then his grip loosened and I grabbed a chair, pulling myself up away from him. In a second he was on one knee, then pitched forward, pounding me in the side, a throbbing ache that didn’t go away, that would bruise.
“Stop it!” Claudia yelled, following us.
“Whore!” Gianni said, as if he were punching her too, finishing all of it.
I grabbed at him again, pushing, but he was ready this time and instead caught me and knocked me down. I dodged a kick, sliding away from his foot, then scrambled up and moved back toward the water entrance, the sound of my own breathing loud in my head. He followed, arms reaching out, implacable, the moving line at bayonet practice. No time to hesitate. Do it.
I jumped at him, my fist aiming at his nose, and smashed down. He howled, weaving a little, his hands to his face, looking up at me in shock. I backed away. There were red spots on the shirtfront now, then a longer drip, blood running out of his nose.
“Stop it!” Claudia said, grabbing his arm. He brushed her away, a gnat, and started toward me, implacable again. But he was slower this time, obviously in pain.
“All right,” I said, panting. “Enough.” A man my father’s age, not a soldier. Already slowing down, bound to get hurt. My father’s age. His friend, in fact, betraying him too. Not the first time. I held up my hand. “Enough.”
But he was looking down at his ruined shirt, bright with blood, not hearing me, dazed and then shaking, excited, everything about him ready to move. And maybe just then I wanted it too, that rush of blood.
He looked up at me, a quick glance, then, before I could move, he rammed his head into my stomach, knocking me over. I landed with a thud on the pile of paving stones poking up bluntly beneath the tarp, so that for an instant, winded, all I could feel was a spasm of pain. Then my head fell back too as he jumped on me, hands on my throat.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Claudia was hitting him on the back, trying to pull him off, but he was oblivious, lost in his own adrenaline strength, tightening his hands on my windpipe. I choked. I could feel the blocks against my back, then the wetness of the tarp. Everything smelled of damp, the slick steps, the canal. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, punching his sides, but the hands didn’t budge and now began to shake me, banging my head against the tarp. I looked into his face and found no expression at all, just a kind of strained exertion as he kept his hands in place. Beyond him there were dim lights, the gondola up on its support rack, Claudia flailing at his back, her face frantic now. She pulled on his collar, yanking his head back, and I saw, absurdly, that the white tie was still in place, but then I was choking again, beginning to feel dizzy, without enough breath to shove his body off mine. Claudia was shouting, still pounding on his back, but I couldn’t make out the words, indistinct behind the pulse in my ears and the faint wheezing coming from my throat.
Then suddenly a look came into his eyes, hesitant, a question to himself, and I felt the hands loosen, a quick rush of air. I lay still, waiting for him to lift his hands away, and he was blinking, as if waking, still looking down at me in a kind of surprise, unaware of the shadow over him-Claudia, her face pulled tight, a paving stone in her hand now, raised high, then smashing down on the back of his head. His eyes went wide. A grunt, then he fell on me, pinning me under dead weight.
Everything stopped, no sound at all but the soft lapping of the canal against the steps. His head had fallen to the side of mine and I listened for breathing, anything. Then the stone slid off his back onto the floor, a thunk, and I felt blood oozing down his neck. Thick, still warm. I pushed at him, gently at first, then with a heave, until he rolled off, turning onto his back. Claudia stood looking at him, shaking.
“Oh god. I thought-” Her voice was shaking too.
I got up and bent over with my hands on my knees, the air still coming in ragged gulps. How long had it been? One minute? Two? Like a flash of light. One flash and everything was different.
“He was going to-” Claudia was saying.
No, he was going to stop. But before I could say it, Claudia made a sound, a kind of frightened yelp.
“He’s not moving. Is he moving?”
I looked down. Eyes closed. A small pool of blood under his head. But not spreading. If his heart were still pumping, there’d be more blood, wouldn’t there?
“Oh god. Now they’ll-”
I shook my head, rubbing my throat with my hand. “No, it was a fight.”
“No. No,” she said, a wail. “They’ll say I killed him. I did kill him. They’ll send me-” All in a rush, like blood pouring out. She had folded her arms over her chest, holding herself, a protection, as if someone were already there to take her away.
I looked up, catching her eyes, the fear in them, and felt it too, a queasiness in the stomach, both of us in a helpless free fall, using our eyes to hold on. I was still breathing hard, excited, and the fear was like another surge, my skin warm with it, stronger even than sex but like it too, connecting us, because we both felt it. Her eyes were shiny with the fear, letting me in, closer than we’d ever been.
“They’ll send me-” she said again, feebly, almost to herself, and I saw what she had already imagined, how it
