An hour later we called Gianni’s house again, this time using Claudia to speak Italian.
“ Non in casa,” my mother said, “that’s all I can get out of them. Well, I know he’s not at home.”
Claudia took the phone and spoke rapidly for a few minutes, but learned nothing more. He’d left the house on foot before eight. Dressed for the party. Did he say he was going anywhere first? No, he said he had to hurry, he was a little late.
The hospital knew even less. He’d left at the usual time. For home? Yes. And he hadn’t been back? No, he was going to a big party.
My mother now fidgeted, genuinely worried, as if Claudia’s Italian should have produced different answers.
“But it’s ridiculous,” she said.
“No one just vanishes.” “No,” Claudia said. “So he must have a reason.”
I looked at her, expecting to see her eyes dart away, but she met mine evenly, no longer skittish, her balance restored somehow by having to lie to my mother. Or maybe the lies were becoming real to us, what had really happened.
“Maybe he did fall into a canal,” my mother said. “You think I’m joking. Bertie says it happened all the time during the war, in the blackout. Several people died. Funny, isn’t it? The only war casualties. No bombs. Just people falling into canals.”
“Where is Bertie, anyway?”
“He always comes late. Always. He doesn’t dance, you know. He just turns up for supper and a good look around.”
“Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s coming with Bertie.”
“Gianni? Why would he do that? They’re not chums, really. No, something’s wrong. I know it. Seriously, what should I do?”
“I don’t know. Where else would he be? With friends?”
“Darling, instead of me? Something’s happened.”
“Maybe you should talk to Inspector Cavallini,” Claudia said.
I looked at her, but she ignored me, concentrating on my mother.
“Yes, but what do I say? I don’t want to ruin Mimi’s party.”
“Ask him to call the Questura. If there has been an accident. Somebody in the canal. Anything like that.”
My mother hesitated, frowning. “They’d report that, wouldn’t they?” She nodded, thinking to herself, and turned away, touching my arm absentmindedly as she left.
“You’re sending her to the police?” I said, watching my mother head into the other room.
Claudia shrugged. “He won’t do anything. But maybe he’ll remember. That we went to him before anything was wrong.”
Inspector Cavallini, indulging my mother, made the call to the Questura. Nothing had been reported, no accident, no body stumbled over in a dark calle. He asked someone to check the hospitals for anyone brought in with a heart attack, a stroke, anything sudden, but Venice had been quiet, huddled in out of the rain.
“You know, she’ll make it worse,” he said, drawing me aside, his voice confiding, man-of-the-world. “A man stops somewhere, sometimes it’s difficult getting back. Maestre, perhaps, somewhere on the mainland-many go there. And then a delay, the train is late. So, the arguments. Often this happens. A part of life.”
“He wouldn’t go to Maestre in white tie.”
“He was in white tie?” Cavallini said, looking at me.
“I suppose so,” I said quickly. “They said at the house he was dressed for the party. I just assumed-anyway, too dressed for Maestre.”
“Somewhere in Venice, then. A visit. It’s usually the case.”
“Or someone sick. A medical emergency.”
“Perhaps,” he said, dubious. “But then he would call, yes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick himself.”
“Then someone will find him. Meanwhile, make your mother easy. Maybe sick, yes, but maybe delayed, a simple matter. Ah, Signora Miller,” he said as my mother came up. “Nothing has been reported. So I think it’s a matter for the patience.”
“But they’ll call you here if anything-”
“Yes, I asked them to do that. Don’t upset yourself. I think next you’ll hear the apologies.”
“Thank you,” my mother said, still frowning, concerned.
Then Mimi was with us.
“Grace, I’ve been looking-is anything wrong?”
“No, no,” my mother said, brightening.
“Don’t tell me he still hasn’t shown. It’s Maggie and Jiggs. You need a rolling pin. They’re all stinkers, aren’t they? Have you had supper?” she said to the rest of us. “There’s lovely food. I’m going to borrow Grace for a minute.” She took my mother’s arm. “Come on. Ernesto’s in a pout, and you always know what to say to him.”
She was moved off, a boat in tow, and we were alone with Cavallini again.
“Thank you for doing all this. I’m sorry-at a party.”
He shrugged. “These things happen. She’ll be angry, yes? When he comes.”
“Yes.”
He gave a sly smile. “Yes. Another night would have been better.” An old hand at slipping out. I wondered if he kept a girl in Maestre, in a small flat near the factories, for visits.
“Dance?” I said to Claudia, eager to get away.
The orchestra, looser and more confident, finally upbeat, was playing Cole Porter. It was the music everybody had wanted, what they’d flirted to on the Lido, and the floor was crowded. Soon the older guests would begin to drift away or settle themselves with plates of food, but just now the whole room seemed to be dancing, moving back and forth in flickers, like the candles. The stairs were empty. Everyone who was coming had already arrived. How long before even Cavallini became alarmed? He was watching from the edge of the floor, a knowing smile still on his face. Knowing nothing. And I realized then that no one knew, not anyone in the bright, crowded room, and the secret carried with it a kind of perverse pleasure. No one knew. We were a couple dancing to “Night and Day,” that was all-something for Cavallini to gossip about later with his wellborn wife.
“Not too much longer,” I said.
“All right,” Claudia said, preoccupied. She moved with the music for a few more minutes, then said, “What will she do?”
“She’ll go back to Ca’ Venti. She won’t stay here. Not with Mimi. But we don’t have to wait. We should do what we would normally do.”
“Can we eat something first? It’s terrible, I know, but I’m so hungry.”
Food had been available all night, passed on trays and anchoring long tables in the next room, but now a new buffet had been set up, a lavish late supper, hot in silver chafing dishes, with waiters to carry your plates to a table. There were glass bowls of caviar and carving trolleys of roast veal, fruit arranged in pyramids. It was, in its way, more opulent than the ball itself, as if rationing had never existed, imaginary. Even in Venice, which had had an easy war, it was disturbing to see so much food.
“You go,” I said to Claudia. “I want a smoke first.”
I went over to the balcony windows facing the canal, lit a cigarette, and almost at once became nauseated, the queasiness I’d felt all evening suddenly lurching in my stomach. It might have been the close room, the sight of the rich food, the smoke on an empty stomach, but I knew it wasn’t, just what was left of the nervous energy that had started when I’d pushed him against the wall. Everything up and down, the freezing rain in the lagoon, then a ballroom hot enough for bare-shouldered gowns; pushing his head down in the water, my fingers still streaked with blood, everything in me pumping, willing me to do it, then polite evasions, the puzzled, hurt look on my mother’s face. I opened one of the windows and gulped in some air. It was surprisingly cold, like the air in the lagoon, stinging on my warm face. Below, a vaporetto heading to Salute was passing Mimi’s water entrance, still busy with lights and boats tied to the striped poles, gondoliers waiting on the dock with cigarettes cupped in their hands. A murder had been committed, and no one knew. I took another breath, then drew on the cigarette again, steadying myself. He was gone. This is what it felt like-not remorse but a grim satisfaction, and this tension in the stomach. No going back. A constant tremor on the surface of your skin, alert, because all that mattered now was not getting
