caught.
Getting caught. My stomach lurched again and I found my shoulders shaking, my body heaving, not bringing anything up, just gasping for air. He wasn’t going to come late. I’d choked the life out of him, the last breath. How could it not be in my face, a red stain? My shoulders moved again. Somebody would see. I’d give everything away, out of control.
“Adam, whatever is the matter?” Bertie said to my back. “Are you all right?”
I tossed the cigarette and gripped the window frame, willing my shoulders to be still. Nothing escaped Bertie. I nodded, keeping my back to him.
“I just felt funny for a minute. Some air.” I drew some in, making a point.
“Funny?”
I looked down again at the men on the dock. The rain had let up. You could hear the music coming from the ballroom. It might be hours before anyone asked for his boat. One of the gondoliers passed a bottle, something to hold off the damp. No one knew.
I took another breath and forced my mouth into a smile so that it was in place when I turned. “Too much wine, probably.” Taking out a handkerchief to wipe my forehead, avoiding his eyes.
“Hm,” Bertie said, still staring. “You sure?” But when I nodded, he let it go. “Is that where you’ve been hiding, at the bar?”
“No, in plain sight,” I said, then stopped, disconcerted by his white shirtfront, almost a duplicate of Gianni’s. I smiled again. “Dancing.”
“By yourself.”
“No, Claudia’s here.”
“Ah,” he said flatly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“And miss this?”
“I’ll have one of those,” he said, glancing back at the room while I got out another cigarette. “No, you wouldn’t want to miss this. Mimi’s had her ball, hasn’t she? I don’t suppose people will talk about anything else for months. Extravagant, my god. Even for Mimi. Celia de Betancourt’s here, did you see? She can’t get over it. And you know there’s no one richer than a South American. Forty of them own everything or something.”
“They’re lining up at the trough,” I said, gesturing to the food tables. Claudia seemed to have been swallowed up in a swarm of gowns. An old man with medals on his chest, an operetta figure, was pointing to chafing dishes as a waiter filled his plate.
“Well, the food,” Bertie said. “I don’t want to think where she got it all. Flown in, someone said. But it can’t be legal, not all this. Rosaries for days, that’s what it would cost me.”
“The Church doesn’t seem to mind,” I said, pointing with my cigarette to a heavyset priest filling his plate.
“Ah, Luca,” he said. “Well, the Church takes the world as it finds it.”
“I’ll say,” I said, watching him spoon cream sauce over his plate, then looked away, still not sure of my stomach.
“It’s only the next, you know, that concerns them. Poor Luca. It’s a weakness, all that hunger.”
“Maybe he should see real hunger. The kind in this world.”
“Adam, if you’re going to start, I’m leaving. Here, of all places? You can’t be serious. In your nice formal clothes. Eating Mimi’s caviar. Oh dear,” he said, catching a glimpse of the priest wolfing down a bulging mouthful, a comically greedy moment.
I made a sound, trying to laugh. “Who is he? One of your monsignors?”
“No, no, just a father now. A Maglione before.”
I turned. “A relative?”
“A cousin, I think. It’s impossible to keep track here. They branch and branch. Just assume everyone’s family and you’re safe. Why, do you want to meet him?”
“No, I was just curious. A priest in the family-”
“Ah, of course. And now yours. I hadn’t thought of that. I knew we’d get you a priest somehow. Well, if he is a cousin. Let’s ask Gianni.”
I shook my head. “He’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” he said, looking up sharply.
“He’s late.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nearly midnight. He’s not late.”
“Well, he hasn’t turned up. We asked the police to check-you know, if any accidents had been reported.”
“We who? Grace?”
I nodded. “She talked to Cavallini. He’s here.”
“Yes, the wife,” Bertie said, an absentminded response, dotting i ’s.
“He seems to think Gianni stopped off somewhere on the way. Got delayed somehow.”
“Stopped off? Where?”
“To see somebody. A lady friend. An old Venetian custom, according to Cavallini.”
Bertie stared at me. “Are you out of your mind? Do you think Gianni-”
“I don’t know, Bertie. But he’s not here.”
“Something’s wrong,” Bertie said, serious.
“Cavallini called the Questura. They checked the hospitals. Nothing.”
“And Grace is-?”
“Putting a good face on it. She doesn’t want to ruin Mimi’s party.”
“Oh, these ladies. And he’s probably lying in an alley somewhere.”
“Bertie, for god’s sake.”
“ Sick. Of course it would never occur to you. At my age, it’s the first thing you think of. Happen any time-just walking down the street. You feel a little queer and-” He gave a small shudder to finish the thought. “Well, you’d better get your mother home. She won’t keep putting a good face on it.”
“But we don’t know there’s anything wrong,” I said, hearing myself, genuine.
“Of course there’s something wrong.” He puffed on his cigarette, thinking. “Has there been any trouble between them?”
“Between who?”
“Gianni and your mother,” he said, stressing each word. “Don’t be dense.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, thrown by this, an unexpected idea.
“Well, it has happened before, you know. Cold feet at the altar. Still, not at the biggest party of the year. He simply wouldn’t. Ah, Luca.”
The heavy priest had lumbered over. There were introductions, the Maglione connection established, but I scarcely paid attention, jittery again, wondering if Bertie would notice. Then two more minutes of aimless chatter. “But where is Gianni?” Father Luca said, finally out of conversation. “I’ve been looking for him.”
“He was called to the hospital,” Bertie said quickly. “A shame, really. To miss a party like this.”
“Yes, very splendid. Such food. Not since the war.” Just the thought of it seemed to send him back to the table. “You’ll excuse me? I think a little coffee before I go.”
“Why did you say that?” I said to Bertie.
“What do you want people to say? If they start wondering, they won’t talk about anything else, and Mimi’ll never forgive her. Have some sense. Even so, you ought to take her home.”
“You act as if it’s some kind of scandal.”
“Not yet.”
“Anyway, I can’t. I’ve got to get Claudia home.”
He had another puff, brooding. “Lovely for her, at least.”
“What do you mean?”
“That he’s gone missing. Not exactly her favorite, was he?” He studied me. “You weren’t best fond, either.”
“Missing. You talk about him as if he were dead,” I said evenly. “He’s not dead.” My voice steady, not a waver.
“All right, all right, never mind. Here she comes.” He nodded toward Claudia, carrying a plate. “Looking
