of the floorboards, until finally it was quiet there too and I imagined her, still dressed, lying exhausted on the bed. The fire in the sitting room had died down and I sat in the cold, wanting to go out but feeling I couldn’t leave. How long would it take to get through this? Being with her, lying to her, was worse somehow than what had happened- there was no end to it and no going back. I thought of her after my father died, holding herself together for me. You’ll feel better soon. He wouldn’t want you to be sad. You’ll have to take care of me now. All the lies for my own good.
When I woke I was hunched in the chair, cramped, and the light had begun to come in. The electric bars of the space heater, glowing orange, had been going all night, an extravagance, but the room was still cold, the damp seeping in. I switched off the heater and went to the window to see the sun come up behind the Redentore, my old early-morning view. It was going to be a nice day, shiny after the rain. A walk. Nobody would miss me if I went out now. I’d be back in time for the morning vigil, but at least with some air in my lungs.
I crossed over to the San Marco side, away from the house and Mimi’s and the last two days. The sun was already filling the great piazza. I went behind the basilica, taking the route to Santa Maria in Formosa, not going anywhere in particular, just going. Through the campo, then stopping in the street-if I kept going this way, I’d reach the Questura, where Cavallini’s clerks might still be looking through the patient lists. I turned left instead, through the narrow calle and over the bridge to Zanipolo. Past the equestrian statue of Colleoni, where Claudia had stared at Gianni. A few people were going into the hospital-nurses, maintenance men, none of them looking at the rows of arches along the facade, the mosaic Gianni had pointed out, charming a visitor. Along the fondamenta, an ambulance boat was delivering a patient to the side door, just as one had when we’d walked here, Gianni explaining why he’d had to-lying. And then I was at the end, nothing but the open lagoon and the chimneys of Murano. In America you could walk and never stop, never run out of land, but here you met yourself within minutes-a bridge, a canal, then abruptly an end, water or a blind alley.
I looked at the ambulances moored on the quay. What kind of doctor had he been? There must have been a time, cramming for exams, when it had been about saving people, being on the side of the angels. Do no harm. And a few years later he could condemn someone with a nod. What had happened in between? But doctors in Germany had taken the same oath and then nodded and nodded, killing everybody. Maybe nothing had happened, just opportunity. A matter of degree. Think of him young, on the Lido, betraying my father. Or saying he did. I stared at the water. He was off there somewhere to the right. And here at the hospital, everywhere I looked. You could walk all day and never put him behind you.
Cavallini was waiting on a chair in the downstairs hall when I got back.
“Signor Miller, you’re out so early.”
I stopped, hesitating. How long would every question sound like an accusation?
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Yes, it’s understandable,” he said, getting up. “Your mother, she’s very tired, I think.” Raising his eyes toward the stairs, indicating that they’d already spoken.
“There’s news?”
“I thought I would come myself. A courtesy. The telephone, it’s-”
“What’s happened?”
“A body has been found.”
“What?” How? The rope slipping out of its knots, rocked by the tide? What if the tarp were still there, a match for the one in the water entrance? Why hadn’t I got rid of it? But then someone would have noticed.
“You’re surprised?”
“A body. You mean he’s dead?”
“Yes.” He raised his eyes again. “I’ve told your mother. So at least now she knows.”
“I’d better go up.”
“No, she’s resting. The girl-Angelina? — is with her. Maybe now she can sleep. I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?” I said, feeling a tingling along my skin.
“Yes. I thought-I don’t like to ask your mother, but it’s a formality. We can’t reach the daughter, you see. Another early bird, perhaps. There’s no question, I think-the same description, in evening clothes-but it’s necessary for the formality.”
“What is?”
“To identify the body. It should be family, but you are almost a son. And it’s not good to wait. The condition of the body-he has been in the water. You don’t mind?”
“All right,” I said, not knowing how to refuse. “You know him. Couldn’t you just-?”
“No, no, I am police. It must be someone else. You understand, for the formalities. And now the crime report.”
“Crime report.”
“Yes, he was killed.”
“How do you mean?” I said, maneuvering through this, someone who didn’t know.
Inspector Cavallini made a smashing gesture with his hand. “A blow to the head. So they tell me. I haven’t seen the body yet. We’ll go together, to San Michele. I’ll call the Questura for a boat. Would you open the canal gate?”
“The canal gate,” I repeated vaguely, looking toward the damp room, the steps where I’d dragged him. “Yes,” I said, catching myself, “all right. Just let me run upstairs for a second, see if she’s all right.” To get away, even for a minute. “You can phone in there.” I pointed to the room where I’d waited the other night.
“Thank you. And for this help. I’m sorry to ask you.”
“He was killed?” I said again, because I should be dumbfounded.
“Yes.”
“You mean, not by accident.”
“No, by murder.”
I stared at him, no longer acting, the word itself like a jolt, what it had really been.
“You’re sure? It couldn’t be a fall?”
“No. Not according to San Michele. Of course, I will look myself.”
“But who-I mean, where-?”
Inspector Cavallini shrugged. “We only know where he was found.”
“In the water, you said.”
“Yes, the lagoon. A fisherman, only this morning. The body was caught on a channel marker. Otherwise-” He opened his hands.
“So he could have been put in anywhere.” Far from here.
“Not anywhere. You know, there are channels in the lagoon, like rivers. The tides follow a path. You can see on the charts. This was the major channel from San Marco, behind San Giorgio, out to the Lido. Usually that would mean this side of Venice. But it’s more likely that a boat took him, so the murder itself could have been anywhere.”
“A boat?” I said, my head spinning with charts and currents-this much already known, before the body had even been identified. And then they’d find out the rest.
“Yes, because of the distance from San Marco. It’s unlikely it would float that far in a day. Well, but this is all early, a speculation. First we must see the body. To make sure.”
My mother was sleeping, Angelica indicated with a finger to her lips, worn out by the waiting and now able to go into full retreat. I washed my face and held on to the sides of the basin until my hands were still, looking in the mirror to see what Cavallini would see. Maybe that’s what he wanted-to watch my expression when I saw the corpse, some sly police trick. The smallest thing could give you away. But this was being jumpy. Why should he suspect anything? We’d been photographed together.
When I got back downstairs, he was already at the canal entrance, walking by the tarp, looking up at the gondola. I felt a small tremor in my hands again, then steadied myself.
“You don’t use the gondola?” he said.
“No.” I opened the gate, my back to him. On the canal, the rowboat was bobbing idly at its mooring post.
“Ah, you’re an oarsman,” he said, spotting it.
“Well, not in this weather,” I said quickly. “I haven’t been out yet. Maybe in the spring.” Why say that? What
