waved her hand, the same fingers that had just dipped in holy water, made a quick cross at the pew. “The Germans’ friends. ‘We did nothing. Patrioti.’ And soon everyone will believe it again. All patrioti. Trials? That’s all in the past. And then it’s too late. I don’t have time for a dead man, but the living? To get just one more?” She lowered her voice. “She told you about them. She’ll let you read them?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Good. Just get the names. I’ll do the rest.” She glanced up, sensing my reluctance. “You asked me once to look at files for you.”
“Another obligation.”
“To me? No. You know what these people are. You saw it in Germany.”
“That was different.”
“Yes? Imagine if it were your country-what would you do?”
I stared at her for a minute, a bulky figure in a sweater, still in combat, then looked away.
“I’d get the names,” I said.
“So. You married an Italian. You’re not a tourist anymore.”
“A patriota.”
She smiled. “A real one.” She nodded her head toward the vaporetto approaching the landing. “You go first. I have some business here.”
“On the Giudecca?”
She wagged her finger. “Just your piece. Unlock the gate.” Then, before I could turn toward the dock, she put a hand on my shoulder, soft as the air, a thank-you. “And the names.”
We could have spent the evening anywhere-Harry’s, Montin’s-but I got the idea of asking for Gianni’s seats at La Fenice because it gave me an excuse to go to Ca’ Maglione and look at Paolo’s journals. I had planned to spend the afternoon, but I arrived to find Cavallini there having tea, a surprise visit, and Giulia edgy, handing me the tickets with an expression that said the library was now out of the question. Another day.
“One minute and I will walk with you,” Cavallini said, holding up a finger.
Giulia gave me a wry “Your turn” look. Then there was a fuss in the hall about his hat and more good-byes, so it was five minutes before we were finally out on the street, walking to Santo Stefano.
“What is on tonight?” he said.
“ La Boheme.”
“Ah, romantic. For the newlyweds.”
“You like opera?” I said, marking time, eager to be away.
“My wife enjoys it. Perhaps you’ll see her tonight.”
“But not you?”
“No, not tonight. Work.”
“So late?”
“A special assignment.”
I waited, but he said nothing. We crossed a bridge into a narrow calle smelling of garbage and mold.
“Sometimes, you know, I think it’s time to leave the police. Business maybe, a position.”
“I thought you enjoyed it.”
“Yes, when you’re young. You don’t worry about anything then. But now you think, what if? Maybe tonight it’s your turn.”
“I thought there wasn’t any crime in Venice.”
“Before, no. A few robberies, like anywhere. But now, since the war, such violence. Think of Maglione, murdered. All these animosities, they don’t go away.”
“It takes time,” I said blandly, letting him lead.
“Yes, how long? The war teaches them to fight. Then how do you make them stop? It’s in the blood, an excitement. The law? Something to shoot at. They forget,” he said, opening his jacket to show me a gun in a side holster, “we were in the war too.”
I froze, staring at the gun, dark and bulky, something he hadn’t carried before. Why now? Even in the dim calle, the dull steel drew the eye, an almost hypnotic pull, ready to jump at you if you looked away.
“You’re expecting trouble?”
“In the police, we’re always expecting trouble,” he said, official again.
“But you never carry a gun.”
“Yes, sometimes. But it ruins the suit.” He brushed his hand down the side, showing the bulge the holster made, then looked over at me and smiled. “It worries you, the gun?” He put his hand on my shoulder, leading me toward the campo. “No, I’m an excellent shot.”
“But why today?”
He shrugged. “If there’s trouble, you’re prepared.”
“You mean there’s going to be? What?”
“Let the police worry.”
“But how do you know?”
“Signor Miller,” he said indulgently, “there are many ears in Venice. It has always been so, a tradition. Everyone listens. So I know when to be ready,” he said as we walked into the campo. “Sometimes it’s good, a little trouble. People show themselves. They come up out of the ground, they show their faces. You can see who they are.” He squinted at the cafes with umbrellas out against the spring sun, as if he were looking for them now. “But it’s true I’m getting old for this. Guns, at my age. One night-you never know. Well, don’t worry,” he said, amused at the look on my face. “We’ll be ready. You go to La Boheme.”
I said nothing, afraid to press, hoping he’d volunteer more, but he became withdrawn again, not so much discreet as preoccupied with something. He looked back for a second before we left the square.
“You know, a girl like that, all alone now-she may never marry. And then who looks out for her? Of course she has the protection of her family. But so many responsibilities,” he said, thinking out loud, the gun forgotten.
I didn’t know how to bring it up again without being obvious, so I let him talk about Giulia, not really listening, too nervous to pay attention. He knew. At least one of Rosa’s pieces had failed her. More than one? The one that led to Ca’ Venti? The important thing now was to let her know, before anyone showed his face, walked into Cavallini’s waiting hands. I glanced again at the bulge near his breast pocket, ready.
There were more good-byes when I turned off for the traghetto. I waited, counting off seconds, then went back to the calle to make sure he had kept going, finally spotting his head in the crowd moving toward San Marco. A few minutes later I followed, far enough behind to be out of sight.
I was halfway across Campo San Moise to the hotel entrance when it occurred to me that if Cavallini knew anything at all, he’d have somebody watching the Bauer. I stopped and turned, pretending to look at the church but scanning the rest of the square. A cafe at the other end would probably have a phone. I could get her to come down without having to show myself in the lobby.
After a few rings, the operator asked if I wanted to leave a message. I hung up. What if she never came back? But there was nowhere else to reach her and the cafe had a clear sightline to the hotel, so I ordered a coffee and stood at the window to wait. She hadn’t checked out. Maybe she was planning a routine afternoon, as blameless as an evening at La Fenice. I had another coffee. A small group of tourists stopped to take pictures of San Moise, kneeling and shooting up to get the full effect of the grimy rococo swirls. I craned slightly to the left, around them, afraid I’d miss her. A man at the other end of the window counter looked at me, then quickly went back to his book. Why did I assume the police would be in the lobby-why not here, with a good view of the door? There was no other way out of the Bauer except the gondola landing. I looked around. Why hadn’t I brought a newspaper? No one stood for this long looking out a window unless he was waiting for somebody. A meeting the man couldn’t miss, just glancing up from his book.
After another cigarette I decided to play it safe and leave, but just as I turned I saw Claudia coming into the square, carrying a wrapped box. I dropped my head, a reflex. The last person I wanted to see.
“I don’t want any part of it,” she’d said when I told her Rosa’s plan yesterday.
“You won’t have any part of it. Neither will I. We won’t be here.”
“And you believe her? A crazy woman.”
“She knows what she’s doing. It’s what she did in the war. If anybody can get him away-”
