Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel

by James Markert

  John still cried out every night but insisted on drinking his daily dose of fountain water anyway. Claimed he felt better after every episode.

  “You should try it, Gandy. It’s therapeutic.”

  “How long you gonna drink that water, John?”

  “Until it all comes up. Until it all empties out. We aren’t like all these old people, Gandy. I think time can heal what we got. But you got to start letting it out.”

  Vitto shook his head, smirked. It helped that the woman, Beverly, the one John was sweet on, had started running up to his room every night to comfort him and settle him down after his nightmares. Maybe if Vitto hadn’t unknowingly choked his wife, Val would be doing the same for him.

  On the opposite side of the hotel, the tennis courts were occupied by four of the guests. From his perch, he couldn’t tell if they were men or women, but somehow the thunk of each hit carried. He could see the bocce court better, where Mr. Cane—now called Cowboy Cane by the other guests—played with Ms. Thomerson and another couple. There were five people with mallets on the recently installed croquet court.

  Vitto got back to work, hacking at the weeds, pulling and clearing, until he glanced under his arm and spotted his son, William, watching from behind a tree at the bottom of the terraces. Although it was the first time he’d spotted him today, it wasn’t the first time he’d caught him spying. All week the boy had been watching from afar—hiding behind a statue, the corner of a wall, the shadow of an arch. One time Vitto had waved and the boy had taken off running.

  William now had that grenade attached to a belt loop on his trousers. Maybe Vitto shouldn’t have given the boy a grenade. Things might be better now with Val if he’d given the boy a toy of some sort instead of a dud Nazi war weapon. But that grenade clearly meant something to William.

  A smile almost bubbled at the boy’s clumsy hiding, but Vitto clamped it down and went back to work, cleaving through a thicket of weeds, pretending he didn’t see his son watching. Maybe after he finished with the olive grove and the grapevines, he’d get to work clearing out the weeds from around the hotel foundation. Hunched over and dripping sweat, Vitto sneaked another look under his arm. William had climbed the steps of the first terrace and was now hunkered down behind one of the olive trees.

  Vitto pulled more weeds. Next thing he knew, William had climbed to the second terrace, and he had something in his hand. Without turning around, Vitto said, “I see you.” The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t run either. Vitto turned, sat on the ground he’d just cleared, and locked eyes with the boy. “Run, and I’ll chase you.”

  He’d meant it to be playful, but the boy now looked scared. Seeing his father choke his mother would be a memory not readily forgotten. Maybe Vitto needed to take William to the field with a shovel and they could bury that memory together.

  “You know, I changed your diapers,” Vitto said. “Even the nasty ones. I used to rock you to sleep in those first couple of years before I left.”

  William stared. The boy had big eyes, big olive-green Magdalena eyes, more noticeable now in the sunlight. “You got your grandmother’s eyes. You know that?” Vitto patted the earth beside him. “Come up here. I won’t hurt you.”

  William climbed the next set of stairs, paused on the landing, and then climbed up the final one to the top of the grove. He had a cup in his hand. He held it out, persistent. Vitto sighed. “Your mother put you up to this?”

  William shook his head no. A toy stethoscope dangled around his neck and shoulders. “You thirsty?” he asked.

  “No. But thanks.”

  William stubbornly held out the cup, and his rigid stance suggested he wasn’t going to move until his father took the offering and drank from it. “Doctor says drink.”

  Vitto said, “Did you drink from that fountain?”

  William shook his head. “Mommy won’t let me.”

  “And does she drink from it?”

  William shook his head again.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged, stepped closer with the cup.

  Vitto leaned forward, sniffed it, and cocked an eyebrow. “Smells good.” Even though it smelled like nothing. The boy smiled, dimples popped, and before he knew it Vitto had grabbed that cup. “If I drink this, will you help me clear these weeds?”

  William nodded, smiled again, watching closely.

  Vitto tilted the cup back and took the water in, half a cup’s worth. For show, he wiped his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve and smacked his lips. “Best water I’ve ever had.” The boy seemed pleased. Vitto started to pat his son’s shoulder, but William stepped back as if afraid he was about to get hit.

  Vitto handed William the cutters. “You know how to use these?”

  William shook his head but then allowed Vitto to show him. A minute later he was attacking the vines like a seasoned worker. Every so often he stopped to watch his father, as if waiting for that water to kick in like poison would. Or maybe it was medicine.

  The boy smiled.

  Vitto smiled back.

  Twelve

  Vitto watched the goings-on in the piazza from the railing outside his second-floor room.

  He’d always believed the elderly turned in early. But here they all were, ten minutes before midnight, mingling around the fountain, around the stone fire pits, around where Valerie periodically played her violin with Juba singing beside her.

  They’d gained another musician today, an eighty-one-year-old woman named Elenore Eaves. Once a concert pianist, she had struggled with memory loss for four years, according to the daughter who’d brought her, and had not played for longer than that as she increasingly struggled to remember how. She’d taken a dose of medicine soon after lunch, and by dinner the daughter had noticed a difference in her mind, a clarity in her eyes and thoughts. She’d even begun reciting memories thought long forgotten.

  Robert had then insisted that Juba roll the hotel piano out onto the piazza next to where Valerie had been playing her violin.

  Juba did as requested but was dubious. “It hasn’t been maintained in years.”

  “I had a tuner out last week,” Robert admitted with a wink. “The thing sounded awful. And I assumed you’d be here to play it eventually.”

  Juba smiled as if he couldn’t wait to play it again but would gladly now wait his turn.

  Mrs. Eaves hesitated but finally sat down and touched the keys. A few tentative notes. A scale. A few familiar lines. Valerie lifted her bow. And soon the two musicians were flowing harmoniously into pieces by Mendelssohn, Schubert, and Brahms, luring Vitto from his cleaning at the olive terraces to follow the sound, the music, the memory of what the hotel used to sound like for large portions of the day, when talented musicians would come to write and practice and perform. Too many concerts had been held on the piazza to count.

  Now, as he watched from above, the piano bench stood empty. Mrs. Eaves stood among a cluster of women near the brightly lit bar, drinking wine and no doubt being apprised of what was about to occur on the piazza at midnight. Juba, as was his custom after sundown, wore his tuxedo as he stood behind the bar wiping wineglasses. Robert had found the brightest corner of the piazza, near the bar, and was feverishly chiseling away on his statue. Beside him, a table of old men played cards, laughing and gnawing on cigars, engulfed in a cloud of smoke that even the ocean breeze couldn’t penetrate.

  Valerie was down there, too, mingling with the crowd. Periodically she’d look his way, the awkwardness between them still lingering like a splinter. He was resisting the urge to write down their argument and bury it in the ground the way he’d done after the handful of times they’d argued in the past—yes, she’d thought that silly, too, but in a cute way. But he honestly wouldn’t have known what to write. He couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what this argument was about, or even if this roadblock was an argument at all. It was like a wall had come up between them, and walls weren’t easily buried.

  At least today she’d spoken to him, even though it
was out of frustration—unwarranted frustration, in Vitto’s opinion.

  Earlier, while taking a break from cleaning the terraces, he’d shown William different ways to properly throw the grenade he’d given him. Ultimately the boy had decided he liked the kneeling position best and had used that position to lob the dud weapon onto the tennis court, where two old guys were hitting a ball around.

  “No harm done,” Vitto had tried to tell her, even though one of the men had fallen into the net when the metal object bounced onto the court and clanked to a stop around the service line. The two men had then gotten into an argument over whether or not to replay the point and had not even seen William hurry onto the court to retrieve his Nazi plaything.

  “It could have given them a heart attack, Vitto,” Valerie had argued.

  “But it didn’t,” he’d said, laughing. Then both of them had realized simultaneously that he was laughing, which had prompted Valerie to bring up the fact that he’d consumed some of the fountain water earlier in the day. She’d thanked him for at least trying to get better, to which he’d answered, “It was only water, Valerie. I don’t feel any different than before.” She’d huffed, turned on her heel, leaving him standing alone in the grass.

  That was hours ago. Since then he’d shaved and washed up for the first time in days. And now, as he overlooked the buzz of excitement down on the piazza, he could no longer deny the nerves coursing through his bloodstream, the same jittery feeling he’d gotten before the first time he kissed her, before he asked for her hand in marriage. The nervous feeling he’d get for her before every one of her hotel performances, when famous actors and directors or well-known musicians would sometimes show.

  When Valerie caught him laughing over the grenade incident, she’d assumed it came from drinking the water. But the laughter and warmth had actually started hours before that. As soon as he swallowed the water, he’d felt warmth coating his heart, like melted caramel over an apple, and it had stayed with him the entire time he worked side by side with a son who still didn’t believe he was his father. But progress had been made, if not measured. The warmth had followed him from the olive groves the instant he heard Valerie playing alongside Mrs. Eaves in the afternoon. He had come running from the terraces, spying on them from the shadows much like William had been doing earlier, suddenly filled with emotion and anxiety.

  “Let it out, Gandy.”

  John’s voice.

  But let what out? The tears? They were there, certainly, because ever since he’d swallowed that water he’d been on the verge of breaking down, like what went in as water would come out as salty tears. Was that how it worked? Despite the feel of it, he refused to believe it. That water was a placebo, nothing more.

  Then why was he upstairs watching while everyone else was congregating down in the piazza? Because he didn’t want them to see him cry. Didn’t want them to see him become a bumbling mess.

  Even now, as he looked down at his father chipping away at that stone, he wanted to know why, after all these years, the man was still so consumed by his work? On the surface Robert Gandy was the father of all fathers, loving and flamboyant, but Vitto knew the connection between them had always been tentative, teetering on a slippery surface. Robert had never really let him in, never loved him the way he loved Magdalena. The way he loved his work, his sculptures, the art inside his hotel, and the idea of being the Renaissance man, as numerous magazines had called him in the twenties. Vitto had never had that easygoing, conversational connection with him that he’d had, for the most part, with his mother, and even more so with Juba.

  It had been the same with Valerie and many of the other kids who stayed for long periods at the hotel. While the parents were working, creating, and mingling, Juba had done the dirty work. The behind-the-scenes bandaging of knees and administration of discipline, the tucking in at bedtime and reading of stories. Juba’s had been the shoulder Vitto and Valerie leaned on while Robert chiseled deep into the night.

  Vitto watched his father now, hammering and smoothing while life went on around him. “Who are you?” he whispered aloud. “Who am I?”

  An artist. That’s what I am. Or that’s what I used to be.

  Vitto’s talent had always been undeniable. Born with the unique ability to look at the world and recreate what he saw and remembered—and surrounded by adults who made sure he had the resources he needed—he’d been creating beautiful works of art when most children his age were learning to correctly lace their shoes. The same had been true for Valerie and her violin, her training begun by her parents and teachers and continued by Juba.

  Two prodigies, people had called them. Destined for each other, like two pieces of a puzzle finally rejoined. And, especially, just like Robert and Magdalena. People loved to talk about that—how Robert hadn’t been so much drawn to Tuscany for the art and sculpture as he had been drawn there for her. But Magdalena was just a memory now. And Vitto had not touched a paintbrush in years.

  So who am I now?

  Tears streaked cold toward the corners of his lips. Vitto wiped his cheeks. Down below, Juba had just cleared his throat, and the piazza had hushed in anticipation. Even Robert put his hammer down and faced his old friend behind the bar.

  “And ticktock goes the clock,” Vitto said to himself, sniffling like a baby. He moved on instinct, migrating now toward the action, his shoes clinking step by step down the spiral staircase as the rest of the hotel awaited Juba’s next words.

  On previous nights Vitto had holed himself up in his room during last call, distancing himself from all the stories and laughter. Tonight he stopped on the travertine, facing the canopied bar and the clock from Florence on the wall that used to be stuck at midnight. Vitto had always assumed that was why they started last call at exactly that hour.

  Juba used to glance up at the clock just before the ritual. “Last call,” he’d shout in more of a singsong than mere spoken words. Then, after a pause, he would finish: “Last call at the Tuscany Hotel!” Then the people in the piazza would gather round for drinks and stories, just as they were gathered now.

  They’d resumed the tradition after Juba’s return, and the guests had taken to it like ducks to water. Juba would pronounce last call. And immediately the chatter would begin anew as the guests—older than those during the hotel’s heyday, but no less exuberant—moved toward the bar. Juba would already be pouring wine, red and white, into rows of glasses, which they snatched one by one. They would be the last glasses of wine served at the hotel for the night, but the goal was to make them last as long as possible while the stories were spun. And the new guests had plenty of stories to tell. They had lived long lives, many of them fruitful, and now that they could remember, they were eager to share.

  The stories usually came out through a social game called truth or lies, which Magdalena had started in the summer of 1903. One full-moon night when she happened to be engaged in the camaraderie and not strolling the grounds alone, she’d clapped her hands to draw everyone together and proposed the game. The idea was for the players to swap brief stories with one another—quick bursts from either memory or imagination—and for the listeners to guess which stories were real and which were made up. Guess wrong, and the listener had to drink. Guess correctly, and the teller had to drink. Players who ran out of wine were out of the game and had to watch from the sidelines, though Juba would often sneak more wine to those watching the final rounds. Eventually the game would dwindle to two. Back when the hotel was booming, the writers and actors had been tough to beat.

  Vitto found himself joining the crowd as Juba’s familiar greeting rang out. He even picked up a glass of red wine as the stories began flying around him. Maybe I’ll even play. The thought surprised him, but he found himself warming to the idea. As teenagers, he and Valerie had been allowed to join in the game, and he’d gotten quite good at sifting through the malarkey.

  Apparently the old cowboy from Texas had won last night. “Quite the storyteller,” Louise Spen
cer had whispered to her daughter, Beverly, nudging her with an elbow as if smitten. Cowboy Cane now walked high-and-mighty across the travertine, his Stetson tilted against the moon glow. Vitto decided to confront him first.

  “Why are you crying?” asked Cane when Vitto stepped up beside him.

  “I’m not.” Vitto wiped his eyes, found them wet. “It’s the wind.”

  “What wind?” And then Cane got right to it, didn’t even shake hands for a proper introduction. “When I was your age, I got hit by a train. A steer got lost and took a nap right on the railroad track. The train was coming. I waved like this.” He showed Vitto, somehow without spilling a drop of his red wine. “I eventually got that steer up and moving. Must have been having a good dream. The train started braking, a real loud screech that hurt my ears, and I kept on pushing that steer. But it was groggy and slow, and I wasn’t about to let it get hit—mostly because I didn’t want to clean up the mess. So I just didn’t get out of the way quick enough. It was a glancing blow, but the train knocked me clear off my feet. I landed about twenty yards away in the dust.”

  Vitto didn’t even hesitate. “You’re lying.”

  “You’re wrong, pal. Drink up.” And then he rolled up his sleeve to show a scar that looked more like an old shark bite than evidence of a train collision. “Almost lost my arm. Couldn’t use it for months after. Steer got away without a scratch, though.”

  Vitto sipped his drink, still not believing it. Easy to win the game if you cheat.

  Cane started to walk away, but stopped. “You know why I have to win this game?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like wine.” Cane winked. “Real men drink whiskey.” He moved on, started in on the next person with the exact same train story.