A Beautiful Crime

by Christopher Bollen

  In Cannaregio, Nick allowed himself a glance down the alley toward Il Dormitorio—for once, there was no chance of an accidental run-in with his boyfriend. Clay was signing his name to four million euros at this very moment. Nick entered the lush palazzo garden and stashed his suitcase and bag behind the flowering cypress. As he walked to the gate, he improvised a joke to tell Eva through the intercom: “Is this the Thank-God-Nick’s-Finally-Leaving Party?” When he pressed the buzzer, though, a different voice erupted through the speaker. “Who is it?” Richard West asked.

  Nick was thrown off guard. Shouldn’t West be sitting across from Clay at the notary right now? He checked his phone to make sure of the time. It was only a few minutes after ten. The appointment should have just been starting.

  “It’s Nick,” he said cheerfully. The gate clicked open, and Nick climbed the dark staircase. At the top, he found the door ajar. As he tried to push it open, however, the door hit against some unseen obstruction. Nick squeezed through the opening to discover the remains of a demo job. West’s wall of chicken-wire bookshelves had been partially dismantled. The walnut door leading to the van der Haar palazzino now stood exposed. For Nick, this renovation was, at least, a positive sign, and it helped calm his anxiety. West clearly felt so confident about obtaining Il Dormitorio, he’d already started ripping down the physical barrier.

  The man himself stood across the room at the bar. A shaft of sunlight cut blindingly across the floor, separating them. West wore his usual white linen shirt and pants. He was smiling in welcome.

  Nick avoided the initial question that was blaring, loud as a siren, through his head: What are you doing home right now? Instead he sneaked it into a friendlier remark: “Look who I get a chance to say goodbye to! I thought it would only be Eva here this morning.”

  West hooked his hands on his hips and took Nick in with interest. His bare foot toyed with the brass brain doorstop on the floor. “So you’re off to Milan for good today, are you?”

  The mention of Milan spooked Nick. How did West know the city they had chosen for their escape this afternoon? Paranoia shot through him, running through every vein. Yet there was nothing cunning about West’s smile. It radiated with genuine affection, and in relief Nick recalled his own excuse about the silver client in Milan.

  “Yes, finally!” Nick answered with a laugh. “It’s back to work, I’m afraid. I wish I could stay all summer. I really hope I can live like you do one day.”

  West clucked at the compliment. Nick noticed that he had extremely dexterous feet. He was able to grasp the brain with his sole and rotate it around on the terrazzo.

  “Eva ran to the liquor store,” West said. “She invited you over for prosecco before checking if we had any in the house. I tried to get ahold of Battista this morning to fetch some, but his phone doesn’t seem to be on.” West rolled his eyes at the unreliability of assistants. “Eva should be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, can I make you”—he scanned the contents of his bar—“a gin?”

  “Oh, I can wait,” Nick said amiably. “Is it just us?” He was hoping to tease out the reason that West was at home right now instead of at the notary.

  “Yes, it’s just us. I hope that’s all right with you!” West poured out a pinch of gin for himself and drowned it in sparkling water. “Karine’s out for the day. The dust from the bookshelves does a number on her allergies. It’s best if it’s just the three of us anyway. I’ve never seen Eva so excited. It makes me incredibly happy.” He stirred his drink with his pinkie finger and sucked the tip for taste.

  “Why is she so excited?” Nick asked. He couldn’t decide if he was supposed to infer the reason or not. He was exhausted by the labyrinth of deceits. Leaving Venice would mean letting go of the lies. He glanced at the piles of books and disassembled wood. “Does it have to do with your recent renovation?”

  “You could say that!” West replied giddily. He set his drink on the bar and wrapped his arms around his ribs, hugging himself. Nick felt the vicarious warmth of that hug. West’s win was also their win. Everyone was coming out ahead. Everyone had reason to celebrate this morning.

  A motoscafo roared down the canal out the window. Nick waited for the engine to fade. “Does this mean Eva isn’t returning to France in order to find a conservation job?”

  “You don’t know the half of it!” West cried. “You really should be thanked, because the silver deal laid the groundwork for reeling in the main prize. It established a level of trust . . . Well, not that I ever trusted that punk next door. Let me tell you, I was never fooled. I have a nose for scam artists.” West tapped his right nostril. “You develop an instinct for them in business. But it’s all worked out so nicely.”

  Nick smiled warmly through each insult of Clay. Let him hate the punk next door. What difference did it make now?

  West let go of himself to wave at the wall behind Nick. “I never liked those shelves. But soon the wall behind it will go too. Eventually we can open up the whole house and return it to its original floor plan. I’m talking about exactly as it existed when it was built in 1473. I’m respecting the hell out of this palazzo’s history, thank you very much! Far more so than the van der Haars ever did with their crappy partitioning job just to keep a toe in this town.” West had finally collected all he could from the gilded American family. Now that he was free from his obsession, the van der Haars had deflated into the flawed human beings they had always been.

  Nick stepped into the shaft of light, his hand shielding his eyes. “Are you saying you bought the house next door from the guy who inherited it?”

  West nodded with enthusiasm. Then he modified that nod by tipping his head from side to side in an amusing “sort of” nod-shake. A giggle escaped his lips.

  “You aren’t going to believe what’s happening right this minute!” West inched his sleeve back to check his wristwatch. “What’s already happened, actually, as of fifteen minutes ago!”

  “What is it?” Nick asked coyly. “What’s going on?” He inched toward West to escape the sun.

  “Well, it’s safe to tell you. That kid, that hustler next door, is at the notary office right now, signing over the title to Il Dormitorio.”

  “Amazing! You’re getting the whole house! Well done!”

  “But, you see, I’ve known all along the kind of person he is. Did I ever tell you that he once worked for me as my assistant? This is the kind of person you don’t trust as a rule. Which, of course, is why I asked you to examine the silver before I ever agreed to buy it. So when this kid comes back offering to sell me Il Dormitorio, I’m not some lamb quaking in an open field. I know to be careful around this Brooklyn gold digger.” Bronx, Nick almost corrected.

  West inhaled sharply. “I could smell it, you know what I mean? Like you must be able to do with fake antiques. I could smell the lies on him.”

  Sweat was prickling the back of Nick’s neck. More than anything, he wanted to shut the curtains on the migraine of daylight seeping into the room. In the shade he could calm down and think rationally. “What did you do?” he asked, unable to contain the accusation in his voice.

  “You’re going to love it!” West promised. He pointed his thumb behind him at the bar. “Are you sure I can’t fix you a gin?”

  “I’m sure,” Nick snapped. He tried to smile, but the muscles in his face were agonizingly tight. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  West didn’t seem to catch the slip of Nick’s mask. He was too high on his own triumph. “It’s incredible! The kid bragged about owning the whole house. Like we were both equal under the same roof. He and I, the same, can you believe that?” West sputtered his lips at the absurdity of it. “Of course, that wasn’t the case. He only got his hands on the half he cheated out of poor Freddy.”

  The image of Clay sitting in a notary office swam around in Nick’s head as if it had fallen loose from a story that no longer made any sense to him. “If you figured out that Clay didn’t own Il Dormitorio, why is he at the
notary right now?” Nick couldn’t stop shifting his weight from one leg to the other, as if neither limb wanted to bear the responsibility of holding him up.

  West turned to retrieve his drink from the bar. “Battista deserves the credit for tracking her down. It wasn’t easy. She’s been living in Uruguay for the past twenty years, in a speck of a beach town called José Ignacio. It’s just her and a dozen horses living in borderline poverty. The poor thing’s half-senile. It’s such a sad way to end up. I mean, she’s a van der Haar! It goes to show: you have to keep replenishing your money supply, or there won’t be any. I hope you’ve learned that lesson, Nick.”

  Nick shook his head, not because he was immune to lessons, but because the facts themselves weren’t jelling in his head. “Who did Battista track down in Uruguay?” His voice quavered. “You can’t mean Freddy’s sister?”

  West snorted in laughter. “Yes, Cecilia van der Haar! We tried to convince her to come to Venice to testify that she never signed away her half of the house, but she’s too weak to travel. It’s just as well. That woman is a nightmare, as nasty as the last century made them. But she was very grateful that we reached out to her. Understandably, she wasn’t pleased that the same scam artist who worked over her brother was now trying to sell the family house from under her. Battista arranged for a local lawyer to take her affidavit and send it to us.” West shook his head incredulously. “Can you believe it? I swear, only in Venice. It’s always been a thieves’ paradise.” West took a swig of his drink. “But the good news is that Cecilia has agreed to sell me Il Dormitorio when it’s all over. She’s only too happy for the money. And my lawyer assures me no Italian judge is going to let Clay keep his share once he’s convicted of real-estate fraud.” West shrugged. “I think Cecilia understands who she’s giving the property to and the amount of care I’ll—”

  “What will happen to him?” Nick asked urgently.

  “To Clay?” West clinked his wrists together to signal handcuffs. “The polizia are at the notary with my lawyer. Once he hands over his documents, they’ll arrest him. It’s a ridiculously light sentence for fraud in Italy—three or four years. But at least he’ll get some punishment for trying to screw me over.” West scuttled toward Nick to clap him tenderly on the shoulder. The daylight proved too intense for him, though, and after a brief squeeze, he retreated to the shade by the bar. “I know I sound awful gloating about someone going to jail. I’m as sad about the situation as anyone. But that kid next door has always been a thorn in my side. He turned on me when I tried to help him once. Then he turned Freddy against me. Now I can finally say to his face, ‘See, I was right about you.’” West stared dreamily toward the walnut door. “I’m always right about people. It’s an instinct. Still, I can’t believe that fucker had the gall to try to rob me blind.”

  Nick stumbled forward, making his way toward the satisfied smile on the other side of the sunlight. His fingers were strangling warm spring air. A flare of hate tore through him, a sick heat that made him feel claustrophobic in his own body. He’d felt it in the hotel room of the Grazia Salvifica, and he felt it now as he reached the pocket of shade where West was standing.

  “Call it off,” Nick said through his clenched teeth. “Right now. The whole thing. Call it off.”

  “Excuse me?” West was still smiling, but the expression had lost its wattage. His eyes creased. “Call what off?”

  “The notary. The setup. Call it off!” Nick dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped at its cracked screen with inept fingers.

  “What are you doing?” West groused.

  “I’m phoning Clay. I’m warning him.”

  “How do you have his number?” West took an instinctive step back. His eyes fled to the miniature skyline of glass bottles on his makeshift bar. “It’s too late to warn him,” West barked. “It’s already happened. The meeting was at ten.”

  The phone slipped to the floor. Nick’s fingers found West’s shirt collar, and he dragged the heavy, older man up to his eye level. “You have to undo it! You’ll say it’s all a misunderstanding! You’ll say you put him up to it!”

  West’s shock had finally solidified into rage. “Get off of me!” he yelled as he drove his arms between them and freed his collar from Nick’s grip.

  Shirt buttons pinged and scattered on the floor. Nick tried to follow the sound of a solitary button as it rolled across the terrazzo, but the image of Clay being led away in handcuffs refused to dissolve. A foot away, West was straightening his shirt collar, his face purple with anger. Nick tightened his right fist. He had never punched anyone before. But he had pushed a man down an elevator shaft. There was no end to what his hands could accomplish. He lurched forward, reeled his arm back, and struck West as hard as he could in the face.

  The man crumpled so softly that it didn’t seem connected to an act of violence. Nick’s knuckles throbbed with pain, and the ache crawled up the bones of his wrist. He gripped his hand as he stared down at West on the floor. Specks of blood were blooming on his white linen shirt. West abruptly rotated onto his knees and began scrambling toward the bar. There must be a weapon stashed there, and if West got his hands on it, he’d surely use it.

  Nick grabbed him by the belt loops and dragged him backward across the terrazzo. The older man tried to maneuver a flailing side-kick, but the motion capsized him and he tumbled onto his back. Straddling his stomach, Nick saw blood leaking from West’s nostrils. His face had fallen into the shaft of sunlight, and Nick had the surreal impression of holding his head underwater in a stream, drowning him to death in the brightness.

  A series of coughs sent West’s skull tapping against the marble. He moaned, and for a second Nick felt a jolt of sympathy. But he remembered that this man had just thrown his boyfriend in prison, and his anger returned, doubling, as if seeping out of every crack inside of him. West gazed up, and their eyes met.

  “Aiuto!” West shouted feebly. “Please, aiuto!”

  “You fuck!” Nick screamed. “You conceited, greedy fuck! Who’s going to help you now? Who? There’s no one there!” West had taken everything from him, including the one person who could have stopped him from going further.

  West licked the blood from his lips. “If you don’t get off me, I’m going to kill you,” he whispered matter-of-factly.

  The sureness of that threat frightened Nick, more so because it was uttered by a man pinned to the ground who should be pleading for his life. “Yeah? Will you?” Nick said, trying to sound tough. “You’re the one who should be scared.”

  West’s hand shot up, his palm slamming into Nick’s chin. Nick’s vision went green and starry. But he managed to deliver another punch to West’s nose that instantly dislodged his hand.

  West looked like he’d been knocked out cold. His right cheek lay flush against the floor, and his eyes stared dazedly off to the side. But a faint, straining groan in the back of his throat betrayed him. Nick followed West’s outstretched arm to his fingers, which were fastening around the brass doorstop. Just as West lifted it, Nick slammed his arm down. The doorstop skidded across the flecked marble, deep into the sunlight. Nick’s knees hammered the floor as he scrambled for the bright metal orb. But West was a drowning swimmer trying to take him under too, clawing at his ribs and chest. Nick jammed a knee into West’s neck, allowing him enough time to grasp the doorstop. He took the dense weight in his hand and climbed on top of West.

  West was thrashing, arms flailing, lips swilling with spit. “Aiuto!” he cried again. “For god’s sake, help me!” One of his thumbs nearly gouged Nick’s eye. Nick had no choice. Neither of them did. He lifted the doorstop over his head with both hands. West’s hips bucked, his feet kicked, his hand reached for Nick’s throat. Nick’s strength was flagging, but he brought the heavy brain crashing down.

  The weight only nicked the side of West’s head, the floor taking most of the impact. Blood flowed from a gash above the older man’s ear, matting his white hair. The struggling had stopped.
West was breathing evenly, looking up at Nick almost dumbly while sucking on his teeth. He was no longer screaming for help.

  Nick grabbed the doorstop and rose on his knees, arching the weight high above his head for a second time. Killing West would free him—of what, he couldn’t say exactly, but he wanted to be free of whatever it was. Murder offered itself to him like a shaded place to sleep. But in that instant Nick understood that if he killed again, he’d never find his way back. He’d be stuck in that shade, because there was nobody left to guide him out.

  He rolled off West’s body and set the doorstop gently on the floor. He pictured his bags stashed in the garden and the train station a ten-minute walk away and places without border checks or police. He got to his feet near the walnut door to Il Dormitorio. Just beyond that door were Clay’s bags, packed and waiting.

  Nick left the way he came. He didn’t glance back at the man lying in the sunlight, staring up at the ceiling in the position of the dead.

  Epilogue

  There were fewer boats to the island in October.

  Clay choreographed his train trip—Venice to Rome—and air flight—Rome to Lampedusa—with balletic precision to arrive just before the ferry departed. It was a long journey accompanied mostly by silence-hating toddlers and elderly off-season tourists. Still, Clay felt excited, albeit nervous. It had been five months. As the plane neared the island of Lampedusa, Clay studied the map in the back of the airline magazine. If Italy were a boot and Sicily a ball, Lampedusa was a fly buzzing on the playing field, which made the island of Linosa, what? A flake of skin? A bead of sweat? Some yet undiscovered microorganism that would either decimate or save the planet? Linosa dotted the Mediterranean Sea so far to the south that it seemed to want to belong to Tunisia. No Northern Italian that Clay asked had ever set foot on it. Clay gave Nick credit: he’d managed to find the most isolated spot, as far from Venice as possible while still technically remaining within the country’s border.