by Peter Rabe
“No,” she said. “You looked bad.”
“So would you, lying under moist bridges. Tell me, Martha, how long did you see me lying there?”
“I don’t know”
“But you saw me.”
“I don’t know if you were lying there. I heard a sound. I saw something — ”
“What sound?”
“You, Charley.”
“Me. I got a million sounds. I can bark like a dog, fizz like a highball, meow like a cat.”
“Like a cat,” she said. “I think you groaned then.”
“Then when? What did you hear before?”
She wasn’t sure what she had heard before and if he had asked ‘what did you see?’ she wouldn’t have known what to say either. Because of the way he asked — because of the way he wanted to be sure she had seen nothing.
She said, “Just the water under the bridge. It always makes some sound under the bridge.”
“Sure, that’s the way bridges are. Always making sounds under there. Dribble and splash and so forth.”
She felt how he waited for her to say something, how he wanted to know what she knew. There had been no splash. There had been grunting and scuffling, and a moan, then soft water sounds — no. First the water sound and then moaning?
“You thinking about it?” he said and she had to hold very still not to show how right he had been. If he wouldn’t try so hard to make her think about it she would never have given it another thought. It is better not to think about vague things because they may come out right or wrong, all depending upon your wishes. She had no wish to think about it, only he did. He must fear she had seen something wrong.
“Well?” he said and it was like a push.
It made her remember. He had walked along the other bank — it must have been Charley — walked with a stooping load. Or perhaps there had been two men walking —
“I saw nothing,” she said suddenly.
“Oh? How come? You were right on top of me.”
Then there had only been one man. Charley. There had been the water noise and his groan! Then he was staggering towards her — with a gun? And he was bleeding, but that she didn’t know until later.
“I can’t remember, Charley, The light — ”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
She turned on him as if she meant to strike.
“There was nothing! Even until my room I had hardly seen you, so how can I say — “
“All right, all right,” he said, as if it didn’t matter.
And it didn’t matter to her. If she had hated him or he had been dangerous to her — on the bridge, in her room — perhaps she would have remembered clear, evil things about him because that’s how the mind works. But it hadn’t been like that; a sick man, running away, getting well. And he wanted her. She wanted to believe that he wanted her, for no reason but that.
“All you heard was me,” he said, “making a meow like a cat.”
She was glad he was through. “Yes. And the Tiber.”
Now he knew that she wasn’t sure what she had seen or heard — that she could be convinced either way. She was looking off to the right now, where red and yellow rocks lay the length of a slope. She didn’t want to talk any more. She thought that his bad humor got worse with talking, and the way he drove, and the sun biting the back of his neck — if he would only stop soon.
He did. He stopped digging at her because the way she got quiet she might just hold it so much longer and turn on him. If she got hostile, who knows what she might remember or make up just to spite him. He didn’t know if she was spiteful, but her voice getting too soft and talking more and more slowly was a new sign. Leave her alone. Stay with clothes and other things like that for a while.
He started heading north, toward Rome, to the village where they still had the room. The road got more even, so that after a while only the tires made a noise. Martha was leaning back, eyes closed, and he drove. He thought that the slight tension which hadn’t left must be natural. Three nights in bed with her, and nothing.
It was still daylight outside when he closed the door of the room. He sat down and watched her undress. It took her longer this time. Once she looked at him and smiled, but the smile she saw on his face had been there before and she didn’t know whether he had seen her.
They came together without looking at each other and at first she answered him. She wanted to. But his lovemaking became like an attack of hate so he never noticed when she stopped trying.
• • •
It was dark when he woke up. She wasn’t in bed. First he saw the cigarette glow in the dark and then he saw her. She sat by the window looking out She didn’t know he was awake. Every so often she touched one breast with her hand. He must have hurt her, he thought.
“Martha?”
She turned her head.
“You all right?”
He saw her nod. “Yes, Charley.”
He didn’t remember if it had been lousy or whether he just felt lousy now. Perhaps she would tell him.
“Did you sleep?”
“No.”
He felt himself getting angry so he kept still for a while.
“Come here and sleep.”
“I’m not tired, Charley.”
He took a deep breath and watched her smoke. If it had been that lousy she would have left But she hadn’t even dressed. Her silhouette was naked and he saw it in the short glow when she pulled on the cigarette. In the dark, with nobody to see, he didn’t have the smile on his face, but she could hear him so he made it light.
“Waiting for me?” he said. “Waiting for me to come around?”
He saw her toss the stub out the window but she didn’t say anything.
“Or cooling off in the night breeze, maybe?”
This time she got up, walked to the middle of the room. He couldn’t tell her face, he only saw her put her hands on her hips, legs straight.
“Lemme ask you another one,” he said because he didn’t want her to say anything right then. “Why’d you stay?”
“I was smoking.”
If he could see her face, if he knew her better —
“Why did you come?”
“How much were the clothes?” she said and for a minute he wasn’t sure she had said it. “Twenty-five thousand lire.”
“Now you know why I stayed,” she said. “And how many lire.”
She kept standing there, a wide-legged shape in the middle of the room, waiting for him to cut back at her.
But he didn’t. At first he didn’t do anything and then, even though nobody could see it, his face relaxed. He got up, walked over to her, and his hand came around her waist.
“I did want you to have those clothes.” He waited a moment. “But not now,” he said.
She listened for more but that was all he had to say.
Next day she didn’t leave as she had decided.
Chapter 10
They came in by the coast road and because she wanted to see it, drove along the curve of the harbor. To the left Naples climbed up the hill; to the right lay the wide stretch of the bay. From where they stopped on the bank the water looked cluttered — the confused stalks of the fishing fleet, fat tugs, and further out some low tankers which moved so slowly they seemed not to be moving at all. Nothing looked clean except the white tourist ship by the dock. It lay still, like a display. Only the little flags down the guy wires made fast, crazy twinkles.
“Do you see the bay from where you live, Charley?”
“Yes. I’m high up.”
“I think I will like it,” she said.
He started the car, drove into the city. The sharp harbor smells disappeared and after a while there was just the hot smell of stone and asphalt. Then that too left. The car started climbing and they drove through the section called Pizzofalcone, where the houses seemed to push each other into narrow, leaning shapes.
“Like Trastevere,” she said, “only it climbs and there is no river.”
“We live higher up,” he said. “There’s more room.”
“You live upstairs or down?” she wanted to know.
“They aren’t tenements with courtyards. More like the country.”
“And a garden?”
“It’s a mess, though.”
She thought that was fine too and then he got to the osteria, where he parked the Bugatti in the yard. They walked the rest of the way.
From the steps the view looked as if it hadn’t moved since the last time he stood there. Then she stopped in the garden and said it certainly was a mess.
“Has its advantage,” he said. “This is Joe’s house. I told you about him. My house is back there, at the other end of the garden. Overgrown like this you can’t see across.”
They walked through the open kitchen door. Francesca was there, scrubbing the table.
“Joe in?” he said.
He had to repeat it in Italian and she said yes, he was in the other room. They waited for Francesca to dry the table, which smelled piney from the scrubbing. Then they sat down.
“Get him,” said Charley.
She shook her head.
“Why? He asleep?”
“No,” she said. “He’s in bed.”
Martha didn’t get it. Then Joe opened the door. He looked big and lazy, and even when he saw Charley his expression didn’t change. He came in leaving the door open because he didn’t care. The girl sitting on the bed in back was pulling a blouse down over her breasts. The rest of her was still naked. Joe sat down at the table and said, ”Buon giorno.“
“This is Joe,” said Charley. “He’s at stud this week. And this is Martha. She’s with me.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Joe and then he turned to Charley. “Back for good?”
“Like I told you.”
“I am thirsty,” said Martha.
“He drinks only beer,” said Charley “Beer and milk. You want — ”
“There’s aranciata,” said Joe. “The women drink it.”
“I like aranciata,” said Martha, and Francesca brought her a glass of the mineral water. It looked red-yellow and had a fruity odor.
“That figures,” said Joe. “Women like that perfume.” He looked at Martha as if he was sizing up a horse, then turned back to Charley.
“So? What next?”
“First off, stay in your own stable.”
“Sure, Chuck.”
“Next, you tell me what happened.”
“You moving into the house? On the other side?” Joe nodded across the garden.
“Yeah. Me and Martha.”
“It’s kind of messed up since you’ve been there. The carabinièri.“
“You talk like they live there.”
“For a while they did. Trying to get a lead on you.”
“Did they leave happy?”
“Didn’t find a thing. It kind of helped, your not having any papers.”
“I got. The name’s Charley Delmont.”
“Yeah? Tell me about it.”
“Charley Delmont, that’s all you know. What did they ask you?”
Joe moved his chair, shrugged. “What’s your name, what’s your home, what’s your who knows what. You know how they are.”
“No, I don’t,” said Charley and smiled. “And then you said?”
“I told them you’re a buddy of mine and the name’s Charley.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I told them to ask you when you came back, that I didn’t know nothing from nothing.”
“And that they had to believe.”
“A real clown. A real funny clown.”
“Tell me about my alibi. What did I do that night when they got the truck?”
“Simple,” said Joe. He shifted in the chair and leaned on his arms. “You were in it.”
“From one clown to another, Joe — ”
“You were in it, hitching a ride. Vittore was driving, picked you up on the road. He recognized you and gave you a lift.”
“Very good.”
“Vittore is taking the rap. Two months for transporting stolen goods. Two months only because he was just the driver, had nothing to do with the goods.”
“They believed that?”
“They found papers to prove it. Way bill and so forth.”
Charley relaxed. “Good old Joe. When it comes to details, when it comes to comradeship and so forth — ”
“Can it,” Joe said and looked at Martha.
The other girl came out of the bedroom. She was older than Francesca, but not half as developed. She patted her hair, stood around for a while, and then asked Joe for a cigarette. He gave her one. Then he offered one to Martha, who took it and lit it herself.
“How about Fanny,” said Charley. “Doesn’t she get one?”
“Fanny doesn’t smoke.”
“Of course. She’s too young.”
“That’s right,” said Joe. “She’s too young.”
Then Joe lit a cigarette and when he exhaled he waved for Francesca to stand next to the chair.
“Look,” said Charley, “if you’re going to start that again — ”
“Stay in your own stable.” He had Francesca’s hand and was playing with her fingers.
“Eenie meenie minie mo,” said Charley and smiled at Joe like a father. Then he got up, nodded at Martha, and waited for her at the door.
“I’ll show you across so you can find the house. I’ll be back in an hour. Business. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, and they walked through the weeds and past the lemon trees that had grown much too bushy. After a while Charley came back and went down to the street. Joe sat at the kitchen table and played with Francesca’s fingers. He was looking out the door, across the garden.
Chapter 11
When Charlie reached the gendarmeria it was one-thirty, which in most of Southern Italy is an inviolate hour. Not even tourists have made much of a dent in the siesta custom, and those Italians who do business during the early afternoon don’t like themselves much for doing it. The siesta does not apply to official establishments, such as the police. And they don’t like themselves for having to disregard it.
Charley hadn’t seen many police stations from the inside — he’d been lucky. But they all had the same look to him. Grey paint, green paint, or no paint was the uniform, with blond varnished or brown varnished furniture for decoration. Posters on wall boards didn’t count for decoration. They were all drab blacks and whites.
“Buon giorno, gatekeeper,” said Charley and watched the carabinière scramble around in his chair. He was in shirt sleeves, and without his Napoleonic hat which made him look like a farmer.
“Buon giorno,” said the policeman. He had a red welt on his forehead where he had been resting on the desk.
“I’m Charley,” said Charley.
The policeman stretched and smiled back.
“I’m Giancarlo. I am happy to meet you.”
They looked at each other for a while and then Charley shrugged. “Giancarlo, I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, but — “
“No matter, Charley. I was only sleeping.”
They smiled some more and Charley thought he might leave. Nobody would mind, least of all Giancarlo. But it would only delay matters.
“Giancarlo, I’d like to see your comandante.“
That made it official, because Giancarlo sat up and adjusted his suspenders.
“And your business, Signor Charley?”
Charley leaned over the desk and whispered, “Just tell him they found Charley.”
“Ah, a code!” Giancarlo said, and ran down the corridor.
He reappeared after a while and waved at Charley to come down the passage.
“He will see you,” said Giancarlo. “It must be a matter of importance.”
“True,” said Charley and walked into the room of the comandante.
He was putting his tunic on and when he was done he looked twice his actual size. His belt
was lying on a couch in the corner and there was a red welt on his left cheek. It had the small pattern of a weave in it.
“Ah!” said the comandante. “I am pleased you did not hesitate to come at even this hour. You have found Charley?”
“I have.”
“Forgive me.” The comandante bowed. “I’m Conrado Capurello — “
“Charmed,” said Charley and he bowed too. “I’m Charley.”
They both came up at the same time. Charley smiled. Capurello didn’t. Then he smiled too and made a generous gesture.
“I will take your word for it, signore. You are under arrest.”
Charley sat down and waited for Capurello to settle behind his desk.
“And I have come to make a complaint.”
“Complaint,” said the comandante. He was polite as before, but now it was business.
“I’m not complaining about my house, the way your carabinièri turned it into, into — what shall I say — “
“I understand.”
“ — and that it will cost me a thousand lire to hire a woman to restore my house — “
“It shall be considered in our charge.”
“Charge?”
“Your complaint, signore.“
“The harm you have done to my good name!”
“Precisely our charge, signore.“
Charley cocked his head and waited. He too was very polite.
“You are charged with avoiding us, with suspicious duplicity in the use of your name, and with lack of papers.”
“I’m here to satisfy you,” said Charley. “Your name then?”
“Just call me Charley.”
“No more?”
“Not in front of me, comandante.“ Charley made a winning smile.
Capurello got up and stood under the ceiling fan. It made his fine hair flutter out at the sides. “What do your friends call you?”
“Charley.”
“And your enemies?”
“Charley. If they know what’s good for them.”
“Precisely my point, Charley. There is never a last name.”
“Oh, well,” said Charley, “it’s pretty hard to pronounce in Italian.”
“Please,” said Capurello. “Just try me.”
“Well — ”
“I will tell it to you. Charley Palooka.”
