She retraced her steps. Peering around for her pursuer, she found her way back to the street from which she’d taken the wrong turn. Despite the rain it was still filled with people, many of them in evening dress or elaborate costume. Raindrops bounced off their umbrellas, glistened on the women’s fur coats. Sally moved into the flow.
The neighborhood began to look familiar. She realized that the hotel where she and Brian had stayed was nearby. The crowd must be moving toward the Fenice opera house. Across a bridge she saw bright lights through the rain.
People thronged the steps of the Fenice, spilling down into the square. Umbrellas knocked into one another. Gawkers, photographers, and a television crew competed for space. A man and woman halfway up the steps, illuminated by television lights and flashbulbs, waved to the crowd. Sally didn’t recognize them. Maybe they were Italian movie stars.
Sally turned her head and saw the Medusa.
It was standing about ten feet away, eyes fixed on her. Rain made the snakes in its headdress bobble and bounce. Sally felt the last of her energy draining away. She stood still, the green umbrella tilted back, Antonia’s wet red shawl around her shoulders giving no protection to Antonia’s beautiful, bedraggled dress.
A female voice screamed, “Antonia!”
Sally looked toward the sound. A woman halfway up the packed steps of the opera house was waving frantically. The woman had blue-black hair and wore a white sequined evening gown and a white fur stole. The top half of her face was covered by a silver mask adorned with white ostrich feathers drooping from the damp. A man in a tuxedo held an umbrella over her head. “Antonia! Antonia!” she called again, and the heads of people near the woman turned toward Sally.
Sally started waving for all she was worth.
Heedless of the rain, the woman in white pushed down through the packed crowd. She grasped Sally’s hand in a grip made excruciatingly painful by a huge ring she wore on her white-gloved hand and, determinedly, dragged Sally up the steps behind her.
Several people nodded at Sally and said, “Ciao, Antonia,” but in the hubbub it didn’t matter if Sally said anything or not. Sally looked back. The Medusa was still at the edge of the crowd.
The throng inched forward. The woman in white was still clutching Sally’s hand painfully. Sally didn’t have a ticket to the performance, but she would worry about that— as she would worry about not being Antonia— when the time came.
The ticket problem never arose. Someone had a sheaf of them, and Sally, still in tow, squeezed through the door with the others. In the lobby, the noise level intensified. Sally was pulled toward the coat-check desk, where the woman in white slipped out of her stole, and Sally felt Antonia’s umbrella being removed from her hand and Antonia’s shawl plucked from her shoulders by one of the men in the party. He handed shawl and umbrella to the girl behind the counter and put the claim ticket in the pocket of his tuxedo.
Sally noticed that the woman in white was no longer holding her hand. She slipped back into the crowd. Pushing through the lobby, she found a flight of stairs. From the mezzanine, she looked down on the woman and her friends. She couldn’t tell if they had missed Antonia.
A bell began to ring. Sally moved away from the railing and found a door on which was written Damas. Inside, the ladies’ room was the scene of frantic last-minute powdering and combing, but nobody was sitting on a little upholstered bench in the anteroom. Sally sank down on it, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes.
IN THE TRATTORIA
The kitchen door of the trattoria flew open every few seconds and waiters burst out carrying platters and bowls: pizza with mussels, roasted peppers swimming in oil, bean-and-pasta soup. Pitchers of red wine left rings on paper table covers. Music from stereo speakers mounted high on the walls was intermittently audible over the babble of voices. The music and conversation effectively drowned out any noise from the storm, although Francine, sitting at a tiny table next to the kitchen door, could see that the rain was still pelting down, each drop a miniature meteor in the light from the front window.
Francine rarely looked up, however. She was reading Being and Nothingness. “There is no one who has not at some time been surprised in an attitude which was guilty or simply ridiculous,” she read. Francine’s lips twisted. Sartre was so wise. She wondered what he had done when he was surprised in a guilty or ridiculous attitude.
Although Michèle had not been in when she called, Francine had decided to wait and try again after dinner rather than return to Ursula’s apartment. It was a relief to be rid of Ursula for a while. Ursula meant well, but being around her was a strain on the nerves. Also, Francine wasn’t sure how completely Ursula had accepted her story that she was conducting a murder investigation, and she was weary of thinking of excuses to return to the palazzo. At least Ursula had been of some use in writing the letter to the police, and Francine trusted she had delivered it without incident.
Francine pushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to focus on the page in front of her. What a ludicrous situation. If only Brian hadn’t ridiculed her. The antagonism between them had been palpable from the beginning, when Jean-Pierre, bursting with pride, brought Brian to the Café du Coin and introduced him. Brian had stood there, in all his beauty, like a prince awaiting homage, and at that moment Francine had determined that he would get no homage from her. She had given him a brief glance and a cursory greeting, treatment he was surely not accustomed to receiving from anyone— lovely, truly lovely, as he was.
Unaccountably, Francine’s eyes filled with tears. Sartre’s words swam on the page. What could she be expected to do? Submit without comment to Brian’s teasing and denigration, his ignorant attacks on her passion for Sartre? Surely she could be excused for defending herself, since no one else would. When Brian made outrageous statements, Jean-Pierre sat by dotingly, Rolf was indifferent, and Tom ignored him and went on to another subject. Francine couldn’t ignore him. He was like a dark angel, whispering in her ear that she was absurd. How she had longed to be free of his galling mockery!
Francine dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. She would get out of this. She would. The next step was to go back to the palazzo.
She turned to her book once more, but shouts of laughter at the next table disturbed her concentration. She tried again, and read, “But I know neither what I am nor what is my place in the world, nor what face this world in which I am turns toward the Other.”
Outside, it was still pouring. Francine closed her book and reached for her coat.
WATCHING THE FIRE
Tom leaned against the sofa cushions, sipping his brandy and watching the fire. Ursula hadn’t returned after her stormy exit scene, and he felt no inclination to go after her.
Ursula’s assertions that Francine was investigating Brian’s murder and (or) having an affair with Count Zanon had disturbed him badly and made it even more imperative that he see Francine as soon as possible. He couldn’t, he could not, let her muck around in this. As for Ursula’s violent accusations of betrayal— Tom could only conclude that Ursula was the wronged lover of Michèle Zanon.
If that were the case, Tom admitted feeling a kinship with Ursula, strange as she was, because Tom felt wronged also— by Francine.
It wasn’t rational. His romance with Francine had so far taken place in his fantasies. She was free to have affairs with twenty Italian counts, if that’s what she wanted.
And yet— the fantasy had been so real, so sweet. Tom and Francine had talked, in quiet voices, about their deepest thoughts. Tom had reached over and stroked Francine’s hair, or touched her shoulder, and she had responded. Maybe she bent her head against his hand, and through the cushion of her hair he felt the skull beneath. The moment took his breath away, even now.
He sensed a presence, and looked up to see Ursula glowering in the doorway. She was still wearing the nun’s habit. She crossed to the brandy, poured herself a glass, and slumped into a chair next to the fire. She stared at the flames with a
brooding expression, rolling her glass between her hands. Tom’s best course, he thought, was to keep quiet.
“So. We are both fools.” Ursula’s voice was constricted.
“I guess we are.” Even as he assented, Tom felt uncomfortable. He had been called a fool more than once lately, and he hadn’t liked it. His hand strayed to his face. Under his fingertips he felt bristles. Long ones. “Actually, I don’t know why you say that,” he amended.
“Betrayed, abandoned—” Ursula stretched out her arms in a gesture of hopelessness, then tossed back her brandy and put down the glass.
“Maybe it isn’t as bad as all that,” Tom ventured. “Maybe the thing between Francine and Count Zanon isn’t serious.”
“Ha! Of course it isn’t. Michèle Zanon was never serious about anything in his life.”
Tom wondered why, if Ursula knew Michèle Zanon was never serious, she hadn’t been better prepared for his betrayal. “Is Count Zanon married?” he asked.
Ursula’s answer was more than Tom had bargained for. She stood up, buried her hands in her hair, and let out a piercing howl. “My God, how many times must I answer that question!” she shrieked. “Yes! Yes! Yes! He is married! His wife lives in Milan. I curse the day she left him. Why do you ask? Do you, too, want to try to cure his impotence?”
In the silence that followed Tom heard the door behind him open and, a few seconds later, close. He presumed the maid was looking in to make sure Ursula wasn’t being murdered. Or maybe the maid was used to these outbursts and just wanted to see how the brandy was holding out.
“I’d better go,” Tom said.
He was interested in the sexual aspersion Ursula had cast on Count Zanon, but her decibel level was getting to him. Besides, he needed to find out what was happening with Francine. He poured himself a splash of brandy for the road.
As he drank it down, matters took another turn. “What am I saying?” Ursula breathed. “You are suffering as much as I am. Forgive me.” She knelt in front of Tom and rested her forehead on his knee.
“Jesus. Get up,” Tom said.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Sure. I mean— sure.”
She raised her head, but moved aside only slightly to sit on the floor next to his chair. Nobody had ever knelt in front of Tom and begged his forgiveness before. Clumsily, he patted Ursula’s disheveled hair, and through the cushion of her hair he felt her skull.
IN THE LADIES’ ROOM
Sally had been in the ladies’ room of the Fenice for an hour and a half. She had patted her stomach and said, “Sick,” several times to the pink-clad attendant, and the woman seemed to understand. After the crowd cleared, the attendant sat on a chair in a corner of the anteroom knitting something out of fluffy yellow wool. She paid no attention to Sally, who took off her hat, mask, and boots and lay down on the upholstered bench. The anteroom was warm to the point of stuffiness and smelled of stale perfume. Sally closed her eyes.
Her parents would come, tomorrow maybe, and she would go home with them. Sally saw the sun sifting through Spanish moss, bursts of azaleas, a red-winged blackbird on a live oak branch. Her room would be the same as always, except that on the dresser Sally’s mother would have put an elaborately framed wedding picture of Sally and Brian. Sally would ask her mother to take it away before she moved back in. Slowly, she drifted into a doze.
She shuddered and woke. The attendant, fingers stilled, was looking at her with mild apprehension.
Sally shook her head. “It’s okay. Okay.” She rubbed her hands over her sweating face.
The woman dropped her eyes to her work again. Sally thought things over. Considering everything, she had ended up in a pretty good position. The Medusa probably didn’t have a ticket to the performance, so it wouldn’t be able to come in to search for her. What it would do this time, probably, was what it had done before— wait in hiding until she emerged. Which meant she wouldn’t emerge just yet.
She wouldn’t leave yet, but she couldn’t spend the night in the ladies’ room. If she tried to hide in here, she’d probably be discovered and ejected. And if she managed to stay, suppose the Medusa found a way to slip in after the performance, when the place was deserted?
Sally thought she’d better remain Antonia a while longer.
She sat up. In the mirror on the wall of the anteroom, she saw that the topknot she had hastily twisted back at the palazzo was listing to one side, and a lot of hair had escaped from it. Her face was a milky blob punctuated by shocked-looking eyes with deep circles under them, but her face didn’t matter. If anybody saw it, the whole plan would be ruined anyway.
She was still gazing at her reflection when the outer door burst open and a group of laughing women entered. Intermission. The woman in white could walk in at any minute. She grabbed up her things and rushed to lock herself in a toilet stall. She put down the toilet lid and sat on it. She’d have to wait until everybody left.
Intermission lasted a long time. Sitting in the stall, Sally listened to the swirling chatter. She was afraid someone would make a fuss about her staying in the stall so long, but there were no knocks on the door, no murmured questions.
When everyone had gone, she emerged. She had to work on her appearance. Antonia would never go around looking like a mess. She splashed water on her face and washed her hands, then extracted the pins from her hair, combed it thoroughly and put it up again. She fluffed and straightened Antonia’s dress, which looked wilted, but that wasn’t unusual, considering the rain.
When she thought the performance must be drawing to a close, she donned her mask and hat and pulled on her clammy boots. The attendant continued to knit. Sally felt a pang at the thought of leaving this haven and the woman who had been so conveniently and quietly indifferent.
Although the attendant wasn’t looking at her, Sally waved. She said, “’Bye,” and left her sanctuary.
A MASKED BALL
At the edge of the shoving, babbling crowd around the coat-check stand, Sally stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. The performance had been over for ten minutes, and there was no sign of the woman in white or the man who checked Sally’s umbrella and shawl. If they didn’t show up soon, the crush might have thinned enough so conversation would be possible, and that would be a disaster.
Meanwhile, Sally wasn’t poor little Sally, her husband murdered, pursued by a Medusa. She was Antonia— Michèle’s beautiful, lost Antonia.
The thought made her stronger. A few seconds later she saw the woman in white in her ostrich-feather mask and waved energetically, the way she thought Antonia would. As she pushed toward the woman and her friends, she made the lavish shrugging gestures with which Antonia might indicate amused dismay at their separation during the performance.
An unexpected charge of energy hit her, burning away her enshrouding fear. The confident, carefree gestures she was making seemed to have unlocked reserves of daring. Had Sally actually absorbed Antonia’s spirit by sleeping in her room and wearing her costume? Or had this lively creature been inside Sally all the time, waiting to be called on to show what she could do?
As they were jostled from all sides, the woman grasped Sally by the shoulders and yelled something. Sally gestured airily at her ear and shook her head. She felt completely in command, as Antonia would have been— Antonia, who was vivacious and had friends who were always happy to see her.
A minute or two later, the man in the tuxedo was helping Sally with her shawl and handing her the green umbrella, and soon the party was once again on the steps of the Fenice. The rain hadn’t stopped, which meant they’d be walking fast, and since Sally had her own umbrella she needn’t be too close to anybody. Walking with the laughing, chattering group, Sally looked around for the Medusa. She didn’t see it, but it could be hiding in any of these dark side streets.
As they walked, the woman in white, who had been talking animatedly, began to sing. There were calls of “Brava! Brava!” and others joined in. Everybody seemed to know the words. Sally fe
lt almost as if she too knew the words, and she hummed along with the vigorous chorus.
The song ended. They began another and were still singing when they turned down a passage onto which, a moment later, a door was flung open, pouring out light and the sound of an orchestra. Sally would go in with them, of course.
Inside, she again surrendered her shawl and umbrella, this time to a man wearing an embroidered waistcoat and white gloves. With the others, she climbed a marble staircase, passed through a room filled with orchids, and entered double doors into a ballroom.
People in masks, wearing costumes or evening dress, danced under huge, glittering chandeliers. Painted on the ceiling was a scene of people riding through the sky in a chariot. Cupids, thick as a swarm of bees, flew toward the chariot from the ceiling’s four corners. Cupids carrying flags, cupids carrying garlands, cupids carrying bows and arrows tumbled through the sky.
Sally forced herself to stop gawking. Antonia wouldn’t gawk.
A couple of people nodded and said, “Ciao,” and Sally nodded back. The woman in white and her party had melted into the crowd. Sally wandered to the buffet. She ate lobster salad and small, frosted cookies and drank champagne, thankful that she could eat without taking off her lace-hung mask. Later, dizzy from the champagne, she sat on a spindly chair of gold-painted wood and watched the dancers— fairy princesses, vampires, Egyptian pharaohs, Greek goddesses— whirling under the painted cupids.
There was a flurry at the door, not far from where she sat. She looked up and saw Michèle.
He was dressed once again as the Harlequin, in his costume of pale silk lozenges and lace, bicorne hat, and black mask, the wooden baton at his belt. He surveyed the room from just inside the doorway, ignoring the greetings of the people near him.
The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries Page 60
