by Delia Ephron
While we were chatting, Michael came out of the hotel. I waved. He put his hand up to block the ferocious sun, I suppose trying to figure out who it was waving to him.
“Are you Michael Shapner?” said the woman, all wide-eyed.
He went crimson. It shocked me. He’s such a sophisticated man and pale as a stone besides, which made it especially noticeable. So many times that must have happened to him, that some admirer greeted him; perhaps he is secretly shy.
“I am.”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The woman laughed.
“Should I?”
“I work at Tino’s. The restaurant. I’ve seen you there sometimes. I love your writing.”
“I’m sorry, of course. Hello.”
“I thought you were taking a nap,” I said.
“I need a sandwich or something, some time to myself.” He spoke conspiratorially—or do I imagine that looking back?—because I had been about to ask if he wanted company. Snow would be fine without me, and besides, who doesn’t need a break from Lizzie?
“The artistic temperament,” I said. “You must need more peace and quiet than us other mere mortals.”
“I’m going to take a walk. Excuse me.”
In spite of blushing, he was curt, which surprised me. Normally he has gracious manners. “Lizzie went that way,” I told him in case, as I suspected rightly, he wanted to go another.
That night at dinner I saw the woman again. I remember so clearly because on the plane home I reviewed every sighting compulsively for the entire nine-hour trip. She was eating alone and the waiters were all hanging about bringing her special dishes to taste, flourishing the wine, generally making a fuss. Seeing her in a short gauzy white tent dress with a simple scooped neckline, her hair natural in a ponytail, and bright pink lipstick, I realized she was younger than I thought. About thirty.
“Why did that woman stare at you?” Snow asked Michael as we were walking back after dinner.
“She’s a fan,” I said.
“She’s a pest,” he said, swinging Snow’s arm around again and again. “I promise, Snow, no one will come between us.”
That afternoon I had wanted to tell my mother all about Snow’s transformation. I couldn’t wait to crow about the effect of a famous writer showering her with attention, but when I finally reached Penelope after being disconnected twice, she seemed tired, impatient, and irritated. Jeanette, her housekeeper, had spilled bleach on the dining room table and damaged the finish. How odd. I almost questioned the likelihood but thought better of it. My mother is in a very negative place. Her cast was coming off the day we returned, I learned, but then of course it turned out we didn’t get back when we expected.
My mother isn’t interested in my life, that was what occurred to me. I made a mental note to ask April if she agreed, but that evening on the way to dinner, walking in high heels on those dreadfully uneven stones, my ankle twisted. Lizzie caught my arm. My near fall must have reminded her of Penelope immobilized on a couch because she said, “How’s your mother?”
“I’m a disappointment to her.” I laughed.
Lizzie nodded.
Was she agreeing, I am a great big nothing? I guess not, because, after a moment, she said, “Why?”
Finn, I thought but would never say. I didn’t marry well, that occurred to me, which sounded like something out of Downton Abbey. Portland. I wouldn’t say that either. Me. Something about me. I’m not enough. “She loves Snow,” I said.
“Who doesn’t?” said Lizzie. She knelt to smell a flower on an unattractive cactus plant in a chipped terra-cotta planter. Then she gazed around as if she were walking on a rainbow and couldn’t get over the magic or the colors. “Michael is—” She never finished the sentence but lost that gleeful ironic look (the other expression she favors is judgmental, and I’m not being judgmental when I say that, simply honest). Her face softened. I envied her. I envied her adoration.
“He’s changing Snow’s life,” I said.
“I’m glad.”
“Do you want children?”
“I’m old. Forty-four. I mean, no.”
“What a depressing place this is.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lizzie.
“I’m not blaming you.”
Lizzie peered up at a wrought-iron balcony as if it were of architectural or historical fascination and mindless of the likelihood it might at any second crash on our heads. “Have you hired a guide for tomorrow?”
“Yes. Gloria arranged it. We’re walking all over the place, there are a few special exhibits, one on da Vinci, and of course, we’re going to see the Caravaggio.”
“How much fun,” said Lizzie as if she meant it.
After dinner I was tired, sick of eating out, funny because I never cook at home. Finn sends food from the restaurant or Snow and I go there and eat in the front booth. I was about to give Finn a look, signal the waiter for a check, when Lizzie said, “Question for the night. Would you give someone an alibi if they committed a crime? If so, who?”
“My mother,” I said instantly. No one questioned it. (I’m never sure if everyone is as interested in what I say as they are in what everyone else says.) The reason is my mother knows about the shoeboxes. If I didn’t give her an alibi, she could retaliate, trade her sentence for a lesser one by ratting on Finn for tax evasion when he is only doing something every restaurant owner does.
Besides, I feel sorry for her. I could never send her to jail if she killed my father, for instance, the only murder I could imagine her committing, with arsenic I think. My father left her for a woman who is younger than me by three years. Amanda Hugley. “The kid,” Finn calls her.
I haven’t spoken to my father since we met him and Amanda for dinner right after the separation. They were staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston. Where we ate was the noisiest, most rackety place. My father would have hated it before. I really did have to choose. My poor mother. She looked so crisp when she told me, all starched and upright, sitting on her chintz couch. “Your father has decided to be a fool,” she said.
Of course I would alibi Snow. Any mother understands that. Although Snow is too timid and respectful to break the law (silverware aside!), and honest too, that goes without saying. Her caper in the Trevi Fountain was a frolic, high spirits and imagination at play. As I always say, she has big feelings. If anything she would be a victim. Because of her beauty and innocence, I discussed perverts with her when she was five years old. I told her, “If any man says, ‘Do not tell your mother what I did to you or I will kill her,’ ignore it and tell me.” I almost said aloud at dinner that Snow was more likely to be a victim, but then pushed the thought out of my mind. Suppose it gave her a negative self-image? Lizzie’s hypotheticals can lead you down the most upsetting paths.
I was freshening my lipstick when I heard Finn say, “That bullshit about Yale.”
He was challenging Michael. I wanted to punch him. Finn has spent years thinking that if he tickles his daughter he’s a parent, and a man comes along who treats her gallantly, talks to her as if she is quite grown up, and Finn can’t take it.
Michael deflected. Finn is a flea to brush off, that’s how Michael reacted.
Later in the room—thank God Finn had gone for his night crawl—I found myself cross-legged on the bed with my head bowed, unable to move. I have to get out of here. Away from Finn. I wished Michael might run off with me and Snow. That fleeting fantasy took me by surprise. How can I escape this vacation? Trapped with Lizzie and her clever questions. How can I escape? And the trouble had barely begun.
“Are you praying?” said Snow.
“No, resting.”
“You’re in the way,” she said.
I was. I didn’t realize it. I was sitting on her side of the bed.
Michael
THE RECEPTIONIST SLID A PAPER across the desk.
“For you.”
I read it. “Not for me.” I slid it back.
“But you are Signor Shapner?”
“Yes, and yet this is not for me.”
She was in Siracusa. Not possible. Not here. A joke. Clever. Cleverer than K. Beyond her capabilities. Not taking my calls, teenage revenge, that would be Kath. Someone had helped her plan this joke. It was a joke. Had to be.
“What was that?” Lizzie asked, taking advantage of the elevator to grope and nuzzle. Mirrored. Four sides mirrored. From every angle I saw myself entangled with Lizzie, my face scrubbed clean of panic, fear, worry, guilt. From every angle I saw myself, innocence in close-up. Couldn’t help but admire how well I concealed. She could not be here and yet she was. surprise!!!!!! meet me at the café in piazza duomo. 4 o’clock. katarina. Her handwriting. It was her handwriting. Babyish. No capitals. Hearts too. Tilting this way and that.
“An invitation to scuba dive,” I’d said, and somehow Lizzie found that plausible.
She investigated the room, what there was of it, laughed at a statue out the window. Insisted I look too. I fucked us up, Lizzie. Can you ever forgive me?
“Sleep. I need sleep,” I said instead. “Do your usual scout, darling, and report back.”
It took her forever to leave, or so it seemed, calling the desk, getting a hair appointment, dallying at the mirror, changing her shoes, despairing over her misshapen toes. Women are ridiculous.
Finally she left, blowing a kiss. “I love you.”
Waited ten minutes.
Had the receptionist read the note? A sheet of paper folded in half, not even stationery, not even sealed. Did it matter? This is Italy. In Italy men cheat. Everywhere men cheat. In hotels—albeit this was slightly less than a hotel, something unfortunately more intimate—it had to be common.
Was K staying here? If so, God help me. It would be as if she were in my home. Still, the receptionist had seen it all. At twenty-three—she could not be older than that—she had surely seen this. Reading the note, did she mark me for a shit? Or perhaps she found it romantic.
“Where is Piazza Duomo, Dani?” A conscious choice to use her name, conveniently on a tag. In the world of cheating there always seemed a less or more guilty way to behave.
She flourished a map. Drew a star where we were and a path. A big X. Spun the map my way to see the route and destination. “Not far,” she said. “Nothing is far. Out the door.” She gestured right.
I tipped her ten euros, a bribe in case, in case of what? Banking goodwill for whatever trouble might be coming. Folded the map small, crammed it in a back pocket. Carrying a map. That alone would make Lizzie suspicious. Wondering still. Was there some sick joke awaiting me or K herself?
Across the parking lot a woman waved. I held up my arm to block the sun. Taylor. She was chatting with Kath. Did she know Kath? I suddenly couldn’t remember who knew who. Although sober I did what a drunk does. I walked into danger.
“Are you Michael Shapner?” said K. Feigning awestruck. Full of shit. Foolish enough to think authors are recognized. I’m not Stephen King. She carried a copy of The Red and the Black. My copy. Recognized the cover’s shredding edge. There were many translations with different jackets and this was the one I preferred and it had been damned hard to come by, and this twit had thought it funny to bring my marked-up copy, crucial to my novel. To my art. I’d made notes in the margins.
She must have scarfed it from my office. She had a key. Part of a game, a sex game, she would arrive before and arrange herself. I had to admire her balls while I felt a curdling fear that I wouldn’t get my book back. My book with my notes. I’d risked my novel along with my marriage. Seemed almost worse. The book suddenly seemed everything.
Even if it weren’t a precious object she’d stolen and carted across an ocean to amuse and taunt me, left it on a towel while she swam, held it in wet hands . . . aside from all that betrayal, the book was an advertisement of our affair. A neon sign. Taylor, in my thrall, would never smell a rat. Her sophistication was delusional, as was her sense of my fame. If Lizzie turned up, however, she would know. She would recognize K. She would see the book. She would put two and two together.
How had I gambled Lizzie?
Siracusa? I hated it instantly. Strode off, got lost, doubled back, had to make sense of a fucking map.
Siracusa. Already destabilized, I was further unmoored by the chaos of its narrow streets. A place that refused to adapt to its conquerors, whose ancient footprint still ruled, wasn’t going to bend to my will. Every time I turned a corner I thought I was someplace I’d just been. I needed Lizzie.
Hurrying to greet his lover, the man needed his wife to guide him.
Eventually I found Duomo, the grand piazza, swan among the ducklings, swarms of tourists bumbling around in awe of the marble palazzos and churches, dining at the splendid outdoor cafés that K had chosen for our private rendezvous. I entered with caution, admittedly even terror, worried about being spotted while scouring the tables, and finally, there she was, perched forward, her face taut with excitement. She grinned and then doubled it—her mouth stretching into exaggeration, anticipating my shock and pleasure at her naughtiness.
“Give me my book.”
“Michael,” she said coyly.
“My book.” I put out my hand.
She hoisted a beach bag onto the table, pulled it out, and held it out of reach.
“Are you crazy?” Not the way to begin.
Backtracked. Smiled, which made her relent and release it. I sat down and set the book on the table. Kept my hand on top.
She hunched up, chastened. “Are you surprised to see me?”
“Yes.”
I checked out the area. Habit. No way I wasn’t exposed, a sitting duck, still, Lizzie was safely occupied with her hair. Besides, according to Taylor, she had walked another direction. To my right, two women slouched, smoking and drinking coffee. One had a motorcycle helmet on the chair next to her and useful equipment lined up on the table: lighter, lipstick, phone. A man reading a small book, a guidebook I guessed, breathed loudly to my left.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Prosecco.” She smiled at my reaction, oh something different. “I was talking to these women on the rock. German women from Germany. They said everyone here drinks Prosecco.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said, knowing she’d like that. I ordered inside at the bar, was sent back to the table, and a waiter showed up with one Prosecco and one espresso.
She took a big gulp. She always drank wine like water. Wrinkled her nose. “Bubbles.”
I tipped the last of my flask into my coffee. Stirred it with the tiny spoon. How best to go about this?
“I want you to tell her,” she said.
I nodded.
“It’s not fair.” Her voice quivered.
“How did you get here?”
“Your miles,” she said, as if how else.
“You used my mileage?”
“One way. You only had 52,500 miles on your Visa. Bree loaned me the money for the way back. That was so, so nice of her. But you know what, because I got the way back at the last minute, it was a great deal. I found it on CheapOair. Three hundred forty-five dollars. With a stop in Lisbon, Portugal.”
“My credit card?”
“Your passwords are on your desktop. Under ‘password.’ If you hadn’t wanted me to see it, it wouldn’t have been out there, that’s what Casey said.”
“Casey?” People were turning up I knew nothing about. Her life was turning up.
“She runs the gym.”
“Bree?”
“My friend.” She shrugged.
Felt her toes tucking into the fold under my knee. She switched to a baby voice. “If she used your miles it would be okay. Why can’t I? I want you to tell her. You promised. ‘It’s over,
I promise you.’ Mikey, you said that.”
Didn’t want to get technical. Promising it’s over and promising to tell Lizzie, not the same.
“Katarina sweetheart, I can’t do it here. Not in Sicily. Away from home. Give me your hands, come on.” I reached across the table. “You have to leave. If we’re going to be together, you have to give me room to get out. I can’t be cruel to Lizzie. I can’t humiliate her.”
“You humiliate me.”
“How?”
“You know, when you ask me to—”
“That’s not humiliation, that’s sex. Being free.”
“Does she lie on the floor—?”
“Hey, stop it.” I kissed her fingers.
“I’m telling her,” she said.
I threw money on the table, took Stendhal in one hand, and, with the other, yanked her up and out.
“My Prosecco,” she wailed, as if leaving a child.
With my book at her back, I propelled her out of the piazza and into a (seedy) side street, all the while speaking reasonably, cajoling. “If we have a future, we have to do this right. Lizzie’s neurotic. On the edge. I don’t want to push her over. This is dangerous for our future. You have to go home.”
Kath stopped. Wrinkled her face.
“What?”
“She’s not neurotic, I don’t think. You’re just saying that.”
“No.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How would you know?”
“Except for wanting that table in the corner, she never sends food back or complains that the white wine isn’t cold enough. She never wants ice in a separate glass. She never even says the vegetables are cold, the ones that come with the branzino. Lots of customers say that. We have a list of difficult diners and she’s not on it.”
“I’m going to break her heart and I’m not going to break it here.”
“You promised.”
