He had tried it for three months, and now it was twenty-one months. He had loved it and not loved it. He could have loved it entirely, with passion, with Claire. But he could not love it entirely without her, because he no longer loved himself.
One bright spot, eleven months old. He had needed an assistant in the press office of the committee, located in the Procuratie Vecchie building right behind him looking down on the Piazza San Marco. Six young female applicants had been sent to him, and he had hardly looked at five of the women as he had interviewed them. But he had looked at Marisa Girardi—an absolutely stunning raven-haired, dark-eyed Venetian beauty. She was then twenty-six years old, educated in Padua, currently employed as publicity head for the local branch of an international fabric house. She had appeared bright, efficient, intent, and sexy, definitely sexy. He had hired her without a single misgiving.
After her first week on the job, he had invited Marisa out to dinner at Harry’s Bar. They had eaten sparingly—grilled scampi for her, veal scallops for him—had drunk straight Scotches before, during, and after dinner, and had got fantastically high and extremely personal and intimate.
Leaving through the swinging doors, they had stood in the street near the vaporetto station, both immobilized, uncertain as to what came next, he knowing how he felt but not knowing how to bring it up.
Marisa had said, “I would invite you to my apartment, but I live there with my mother and brother. Where do you live?”
“I have a permanent suite in the Hotel Danieli. I live alone.”
“Why don’t we go to your place?”
The moment they had entered the living room of his suite, and he had shut the door behind him, she had turned, put her arms around his neck, kissed him with her full crimson lips parted, her tongue teasing his as her large, firm breasts pressed against him. Her lips had moved to his ear. “I want you, Tim,” she had whispered.
Inside the bedroom, lit by one lamp, he had undressed with his back to her. As he removed his last garment, his jock shorts, he turned toward the bed. She was lying on it stark naked. The size of her distended brown nipples on her enormous breasts, the soft wideness of her hips, the prominence of her long vaginal mound affected him instantly. He had felt his penis grow, and rise, and swell. In several dozen previous sexual encounters in his Claire-less years, he had barely risen to each occasion, finding the bouts as exciting as jogging. But this night he had attained a total erection.
He had started to kiss her nipples. “Don’t waste time, darling,” she had whispered.
He had found her moist vaginal opening, and as his penis slowly slid inside, he groaned, “I’m not going to last long.”
Her hands were on his ribs, drawing him down. “Tomorrow night, it will be longer, and the night after even better. Oh, darling, good…”
Marisa had been right. It had been longer and better. It had been good. It had been daily for two weeks, and with familiarity it had settled into twice a week. He had not been in love with her, but had appreciated human warmth and companionship. How she truly felt about him he had not known for certain. She had been undemanding. Lately, he had seen her less and less during his after-work hours. The pointlessness of his existence had sucked him into some kind of emotional quagmire, where one wanted to be alone with a bottle of cognac until one felt senseless and buried in a blackness of sleep.
He opened his eyes to the sun of Venice and the unreal activity and babble in the Piazza San Marco.
He saw that he had finished his tea, and consumed his rolls except for the half of one he always automatically saved for the pigeons. They knew him as a friend, and they came to him after breakfast when he was ready.
Breaking up the roll, he dropped the pieces at his feet. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, took out the small bag of granola he had bought at the grocery near the Danieli yesterday, and scattered the mixed grain around the bread. With amusement, he watched the pigeons quickly gather, twelve or fourteen of them. They were mostly dark gray, speckled a lighter gray on their breasts and tails. Their heads dipped jerkily as they pecked at the bread or grain and gobbled it down.
The pigeons of Venice had fascinated Jordan from the very day of his arrival in the city. He had learned, mostly from Marisa’s younger brother, Bruno, several versions of how pigeons had first come to Venice. According to one account, in medieval times a Doge, on Palm Sunday, to celebrate the dove that had told Noah of the end of the Flood, released a number of pigeons that had been housed in the vestibule of the Basilica. According to another tradition, Venetians had decided to import pigeons to their city to celebrate that day in 1204 when a carrier pigeon had brought a message from the Orient describing the victories won by Doge Enrico Dandolo in the Fourth Crusade. In modern times, the 200,000 pigeons had been fed maize twice a day by the doorman of the insurance company, Assicurazioni Generali, that occupied the building on the clock-tower side of the Piazza. Then, in 1971, the frescoed ceiling of the Church of Angelo Raffelo had collapsed because of the pigeon droppings and nests that blocked the gutters of the church. In 1972, the mayor of Venice had decreed that 150,000 of the city’s 200,000 pigeons should be moved to other cities. Some were removed—bird lovers saw that their number was few, and even this loss was quickly replaced by the prolific reproduction of the birds.
And Jordan, for one, was glad of it. For him, the pigeons were synonymous with Venice and therefore a part of his love for the city.
He continued watching his birds eating the last of his bread and grain. Now they were done, and done with their benefactor, and moving away, spreading back out to the center of the Piazza in search of new benefactors. Three lingered behind at his feet, and then two of these flew off and there was one. That one stood wobbling, shaking, when suddenly, unexpectedly, it toppled over and lay on its side, still as death.
Jordan reacted with astonishment. He had never seen a sight like this before. He could not understand. He came forward in his wicker chair, then went down on one knee, grasped the pigeon under its fat belly, tried to right it, but it fell on its back. That moment, he realized two things—that the pigeon was dead, and that he had blood on his hand. He bent closer, inspecting the bird, and plainly saw what seemed to be a bullet wound on the side of its belly. And an instant later, he saw something else. Tied to one of the pigeon’s legs was a small folded strip of paper, held loosely in place by a rubber band.
Incredible. What kind of game was this? Or could this have been a carrier pigeon?
His hand went out to the pigeon’s inert leg, pulled off the rubber band, and caught the piece of paper. He brought the paper with him back to the chair, carefully unfolded and opened it, and flattened the miniature strip on his table. There was something in a tiny handwriting. He squinted more closely at it, and realized to his surprise that it was not in Italian but in English. Slowly, he read the message:
Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists. Planning to send me to USSR in 2 days. Save me. Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world. Prof. Davis MacDonald. Aug. 18. Have discovered Ft. of Youth. Reds want it.
Jordan blinked, blinked again, and not knowing what to make of this melodramatic plea, he reread the message.
Written August 18. That was today, this very day.
By someone on San Lazzaro—he knew San Lazzaro, had seen the island hundreds of times on the way to the Lido beach—by a Professor Davis MacDonald, a name that had no meaning to him, although faintly familiar.
Who was this MacDonald? What was his so-called Fountain of Youth? What kind of Communists were trying to send him to Russia?
It made no sense, unless you took it literally. That some Communists would kidnap a British professor here in Venice, and hold him a prisoner on San Lazzaro, because he had found the place that gave eternal youth: that sounded absolutely impossible, surely less real than some concocted Hollywood script.
Then Jordan realized he had been taking the message literally, and that he was a fool.
A thousand to one, a million to one, this was a practical joke conceived by some nut who had nothing better to do. It was a joke, a bit of fun, a hoax, and he felt embarrassed at having taken it seriously for even a minute.
Irritated with himself, he lifted the slip of paper, stuck it into his jacket pocket to give Marisa a laugh, paid his bill, got up, and was starting to leave for his office in the building behind him when he remembered the poor dead bird. He stopped, picked up the pigeon in one hand, and carried it up the aisle of Quadri’s Gran’ Caffé to the bandstand. He sought and found his musician friend, Oreste Memo, hidden by a row of green planters that surrounded the ledge of the stand. Memo was busy polishing his violin.
“Oreste,” Jordan called.
The musician saw him, sprang to his feet, and came toward him inquiringly.
“Oreste, I found a dead pigeon,” Jordan said. “What do I do with it?”
“Give it to me. HI dispose of it.”
Jordan handed the bird over. “Careful. It’s sticky around the belly. Someone shot it.”
Memo took the pigeon. “That’s horrible. Who in the devil would do a thing like that?”
“God knows,” said Jordan. “Thanks. Now I’m the one who is late for work.”
He headed for the black gate that opened to the stone staircase leading to his upstairs offices, and one thought accompanied him.
The pigeon carrying the desperate message—if it was all a joke, why would anyone on earth want to shoot the pigeon carrying it?
All at once it didn’t seem funny.
And maybe not a joke at all.
* * *
As he passed through the yellow-painted anteroom, in which four commessi, or doormen, in dark gray uniforms sat with several persons waiting for their appointments, Jordan was conscious once more of the exotic environment in which he had been toiling for almost two years. This 15th-century Renaissance building on the Piazza San Marco had, five centuries ago, housed the offices and private apartments of old Venice’s Procuratori, the nine men elected for life to assist the Doge in his administrative work. In 1831, the Assicurazioni Generali, the foremost insurance company in Italy, had bought the building for its international headquarters. Five years ago, just after the Venice Must Live Committee was formed, the insurance company had donated a dozen of its offices in this building for the use of the committee. Jordan occupied one of these offices, Marisa another, and Gloria, the secretary they shared, maintained the office between them.
His mind still on the message that he had taken from the pigeon’s leg, Jordan made his way up the corridor to the glass door to his office and went inside. Marisa, in a tight pink sweater and flared blue skirt, her shining black hair down to her shoulders, was busily poring over the contents of some folders in the open drawer of his green file cabinet. On his entrance, she pivoted to meet him, tilting her head back to offer him her lips. He gave her a perfunctory kiss.
“How are you, darling?” he asked. He moved thoughtfully to his oak desk beside one of the three windows overlooking the Piazza.
Marisa eyed him quizzically. “How are you? Something on your mind?”
“Always something on my mind,” he said lightly, pushing around the memorandums on his desk.
Marisa came closer. “I hope sometimes it is me.”
“I’m sorry, Marisa. I’ve just been tied up lately. I want to see you.”
“When?”
“Why—why, tonight. If you’re free tonight, we can have dinner at Harry’s.”
“For you, I am free.”
“Fine. We’ll arrange it before I leave. Anything urgent today?”
“Generally quiet. The correspondent for The New York Times in London called. He wanted some recent photographs of our miniature Pirelli-Furlanis inflatable dam, especially shots showing it in action. I’m digging them up now. He would not tell me what they are for.”
“All right. Keep digging.”
Marisa stared at him a moment. “Something is troubling you. Can I be of help?”
“Thanks, but no. I’ll see you later.”
She was about to leave the office when his voice caught her. “Marisa, please tell Gloria to hold off incoming calls and all visitors for the next hour. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
No sooner had she gone, and he was alone, than his mind fastened on the so-called message for help from the so-called Professor Davis MacDonald. In retrospect, it seemed more sinister than cranky. Yet its implications were so melodramatic, so far removed from his humdrum workaday world, that he could not accept it as genuine.
His hand had gone into his jacket pocket and come’ out with the message. He lowered himself into his swivel chair and placed the slip of paper on the desk before him.
Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro…
His eye skipped to Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.
Why not? The worst he could do was make a gullible fool of himself. It would not have been the first time. On the other hand… if the message was authentic…
His instinct told him to act.
He pressed down his intercom button and buzzed his secretary. She answered. “Gloria, get me the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Just the switchboard. I’ll take it from there.”
Jordan thoughtfully fingered the piece of paper, saw a push button light up on his telephone, and waited. Seconds after, Gloria could be heard on the voice box. “Mr. Jordan, I have the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”
Jordan pressed down the lighted button and picked up the receiver. “Operator, I’m calling from Italy. Do you have a Dr. Edwards registered in your hotel? If so, I’d like to speak to him.”
“Attendez,” said the operator. A pause. Then, “I am ringing.”
Two, three, four rings, no answer. A fifth ring. Someone had picked up the phone at the other end. A low feminine voice said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” said Jordan. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Edwards. I’m calling long distance. Is he in?”
“You are speaking to Dr. Edwards,” replied the feminine voice, with mild exasperation. “I’m Dr. Alison Edwards.”
Somewhat taken aback, Jordan was immediately apologetic. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I assumed Dr. Edwards was a man. Professor MacDonald’s message didn’t give your first name.”
“Did you say Professor MacDonald?”
“Yes, I have a message from him for you. You do know Professor MacDonald?”
“Certainly. I work for him. I’m his research associate. Did you see him in Russia?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Jordan hastily. “I’m calling from Venice, from Italy. I’ve never set eyes on Professor MacDonald. But I do have a message from him—or I think I do—I’m not sure.”
There was a tinge of impatience in Dr. Edward’s voice. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr… Her voice dropped off.
“My name is Timothy Jordan,” he said quickly. “It is a little complicated. I think I’d better explain. By accident—today—fifteen minutes ago—I got a message, signed Professor Davis MacDonald, asking the finder of the message to get in touch with Dr. Edwards at the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”
“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Jordan? It makes no sense at all.”
“It will or it won’t, once I tell you what happened. You’ll have to be the judge. Now, here is what happened. I’m an American living and working in Venice. I’m the press officer for the Venice Must Live Committee—”
“The what?” she interrupted.
“An organization that is trying to save Venice from sinking, being destroyed. This noon, on my way to work, I stopped in a café to have some tea, and I started feeding the pigeons—”
“Mr. Jordan or whoever you are, is this some kind of joke? If so, I don’t have time—”
“Please listen to me, will you?” he said with a flare of annoyance. “This could be deadly serious. Your
Professor MacDonald could be in trouble. Now, please, listen.” There was a silence on the other end. Jordan resumed. “I was feeding some pigeons—yes, Venice is filled with pigeons—that’s part of what happened—and one pigeon fell over dead in front of me. When I examined it, I found a note tied to one of its legs. The note was signed Professor Davis MacDonald. You say you work for him?”
“I do. He is one of the most eminent scientists in the world. But all you are telling me—pigeons—a note from him—in Venice… I mean, I can’t—”
“It’s true, Dr. Edwards. It just happened to me exactly as I’m telling you. I read the note, and—look, I have it right in front of me on my desk. I’ll read it to you.”
“Please,” she said with bewilderment.
Receiver to his ear, he bent closer to the strip of paper. “It is written in ink, and it reads—these are the exact words—‘Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists.’”
“Illegally imprisoned by Communists? On—what? San Lazzaro? What’s that?”
“A little island with a monastery just a few minutes outside the city of Venice. Here, let me read the rest of it. I’m reading ‘Planning to send me to USSR in 2 days. Save me. Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.’ It is signed, ‘Prof. Davis MacDonald. Aug. 18.’ Then—”
“But it still doesn’t make sense. Professor MacDonald is in the U.S.S.R. I heard from him just before coming to Paris. I’m terribly confused.”
“Wait, Dr. Edwards. There’s more to the note. Two more sentences. Let me read them. He writes—or someone writes—‘Have discovered Ft. of Youth. Reds want it.’” Jordan paused. “That’s the entire note I found. That’s why I called you.”
“Fountain of Youth,” she said in a hushed voice. “Read that to me again, that line.”
“‘Have discovered the Fountain of Youth.’”
The Pigeon Project Page 6
