The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Now hearing only the faint but distinct musical splashing of the water on her flesh, he felt more than visualized the pleasure of her body.

  For the first time since he had known her, it had been two weeks, for the first time with any woman since the beginning of his black death of despair, it had been three years, actually four, he had made love twice in a night. They had gone to bed at midnight, knowing the occasion, and in each other’s arms, whispering, caressing, mutually hungering at last, they had joined their bodies into a single bliss. Then, hours later, he had felt the warm palm of her hand on his naked arm. He had turned, and she had come into his arms, clutching him frantically, and he had understood her fear and need, and his own as well. In this frantic embrace they both had known what the day would bring, and they had wanted the night to be forever. This time, more than, any other, they had made love without restraint, silently, with uncontrolled passion—and finally, minds and bodies spent, they had slept on and on, prolonging the night and cheating the day.

  But now, the day was here, already old, as he was again old. The pleasure of her began to recede from his mind as the sounds of her splashing became inaudible, and he could hear only the lapping of the lagoon, the waters that would, in short hours, carry her motorboat to the waiting train that would take her out of his life.

  Because of the past four years, disenchanted and finally embittered by life, Matt Brennan had ceased to believe in miracles. Not that he had ever actually believed in miracles, being a rationalist, but somehow he had always endorsed the remark of an eighteenth-century French noblewoman who, when asked if she believed in ghosts, had retorted, “No. But I am afraid of them.” Yet, the entrance of Lisa Collins into his life had been a true miracle.

  He had been dead, if this could be said of a person who still breathed: dead brain, dead eyes, dead heart, dead hopes. Then Lisa had appeared, and touched him in some supernatural way, and even though he had been too distrustful to believe anyone could reanimate a corpse, this young, vivacious, vibrant girl had briefly ignited within him the spark of life. She had revived him sufficiently for him to feel that he was somewhat more than a zombi if somewhat less than a human being, and that total resurrection might be possible one day.

  But during an afternoon recently, momentarily isolated from Lisa’s magnificent sorcery, aware that he must make a hard decision quickly, he re-examined the realities of his future while sitting in his Mechitar monk’s cell, his improvised office and study, on the quiet tiny island of San Lazzaro degli Armeni. The heady interval had passed. Brennan had returned himself to the remorseless truth at last, and he had concluded that no sorcery could give him back to life.

  Brooding over his desk in the austere cell, Brennan had realized that this was no place to hang a lie and accept it for truth. Here, within these plain, flat walls, only facts could be considered without mockery. Four years had not changed the facts.

  Four years earlier, Brennan had been a bright-young-man-going-places, and no colleague in the Department of State, in Washington, D.C., had possessed better prospects. He had been economist, diplomat, expert in the field of nuclear disarmament, respected by the Secretary of State, President Earnshaw, by the President’s aide; Simon Madlock. He had been husband, father, the delight of every hostess on the Potomac. He had been all of this and more to others, perhaps less than this to himself, but on the basis of his record there was reason enough to select him for a key role at the Zurich Parley.

  That was where the debacle had occurred. Zurich. The unexpected, the unthinkable, had happened, and overnight he had been reduced from potential hero to obvious villain. In the neat ledger of public government, every serious debit must be balanced by entering the name of one who might have incurred it. A scapegoat was wanted after Zurich, not one too important or well known, nor yet one too lowly or obscure. Brennan’s measurements had been right. And so he had been made to fit the crime. Four years ago, a standing Congressional committee, unjudicial custodians of public welfare performing their public relations job on television, had tried him, judged him, savagely torn off his epaulets of high standing, removed his ornaments of achievement, and turned him loose branded unofficial traitor and official leper.

  Unofficial traitor had been what rankled most, for there had been no official proof of treason. The American Government and citizenry, in a hurry, in a time of things condensed, synopsized, digested, miniaturized, in a time of yes or no, true or false, black or white, had no patience with shadings.

  A defendant on trial was guilty or not guilty, one or the other. The wise old Scottish verdict of “Not proven,” therefore acquitted, had been meaningless in a yes-or-no culture. In the hearings that had become an illegal trial, the burden of proof had been placed on the computer-selected scapegoat. Could the scapegoat prove that he had not been responsible for Professor Arthur Varney’s shocking defection to Red China? Yes, he could prove it, because there had been a decent delegate from the Soviet Union, Nikolai Rostov, working side by side with American delegates, with Brennan himself, who had been witness to the defection and could attest to Brennan’s absolute innocence. Rostov? Yes, sir, Rostov. Very well, could the scapegoat produce Rostov? No, he could not; he had tried but he could not. Rostov had disappeared somewhere inside Russia, in Moscow or Siberia or somewhere. Ah, so there was nothing but the scapegoat’s own word? No, nothing but his own word.

  Not proven. Yet, to the American Government and its citizenry, proof enough. Guilty. Not legally guilty, but so judged by a kangaroo court and mob rule. And thus Matthew Brennan’s good name had been lynched, and what had been left for him to live with in the world of his fellows was a nameless dangling corpse, one dangling somewhere between Alger Hiss and J. Robert Oppenheimer.

  And no matter how far he had shouted, there had been no Nikolai Rostov to come to his aid, to cut him down, to free him and restore his good name. And so he had done what he could, untied himself from the gallows but not from the noose, and he had removed himself from the world of his jeering fellow countrymen and for three years had remained in hiding, an outcast without respect, without career, without wife and children, without future, without warmth or love.

  And then Lisa had foolishly come to treat him as a man to be respected, a person with a future, and to remind him that warmth and love were still possible. He had resisted her until, helplessly, then eagerly, he had succumbed to her fantasy. But he had succumbed only briefly, because after a short interval, pressed by the need to make a decision, he had been able to sit in his monastic cell and realize that he could not re-enter her world of the living. He had been able to see that any effort to follow her capricious footsteps would bring disaster down upon both of them, and she deserved a better fate. He had told her so, and she would not accept his reasoning. Nevertheless, he had kept on telling her, and finally, she had realized his mind was made up, and last night she had loved him with the passion of insane, breast-beating, uncontrolled mourning.

  Now, lying on his Hotel Danieli bed, he mourned, too, and he dreaded what was left of the day ahead, the realities to be faced, the end of Elizabeth Collins—how odd to revert to their first formal self-introductions—and the end of his relationship with his son. He had almost forgotten it, the impending reunion and confrontation with his son, Stefani’s son now, who must have arrived in Venice by this time—well, to be faced, the end of that relationship, too, the farewell to fatherhood and to the last living carrier of his once good name.

  He heard the air conditioning come on, which meant that it was becoming warm outside, and he considered getting out of bed. But he could hear the hand shower again in use, and so there was no need to hurry his last hours with Lisa.

  He propped himself up on the rumpled bed and found a cigarette. Smoking, he tried to reject the day ahead and replace it with another, better day. He sought not an old day of long ago but a younger day from the recent past There was such a day, of course. It was the first of the last fourteen days, so shining and glorious. Considering
it, he smoked, and half smiling at the memory of a miracle he would never have believed possible, he plucked that day from the fresh past, and he lived it once more.

  He had met her, the first time, in a camera shop located in the Piazza San Marco. It was a shop that he frequently visited, not for photographic supplies (he had no interest in taking pictures or memorializing his Venice years in any manner), but to gossip with his old friend, the robust Armenian proprietor, or to bring him a message or package from one of the Mechitar fathers on the nearby island of San Lazzaro, one of the world’s three remaining Armenian educational centers.

  The camera shop was crowded with German tourists this particular noon, and Brennan squeezed in between customers at the glass counter, handed his package to the Italian adolescent at the cash register, and was about to leave when his attention was arrested by the uncommonly attractive American girl beside him.

  She had finished stuffing some newly purchased film into her large purse, and looked up to speak to the proprietor again. “Sir, could you tell me where—?”

  The Armenian proprietor’s back was already to her, and he was volubly engaged with his German tourist customers. The girl smiled helplessly, as she turned and almost bumped into Brennan. She shrugged good-naturedly and said to him, as she might address thin air, “Oh well, I just wanted to find out about the main shopping street, but maybe one of the pigeons will know.” Then, as if uncertain of Brennan’s knowledge of English, she smiled once more, this time apologetically, and headed for the door.

  Brennan watched her go. She was wearing a cool sleeveless silk print, fashionable but sensible, and the dress was short enough to set off her long slim nylon-sheathed legs. She was special, he thought, and the accent had been reminiscent of New England. She was standing outside, statuesque and alone in the shaded arcade, as poised as Rizzo’s Eve in the Doge’s Palace, yet plainly not knowing which way to turn in this island city cut into 120 jigsaw parts. It was not Brennan’s habit to play Good Samaritan with tourists, especially American tourists, and these last years he had had little interest in pretty American girls, yet he found himself moving outside, going directly to her.

  “Pardon me,” he heard himself saying. She turned quickly, dark eyes widening, as he went on. “Did I overhear you asking about the main street?”

  “Oh, you’re an American. I wasn’t sure in there. Yes, I’d hoped to do some gift-shopping. But it’s all so confusing—

  Recalling his first day in Venice three years before, he was sympathetic. “I know. Well, look, if you stroll under the arcades around this rectangle of the Piazza, you’ll find some excellent shops. Depends on what you want, of course. Linen, jewelry, leather goods, there’s something of everything, good and bad. But the main shopping street is straight ahead.” He pointed across the broad Piazza, with its milling tourists, gamboling children, dense clusters of pecking pigeons, and he said, “You see the clock tower there—right there in the eastern corner?”

  “Yes,” she said hesitatingly.

  He tried to be patient. “The tower with the two giant figures of Moors on top, and the bronze bell, and the huge clock with Roman numerals and signs of the zodiac?”

  “That weird clock. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it last night.”

  “Well, right beneath is an archway. It leads you into a narrow twisting street, the Merceria, and you simply follow it and you’ll find everything you want.”

  She nodded. “I think I tried it last night. I was trying to find the Rialto. I kept making the wrong turn, taking the wrong bridge. I’ve never seen so many bridges.”

  “Four hundred.”

  “Really? Well, I guess they’re all in the—what?—yes, Merceria. Everywhere I turned, I wound up against a blank wall. I’d ask some Venetian, and he’d spin me around and point just like you did, and say, ‘Sempre diretto‘—the concierge at the Gritti Palace told me that means ‘Thataway’—and so I’d go thataway, and in ten seconds flat, I’d be lost again.” She lifted her purse higher. “But you’ve given me courage. I thank you. I’ll try again.”

  Before she could leave, there was the clanging of bells, and the mechanical Moors astride the clock tower were stiffly moving, swinging their hammers at the big bell to signal the arrival of midday, and hordes of fluttering pigeons were aloft, winging, dipping, rising in a circle above the Piazza San Marco, faking fright and putting on their daily show for the spectators.

  “Wow,” she said, impressed, and then she turned back to Brennan, and added with a tinge of regret, “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you so much. I’d better start my shopping.”

  “Too late,” Brennan said. “I’d forgotten it was almost noon. Most of the shops will be closed for a couple hours.”

  “Oh, no,” she groaned. “Now I won’t get anything done. And I’ve got to leave in the morning.”

  “Don’t leave in the morning. Give Venice another day.”

  “I wish I could. I like it more than I thought I would—I mean, what little I’ve seen. But I’ve got an itinerary.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Well, a sixteen-day vacation, sort of. Then back to work. I’m in the fashion business and I’ve got to cover the collections in Paris. I’ve never been to Europe before, so I had a quick sight-seeing tour laid out for me. I took a fast look at Rome—hot—then Florence—lovely, but the noise—then here, and from here to Milan, Nice, Cannes—let me see, Geneva, Zurich—I missed one or two other places—then Paris and the openings. Everyone said a day and a half would be enough for Venice.”

  “It isn’t.”

  She showed surprise. “It isn’t? You sound as if you live here.”

  “I do.”

  For the first time, she looked at him carefully, and with interest. “I never imagined any—any Americans lived in this city permanently. Everyone says it’s a tourist trap. Are you an artist or expatriate or something like that?”

  “I suppose something like that.” He could not understand what encouraged him to do what he did next. Was it his boredom, his persistent ennui, his desire to be rid of another endless day? Or was it a newly born, flickering desire to remain in contact with one so vital, bright, alive, and learn if such a one could transmit a breath of life into him? Or was it a need, so long denied, to enjoy briefly beauty more animate than the marble splendor of Venice?

  Throughout their conversation he had been appraising her. She was tall. Judging her against his height of five feet eleven, she was easily five feet seven, he had decided. Physically, her strongest asset was a remarkable figure, broad shoulders, lissomely curved body, slim shapely legs. Her brunette hair was arranged with curls brushed forward onto her cheeks, and her face, with dark direct eyes, Grecian nose, overgenerous mouth, gave her an appearance of girlish buoyancy superimposed upon sensual maturity.

  As he spoke, Brennan was conscious of the fact that he had not examined a female so closely in years. “Look,” he was saying, “since you have so little time here, you might do best to spend the two hours of the siesta seeing some of the sights you’ll want to see—the Basilica, over there, for one thing—until the shops open. But if you have nothing else to do, and you’d like to get off your feet, maybe you wouldn’t mind joining a middle-aged-old fellow American in a cup of tea in the café?”

  “Freely translated—is that an invitation?”

  “It is.”

  “I accept,” she said cheerfully. “Heavens, I thought you’d never invite me.”

  Holding her elbow lightly, he directed her down the steps into the sunny Piazza. “I’m shy,” he said. “I’ve been out of human contact. Would you like lunch somewhere?”

  “Any of the cafés here. I’m not hungry.”

  “Right over there, then. Florian’s. It’s the oldest. Opened in 1720. It was Lord Byron’s hangout a hundred years later.” They had arrived at the seven rows of round cream-colored wicker chairs, most of the rows exposed to the midday sun. “Would you prefer to sit in the sun or the shade
?”

  “Wherever it’s more comfortable. The shade.”

  He led her between the rows, to where the rim of shade fell on the last of the tables lined before the old arcade pillars. He remained standing while she set her purse on the extra chair. After they sat down, she coolly faced him. “For purposes of identification,” she said, “I have a mole on my chin, a beauty mark next to my navel, and I’m known to men who take me out to dine the first time as Miss Elizabeth Collins, fugitive from Bridgeport, Connecticut, currently a resident of Manhattan.”

  Awkwardly, she extended her hand. Amused, he took the long tapering fingers lightly, replying, “I’m honored, Miss Collins.” He hesitated ever so briefly, and then he uttered it: “I’m Matthew Brennan.” He waited. No flicker of recognition crossed her face, and his relief was instantaneous. “But I’d prefer Matt,” he said. “Or am I going too fast, Elizabeth?”

  “Let’s shift into first. Elizabeth is for my driver’s license, maiden aunts, and married buyers who try to date me. For anyone else, across a crowded Piazza, I’m diminutive—Lisa.”

  Fourteen days ago, almost to the hour, that was the beginning.

  It had been an enchanted day, wondrous and seemingly devoid of hours, that one. Sitting in Florian’s, they had whiskies, then he ordered frittata al prosciutto for himself, and she preferred to have whatever he was having, and then he ordered a bottle of Fuiggi, and caffé for each of them. Treat or no treat, she insisted upon sharing the 4,000-lire bill, and as insistently, he refused to accept the money.

  For two persons just met, they had too much to discuss in a mere afternoon. Initially, the conversation was impersonal. She inquired about starred sights noted in her guidebook, and he, who had almost forgotten their historic fascination, told her what he could of each, as colorfully as possible. When she quoted from her guidebook the consternation of Robert Benchley, the humorist, upon arriving in Venice, and his desperate cable to a friend—“Streets full of water. Please advise.”—Brennan laughed, and tried to explain this crazy island of 177 canals, an island halved by the principal S-shaped Grand Canal, which snaked two miles through the city. He spoke of the immortal couples who had come to Venice to make love in palaces and hotels along the Canal, Byron and his married Countess Guiccioli, D’Annunzio and his Duse, de Musset and his George Sand (although he had fallen ill shortly after arriving, and Sand had taken up with his physician).