From the abbot himself, after a few months, had come the invitation for Brennan to make San Lazzaro his home away from home, and to accept the privileges of an upstairs office for his studies, a room from which could be seen the distant needle of the Campanile of San Marco. With alacrity, Brennan had accepted the invitation. In the years since, although living in Venice, he had spent most of his afternoons on San Lazzaro, sometimes working, more often brooding about his fate.
Suddenly, he realized that Lisa had moved out of the circle of his arm. “Here we are,” she said.
He rose, waited for the pilot to secure the motorboat to the wharf, and then he helped Lisa out of the boat and asked the pilot to stand by.
In the serene garden overlooking the lagoon, Lisa squeezed his hand. “I’m glad we came,” she said.
For a full minute, Brennan stood silent, inhaling the fresh air with its fragrance unique to San Lazzaro—a combination of scents that came from the green lagoon water, the rose petals, the cypress tree—and he studied the cool monastery walls. Two and a half centuries ago, he remembered, San Lazzaro had been a flat, uninhabited tract of land that lay in the lagoon between the Doge’s principal island and the Lido island. It had held no interest for Venetians. When the Turkish armies swept across Armenia in 1715, the Abbot Peter Mechitar, leader of a sect of fathers whose religion was Roman Catholic but whose church rites were Oriental, fled with his followers to independent Venice. There they were given asylum, and soon they were given the deserted tract that was San Lazzaro. On this private island Mechitar established a Little Armenia with Venetian overtones, building a monastery, a chapel, a school, a library, and installing a printing press, creating on the barren tract one of the last surviving centers for Armenian scholarship and a miniature Utopia for those with a contemplative bent.
Where Brennan stood now with Lisa, Lord Byron had often stood following his arrival on the island in the autumn of 1816. “By way of divertissement,” Byron had written Moore, “I am studying daily, at an Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted something craggy to break upon…” Regularly, Byron had toiled in the library of the monastery, but at last found the language “obdurate” with a “Waterloo of an alphabet.” And in the end what this island had given the poet, Brennan realized, was what it had provided for Brennan himself, a brief respite from the turbulence of the hostile world outside.
Taking Lisa by the arm, Brennan led her into the monastery, and along the refreshing cloistered walk from which, between the columns, they could see the cassocked friars in the verdant and colorful garden court. For a half hour, they retraced old steps, uninterrupted by the discreet monks. They paused in the chapel, looked in on the multilingual printing room, and examined Canova’s plaster cast of L’Aiglon. Climbing upstairs, they wandered through the museum, grinning back at the grinning Egyptian mummy, and trying to read the letter from Longfellow. They lingered in Byron’s library, once more inspecting the Armenian grammar on which His Lordship had collaborated. Following this, they visited Brennan’s cubicle nearby, holding hands before his desk filled with pencils, yellow legal-sized pads, and dictionaries of Eastern languages.
Presently, they sat together on a bench beside a cedar of Lebanon in the garden of the central building. A tall, clean-shaven father, carrying a breviary and a bouquet of roses, passed them, and benignly greeted both Brennan and Lisa by name, and prudently went his way.
Lisa’s eyes followed the father. She turned back to Brennan. “What must they think of me always here with you? Those poor virtuous monks, watching us kiss or hold hands.”
“They think you’re a young niece, young and incestuous.”
“Oh, Matt, really!”
“They’re highly sophisticated, tolerant of man’s foibles and weaknesses. Look how they accepted me, despite my public record. And now they accept us both. They are wise enough to know that God’s charity also embraces sinners. They overlooked Byron’s private life when he came here. It was the juiciest gossip in the café of the Piazza. Did you know that, at the very time Byron was working here, he was having an affair with another man’s wife in Venice?”
“You’re teasing me.”
“It’s a fact. You’ll find a play-by-play account in many of his letters to friends. There was, as Byron put it, ‘a Merchant of Venice’ who had a twenty-two-year-old wife named Marianna—”
“Twenty-two? Now I know you’re teasing.”
“I swear. How did he describe her? Let me see if I can remember. Yes—‘She has the large, black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression’ that was too much for Byron. Let me see, yes—‘Her features are regular, rather aquiline, mouth small, skin clear and soft, with a kind of hectic color’—I love that ‘hectic color’—and ‘her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and color of Lady J’ and something about her figure, yes—‘light and pretty.’ An early version of you, Lisa.”
“Thank you.”
“So while Signor Segati, the cuckolded merchant, worked, his wife played. Byron became her cavalier servente, and Marianna became his amorosa. And the good Holy Fathers on San Lazzaro knew it and did not mind.” Absently, Brennan plucked a blade of grass and smoothed it between his fingers. “Those were romantic times.”
“Is it different now?”
He stared at her. “No—I suppose not, Lisa.”
Meeting his gaze frankly, she said, “Why do we have to end it, Matt? If you really love me—”
“You know I love you.”
“Then come home with me. All that disgrace of yours—the messy business—it’s old hat, forgotten by everyone but you. We can make a fresh start—”
“It’s not forgotten, Lisa. It’s been revived by that Summit conference in Paris. Just the other day—I didn’t bother to tell you—there was a roundup feature in the Rome Daily American—wire story published everywhere—and there was my name, the whole messy business, as you call it, not forgotten but revived—a complete calendar of the events leading to Red China’s getting the neutron bomb and rocketry, and menacing peace, and leading to this Summit—and among the events listed was our Government’s irresponsible assignment of a leftist and poor security risk, namely Matthew Brennan, to go to Zurich where he encouraged one of our foremost nuclear physicists, Professor Varney, to defect to China and help the so-called enemy build that neutron bomb. And you say it’s forgotten, Lisa?”
“But, Matt—”
“Let me work this out in my own way,” he said brusquely, and then he stood up. “Come, I’ve got to get you back.”
Fifteen minutes later, having been transported by their motorboat across the San Marco Basin and up a short distance of the Grand Canal, they docked before the Gritti Palace Hotel. San Lazzaro had already receded into a dim dream.
He saw her to the lobby entrance. “I’ll say good-bye here, Lisa.”
Resigned, she merely nodded.
“I—I’ve got to be at the hotel when my son comes by.”
She touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry to be difficult. Of course, you must. I know meeting him must be on your mind, too. I wish I could help you with that.”
“I’ll manage somehow.”
She was reluctant to leave him. “Will he be unsociable?”
“Ted?” He shrugged. “I can’t say. Seventeen is a tough age to handle at best. I don’t know how angry he is with me, or how he regards me now. I haven’t seen him in a long time. And I don’t write much any more, because his answers are always short and, well, rather stiff, you know, duty letters.” He forced his half-smile. “It may be, at worst, a bit awkward. But it’s rather important to me. Don’t worry about it.”
“I worry about you,” she said. Then she added, “You don’t have to rush the meeting with your son to see me off. I’ll understand. Just call me in Paris, and—and write sometimes.”
“Ted and I are having an early dinner, and it may be a very quick one. If it is, I’ll be here by seven-thirty to take you to the station. If I can’t get
away, well, I’ll call you in Paris tomorrow.”
She leaned forward, kissed him on the lips. Eyes filling, she whispered. “I’ll love you forever.” With that, she turned and disappeared into the hotel.
Matt Brennan stood there feeling lost and depressed, and at last he slowly returned to the waiting motorboat and ordered the pilot to take him to the Danieli.
Once in the Danieli lobby, he had started for the staircase when he remembered that he did not have his key. Returning to the concierge’s desk, he held out his hand for his key, and received with it a folded slip of paper.
As he moved to the staircase, he opened the slip of paper. It was a telephone message: “Mr. Shepperd called at approx. 17:00. He will be waiting at the Hotel de la Gare Germania. The number is 26489.”
For a moment, his mind still on Lisa, he was unable to place the unfamiliar name. Shepperd? Did he know anyone named—and at once it struck him, and he felt a constriction in his chest. It was a name he had seen twice before, above his son’s return address on letters mailed from Boston. Shepperd was Steffi’s new husband, and Ted’s stepfather.
Resentment suffocated him, as he climbed the staircase. Ted was still his son, his legal son, his only son born of his flesh and blood. His son was Ted Brennan, no other. Yet, recently, and now again, the boy had been rebellious enough, insensitive and cruel enough, to pass himself off as Ted Shepperd to his own father.
This was the mark of Steffi, Brennan thought, and his anger abated. Most likely, it was not Ted who was ashamed of his real name, but Steffi alone who had dictated the change. Was she capable, still, of such malice? Or—another thought—was she protecting their son with this new surname, trying to give him an easier time in college, to save him from the burden of explaining and hating the name of Brennan?
In any case, it was a bad prelude to this crucial reunion, he decided, entering his room. He turned up the lights, half expecting that Lisa would be waiting to console him, but Lisa was not there. He paced restlessly, thinking about the son named Shepperd, whom he was soon to meet. The boy had been hurt by the notoriety surrounding the family, Brennan knew, but he had been only thirteen, not quite fourteen, and certainly, the separation and divorce had hurt him more, at least at the time. While Steffi had remarried, and yes, Shepperded his son and his little girl into the respectable home and life of a Boston widower and physician, Brennan had fled abroad. He knew that he had, in a sense, forfeited his children.
He had been back to the United States only twice in these past three years, both times on job prospects that did not develop favorably, and both times, briefly, he had seen his son, as well as his daughter, Tracy, who were brought by a governess to New York for a single day. The last time he had seen Ted was—well, it must have been a year and a half ago, and the little girl Tracy, suffering a cold, had been kept busy in his hotel room with numerous gifts, while he and Ted had spent the chilly afternoon at a baseball game. The boy had been uncomfortable, and so had he, but they had retained enough of their old father-and-son relationship to save the afternoon, which had been filled with home runs, hot dogs, Ted’s stories about his high-school experiences and favorite television serials, and Brennan’s own colored accounts of his adventures in Italy. It had not been too bad, actually quite good, but after all, Ted had been merely a callow fifteen and Shepperd still a stranger to him, and his father had appeared more as a fascinating wanderer than a fleeing traitor. Now, at college age, it was Ted Shepperd, because now the identity thing was everything, and now, at last, Ted knew.
The letter in Brennan’s box, three weeks ago, had been unexpected. It had contained three paragraphs, which were stylistically restrained and formal. Ted had graduated from prep school in the upper tenth of his class. He had been accepted by Yale and would enter there in the fall. He had thanked his father for the gold Swiss watch and check. Mother’s graduation gift had been a trip to Europe for six weeks. Ted and two friends would be in Venice on June fourteenth for one day. “If you are there, I would leave time to see you.”
Brennan had written his son at once, a long, enthusiastic letter, congratulating him on his graduation, on his acceptance by Yale. He had suggested sites and cities that Ted and his friends might be interested in visiting during their trip. And yes, of course, Venice, definitely yes, he would be in Venice, eager to see his son. “Let’s plan on having dinner together, Ted. I look forward to it.”
And now Ted Shepperd had arrived.
Brennan felt weakened by the day past and the day ahead. The last of Lisa had been manfully faced. Now the last of Ted, or perhaps a new start with Ted, must be faced.
With effort, Brennan went to the bed, sat down and lifted the receiver. He requested that the operator get him 26489. Nervously, he waited, heard the buzzing, heard the female voice at the other end say, “Hotel de la Gare Germania.” He asked for Mr. Ted Shepperd, and again he waited.
The male voice was low, cautious, and unfamiliar. Was this Ted or one of his friends?
“Hello,” said Brennan, “is Ted there?” No concessions to Shepperd now, he had decided.
“This is Ted.” The voice had become strained.
“Welcome to Venice, son. This is your father.”
There was the briefest pause. “Hi, how are you?”
“Wonderful to hear your voice, and to have you here. When did you get in?”
“Uh—last night—we parked the car outside the city, and took one of those crazy boats.”
“Have you had a chance to look around?”
“Yes. We got up early and spent the whole day walking. I think we covered nearly everything.”
“I hope you liked it. Perhaps I can show you and your friends something you may have missed? When are you leaving?”
“Well, very early in the morning.”
“I wish I could persuade you to stay a day or two longer. Not only because I’d love to spend more time with you, but because there’s really a lot to do here.”
“Thanks. I’m afraid we’ve got to push on. We want to give some extra time to Florence and Rome, and go to Capri. I think we’ve about had Venice.”
“I’m sorry,” Brennan said. “But I know you have your plans. We’re set for dinner, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Any preferences? Any restaurants you’ve read about?”
“No.”
“Will your friends be joining us?”
“No. I—uh—it’ll be just me. They’re eating with a couple of American girls we bumped into this morning in St. Mark’s.”
“Will you be free after dinner?”
There was a pause, and then Ted spoke, voice catching in his throat. “Uh—actually—there are three of those American girls—they’re on a tour, and they’ve shaken the tour for the night—so, I sort of promised to catch up with them.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re getting some action.” Brennan realized that his hand on the receiver was clammy. “Okay, I suggest we dine early, so you’ll have plenty of time left. There are any number of good restaurants here. Let me think.” Actually, he had given it some thought earlier. “I think I have just the place. Ever hear of Harry’s Bar?”
“Of course. Hemingway.”
“That’s right, that’s the one. Marvelous atmosphere. About the best food in Europe. You’ll like it. Should we make it Harry’s?”
“Whatever you say.”
“It’s Harry’s by a unanimous vote. Where’s your hotel?”
“Across from the railroad station.”
“I’ll get a motorboat and pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“That’s not necessary,” Ted said quickly. “I can meet you where we’re eating.”
“You’re sure you can find it?”
“I’ll find it all right.”
“It’s at the end of the Calle Vallaresso, going to the Canal. On the corner. You can take a vaporetto.”
“Yes.”
“Shall we say around six o’clock?”
“I�
�ll be there. I’ll leave now.”
“Okay. Meet you in front of the entrance.”
Hanging up, Brennan realized that his moist hands were trembling. He wanted to see his son, wanted to speak to him, yet at this moment he would have given anything if the boy had not come to Venice. The reunion would be more strained than he had anticipated. The boy was definitely hostile, offering nothing, no interest in him, in them, no warmth, only forced respect. How hastily Ted had rejected the idea of being picked up. Was it because he dreaded being alone with his father, because of shame of him or resentment toward him, and therefore he had automatically narrowed filial duty down to a meeting in a public place?
Instinctively, Brennan was relieved that the dinner would be of short duration, and that Ted was otherwise occupied afterwards—if there really were those American girls. But thinking about it, Brennan suddenly wished that he and Ted might have more time, much more time, so that he could know his son again and his son could know him. He wanted Ted to understand him fully, now that the boy had reached an age for understanding. He wanted Ted to know the truth, not the Steffi-truth or the newspaper-truth, but the real truth, so that Ted could leave Venice with real regard for his father and forever after observe the Fifth Commandment.
But now it was too late.
Then, remembering that Ted would already be on his way, Brennan took up the telephone and called down to the concierge. He asked the concierge to ring up Harry’s Bar, speak to the proprietor personally, and explain to him that Brennan and his son would arrive there for dinner very shortly, and that they’d prefer one of the two corner tables downstairs, or else one at the far end of the room.
After that, Brennan quickly exchanged his sport shirt for a solid blue button-down shirt and a narrow dark-blue knit tie. Yanking on his tweed jacket, making sure that his wallet was in place, he hastened out of his room and down the hotel corridor and lobby.
The Plot Page 26
