Jean-Pierre put down his shopping bag and reached into his pocket. “I’ll give you the addresses.” He brought out a notebook and pen and copied something from another page.
Rolf would get even with Jean-Pierre for this, but now wasn’t the time. He snatched the paper Jean-Pierre proffered with a caustic, “Thanks a lot,” and headed for the door. Francine would be glad to see him. He’d try her first.
Another Refusal
The Accademia Bridge was thick with revelers despite the weather. Capes cracked in the wind like flags. An orange plume, escaped from a headdress, flew past Rolf’s face, accompanied by the anguished wail of its former owner.
As Rolf retraced his steps on his way to Francine’s, he thought about the Medusa at the Rio della Madonna. The Medusa had been crouched beside the canal, the dark blue robe billowing, the red-eyed snakes moving eerily, as if they were alive. Rolf had said, “Hi, Miss Medusa. Changed any faithful lovers to men in despair lately?” He had thought it was funny at first, the way the Medusa— Sally, he believed— lashed out and grabbed his staff. He heard the shattering sound again, the mirror breaking.
How could Rolf have made such an error? He felt outraged, seething with shame.
At last he found the house where Francine was staying, on a quiet side canal near the Church of Santa Maria del Giglio. The building had the peeling-plaster shabbiness typical of Venice, but as Rolf had suspected, the interior was more sumptuous than the outside indicated. He climbed to the top-floor flat. The doorbell was answered by a mousy-looking maid who apparently spoke nothing but Italian and who responded to his insistent repeating of Francine’s name with gestures indicating that Francine was unavailable.
Rolf didn’t intend to leave until he had made arrangements to stay here. He moved over the threshhold, ignoring the maid’s startled preventive gesture. “I’ll wait.”
He surveyed the anteroom with its small chandelier and slippery-looking blue chairs. The maid vanished. Rolf was halfway through a cigarette when a woman in a cerise dressing gown and feathered mules walked in. She had a deep tan and bleached-blond hair. Her arms were crossed, her jaw thrust forward.
Despite her threatening stance, Rolf was relieved. If this was the person who lived in the flat, he’d be in good shape. Rolf rarely had trouble getting women to do what he wanted.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded.
Rolf told her his name and then asked, “What’s yours?”
“Ursula,” she said, then abruptly demanded what he wanted.
While he was explaining that he was a close, good friend of Francine’s, Francine herself, wearing her black dressing gown printed with scarlet poppies, appeared in the doorway. She didn’t look pleased to see him. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” she asked.
It was a pity Rolf hadn’t had a chance to get Ursula on his side before Francine arrived. He reached toward Francine to give her a pat, or perhaps grab her shoulder and dig his fingers in so she’d know he meant business, but she jumped back as if he were poison. “What?” she asked again, her tone scathing.
Rolf explained that, through no fault of his own, he had lost his place to stay, and he was hoping—
“Hoping to impose on my friend?” Francine’s voice held out no suggestion that Rolf’s hopes would be fulfilled.
“For God’s sake, Francine. I’m not asking for any big favors.” Rolf didn’t understand what was happening here, but he didn’t like it.
“You are asking for favors. Worse than that, you’re intruding. You must leave now.”
Rolf was flabbergasted. Why the hell shouldn’t he sleep on the floor of this obviously spacious apartment? “Look. I’m just asking—” he began, but Ursula’s hand closed on his upper arm in a tight grip.
“You are disturbing my friend,” she said, and in an instant had propelled him through the door.
Shock prevented Rolf from reacting until the door was closed, but as soon as he heard the latch click, fury whirled through him. He threw himself against the door, pounding it with his fists and yelling, “Francine! Open up, you fucking whore!” He kicked the door several times, leaving black scuff marks on its white surface. He pounded a few more times, crying, “Let me in!” From behind the door came the sound of a dog’s furious barking.
Rolf gave the door one last, reverberating kick and ran downstairs before the neighbors could arrive to investigate. Back outside, he ran until he was on a well-traveled route by the Church of Santa Maria del Giglio. There was a traghetto stop down on the Canal, next to the Gritti Palace Hotel. He dropped his backpack there and sat on it, gasping breath after breath of the frigid, damp air. The air tasted like Minnesota. It tasted like Minnesota. A damp, cold autumn day in Minnesota, where there was a girl he had hurt. He hoped she was hurt. Only hurt. Minnesota felt and tasted like this. Her name was Barbara, and he thought, he was reasonably sure, that she was only hurt.
Eventually, Rolf’s breathing became slower. The quality of the air in Venice in February didn’t really suggest autumn in Minnesota. It had probably done him good to lose his temper. Worked off tensions. He wouldn’t forget it the next time he saw Francine, though. When he felt he could walk easily, calmly, calling no attention to himself, he got up. He’d be at Tom’s hotel in five minutes.
Rolf Makes A Suggestion
Rolf leaned back and let the drone of Tom’s voice hover outside his ears. He had what he wanted: number one, permission to sleep on the floor of Tom’s room; number two, everything Tom had heard about Brian’s murder. Rolf knew Sally was staying with Count Michèle Zanon, and Francine claimed to have seen her, dressed in a señorita costume, at a masked ball just hours after Brian’s death.
Rolf took a swallow of beer. He and Tom were in a pizzeria next door to Tom’s hotel. Outside, the crepe paper streamers the pizzeria had used for decoration were fluttering madly. Rain spattered fitfully against the window.
Tom was talking about May of ’68, and how Brian’s murder had brought back those days— the sense of danger, the heightened tension. Tom was keeping a journal, he said, and he wanted to ask Rolf some questions. The problem with Tom was that he never shut up. At the next table a woman wearing a beige fur coat and a cat mask made of golden-brown crushed velvet and feathers stretched out long legs in tight brown leather pants. She eyed Rolf over the hulking shoulder of her companion, but Rolf had other things on his mind. Maybe later, Babe. He gave her his half smile and watched her smile back, but then he lost interest.
“So I was wondering if you had any ideas about who killed him?” Tom was asking. Tom’s voice sounded hoarse.
“Who knows? Some maniac, probably.” Rolf wanted to get off the subject. He turned to Tom and said, “Why did you shave off your beard?”
Tom stopped talking. His hand strayed to his face. “Various reasons,” he said tightly.
“Doesn’t your face get cold now?”
Tom seemed to cringe before he said, “A little, yeah. A little more than before.”
Rolf lit a cigarette, expelled smoke, and looked at Tom. He’d never realized what heavy jowls Tom had. “Was it a self-mutilation thing?”
From the way Tom looked, Rolf could tell he really had him going. “Jesus, Rolf, could we drop it?” Tom said.
Rolf put on an expression of deep sincerity and leaned across the table toward Tom. “I mean it,” he said. “You suddenly decide to cut off your beard. That’s a serious move. It’s got to mean you’re not happy with the way you are, doesn’t it? Are you mad with yourself about something?” He gave his voice a note of quiet, psychiatric concern.
Tom was rubbing his face. “I said, drop it.”
“Yeah, we could drop it, but then it would fester inside you.” Rolf leaned even closer. “You know, they say facial hair is connected to your idea of your manhood. If you look at it that way, shaving your beard could be tantamount to—”
“I’m warning you—”
“Castration, couldn’t it?”
“God damn it, Ro
lf!” Tom stood up violently, rocking the little table. Rolf could see him quivering.
Rolf shrugged lazily. “Same old Tom,” he said. “You love to dish it out, analyze everybody else’s problems, but you sure hate to take it, don’t you?”
“That is an unfair, unjust—”
“Give me a break, Tom, all right?” Rolf turned his attention to the end of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl and the ash grow. He’d go back to the palazzo. Now he knew the score, and he’d be prepared. By the time Tom sat back down, Rolf had almost forgotten about him.
“Maybe you’ve got a point,” Tom said in a chastened voice. “Maybe I should talk about it.”
Disappointed that Tom hadn’t left, Rolf assumed a pontifical mien. “The whole subject hinges on one important question. How’s your relationship with— what’s her name?”
“Olga.”
“Right. Olga. Nice lady, attractive lady.”
Tom stared. “Do you really think she’s attractive?”
“God, yes.” Rolf tried to summon up a picture of Tom’s wife. Gray hair, tired-looking. “Hell, I don’t know why you’re sitting here, when you could be at home banging her.”
Tom eyed him. “You’re putting me on again, you bastard.”
Rolf sat upright, sketched a cross over his heart and then raised his right hand. “I swear. I get turned on every time I see her. That’s why I don’t visit your place very much.”
Tom’s face was flushed. “There is an unexpected side to her. A kind of tigerish, ferocious side.”
“See? I could sense that from just looking at her.”
Tom slouched down disconsolately. “You could be right about that self-mutilation stuff,” he said.
Rolf was really bored now. If Tom had any pride, he would have stomped off earlier instead of staying around to whine. He glanced at his watch. “You need to get laid,” he said briskly. “If it isn’t so good with— what’s her— Olga right now, well, the world is full of women.” He nodded at the cat-lady at the next table. “There’s one right there.”
“You must be nuts. I couldn’t—”
Rolf had a great idea. A true inspiration. “What about Francine, then? Or have you had a thing with her already?”
“No, but—”
“That’s the solution. Francine.” Rolf finished his beer and stood up. “Can you get the check? I have to go. I’ll pay you later.”
“Rolf, can’t we talk a little—”
Rolf leaned on the back of his chair, bending toward Tom. “Francine. She’s hot for you already. She told me.”
Tom shook his head. “She hates me.”
“Not at all.” Rolf moved backward a step. “She just puts that on because she thinks you don’t like her.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Ciao.”
Tom’s hurt, baffled face receded quickly from Rolf’s consciousness. God, people always wanted to waste your time. He walked along briskly, stretching his legs. Now at last he could give his attention to the subject that had been gnawing at him.
To find out that Sally wasn’t the simple, unsophisticated girl she seemed should’ve spoiled her for Rolf. What had excited him, after all, was the dumb timidity, the uncertainty verging on fear, that she exuded. Lose that and, theoretically, her attraction was gone.
It wasn’t working that way. That Sally could be simple Sally and at the same time a person who could dress up in a mask and ruffles hours after her husband’s murder— the thought hit Rolf in his solar plexus and he could scarcely breathe. He wanted to stretch her out, examine her, see how much she was one thing and how much the other, find out what her breaking point might be.
None of this was like Minnesota. The rain started coming down harder, and Rolf picked up his pace.
Tom’s Fantasies
Tom wished Rolf hadn’t left like that, without giving Tom a chance to explore his emotions. They had been getting to something. Tom could feel it welling up. Now he tried to swallow it with the last of his beer.
Rolf had given Tom a few things to think about, anyway. The self-mutilation, castration business, for instance. At the thought, his scrotum pulled up a little, looking for someplace to hide. Jesus. Why would he want to castrate himself? He was sure he didn’t. He wanted to shave off his beard, for reasons he didn’t care to explain to Rolf, and he shaved off his beard. It would grow back. It felt as if it had started to grow already, the bristles longer than they had been even an hour ago.
And the other stuff— about Olga, and Francine, and getting laid.
It was easy for Rolf. Tom remembered the careless way Rolf asked if Tom had already had a thing with Francine, the way he suggested Tom get involved with the attractive cat-woman at the next table.
Tom gazed at the woman, with her leather pants and fur coat. Her gold-feathered cat mask covered only the top half of her face. She was drinking Campari. She wore several gold bracelets and a couple of heavy gold rings.
If Rolf wanted that woman, he’d have her— despite the fact that he’d never seen her before, despite the fact that she was sitting with a burly man who looked capable of throwing any interloper through the window. How would Rolf do it? Wiggle his eyebrows at her? Drop a note on the table giving her his phone number? If Tom tried that, the cat-woman would scream for help.
Glumly, Tom watched her finish her drink, shake back her hair as the man paid the bill, and stroll off with him, arm in arm. She was so intriguing, so sexy. If Tom were Rolf, he’d be screwing her by tonight.
Which brought up the idea that there was a woman he could be screwing by tonight if he felt like it, and that was Olga. Rolf had said he found Olga attractive; he’d even stayed away from Tom’s place because she turned him on. Tom wondered. He couldn’t remember any specific times Rolf had refused to come over, and usually Olga wasn’t there, anyway.
It could be true, though. Tom himself had found Olga terribly attractive at one time, although now the specific reasons were difficult to recall. He could check out of his hotel and get a plane to Paris, be there for a late supper. And Stefan would be slouching around studying, looking at Tom as if he didn’t care whether Tom came back or not, and Olga would be cheery and wanting to know all about Venice.
He could be screwing her tonight, but he’d just as soon skip it.
That left Francine. At times, especially when she was trying to get him to reminisce about his supposed acquaintance with Sartre, Tom had thought Francine was attracted to him. Lately, though, she’d treated him very badly, even considering they were all under a strain.
Yet maybe she was attracted, and the hostility and hatefulness were the other side of the coin. If that were so, judging from how hateful she had been, the attraction would have to be pretty strong, too.
Later, he might go to the place where Francine was staying and talk with her. He needed to do that, anyway, for his research, which was going more slowly than he’d hoped. While they were talking, he could reach over and touch her. He would put his hand on her hair or her shoulder. When he did that, he’d watch to see how she took it, whether she moved away or let it happen. After he saw, he’d know what to do next.
Lulled in his fantasy, Tom felt almost happy. He almost felt Francine’s fingers brush the back of his hand, almost heard her voice, miraculously soft, no hint of how strident she could be, murmuring in her pretty accent.
Because Tom was momentarily soothed, the shock of seeing two policemen walk purposefully past the pizzeria window and turn into the door of his hotel was doubly unnerving. Tom sat forward. They had gone into his hotel. And they looked as if they weren’t just strolling around keeping the peace. Tom pulled a handful of lire out of his pocket and dropped the notes on the table.
Outside, he peered through the glass door of the hotel. He could see the broad, uniformed back of one of the policemen. He pushed the door open slightly. A brisk Italian conversation was taking place between, Tom guessed, the policemen and the desk clerk. Tom heard an Italianized version of his name. He let the door clo
se softly and moved away from it.
So it had happened. Running away from the hotel, losing himself in the darkening, rainswept streets of Venice, Tom could have shouted for joy. It was May of ’68 again, and he was one step ahead of the cops. He was a fugitive, an outlaw. He was free.
Ursula Writes A Letter
Ursula’s reactions, Francine had now realized, were consistent only in their unpredictability. When Rolf had shouted his last insult and kicked his last kick, when the neighbors had been apologized to and the dog quieted, Francine fully expected a scene of unparalleled jealousy and accusation. She had imagined herself running through the streets of Venice barefoot, in her dressing gown, and stumbling, drenched and half-frozen, up to Michèle Zanon’s palazzo and into his arms. The vision had been so appealing that although she was sure she was going to be thrown out, she hadn’t bothered to get dressed.
But instead of evicting her, Ursula, once all was restored to normal, had regarded Francine with admiration that seemed to border on awe. “What a handsome, cruel-looking lover you have,” she breathed. “He must love you fantastically, tremendously, to be so angry. And you sent him away because of me!”
“Of course. He is nothing to me,” Francine said smugly.
“He will beat you bloody when he sees you again.” Ursula sounded excited at the thought.
“Ha.”
“Oh, cara, you are wonderful!”
Ursula had been so stimulated by Rolf’s visit that it had been nearly impossible to persuade her to return to the task at hand. Only after much cajoling did Francine persuade her to seat herself at her desk and pick up her pen.
“Where was I?” Francine asked.
Ursula bent over the scribbled sheet in front of her, running her finger down the much-corrected lines. At last she read, haltingly, “Point two. On the evening of the day her husband was murdered, this woman was observed in attendance at a fancy dress ball. She may have believed that her mask and costume concealed her identity, but—” She looked up at Francine.
The Complete Mystery Collection Page 76
