Francesca gives a troubled shake of the head. “Now it’s more important than ever to keep you out of sight.”
“But you have the music now. You have the original. There’s no reason for them to come after me.”
“Yes, there is. You are a witness. You can testify that you bought the document from Mr. Padrone. And Anna Maria’s letter clearly states that Mr. Padrone acquired it from the Capobiancos. You are the vital link in the chain of evidence leading directly to their family.” She leans in, her expression fierce. “I’m a Jew, Mrs. Ansdell. So is Salvatore. There are very few of us left in this city, but the ghosts are still here, all around us. Now we can put this one to rest. The ghost of Lorenzo Todesco.”
Someone knocks on the door, and I snap taut in alarm. “What do we do?” I whisper.
“Get down. Stay low.” Francesca turns off the lamp, plunging us into darkness. I drop to the floor and feel my heart hammering against the carpet as Francesca quietly makes her way through the shadows. At the door she calls out in Italian. A man answers.
With a sigh of relief, she opens the door to let him in, and when the light comes on again, I see Salvatore. I also see, from his tense face, that I’m not the only one who’s frightened. He speaks rapidly to Francesca, who translates.
“He says three people were shot outside your hotel,” she tells me. “One man is dead, but your friend was still alive when they took her to the hospital.”
I think of the two unfortunate men who’d stepped out of the hotel, interrupting what would have been my murder. And I think of Gerda, who may now be struggling for her life.
“I have to call the hospital.”
Once again, she stops me. “It’s not safe.”
“I need to know if my friend is all right!”
“You need to stay hidden. If something happens to you, if you can’t testify against them, our chain of proof breaks. That’s why Salvatore proposes this option.”
He reaches into the backpack that he’s carried into the apartment. I’m hoping he has a gun in there, something to defend us. Instead he pulls out a camera and tripod and proceeds to set it up in front of me.
“We must record your statement on video,” says Francesca. “Should something happen to you, at least we’ll have…” She stops, realizing how cold-blooded she must sound.
I finish her sentence. “You’ll have my testimony on camera.”
“Please understand, you are a threat to a very powerful family. We need to prepare for every possibility.”
“Yes. I do understand.” I understand that here, at last, is a way to fight back. For too long I’ve been flailing helplessly against an unknown threat. Now I know who my enemy is, and I have the power to bring him down. It’s a job that only I can do. That thought steadies me, and I take a deep breath. I sit up and look straight at the camera. “What should I say?”
“Why don’t you start with your name and address? Who you are and how you came to buy the music from Mr. Padrone. Tell us about what his granddaughter wrote to you. Tell us everything.”
Everything. I think about what they have not yet heard. How the music transformed my daughter, and now I’m afraid of her. About the psychiatrist who wants to lock me in a mental ward. About my husband, who thinks I’m insane for believing Incendio has brought evil into our family. No, these are things I won’t tell them, even though these things are all true. Evil does cling to Incendio, an evil that invaded my home and stole my daughter from me. The only way I can fight it is by exposing its terrible history.
“I’m ready,” I tell them.
Salvatore presses the record button. A single red light glows on the camera like a malevolent eye.
I speak calmly and clearly. “My name is Julia Ansdell. I am thirty-three years old and married to Robert Ansdell. We live at 4122 Heath Road in Brookline, Massachusetts. On June twenty-first, I visited the antiques shop of a Mr. Padrone in Rome, where I purchased a handwritten composition called Incendio, by a composer named L. Todesco….”
The camera’s red eye starts to blink. As Salvatore hunts for a fresh battery, I keep talking. About my search for Lorenzo’s identity. About how I learned of Mr. Padrone’s death. About…
19
I hear the sound of my own labored breathing. Smell the scent of my own fear. I am running down a dark alley. I don’t remember what happened or how I escaped the apartment; I don’t remember what became of Francesca or Salvatore. The last thing I do remember is sitting in front of the camera and the low-battery light blinking red. Something terrible has certainly happened, something that’s left my arm cut and bleeding and my head pounding. I’m lost in a neighborhood I do not recognize.
And I am being followed.
From somewhere ahead comes the sound of thumping music, a primitive, driving beat. Where there’s music, there are crowds where I can hide. I round a corner and see a busy nightclub and people standing outside at cocktail tables. But even here I am too easy to spot. My pursuer could simply pump a bullet into my back and melt away without ever being seen.
I push through the partygoers, hear a woman’s outraged yelp as I knock over her drink. Glass shatters on the cobblestones, but I keep running. I head across a busy piazza, pause to glance back. There are so many people that at first I can’t be sure I’m still being followed. Then I spot a dark-haired man striding toward me with robotlike purpose. He is unstoppable.
I sprint around another corner and spot a sign for Piazza San Marco, pointing left. San Marco is ground zero for revelers in Venice, the place where you can find crowds even late into the night. It’s exactly where he’ll expect me to flee.
I turn right and duck into the cover of a doorway. I hear footsteps pound around the corner and then fade away. Toward San Marco.
I peek out of the doorway and see that the alley is now deserted.
Twenty minutes later, I find an unlocked gate and I slip into a private garden, where the shadows are fragrant with the scent of roses and thyme. The glow spilling out the upstairs windows is bright enough for me to see the bloodstains on my blouse. My left arm is crisscrossed with lacerations. From flying glass? An explosion? I don’t remember.
I want to return to the apartment and see if Francesca and Salvatore are alive, and to retrieve my purse, but I know it’s not safe to go back. Nor do I dare return to the hotel where Gerda was shot. I have no luggage, no purse, no credit cards, no cellphone. Frantically I search my pockets for cash, but all I find is a few loose coins and a single fifty-euro note.
It will have to be enough.
—
It takes me an hour to creep through alleys and dart across bridges before I finally make it to Venice’s Santa Lucia train station. I don’t dare go into the station itself, because it’s the obvious place Capobianco’s people would expect me to go. Instead I slip into one of the many Internet cafés and use some of my precious cash to buy an hour of computer time. It’s past midnight, but the place is filled with backpacker types clacking away on keyboards. I settle in front of a computer far from the window, sign on to my email account, and search the Europol website for contact information. I don’t see any way to directly email their investigative branch, so I address my message to their media office.
My name is Julia Ansdell. I have vital information about the murder of Stefano Padrone, who was shot to death in Rome a few weeks ago….
I write every detail I can remember about Incendio and Lorenzo Todesco and the Capobianco family. I tell them that my friend Gerda was shot outside our hotel, and Francesca and Salvatore may be dead. Will Europol dismiss me as a crazy conspiracy theorist? Or will they realize I am truly in danger and need their immediate help?
By the time I’ve finished typing, forty-five minutes have passed, and I’m exhilarated but drained. There is nothing more I can do but press Send and hope for the best. I send copies as well to the Jewish Museum in Venice, to Aunt Val, and to Rob. If I turn up murdered, at least they will know why.
The message whoos
hes into the ether.
I still have fifteen minutes left of computer time, so I open my inbox. I find five emails from Rob, the last one sent only two hours ago.
I’m worried sick about you. Gerda doesn’t answer her phone, so please let me know you’re okay. A call, a text, anything. Whatever problems we’ve had, I promise we can fix them. I love you. I will never give up on you.
I stare at his words, wanting desperately to believe him.
The countdown starts to blink on the computer. I have only three minutes of Internet time remaining.
I begin to type.
I’m scared and I need you. Do you remember the day I told you I was pregnant? That’s where I’ll be. The same time, the same place. Don’t tell anyone.
I press Send.
My time on the computer is down to its last thirty seconds when a new email suddenly pops into my inbox. It’s from Rob, and it’s only four words long.
Already on my way.
—
The city of Venice is the perfect place to hide. Honeycombed with countless narrow streets, thronged with visitors from around the world, it is easy to be lost among the crowd. At dawn, as the streets start to come alive again, I emerge from the cover of the archway where I’ve sheltered through the night. I find a market where I buy bread, fruit, cheese, and a desperately needed cup of coffee. Just like that, the rest of my fifty euros is gone and now I’m flat broke. There’s nothing I can do but stay alive and hidden until Rob comes for me. I know he will come, if only because he doesn’t like unfinished equations.
I spend the day trying to stay out of sight. I avoid the train station and vaporetti landings, where my pursuers are no doubt searching for me. Instead I find sanctuary inside a modest-looking church at the outer edge of Cannaregio. St. Alvise’s façade is plain and unpretentious, but its jewel-like interior is rich with frescoes and paintings. It’s also cool and quiet, and only two women sit inside, their heads bowed in contemplation. I settle onto a pew and wait out the hours. I want desperately to find out if Gerda is alive, but I’m afraid to show my face at the hospital. I’m also afraid of going anywhere near the Jewish Museum, and Francesca told me that not even the police can be trusted. I am on my own.
The two women leave and a few other worshippers trickle in to pray and light candles. None of the visitors are tourists; St. Alvise is too far off the beaten track.
At four P.M. I finally emerge from my sanctuary. I step out into afternoon sunshine that’s so glaring, I feel painfully exposed as I make my way toward the Rialto Bridge. The crowds grow thicker. The heat is so oppressive that everyone seems to move in slow motion, as if wading through syrup. It was four years ago, on an afternoon just this hot, that I broke the news to Rob that at long last, we were going to have a baby. We’d been walking for hours, and halfway across the Rialto Bridge, I hit such a wall of exhaustion that I had to stop and catch my breath.
Are you sick?
No. But I think I’m pregnant.
It was one of those moments of such pure happiness that I remember every detail. The briny smell from the canal. The taste of his lips on mine. It’s a memory that only one other person shares with me. He alone knows where I’ll be waiting.
I join the tourists streaming onto the bridge and am quickly swallowed up by the amoeba-like crowd. Halfway across, I stop at a vendor’s cart where jewelry made of Venetian glass is displayed and I examine the array of necklaces and earrings. I linger so long that the vendor thinks he’s about to make a sale, even though I keep telling him I’m only looking. We’re joined by his female assistant, who noisily offers me discounts, her voice so strident that people look at us. As I retreat, she calls out even louder, annoyed that her customer is slipping away.
“Julia,” a voice says behind me.
I turn and there he is, unshaven and rumpled. He looks like he has not slept in days, and when he throws his arms around me, I can smell his fear, ripe as sweat.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll take you home now and everything will be fine.”
“I can’t just get on a plane, Rob. It’s not safe.”
“Of course it is.”
“You don’t know everything that’s happened. They’re trying to kill me!”
“And that’s why these men are here to protect you. They’ll keep you safe. You just have to trust them.”
Them?
Only then do I spot the two men moving in. There’s nowhere for me to run, no possible escape. Rob’s arms close around me, trapping me against him.
“Julia, darling, I’m doing this for you,” he says. “For us.”
I battle to get free, but even as I claw and flail at him, Rob holds on tight, squeezing so hard I think he will crush the life out of me. I see a sudden flash, bright as a thousand exploding suns. And then, nothing.
20
Through the haze blurring my vision, I can just make out the image of a woman. She wears a flowing blue robe and she stares upward, her clasped hands reaching toward heaven. It’s a portrait of some saint, although I do not know her name. The painting on the wall is the only color I see in this room where the walls are white, the sheets are white, the window blinds are white. Through the closed door, I hear voices speaking Italian and the rattle of a cart rolling down the hall.
I don’t remember how I came to be here, but I know exactly where I am. A hospital. Dextrose and water drips from an IV bag into the intravenous line that snakes its way into my left hand. Nearby is a bedside tray with a pitcher of water, and around my wrist is a plastic ID band with my name and birth date. It does not say which ward I’m in, but I assume I’m in some Italian loony bin where I can’t even communicate with my doctors. I wonder if there’s an extradition agreement for mental patients, the way there is for criminals. Will Italy ship me home, or am I doomed to forever stare at that blue-robed saint on the wall?
I hear footsteps in the hallway and I snap straight up in bed as the door opens and Rob walks in. But he’s not the one I stare at; my gaze is fixed on the woman beside him.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I shake my head in bewilderment. “You’re here. You’re alive.”
Francesca nods. “Salvatore and I were so worried about you! After you ran from the apartment, we searched everywhere. All night.”
“I ran? But I thought…”
“You don’t remember?”
My skull is pounding and I massage my temples as I struggle to retrieve any memories from last night. Images flit by. A dark alley. A garden gate. Then I remember my bloodstained blouse and I look down at the bandaged cuts on my arm. “How did I get these? Was there an explosion?”
She shakes her head. “There was no explosion.”
Rob sits down on the bed and takes my hand. “Julia, there’s something you need to see. It will explain the cuts on your arm. It will explain everything that’s happened to you these past few weeks.” He looks at Francesca. “Show her the video.”
“What video?” I ask.
“The one we recorded last night, in my grandmother’s apartment.” Francesca reaches into the computer bag she’s carried into the room and pulls out a laptop. She turns the screen toward me and starts the video. I see my own face, hear my own voice.
“My name is Julia Ansdell. I am thirty-three years old and married to Robert Ansdell. We live at 4122 Heath Road in Brookline, Massachusetts….”
On-screen I look nervous and disheveled, and I keep glancing sideways at the two people who are off camera. But I do not falter as I explain the story of Incendio. How I bought it from Mr. Padrone. How I came to Venice in search of answers. How Gerda and I were attacked outside our hotel.
“I swear that everything I’ve just said is the truth. If anything happens to me, at least you’ll know…”
My face abruptly goes blank. A moment passes in silence.
On the recording, an off-camera Francesca says: “Julia, what’s wrong?” She comes into view and taps my shoulder, then gives me a g
entle shake. I don’t respond. She frowns and says something in Italian to Salvatore.
The camera is still recording as I rise like a robot and walk out of view. Francesca and Salvatore call out to me. There are loud bangs and the sound of shattering glass, and then Francesca’s alarmed shout: “Where are you going? Come back!”
Francesca freezes the video, and all I see on-screen is a view of the empty chair where I had earlier been seated. “You broke a window and you ran away from us,” she says. “We called our museum colleagues to help search, but we couldn’t find you. So we used your cellphone, the one in your purse, to call your husband. It turned out he was already at the airport in Boston, waiting to board a flight to Venice.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, staring at the laptop screen. “Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me?”
“Sweetheart, I think we know the answer,” says Rob. “When you were admitted to the hospital a few hours ago, you were unresponsive, as if you were in a catatonic state. The doctors did an emergency brain scan. That’s when they understood the problem. They’re confident it’s benign and they can remove it, but you’ll need surgery.”
“Surgery? For what?”
He squeezes my hand and says, quietly: “You have a brain tumor pressing on your temporal lobe. It explains your headaches, your memory lapses. It could explain everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Do you remember what Lily’s neurologist told us about temporal lobe seizures? He said they can look like highly complex behaviors. People can walk, talk, even drive a car during a seizure. You were the one who killed Juniper. You stabbed yourself with broken glass. You just don’t remember doing it. And when you woke up, you thought you heard Lily repeat the words hurt Mommy, hurt Mommy. But that’s not what she was saying. I think she was really saying: Mommy hurt. Mommy hurt. She was afraid for you. Trying to comfort you.”