Zordyi chuckled. “That’s not her scarf. I heard about that scarf from Mme Schneider.”
“What does she know about it?” Coleman said.
“She knows from Ray Garrett—who bought it here,” Zordyi said.
“You’re all lying!” Coleman said. “Every one of you!” And Coleman saw that Ray seemed to break under this.
Ray walked towards Coleman with an anxious expression on his face, as if he were going to confess something. “Try to calm down, Ed! You need a doctor. Un dottore, per piacere, Signor Capitano!” Ray said to Dell’ Isola.
“Si, d’accordo, subito. Franco, chiama il dottore,” Dell’ Isola said to an officer.
As Dell’ Isola spoke, Coleman gathered his saliva and spat in Ray’s face, hitting his right cheek.
Ray started to lift his right hand to it, then reached for a handkerchief.
His Italian chum, who had seen it, shouted something at Coleman that he could not understand. Ray turned away, like the coward he was. But Coleman’s strength suddenly gave out, and he allowed himself to be led to a chair rather than fall on the floor. Everyone seemed to be talking now. The party was breaking up. Ray and his chum were talking to Dell’ Isola’s clerk, who was writing down what they said. Zordyi hovered. A doctor arrived, and Coleman went into another room with him and Zordyi. Coleman’s shirt was removed.
There were murmurs of ‘frattura.’ Two policemen stood about watching.
“Tell me what really happened that night on the Lido,” Zordyi asked Coleman, bending towards him with hands on his knees.
Coleman was aware of Zordyi only as a vague, physically large presence which disbelieved him, which was an enemy. Coleman did not look at him. Ray’s chum might be a gondolier who had picked Ray up, and maybe Ray had told Zordyi this. Coleman said in Italian to a near-by policeman, “Telephone to my friend Mme Inez Schneider, please, at the Hotel Gritti Palace. I want to speak to her.”
21
By 11 a.m. the next morning, Ray had collected his suitcase from the Pensione Seguso on the Zattere quay, and paid his bill, which they fixed at three days at demi-pension. They were very pleasant, asked no questions, and Ray added two thousand lire as tip for the maid. He had no post, as he had not asked anyone to write to him there.
But the young woman at the desk did look at him with some astonishment, and asked, “You were wounded?”
“Just a cut,” Ray said. They were speaking in English. “I am sorry for the trouble I gave you. Thank you very much for your patience.”
“Not at all. We hope to see you again.”
Ray smiled. That was kind, indeed!
“You want a porter?”
“No, thanks. I’ll manage.” He went out carrying his suitcase. It was fairly heavy.
Out on to the terrace before the pensione, past the Ruskin house-of-work, on to the Zattere quay—but this was really the wrong direction. He had an appointment with Inez at noon at Florian’s. Should he take the suitcase to Giudecca and come back? Ray decided to hump the suitcase with him. He crossed the island, and took a vaporetto at Accademia. With his suitcase, containing his worldly effects, or some of them, he had a terrible feeling of quitting something for ever as the boat left the Accademia pier. Inez had sent a message which had reached him just as he was leaving Signor Ciardi’s that morning. He was to telephone her, and he had. She said that Coleman had come to the Gritti Palace early that morning—after an operation on his elbow the night before—to collect his things. Ray assumed, though Inez had not said so, that Coleman did not want to see her again. But Inez wanted to see Ray, and was leaving Venice that afternoon. Ray got off at the San Marco stop, and walked towards the Piazza, pausing now and then to stare into shop windows, as he had time to spare. The Bar Dino was not far away; he might pass by and have a coffee there but he did not really want to. And perhaps Elisabetta didn’t work on Saturdays. But it pleased him to imagine her behind the counter as usual this morning, smiling at people, chatting with old customers. It pleased him equally to think of her at home, perhaps washing her hair, giving herself a pedicure, washing a sweater, or having a mild set-to with her mother or father about the dullness of life in Venice. And it pleased him to think of her getting married in another year.
The expanse of San Marco made again the vast ‘Ah-h’ in his ears, made him for a few seconds feel diminished, then somehow renewed his energy. He looked behind him for Inez, who would be coming from his direction if she came from the Gritti, but she was not in sight. A pigeon with one foot missing, but giving tit for tat among the peckers, hobbling about on his stub like an old sailor, made Ray smile broadly. He would look for him, he thought, next time he came to Venice.
He was not so early after all; it was ten to twelve, and as soon as he reached Florian’s and looked in the Gritti direction he saw Inez in the Piazza. Her step was a trifle slower, but her head was still high. He went forward to meet her.
“Hello, Ray, hello,” she said, pressing his outstretched hand. “My goodness, what a morning!”
“Was it so bad? Let’s have something nice to drink. A Cinzano? Champagne?”
“A hot chocolate. I need comfort.”
They sat at a table inside.
“You are leaving, too?” she asked.
“I just picked my suitcase up at the Seguso. Late enough doing it,” Ray said. He ordered from a waiter.
“What happened yesterday? I think Edward is not telling me the truth.”
That was very likely, Ray thought. “He came after me with a length of pipe.”
“Of what?”
“Pipe. The kind of pipe water flows through.” He made a circle with his fingers to show the size. “But he never hit me, Luigi—an Italian I was with—pushed him aside, you see—and that’s how he fell and hurt his elbow.”
“This was in Chioggia.”
“Yes. He must’ve spent a couple of nights there.”
“He said you were looking for him. To do him some harm.”
“Ah, well,” Ray sighed. “I was looking for him to prove he was alive. It’s quite simple.”
“He is a madman,” Inez said intensely. “Absolutely out of his head. On the subject of you and his daughter.”
Ray remembered that Inez had said this during their first conversation. “What happened this morning?” Ray asked.
Inez shrugged slowly but emphatically. “He just arrived without even telephoning. But I knew he was in a hospital last night, and I tried to telephone him last night—but the place sounded like a madhouse and it was impossible. So this morning,” he said, “I have come to get my things.” So he did. Then he just said, “Good-bye”.”
There were tears in her eyes, but Ray thought there were not enough to fall. “The police aren’t holding him, then—I hope?”
“I don’t know. He said he was leaving for Rome, but I think he would tell me that no matter where he was going.”
“Did you hear anything from Zordyi?”
“Yes, he rang me after Edward left. He said—well, he thinks Edward is to blame for everything. After all, he said, a rock first, a piece of pipe afterwards.” Inez looked into space, her eyes empty. “He does not believe that Edward did not do something to you the night of the Lido.”
Coleman hadn’t broken down then. Ray felt a slight relief at that, though without knowing why. Then suddenly he did know why: he wasn’t on the defensive or angry with Coleman any longer, and he could afford to feel sorry for him, even sympathize. Also Ray felt that Coleman would never make another attempt on him. Coleman had given his all on this last one. Ray could imagine Coleman’s stubbornness, like granite, under Zordyi’s questioning, and there was something admirable about it. Coleman had conviction, even if the conviction was mad. Ray hoped that he himself was not due for more questioning from Zordyi, or from the Italian police who had asked him to telephone once more. “Zordyi said he was leaving?”
“Yes, I think today. He said Edward might be given a fine. I suppose that means no prison.?
??
Ray could see in her eyes that she hoped there was no prison. “I suppose so. You know, I’m not pressing any charges against Edward.”
“You are very kind, really, Ray.”
Ray sensed that she was trying to feel more emotion than she had for this situation. “And the Smith-Peters? Are they still here?”
“Yes, but leaving this afternoon. I think they did not even want to see Edward. It’s too bad. You know, they are afraid of him now.”
It amused Ray, but he didn’t smile. “What did they say?”
“Well—after I told them about the lead pipe—I was not sure what it was until you explained—There were witnesses to that, no?”
“Yes.”
“They said, ‘It is horrible. Didn’t he do something to Ray the night of the Lido?’ I said to them, ‘No, because Ray said no.’ They were thinking—something like a needle of something to make you sleep or forget your memory.”
“Really?” Ray put his head back and laughed. “And you? Will you see Edward again?”
“I think not. He is a man by himself, really.”
“A very interesting painter,” Ray said politely, and felt the conversation at an end. He looked around at the Florian’s interior, as he had looked at Quadri’s when Elisabetta had sat opposite him. He would remember this scene with Inez. Her feeling for Coleman had not been strong, not strong enough to change her life. Coleman had been just an especially difficult lover, or whatever she cared to term him. All the passion seemed to be Coleman’s. Ray had a sudden desperate sense of futility, and wanted to leave—to leave Inez to her destiny, which wouldn’t be a penniless one, anyway, and to struggle on with his own. Inez proposed they go.
“You should have more confidence in yourself,” Inez said in the Piazza. “Find another girl to marry.”
Ray had no reply to that.
She shook hands with him. “Good-bye, Ray.”
“Good-bye.” He watched her walk towards the San Moise outlet from the Piazza. He was going in the same direction, and after a moment, he picked up his suitcase and walked, but more slowly than Inez.
He took the boat that brought him to Giudecca.
Signor Ciardi had a telegram for him. Ray read it in the kitchen.
LEAVING 6 PM FOR NEW YORK. COLEMAN FREE. CANNOT UNDERSTAND ITALIAN LAW OR MAYBE YOU.
BEST WISHES.
ZORDYI
Ray smiled as he stuffed it in his pocket.
“Nothing bad? Good,” said Signor Ciardi.
Ray had told Signor Ciardi he would probably leave today. He had to see about a plane ticket. Signor Ciardi pressed him to have a glass of wine, then to have lunch—Giustina had cooked lasagne—but Ray declined the lunch. He answered Signor Ciardi’s questions about police actions mechanically, not really seeing him or the kitchen or Giustina, yet feeling that he saw them profoundly, in their essence, their kindness, their—Ray groped to make his thoughts more definite, and could only come up with their ability to forgive. They had taken him in, he had given them some trouble, yet they were willing to be his friends. Ray quit the kitchen, embarrassed by his emotions. He went up to his room, and with pleasure put on another suit, wrinkled though it was from the suitcase. He packed his newer suitcase and came down again, aware of the two toothbrushes now in the larger suitcase, the old green one, the newer blue one. They disturbed him, being together, and he wished he had thrown away the old one. He left the suitcases in the kitchen, and told Signor Ciardi that he had to make a telephone call and would be back in a few minutes.
“Then there are the stitches,” he added, remembering suddenly.
“Si, oggi!” exclaimed Signor Ciardi. “I send a message to Dottore Rispoli immediately!”
Ray thanked him. In the Italian manner, it would get done, he knew. The doctor would arrive, maybe a little later than he promised, but he would arrive and remove the stitches, and he would also be able to catch any plane for which he had a ticket. In the bar-caffé, Ray placed his first call to Alitalia, reserving a ticket on a flight taking off at 10.45 p.m. for Paris, then, after arranging to pay the proprietor of the bar, he sent a telegram to the Hôtel Pont Royal for a room. Then he rang the police.
He was able to speak to Dell’ Isola.
Dell’ Isola said, “We do not need to see you again, if you do not care to…” a long phrase which Ray took to mean lay charges against…Signor Col-e-man.
Ray said, as he had said yesterday, that he didn’t.
“We shall merely fine him then as disturber of the peace,” said Dell’ Isola.
Disturbatore della quiete pubblica. The phrase had considerable dignity, Ray thought. “Very good, Signor Capitano.”
Back at Signor Ciardi’s, Ray had some lasagne, after all. The new electric clock gleamed on the wall. Giustina looked at it every five minutes. Ray told Signor Ciardi that he was taking a late plane, but would have to arrive early to buy his ticket.
“Luigi,” Signor Ciardi said, “he is working this afternoon. An unusual thing. He would like to see you off if you are leaving, he said. Maybe he is home by six. Shall I find out?” He was ready to dispatch a message from the street.
This could go on forever, Ray thought, but he was pleased nevertheless, that Luigi wanted to see him again. Luigi was probably telling the lagoon story to various gondoliers. In time, Ray supposed, it would become embellished and exaggerated until it surpassed Luigi’s most fearsome dragon stories. “Thank you. Never mind, Signor Ciardi. I will write to him, I promise. That is, if you know his address, because I don’t.”
Nor did Signor Ciardi know it by number. Ray at least knew Signor Ciardi’s address—and he now thought a name would do in the neighbourhood, anyway—so he said he would write here, and Signor Ciardi promised to have the letter delivered. “I must find out the news of the daughter’s baby,” Ray said, and Signor Ciardi laughed.
The doctor did come around four, and the stitches were removed. A little soon, the doctor said, but there was no bleeding. Ray had an ugly patch where his scalp had been shaved, which he concealed as best he could by combing his hair over it.
At six o’clock, Signor Ciardi and an adolescent boy whom Ray had never seen before and who carried one of his suitcases, went to the Fondamento San Biagio, and Ray caught the boat for the mainland. Signor Ciardi would have accompanied him, but Ray dissuaded him. With a little encouragement he would have accompanied him to Paris, Ray thought, and when there would have sent for Luigi.
“Arrivederci!” Ray called. They had embraced three times. “Addio, Signor Ciardi!”
“Paolo!” he looked back. “Addio, addio. Rye-burn!”
The boat gathered speed. The lights of Venice twinkled, burned steadily, rose and fell with the boat’s progress through the windblown water. Ray imagined, in the flickering lights of the San Biagio pier, Signor Ciardi and the boy waving, looking, though eyes might not see, waving their friendship on to him.
Table of Contents
Title
Publisher
Description
Booklist
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Patricia Highsmith, Those Who Walk Away
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