‘Thank God,’ she said and was surprised to find that she meant it. Behind her, the music stopped. Elvira was at last reunited with her Arturo, and the opera was at an end.
Chapter Two
FLAVIA STEPPED back from the door to allow the two men to enter. ‘What is it? What happened?’ Luca asked, looking down at the heap of covers on the floor and what they covered. ‘Dio mio,’ he said involuntarily and bent towards Brett, but Flavia stopped him with an out-thrust arm and pulled him aside, allowing room for the doctor to approach the fallen woman.
He bent down over her, reached out his hand, and felt for the pulse at her neck. Feeling it, slow but strong, he pulled back the covers to see how badly she was hurt. Her sweater was bunched in a blood-streaked tangle under her throat, exposing her ribs and torso. Her skin was red and broken in places and beginning to turn livid and dark.
‘Signora, can you hear me?’ the doctor asked.
Brett made a noise; words were too difficult now.
‘Signora, I’m going to move you. Just a little, so I can see what’s happened.’ He gestured to Flavia, who knelt down on the other side of the motionless woman. ‘Hold her shoulders. I have to straighten out her legs.’ He reached down and took her left leg by the calf, stretching it out, then did the same with the right. Slowly he turned her on to her back, and Flavia lowered her shoulder to the floor. All of this flickered through to Brett as a new wave of pain, and she moaned.
Turning back to Flavia, the doctor said, ‘Get me a pair of scissors.’ Obedient, Flavia went back into the kitchen and took a pair of scissors from a large flowered ceramic pot on the counter. As she stood there, she felt the heat radiating up from the pan of olive oil, still on the burner, hissing and sizzling at her. She snapped off the flame and went quickly back to the doctor.
He took the scissors and cut through the bloody sweater, then pulled it back from her body. The man who had beaten her had worn a heavy ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, and it had left signs of itself behind, small circular impressions that stood out in greater darkness from the livid flesh around them.
The doctor bent over her again and said, ‘Signora, please open your eyes.’
Brett struggled to obey, but she could get only one of them to open. The doctor took a small flashlight from his bag and pointed the light into her pupil. It contracted and she involuntarily closed her eye.
‘Good, good,’ the doctor said. ‘Now I’d like you to move your head a bit, just a little.’
Though it cost her a great deal, Brett managed to do it.
‘And now your mouth. Can you open that?’
When she tried that, she gasped with the pain of it, a sound that pushed Flavia up against the other wall.
‘Now I’m going to touch your ribs, signora. Tell me when it hurts.’ Gently, he prodded at her ribs. Twice, she moaned.
He took a packet of surgical gauze from his bag and ripped it open. He dampened it from a bottle of antiseptic and slowly began to clean the blood from her face. As soon as he wiped it away, more seeped from her nostril and from the gaping seam in her lower lip. He signalled to Flavia, who knelt again beside him. ‘Here, keep this on her lip, and don’t let her move.’ He handed the bloody gauze to Flavia, who did as she was told.
‘Where’s the phone?’ the doctor asked.
Nodding her head, Flavia indicated the living room. The doctor disappeared through the door, and Flavia could hear him dialling and then speaking to someone at the hospital, ordering a stretcher. Why hadn’t she thought of that? The house was so close to the hospital they had no need of an ambulance.
Luca hovered over her, finally contenting himself with bending down and pulling the covers back over Brett.
The doctor came back and stooped down beside Flavia. ‘They’ll be here soon.’ He looked down at Brett. ‘I can’t give you anything for pain until we’ve taken X-rays. Is there much pain?’
To Brett, there was nothing else but pain.
The doctor saw that she was shivering and asked, ‘Are there more blankets?’ Hearing that, Luca went into the bedroom and came back with a quilt, which he and the doctor placed on top of her, though it seemed to do no good. The world had become cold, and she knew only cold and growing pain.
The doctor stood and turned to Flavia. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I was in the kitchen. I came out, and she was on the floor, like that, and there were two men.’
‘Who were they?’ Luca asked.
‘I don’t know. There was a tall one and a short one.’
‘What happened?’
‘I went for them.’
The men exchanged a glance. ‘How?’ Luca asked.
‘I had a knife. I was in the kitchen, cooking, and when I came out, I still had the knife, and when I saw them, I didn’t think, I just went at them. They ran down the steps.’ She shook her head, uninterested in all of this. ‘How is she? What have they done?’
Before he answered, the doctor moved a few steps away from Brett, though she was far removed from hearing or understanding his words. ‘There are some broken ribs, and some bad cuts. And I think her jaw might be broken.’
‘Oh, Gesù,’ Flavia said, clapping her hand to her mouth.
‘But there are no signs of concussion. She responds to light, and she understands what I say to her. But we have to take X-rays.’
Even as he spoke, they heard voices from below. Flavia knelt beside Brett. ‘They’re coming now, cara. It’s going to be all right.’ All she could think of to do was place her hand on the covers over Brett’s shoulder and leave it there, hoping that its warmth would sink down to the woman below. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
Two white-jacketed men appeared at the door, and Luca waved them into the apartment. They had left their stretcher four flights below, near the front door, as it was always necessary to do in Venice, and carried with them instead the wicker chair they used to navigate the sick down the narrow, winding staircases of the city.
Entering, they glanced down at the blood-covered face of the woman lying on the floor as though they were accustomed to seeing things like this every day, as perhaps they were. Luca removed himself into the living room, and the doctor warned them to be especially careful when they picked her up.
Through all of this, Brett felt nothing but the strong embrace of pain. It came at her from all over her body, from her chest that tightened and made each breath an agony, from the very bones that made up her face, and from her back, which burned. At times, she could feel separate pieces of the pain, but then it all melted together and flowed across her, blending into itself and blotting out anything that wasn’t pain. Later, she was to remember only three things: the doctor’s hand on her jaw, a touch that turned itself into a white flash of light to her brain; Flavia’s hand on her shoulder, the only warmth in this sea of cold; and the moment when the men lifted her from the ground, when she screamed and fainted.
Hours later, when she woke, the pain was still there, but something kept it at arm’s length. She knew that, if she were to move, even so little as a millimetre, it would come back and be even worse, so she lay perfectly motionless, feeling into each separate part of her body to see where the worst of the pain was lurking, but before she could command her mind to begin, she was overpowered by sleep.
Later, she woke again and, this time, with great caution sent her mind exploring to various parts of her body. The pain was still being held far away from her, and it no longer seemed that motion would be so dangerous. She brought her mind to her eyes and tried to determine what lay beyond them, light or darkness. She couldn’t tell, so she let her mind roam on, down across her face, where pain lurked, then to her back, which throbbed warmly, and then to her hands. One was cold, the other warm. She lay motionless for what seemed hours and considered this: how could one hand be cold and the other warm? She lay still for eternity and let her mind consider that puzzle.
One warm and one cold. She determined that she
would move them to see if that made a difference, and, an age later, she began. She tried to pull them into fists and managed to move them only slightly. But it was enough – the warm one found itself embraced by increased warmth and the gentlest of pressures from above and below. She heard a voice, one that she knew to be familiar but couldn’t recognize. Why was that voice speaking Italian? Or was it Chinese? She understood what it said, but she couldn’t remember what language it was. She moved her hand again. How pleasant that answering warmth had been. She tried it again, and she heard the answering voice, felt the warmth. Oh, how magical that was. There was speech that she understood, and warmth, and a part of her body that was free of pain. Comforted by this, she slept again.
Finally she was conscious and realized why one hand was warm and one cold. ‘Flavia,’ she said, barely making a noise.
The pressure on her hand increased. And the warmth. ‘I’m here,’ Flavia said, voice very close to her.
Without knowing how she knew it, Brett knew that she couldn’t turn her head to speak to or look at her friend. She tried to smile, tried to say something, but some force held her mouth shut and prevented her from opening it. She tried to scream out or cry for help, but the invisible force held her mouth shut and prevented her.
‘Don’t try to talk, Brett,’ Flavia said, increasing the pressure on her hand. ‘Don’t move your mouth. It’s wired. One of the bones in your jaw is cracked. Please don’t try to talk. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
It was very difficult to understand all those words. But the weight of Flavia’s hand was enough, the sound of her voice sufficient to calm her.
When she woke, she was fully conscious. It was still something of an effort to open her eye, but she could do it, though the other wouldn’t open. She sighed in relief that cunning was no longer necessary to outwit her body. She looked around and saw Flavia asleep, hunched down in her chair, mouth agape and head tilted back. Her arms hung slack on either side of her chair, leaving her completely abandoned to sleep.
As she watched Flavia, Brett again scouted her own body. She might be able to move her arms and legs, though it would be painful, in a generalized, unspecified way. She seemed to be lying on her side, and her back ached, a dull, fiery pain. At last, knowing that this was the worst, she tried to open her mouth and felt the terrible inner pressure against her teeth. Wired shut, but she could move her lips. The worst was that her tongue was trapped in her mouth. At the realization, she felt real panic. What if she coughed? Choked? She pushed that thought away violently. If she was this lucid, then she was all right. She saw no tubes running from her bed, knew nothing was in traction. So this was as bad as it was going to be, and this was bearable. Just. But bearable.
Suddenly, joltingly, she was conscious of thirst. Her mouth burned with it, throat aching. ‘Flavia,’ she said, voice soft, barely audible, even to herself. Flavia’s eyes opened and she stared about herself in near-panic, the way she always did when she woke suddenly. After a moment, she leaned forward in her chair and brought her face close to Brett’s.
‘Flavia, I’m thirsty,’ she whispered.
‘And good morning to you, too,’ Flavia answered, laughing out loud in relief, and Brett knew then that she was going to be all right.
Turning, Flavia picked up a glass of water from the table behind her. She bent the plastic straw and set it between Brett’s lips, careful to place it on the left side, away from the swollen cut that pulled her mouth down. ‘I’ve even got it filled with ice, the way you like it,’ she said, holding the straw steady in the glass while Brett tried to sip from it. Her dry lips were sealed closed, but finally she managed to pry one corner open, and blessed cold, blessed wet water spilled across her teeth and down her throat.
After she had taken only a few swallows, Flavia pulled the glass away, saying, ‘Not so much. Wait for a bit, and then you can have more.’
‘I feel doped,’ Brett said.
‘You are, cara. A nurse comes in every few hours and gives you an injection.’
‘What time is it?’
Flavia looked down at her watch. ‘Quarter to eight.’
The number had no meaning at all. ‘Morning or night?’
‘Morning.’
‘What day?’
Flavia smiled and answered, ‘Tuesday.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Where else do you expect me to be?’
‘Milan. You have to sing tonight.’
‘That’s why they have understudies, Brett,’ Flavia said dismissively. ‘To sing when the principal singers get sick.’
‘But you aren’t sick,’ Brett said, made dull by pain and drugs.
‘Don’t let the general manager of La Scala hear you say that, or I’ll make you pay the fine for me.’ It was difficult for Flavia to keep her voice light, but she tried.
‘But you never cancel.’
‘Well, I did, and that’s the end of it. You Anglo-Saxons are so serious about work,’ Flavia said, voice now artificially light. ‘Do you want some more water?’
Brett nodded and immediately regretted the motion. She lay still for a few moments and closed her eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea and dizziness to pass. When she opened her eyes, she saw Flavia leaning over her with the cup. Again, she tasted the blessed coolness, closed her eyes, and drifted away for a while. Suddenly, she asked, ‘What happened?’
Alarmed, Flavia asked, ‘Don’t you remember?’
Brett closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, I remember. I was afraid they’d kill you.’ Her head rang with the dull resonance created by her wired teeth.
Flavia laughed at this, consistent in her bravado. ‘No chance of that. It must have been all those Toscas I’ve sung. I just went at them with the knife, and I got one of them right across the arm.’ She waved her arm in the air in front of her, repeating the gesture and smiling at the memory, Brett was sure, of the knife cutting into him. ‘I wish I’d killed him,’ Flavia said in an absolutely conversational voice, and Brett believed her.
‘Then what?’
‘They ran. Then I went downstairs and got Luca, and he went for the doctor, and we brought you here.’ As Flavia watched, Brett’s eyes drifted closed, and she slept for a few minutes, lips open, steel wires grotesquely visible.
Suddenly, her eye snapped open and she looked around the room as if surprised to find herself there. She saw Flavia and grew calm.
‘Why did they do it?’ Flavia asked, voicing the question that had been with her for two days.
A long time passed before Brett answered. ‘Semenzato.’
‘At the museum?’
‘Yes.’
‘What? What did they say?’
‘I don’t understand.’ If she had been capable of shaking her head without pain, Brett would have done it. ‘Makes no sense.’ Her voice was garbled by the heavy trap that held her teeth together. She said Semenzato’s name again and closed her eyes for a long time. When she opened them, she asked, ‘What’s wrong with me?’
Flavia was ready for this question and answered it briefly. ‘Two ribs are broken. And your jaw is cracked.’
‘What else?’
‘That’s the worst. Your back is badly scraped.’ She saw Brett’s confusion and explained. ‘You fell against the wall and dragged your back down the bricks when you fell. And your face is very, very blue,’ Flavia concluded, trying to make light of it. ‘The contrast makes your eyes stand out, but I don’t think I like the total effect.’
‘How bad is it?’ Brett asked, not liking the joking tone.
‘Oh, not so bad,’ Flavia said, obviously lying. Brett gave a long one-eyed look that forced Flavia to amend things. ‘You have to keep the ribs bandaged, and you’ll be very stiff for a week or so. He said there’ll be no permanent damage.’ Because it was the only good news she had, she completed the doctor’s report. ‘They’ll take the wires out in a few days. It’s just a hair
line crack. And your teeth are all right.’ When she saw how little encouragement Brett took from this, she added, ‘And your nose.’ Still no smile. ‘There won’t be any scars on your face: once the swelling goes away, you’ll be fine.’ Flavia said nothing about the scars that would remain on Brett’s back, nor did she say anything about how long it would take for the swelling and bruising to disappear from her face.
Suddenly Brett realized how tired this brief conversation had made her, and she felt new waves of sleep pulling at her body. ‘Go home for a while, Flavia. I’ll sleep and then . . .’ Her voice trailed away before she could finish, and she was asleep. Flavia pushed herself back into her chair and studied the damaged face that lay sideways on the bed in front of her. The bruises that spread across the forehead and the cheeks had gone almost black during the last day and a half, and one eye was still swollen shut. Brett’s lower lip was swollen up and around the vertical split that left it gaping wide.
Flavia had been forcibly kept out of the emergency room while the doctors worked on Brett, cleaning her back and taping her ribs. Nor had she been there to watch them thread the thin wires between her teeth, binding her jaws together. She had been left to pace the long corridors of the hospital, joining her fear with that of the other visitors and patients who walked, crowded into the bar, caught what little light filtered into the open courtyard. She had paced for an hour, begging three cigarettes from different people, the first she had smoked in more than ten years.
Since late Sunday afternoon, she had been at the side of Brett’s bed, waiting for her to wake up, and had gone back to the apartment just once, the day before, and then only to shower and make a few phone calls, inventing the phantom illness that was to keep her from singing at La Scala that evening. Her nerves were pulled tight by too little sleep, too much coffee, the renewed craving for a cigarette, and the oily slick of fear that clings to the skin of all those who spend too long a time inside a hospital.