Midnight in Venice (6 page)

 

Ah, finally—her lights are on. Where the hell has she been all this time? I've been waiting here for hours. I better turn the lights off so she doesn't see me.

That's quite the smile. What is she so happy about?

 

When Alessandro left his aunt's house just after nine o'clock, the rain had stopped, and the skies were actually clear for a change. He would have liked to walk home, but he wanted to work on something new for his recital, so to save time he headed to the nearest vaporetto stop. He had something specific in mind. It was a little modern for his father's taste, but this piece wouldn't be for his father.

His phone rang as he waited for the vaporetto. It was Pamela. “I just wanted to let you know I'm not going to be in until noon tomorrow. But don't worry—I've done my share of the paperwork, and it's sitting on your desk.”

“No problem.”

“How was dinner with your aunt?”

“Fine, but remember the girl with the chattering teeth at the airport?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, I had a drink with her in San Giacomo earlier this evening. I'm taking her out tomorrow in the boat for lunch.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not. She's got the most beautiful violet eyes, like Murano glass. Oh—here's my vaporetto.” He said good-bye but Pamela had already hung up.

The vaporetto was quiet. In a couple of days, the city would be flooded with Carnival-goers, so he savored the peaceful ride. He stood on the deck and watched the city go by. After a lifetime, it still took his breath away, but tonight it seemed more beautiful than ever.

For the last month, he'd tried to put those violet eyes out of his mind. But tonight he realized just how miserably he'd failed. She'd been glad to see him too, the shock of pleasant surprise showing clearly in her smile. How does one account for an attraction like that? Of all the women he'd met since Katarina had died (was he finally ready to accept that now?), none had made him tongue-tied, or made his heart beat faster, or made him want to hang on to her hand forever.

Alessandro disembarked at his stop with a
buonasera
to the deckhand. He stood on the dock for a moment, looking up at stars that seemed especially bright, before making his way through the park to his apartment.

His elderly ground-floor neighbor was sweeping her doorstep. He wished her a good evening, and she insisted he take some of the fish she'd cooked for dinner. When he protested that he'd eaten with his aunt, she insisted he'd be hungry later. “You must find yourself a new wife to take care of you,” she told him as she presented him with the platter of fish. “You work too hard.” He'd been hearing the same speech every day since he moved in.

Once inside, he hung up his coat and, after putting the fish in the fridge and pouring himself a drink, went to the piano. But he didn't start playing right away. Instead, he picked up the framed picture of himself and Katarina on a ski vacation in the Italian Alps, standing side by side, wearing their skis, the lodge and mountains in the background. His arm was around her, and he was smiling down at her while she smiled for the camera. She'd pushed her ski goggles up onto her head, her long blond hair cascading past her shoulders. Her smile was generous and warm, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes free from the worry he so often saw there.

“I think you'd really like Olivia, Katarina,” he said aloud as he gently put the picture down. He waited for a moment to see what emotions followed such a statement. But there was no guilt, no sense of disloyalty or anger. There was, perhaps, peace. Maybe he was finally ready to move on.

His hands hovered over the piano keys, and when he finally played the first notes, he knew he was playing better than he had in a long time.

 

Olivia met Alessandro outside the Chiesa dell'Angelo San Raffaele, near his office. Although very large, it was one of the city's simpler churches, a facade of plain white stucco flanked on either side by square towers.

She stammered out a barely coherent hello.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking concerned. He carried a shopping bag brimming with food and a bottle of wine, and was wearing jeans, a cream-colored shirt, and his inevitable black leather jacket.

“Yes, of course,” she said, forcing her voice back under control. Surely he was used to women reacting to him like this. “I like this church,” she added quickly for something to say. “I once read a novel that took place partly in this church. It was about three Raphaels: a sidewalk artist, the Renaissance painter, and the archangel Raphael for whom this church is named. They were all connected, and ever since, I've thought of the angel Raphael as being kind of sexy.”

He laughed. “The angel Raphael was the patron saint of Venetian fishermen. I'm not sure they saw him in the same light. But they did count on him to keep them safe. Can I interest you in a boat ride?” He indicated an aluminum boat tied up at the canal edge. “It isn't very fancy, but with the help of your sexy angel, I think we'll be okay.”

Thinking a sexy angel would be completely redundant, she laughed.

“Just give me a moment to clean it up,” he said. “It belongs to work, and the guys are always leaving their garbage behind.” He jumped down into the boat and pulled back the cover, revealing, as predicted, sandwich wrappers and empty wine and water bottles.

As Olivia watched, not quite believing this was really happening, she suddenly heard a rush of footsteps coming up behind her. Startled, she turned to see a man, his face obscured by the hood of his jacket, running toward her. Before she had time to react, he grabbed at her purse, giving her a push at the same time.

She felt herself hurtling toward the canal and might have ended up in it had she not slung her shoulder strap over her head. Instead, she ricocheted back toward the man, his bloodshot eyes locked on hers, her hair catching on his ragged stubble. She screamed as the blade of a knife flashed.

“Shut up!” He swore in Italian as he attempted to wrench the strap over her head. But he was clumsy, and along with the strap, he grabbed her hair.

She screamed again, this time in pain, but didn't resist—her dad had always told her that if a mugger wants your purse, let him have it. But as much she tried to comply, it was impossible to free herself.

Alessandro had leapt from the boat and closed the distance between them in a couple of strides.

“Back off, man!” the mugger shouted, now pointing the knife at Alessandro as he wrenched her hair even harder.

“Drop the knife,” Alessandro said coolly and steadily. Reassured by Alessandro's calm, she stayed as still as she could, trying to ignore the sharp blade as the man thrust it erratically toward Alessandro.

“Don't come any closer!” the mugger yelled as he jerked the knife back to her throat. She could feel its tip against her skin. He smelled of sweat and dirty clothes, his breath sour with alcohol and garlic.

“I won't,” Alessandro said firmly, holding the attacker's gaze. “Just drop the knife and let her go.”

“Give me your purse! Now!” he demanded. Olivia caught the slightest nod from Alessandro. His coolness gave her courage, but still her heart pounded and her hand shook as she finally lifted the bag over her head.

The mugger yanked it away. “Don't try anything,” the attacker croaked as he backed away, taking Olivia with him. She felt a surge of despair. What now? What could Alessandro do as long as the man had a knife against her throat?

Her foot brushed against her attacker's, giving her an idea. It wasn't a very unique idea, but it might give Alessandro the second of opportunity he needed.

And so she stepped as hard as she could on the man's foot. He stumbled and Alessandro was on him in a flash, bringing him to the ground with a thud. He pinned him with his knee while he twisted the hand that held the knife around the man's back. The knife clattered across the paving stones.

“Let me go!” the mugger whined petulantly.

“Not on your life,” Alessandro said. He wasn't even breathing hard. “Are you okay?” he asked Olivia.

She nodded. She was still speechless and her heart was pounding, but she knew she was safe. The whole incident, from the time the man had grabbed her to when Alessandro had him pinned to the ground, had lasted only minutes.

An elderly priest ran out of the church and came to a shaky stop a few yards away. “What's going on here?” he demanded.

“It's okay, Father,” Alessandro said as he took his mobile from his inside pocket and punched in a number. “Rossi here. I'm in front of the Chiesa Raffaele. Any municipal police there? Good. Send someone over. Got an attempted purse snatching . . . I think an assault charge is in order too. He threatened a young woman with a knife. Tell them to hurry. This is cutting into my lunch.”

The mugger started to protest.

“Be quiet,” Alessandro said firmly. “I'm not interested.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, boy,” the priest added sternly.

The “boy” swore at him.

Alessandro twisted his arm, and the mugger let out a yelp of pain. “Don't speak to your elders like that.” To the priest, he said, “Sorry, Father.”

Already a couple of uniformed police officers were heading in their direction.

“Convenient for us that you decided to pull this stunt a few feet from the headquarters of the Guardia di Finanza. Now get up!” Alessandro stood up, and the man scrambled to his feet.

“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the cops asked.

“Book him. Attempted robbery. Throw in an assault charge. See if he has any drugs on him, but I suspect he doesn't or he wouldn't have been looking for money.”

“Are you the victim?” the same cop asked Olivia as he took out his notebook.

She nodded.

“We'll need a statement from you.”

She looked at Alessandro, and he smiled his encouragement while she briefly described the events. “Is that enough?”

“That should do it,” the cop said, snapping his notebook closed. “We'll lock him up for a while. Let him stew a bit. See if he has a record.” They led the mugger away, and the priest went back into the church.

Alone once again, Alessandro put his arm around Olivia's shoulder. “No mark, thank God,” he said, looking closely at her neck. He ran his fingers over the spot gently as if to erase the memory of the knife. “I'm so sorry. This sort of violence is very rare in Venice. Are you sure you're okay?”

She was, but now the tears were threatening to well up. She nodded and let her cheek rest against his jacket in a replay of their first meeting in the airport. Like then, she felt safe.

“We can put off the boat ride if you'd like. I can take you back to your apartment. We usually suggest speaking with a counselor. I can call one for you.”

“No, I'd like to have that lunch,” she said. “And if that's wine I see, I'd really like a glass. Maybe two.”

He laughed. “Of course. I could use some myself. Good work there, by the way, stepping on his foot.”

“It was the only thing I could think of.”

“It was perfect. We make a good team.”

He offered his hand and helped her into the boat. She sat in the bow while he settled next to the outboard motor. He opened the wine and poured them both a glass, then held his up. “To your angel, Raphael. Guardian angel of fishermen and, it would seem, of . . . you.” He started the outboard motor, and it came to life with a roar and a puff of blue smoke.

He guided the boat out into the canal. She smiled up at the church dedicated to the angel Raphael.

“What was that smile for?” Alessandro said as the boat glided down the canal.

“I was just thinking Raphael has competition.”

“In the guardian angel department or the sexy department?” he asked mischievously, his smile definitely favoring the latter. But before she could think of a way to stammer her way out of it, he added, “Don't worry—I won't make you answer that. Yet.” A single word that promised so much.

He guided the boat out into the wide Giudecca Canal, and the wind became colder over the more open water. A giant cruise ship, almost as big as the city itself, glided by. Seagulls let out their raucous cries as they swooped down on the water in search of fish, and overhead, heavy gray clouds hung in the winter sky. She fastened the top button of her coat, her fingers touching her neck, the memory of the knife already overshadowed by Alessandro's soothing touch.

“Okay?” he asked as they crossed the canal toward the island of Giudecca.

“Absolutely,” she said.

As they cruised alongside the island, Alessandro seemed to grow a little more distracted, but not so much that he missed pointing out the campanile of San Giorgio. “There's a beautiful view from the top. And a much shorter lineup than for the one in San Marco.”

She recognized the Hotel Cipriani, where she'd had dinner with Marco and Silvio on her first night in Venice. She remembered how she'd seen a man at the window in a leather jacket looking out on the tower lit up against the night sky. She'd been disappointed it wasn't Alessandro, but here he was now, right beside her.

He turned into a narrow canal lined with palazzos. There were no streets alongside this canal, and the houses came right up to the water's edge. Olivia looked up the high walls past the tall peaked windows and the balconies to the sliver of gray sky above. It was like traveling back in time: other than the sound of their motor echoing off the walls, they could be in the fifteenth century.

She was brought back to the present when Alessandro turned off the motor. There was a sudden silence, nothing now but the gentle lapping of waves against the boat. Alessandro, with an inscrutable expression, was looking up at a shuttered red palazzo with Juliet balconies hanging over the canal.

“It's lovely,” Olivia said. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” he said sadly. “But it's empty now.”

She was perplexed. “I don't understand,” she said carefully. It seemed personal. But he had brought her here . . .

He turned to her. “I lived here with my wife. After she . . . died, I moved out. This is the first time I've seen it in almost four years.”

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked quietly.

“I don't know.” He looked at her and smiled. “No, that's a lie. I do know. I think you give me courage.”

“Me? I give you courage?” She had an image of him bringing down her attacker and the steely cool with which he'd handled the whole thing.

“I know what you're thinking. But there's more than one kind of courage. There's taking on young drug addicts with knives, and then there's facing your personal demons. I find the former much easier to handle.”

“Are you going inside?” she asked after a moment.

“One step at a time,” he said. “This was a big one for me. Besides,” he said, smiling. “I have to get back to work soon, and we haven't had lunch yet.” In those few moments, she thought, he seemed somehow already lighter. Freer.

She returned his smile hesitantly. Clearly, his coming to terms with his wife's death was even more difficult than she'd believed. His interest in her was becoming obvious, but she was going to have to be careful and guard her feelings, because she feared that in the end his wife's memory could be stronger than any attraction.

The boat came back to life with a roar, and they left the narrow canal with its old ghosts. Back in the Giudecca Canal, Alessandro cut the motor again, and they drifted slowly while eating their sandwiches. Gulls circled overhead, waiting for handouts. Alessandro warned her not to feed them or they'd be ambushed by every gull in Venice.

“I'm giving a recital tomorrow night for my father's seventieth birthday,” he said, pouring her some more wine. “It's by invitation only, just family and friends, and I'd be honored if you came.”

“I'd love to!” she said. Guarding her feelings was going to be difficult.

He pulled out a pen and business card from his pocket and on the back of the card wrote,
Friday, February 1, 8 p.m. The Apollo Room—Fenice Opera House
.

“You know where to find the Fenice?” he asked.

“Of course. It's very close to my cousin's apartment. And top of my list is to see an opera there. I want to sit in one of the boxes.”

“I won't be playing in the main space. Even my father doesn't have that many friends.”

He passed her the card, and she flashed back to the moment he'd handed her his business card in the airport. It was almost impossible to believe she was with him now, accepting an invitation to hear him play.

“Just give your name at the door. I'll put you on the guest list.” He took out his cell and called a pre-programmed number. “Hi, Julia? Alessandro. Very well. And yourself? Glad to hear it. Could you please add Olivia Moretti to the guest list for Dad's party? Thank you.” He hung up. “There. Done.” He gave her a smile that was like the sun coming out, and she didn't think for one moment that that was an overstatement. He started the motor yet again and crossed the canal.

“There's the Rio de San Vio,” she announced as they cruised alongside the Zattere. “I could point out the palazzo where I live.”

“Great!” he said, turning the boat into the canal. After they passed under the first bridge, Olivia pointed to the opera balconies of her apartment.

“Very nice,” he said. “I love this little area. Not that I don't love all of Venice, but this neighborhood is very peaceful.”

“I time my grocery shopping with watching the sun set behind the Giudecca. I always stop into the Salute. It amazes me that I can see a painting by Titian on my way to the grocery store.”