The Disappearance of Grace (8 page)

“It will make you feel better,” he insists in broken English.

I do it.

In the meantime, I am able to speed-dial Grace's cell phone by touch, while he makes a check for her in the area surrounding the exterior portion of the café. I get only the answering service. After leaving five messages begging her to call me, I get an automated message telling me her mailbox is full. I imagine that the man who took her away from me has tossed her phone into the Grand Canal.

When the waiter returns some fifteen minutes later, I know what he's about to tell me before he says it. I don't need eyesight to see his ashen face or ears to hear the sad sluggishness of his gait and the soles on his leather shoes shuffling defeated on the wood floorboards.

“Perhaps it is time to call in the police,” he whispers.

My pounding heart now drops into my stomach.

Chapter 15

HE'S A SLIM, WELL-DRESSED detective of middle age. Or so I picture him, judging by his excellent English and the smooth, low tone of his voice. Like a pack-a-day smoker now trying to quit but not succeeding. When I hear him lighting up with a good old fashioned Zippo-style flip-top lighter, I'm confident that the picture I've painted in my head is not entirely inaccurate.

I'm seated at a wood chair before his desk inside the Venice Polizia headquarters located only a few buildings up from the train station at the busy top of the Grand Canal. I was transported here by a uniformed policeman who, despite grilling some of the café patrons with a few questions, insisted that a crime-scene investigation was not yet in order since it's possible my fiancée simply could have disappeared of her own accord. A notion that not only fills me with dread, but that makes my already ailing heart nearly quit on me altogether.

After the detective orders hard-copy prints of several photographs of Grace from the batch stored on my mobile phone, he begins making note of her vitals: Name, age, weight, height, eye, hair and skin color. He then begins probing into what he defines as, “the situation.”

“My fiancée and I were having lunch at the café outside the cathedral in Piazza San Marco. She spotted a man staring at us. A middle-aged man with a dark complexion who wore sunglasses. He had a trim beard and he had on a long brown overcoat. It's possible he's been following us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we spotted him staring at us at a different café not far from here.”

“You've spotted the man before.”

“Yes, that's what I just said.”

“What color are his eyes?”

“Black,” I said. “Or dark brown anyway.”

“But the man you saw today was wearing sunglasses?”

“That's correct. But it was raining yesterday.”

Yes,” he says, writing something down. “It was raining. And you think it is possible this man might have taken your fiancée? Kidnapped her right before your eyes? The eyes of one thousand other people who occupied that area of the café and the square?”

“If you haven't already noticed, I am blind myself.”

“That contradicts what you stated in the written police report.”

“Correction,” I say. “I am undergoing a temporary blindness due to…”

My statement trails off as soon as I picture the little boy who was killed in the bombing raid.

“Due to what, Mr. Angel?”

“Due to the war. The one in Afghanistan. I'm a solider. Or was a solider. I'm a writer too.”

I feel him nodding, writing something else down.

“I too was a solider, Mr. Angel. I served in the Persian Gulf with the Italian Lancers and NATO.”

“I served too, Detective. But I'm not here to trade war stories. I'm here to find my fiancée.”

He goes silent for a moment while he smokes. Then, “You should know that thus far, no one has reported seeing your fiancée being abducted from the café. This would have been a couple of hours ago in the plain daylight of midday, you understand.”

“I understand. I was there.”

“But you couldn't see anything.”

I exhale.

“Yes, I couldn't see.”

“Do you ever experience eyesight anymore?”

For split second I consider revealing my recent 20/20 sleepwalking incident, but just as quickly think better of opening up my mouth about it. I don't want to give him the impression that I'm nuts or emotionally disturbed.

“On occasion. When I least expect it, my vision returns to me.”

“I've heard of this kind of thing before. Not an uncommon malady for soldiers suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I must assume you already know that.”

At this point, I want to reach across the desk, grab him by the necktie, and scream at him to leave this place and go find Grace. But I know I would get nowhere, other than a jail cell or worse, a hospital bed in the Venice nuthouse.

“I'm aware of it,” I answer.

The sound of a door opening interrupts our dialogue. I listen to the sound of footsteps. Boot heels on the stone floor, followed by the scent of woman. A pleasing fragrance. She says something to the detective in Italian and immediately leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

I hear the dick quickly shuffle through the paperwork she's apparently dropped onto his desk. When he's finished reading he stamps out his cigarette and exhales the last of the smoke. I listen to him sitting back in his swivel chair. Maybe he's resting the back of his head in the palms of his hands which would be locked at the fingers.

“Your story checks out, Captain Angel. You are a writer. Are you published in Italy?”

“Not at present,” I tell him. “The war sort of stalled my career.”

“As war tends to do.”

“What about Grace? I understand that it's possible so many people were gathered in that part of the square that no one actually noticed her being taken away by a strange man in a long brown overcoat. But does that mean you won't search for her?”

“Yes, we will search for her, Captain Angel. But first, allow me to ask you a few more questions.”

I nod.

“How well did you and your fiancée, Grace Blunt, get along?”

“Very well.”

“Very well,” he repeats. He's questioning my answer.

“Okay, to be honest, the past year has been difficult with my having been at war. There were the normal stresses and strains.” But what I'm not telling him is how Grace and her ex-husband, Andrew, conducted a brief affair while I was away at the war. How it lasted only a single night. How Grace called me the day after in a fit of tears and remorse. How for weeks after that, I wouldn't talk with her. Wouldn't talk on the phone. Wouldn't Skype. Wouldn't text or email. About how I thought very much of leaving her and never returning to the US after the war.

“And now you are suffering from a…malady.”

“Yes, a
malady
, as you call it. But it's going to go away one day soon. And I will be good as new and Grace and I will be married.”

“I understand,” he says. “But first she must come back to you.”

I feel my insides drop. I want to call the detective of a son of a bitch and walk out the door. But I am at his mercy and he knows it.

“Yes,” I say. “Grace must come back or be found by you good people.”

He picks up a piece of paper. Probably the paper the female officer brought in for him.

He says, “We have witnesses who say they saw you both in a café yesterday not far from here. And that you were arguing.”

I recall the engagement ring dropping to the cobbles. I recall purposely spilling my drink. I recall our heated words and in my mind picturing Grace and Andrew together in bed and all the people who were staring at us. People who couldn't help but watch us argue, but who went blind to Grace's being kidnapped from her table in the café this afternoon.

“Yes, we argued,” I explain. “I assume you argue on occasion with your wife?”

The detective issues a subtle laugh. Like he's thinking and grinning about something humorous that happened years ago.

“Yes, we did argue. Which is why we happily divorced.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I've been married before too.”

“You are some years older than Grace,” he observes. “At least ten years older. She could be married to someone younger. Someone not affected by the war. Someone more stable. Someone she was married to before perhaps?”

“Yes,” I swallow. “Grace was married once before. What's your point, detective?”

“My point, Captain Angel, is that Grace may very well have simply walked away from something she no longer wanted in her life. Something she was afraid of. It's possible she is frightened of committing herself to only one man for the rest of her life. This is an entirely human response to the prospect of marriage.”

He must sense the expression of stone cold anger that paints my face.

“Walked off,” I say. “Walked off without a change of clothes. Without luggage? With the clothes on her back and no warning? What about the overcoat man?”

“With all due respect, Captain,” he goes on, “do you have any idea how many men walk away from their wives while vacationing in Venice? How many wives walk away from their husbands never to return? Honeymooners, Captain Angel. Couples who are supposed to be in love.”

He's right, of course. I'm not oblivious to spoiled love or love gone suddenly wrong. I'm not completely out of touch with a man or a woman experiencing a sea change of emotion. I've lived it. Grace has lived it. Sometimes walking away from something just seems the easier alternative than attempting to climb an impossibly steep and slippery slope. I'm blind now and suffering from something no one understands. Least of all me or Grace. Maybe it has been too much for her. Maybe she is still hopelessly in love with Andrew. Or maybe the man in the overcoat has everything to do with her disappearance.

“Detective,” I say, “I know what you are trying to tell me, and despite some arguments, I assure you, Grace and I are very much in love and very solid.”

“I see,” he says, lighting another cigarette. “Well, then, you are sure about the strange overcoat man you saw yesterday and today?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen him at any other time while in Venice?”

I try and think for a moment. But there's nothing to think about.

“I can't recall. But we definitely spotted him yesterday and today.”

“But you, yourself, did not actually see him with your own eyes.”

“No, I did not. But Grace did. He wasn't hiding from us.”

“No other strangers have come your way, then?” he pushes.

“No,” I repeat. But then I catch myself. “Wait. There is something.”

“I'm listening, Captain.”

“Phone calls,” I say. “We've received some phone calls at the apartment that's been rented on our behalf. When we answered the phone, the person on the other end would simply say ‘I. See.' To be honest, I thought it was some kind of prank or joke because of my, uh, condition. My…malady.”

He's writing something down again. I hear the scribbling.

“How often has this man called?”

“A couple times. Maybe three.”

He writes that down.

“What is your number?”

“I don't know it, to be honest. We don't use that phone. I use my mobile.”

“Yes, land lines are becoming extinct. Like the old paperback books and vinyl records.”

“Do you think there could be a connection between the phone calls and Grace's disappearance?”

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But we will have to trace the calls first and find their origin. We can do that now when we escort you back to your apartment.”

I nod.

“Oh, yes, and, Captain, does Grace have any family? Sisters, brothers, parents?”

“An older sister and a younger brother. Parents are dead. She doesn't communicate with her siblings as far as I know.”

He writes something down yet again.

“Hold off on notifying them for now, assuming you were thinking of it. We wouldn't want to alarm them unnecessarily. The same goes for Grace's ex-husband, again, assuming you are thinking of it.”

I picture Andrew. Tall, thin, with black hair. He wears eyeglasses with thick black rims. A forty-something, perpetual college student. Lives in New York City down in Chinatown where it's cheap. Teaches at the University, writes articles for
The Village Voice
, and eats his heart out over losing Grace to me.

The detective stands.

I stand.

He comes around and takes my arm. As he leads me towards the door of his office, he asks what the prognosis is for the return of my eyesight.