Those Who Walk Away (22 page)

Signor Ciardi returned with his aspirin. Ray took two.

“I cause you a lot of trouble,” Ray said, raising himself to see if he had bled on the pillow. Happily, he had not. The doctor’s bandage went entirely around his head.

“Trouble, no! Bad luck, dear friend. A friend of Luigi is a friend of mine, and he says he is your friend. Isn’t that true, Costanza?”

Sissi. She nodded in agreement, and rocked herself on the chair. “Finish the soup! Have some more!”

She stayed twenty minutes, then went away with Signor Ciardi. Ray had said he would try to get up and dress. The kind Signor Ciardi had even offered to help him do that. Since Signor Ciardi had no telephone, he would have to go to the nearest bar that had one, Ray thought. He did not feel up to making a trip to a police station. He was weak, but by moving slowly, he thought he could manage. He thought differently by the time he was downstairs and the scene began turning. He sat down on a chair in the living-room, and eventually Signor Ciardi saw him and came over.

“You see, Signor Weelson, Costanza was right. You should stay in bed today.”

“It is important that I make a telephone call,” Ray said. “I wonder if you have time to go with me to the next place that has a telephone?”

“Ah, si, to my friends the Zanaros here on the left!”

“Thanks, but I had better make a call from a booth. A private call—you see.” It was somehow already eleven o’clock. “I’d like to do it now, if you would be so kind.”

Signor Ciardi got his coat. They walked slowly towards a bar-caffé on the fondamento. Ray consulted the directory, then stood in front of the telephone which was unsheltered, fixed on a wall. Signor Ciardi strolled out of the door discreetly. The few others in the bar, after staring a little at his bandage, paid him no mind. And in fact, Ray supposed it didn’t matter if they all listened.

“May I speak to someone in regard to the Rayburn Garrett situation,” he began, using the word
situazione
, as even his Italian was weak that morning.

“Yes? Who is speaking, please?—Who is speaking?” The Italian voice repeated patiently, “Cui parla, per favore?…”

Ray slowly hung up the telephone, which felt like a five-pound weight in his hand. He clung to the little shelf on which the telephone rested.

Then Signor Ciardi rushed to him, put an arm around him, and steered him to a chair. Ponderous bells were ringing in Ray’s head, and he could not hear what Signor Ciardi was saying.

“Acqua! Un bicchiere d’acqua, per favore!” Signor Ciardi shouted towards the bar.

Was it better to faint for a moment, or fight it, Ray wondered. He breathed deeply. The ringing subsided. “I am sorry. I lost blood last night, perhaps.”

“You must have a coffee! Maybe a cognac with it. Don’t worry about anything!” Signor Ciardi was all concern, like Signora Lotto, leaning across the table, pressing Ray’s forearm.

Ray was very grateful. He began to feel better with a cappuccino. He declined Signor Ciardi’s offer of a cognac, but put a lot of sugar in the coffee.

Signor Ciardi smiled and rubbed his stubby cheek with a forefinger. Signor Ciardi. could dress almost like a tramp, go unshaven for two or three days, and still appear a man of dignity, even of importance, because he believed himself to be one.

With Ray’s returning strength, he felt a growing elation because he had stood up to Coleman last evening. For the first time, he had struck a blow back. He had had enough of Coleman and Coleman knew it now. Coleman himself would have a few aches this morning. And Ray suddenly realized that Coleman might be very badly off indeed, if that stone had caught him in the side of the head while he was lying down. What had happened after that? He remembered throwing the stone, the same stone Coleman had hit him with, at Coleman while he lay on the ground. Then had he kicked him? Struck him with his fist? It didn’t seem likely that he would have hit a man on the ground—but Coleman had been lying on the ground when Ray threw the stone. Ray realized he could have blacked out. He’d been terrified, and furious. Yes, he couldn’t quite ascribe his actions to sheer courage, but at least he’d stood up to Coleman. This made him feel quite different, quite a different person from the one he had felt himself to be this time yesterday.

“I’ll have another cappuccino, I think,” Ray said, and gestured to the boy behind the counter. “And what will you have, Signor Ciardi? A caffé? A glass of wine?”

“A glass of wine, si,” said Signor Ciardi, beaming at the return of strength to his patient.

Ray ordered it.

Signor Ciardi frowned suddenly. “Exactly where did you fall?”

“Some little steps—not far from the Ponte di Rialto. The street was dark, or it would not have happened.” Ray suddenly wondered if Coleman could be dead. His body found by now, perhaps found even last night. Ray could not decide what was logical to believe, that he was dead or not, and was more inclined to believe that it was his own guilt feelings—at having struck Coleman with a rock—that made him fear he might be dead.

“And no one was around? To help you?” asked Signor Ciardi.

“No. I found a small fountain and washed myself. It’s not so bad, you see, only the blood.” Ray began to feel weak again. He downed his coffee as rapidly as Signor Ciardi finished his wine.

“We will go back to the house,” Signor Ciardi said firmly.

“Yes.” Ray pulled a five-hundred lire piece from his pocket for the bill, insisted, over Signor Ciardi’s protest, on paying. He was remembering, with some satisfaction, how last night he had won out over unconsciousness by sheer will-power, it seemed to him. Surely a blow such as he had received would have knocked out most people. He walked back home with Signor Ciardi with his head higher than usual, walked as erectly as he could, even though Signor Ciardi’s hand gripping his arm was an important, maybe even a necessary support.

In his room he slept for several hours. Then he was awakened at 4 p.m., as Signor Ciardi had said he would be, by Giustina bringing a tray of tea, toast and a brace of boiled eggs.

He enjoyed a state of bliss that he knew was temporary. And it was not actually bliss, whatever that was, he realized, only a considerable improvement over his state since just before Peggy’s suicide, or even weeks before. It had been a curious and horrible thing to realize, when Peggy was alive, that their marriage was not working, not succeeding in making either of them happy, despite all the ingredients that were supposed to make a marriage go: time, money, a pretty place to live, objectives. His objective had been the New York art gallery, which Peggy had been interested in, too. She had known some painters for him to get in touch with from Mallorca, and three of them were on his list for the gallery now. Their idea had been to gather young European painters who still lived in Europe, since New York had enough European painters who were New York based. At openings, the painter would not be present unless he wanted to come over, but there would be photographs and well-displayed biographies of him or her at the gallery. New York was full of exhibitionist painters who turned up at their openings in purple velvet suits, diapers, or anything at all to get attention, and after that, success was a matter of whom the painter knew. Ray’s idea was a gallery without the circus atmosphere, without even background music, just a good deep carpet underfoot, plenty of ashtrays, proper lighting. The gallery need not have tied him and Peggy to New York, if they hadn’t wished to be tied there, as they could have left it in Bruce’s hands. Or, it could have provided an interest for them in New York, if they had chosen. It seemed to Ray that they had had everything, except hardship.

And then Peggy’s death and the Coleman onslaught—like a sea of log-laden water that had rushed over him. He had not only bowed to it, he had been knocked out by it. But he had finally stood up against it. Ray liked to imagine that it was the first time anyone had stood up to Coleman. He recalled Coleman’s stories in Rome, shortly after they had met (Coleman wasted no time in boasting). Coleman, the self-made man, blustering his way into moneyed society in America, carrying off one of the prizes as a wife, forging to the top of his engineering firm, forming a company of his own soon after, and then quitting the business cold. Onward to new glories, more with women than by painting, it seemed.
I like them big. The bigger the challenge, the bigger the win
, Coleman had said in Rome not two years ago. Had Coleman been talking about women, men, painting, jobs? It didn’t matter. It was Coleman’s attitude that mattered. And Coleman must now be furious, Ray thought.

Ray summoned Giustina with the aid of a long-handled bell that stood outside his door, returned the tray with thanks, and asked if she would prepare a bath. The doctor was coming at six. Ray had his bath, and received the doctor and Signor Ciardi. The doctor found no fever, and did not look at the wound. The stitches could come out in four days. He prescribed rest. Ray had thought to go out that evening to ring the police, but he could see that Signor Ciardi was rather keeping a watch on him. Ray supposed the matter could wait one more day.

“Luigi is coming,” Signor Ciardi told Ray, and repeated it at two minute intervals, until at last they heard the bell.

Giustina hurried down to open the door, and then Luigi came up, grizzle-cheeked as usual, beret in hand, his gondolier’s striped shirt showing in the V-neck of his black blouse.

“Ciao, Luigi,” Ray said. “Tutto va bene, never fear. Have a seat.”

“Dear Signor Weelson—Giovanni! Costanza told me…” Once more his words were lost to Ray, as they were in dialect.

“Your kind wife brought me broth,” Ray informed him, he was sure unnecessarily.

The conversation was not exactly smooth, but the oil of affection was there. Luigi had saved his life once. He was helping, through his friends, to preserve it now. Ray managed to convey this, much to the delight of Signor Ciardi and Giustina, who appreciated a flowery sentiment, but perhaps did not grasp the first part about Luigi’s having saved his life, and took it to mean that Luigi had found him a place to stay.

Signor Ciardi had Giustina fetch wine. Everyone except Giustina had one of Ray’s American cigarettes. The atmosphere was gay in the room. Luigi produced two fine oranges from his blouse, and they were put on Ray’s night table. He questioned Ray about the street where he had fallen, and deplored the lack of light in some streets. The party might have gone on longer, but the doctor had said that Signor Weelson should have some rest, so they all filed out.

Giustina brought Ray a supper of fettucini and salad and some of Signor Ciardi’s fortifying wine. Ray gathered his energy for the next day.

He had asked Giustina to buy a
Gazzettino
, and it arrived on his breakfast tray. Since he had braced himself, Ray was not too surprised—yet surprised with the solid impact of having anticipation confirmed—to see Coleman’s straightforward passport photograph on the front page. Edward Venner Coleman, fifty-two, American painter and resident of Rome, was reported missing since the evening of 23 November. His friend Mme Inez Schneider, forty-eight, of Paris, staying at the Gritti Palace Hotel, had notified the police at noon on 24 November, when Coleman had not returned to the hotel the preceding evening. The paper added that Coleman was the father-in-law of Rayburn Cook Garrett, twenty-seven, who had been missing since 11 November. If anyone had seen Coleman on the evening of 23 November after 9.30 p.m. or since, would he please inform the police.

Ray had a brief sense of alarm: Coleman could be dead. But he didn’t believe Coleman was dead, or that he had blacked out and pushed Coleman into a canal. Coleman was probably hiding out, turning the tables on him, in a way. Ray realized he would be answerable when he spoke to the police. He would have to tell them about the fight.

Ray got out of bed and shaved with the hot water Giustina had brought in a jug on his tray. He put on a fresh shirt. It was still only a quarter to nine. He felt much stronger than he had been yesterday, but he descended the stairs slowly instead of running as he wished to do. He met Giustina.

“I am going out for perhaps half an hour,” Ray said. “Thank you for the good breakfast, Giustina.”

“Un mezz’ ora,” she repeated.

“Si. O forse un ora. Arrivederla.”

Ray prudently slowed his steps on the fondamento, and made his way to the same bar-caffé at which he had started the telephone call to the police yesterday. Again he looked up the six-digit number which he had forgotten. The same voice answered.

“May I speak to someone in regard to the Rayburn Garrett—history,” Ray began.

“Si, Signor. Cui parla, per favore?”

“Rayburn Garrett is speaking,” Ray said.

“Ah, Signor Garrett! Benissimo. Wait one moment. We are very pleased to hear from you, sir.”

Ray waited.

He was asked by another voice if he could come as soon as possible to the station at Piazzale Roma. Ray said he would.

16

R
ay braced himself, during the boat ride to the Piazzale Roma, to tell his not very proud story. His only consolation, a rotten one perhaps, was that many other men before him had had a worse story to tell—a confession of murder or theft, for instance—and that he was going to leave out Coleman’s two attempts on his life, thereby putting himself in a category that might be called ‘noble’ with a stretch of the imagination. At any rate, he was not in a mood to hang his head. He thought a better word than noble might be simply charitable or generous.

With bandage tidy and bloodless, head up, then, Ray walked through the doorway of the questura at Piazzale Roma, which he had found after making only one inquiry. He gave his name to a clerk, and was shown farther into the building and presented to a Capitano Dell’ Isola.

“Signor Garrett! And what has happened to you?” Dell’ Isola—a short, intelligent-looking man—opened his eyes wide.

Ray realized that he referred to the bandage. “I had an encounter. The evening before last. An encounter with Signor Coleman.”

“We must take this down.” The Capitano gestured to a clerk.

Pen and paper were produced. The clerk sat at the side of Dell’ Isola’s desk.