Those Who Walk Away (25 page)

He found Mario in the kitchen with a glass of wine.

Coleman sensed now that Mario was afraid of the police. “Signor Mario, my apologies again,” Coleman said. “Have you a cloth?”

“Oh, Filomena with a mop—Filomena! She is putting the children to bed, I think.”

“At this hour?”

“When she is worried, she puts them to bed,” Mario said with a shrug, and opened the door to the adjoining room.

“Filomena, there’s no need to put them to bed. A little soup on the floor, my dear. Everything is all right.”

There was a shrill retort from Filomena, which sounded more anxious than angry. Mario closed the door and returned.

Coleman had spotted a mop, and now he got to work, using the cold water tap in the sink. If there was one thing he knew how to do, he thought, it was mop a floor. He’d had plenty of practice in Rome, still had, and in Taos, in Toulouse, in Arezzo, and all the other places where he’d lived for the last fifteen years. Mario stoked the stove with more wood.

“Please tell Filomena it looks a little better,” Coleman said.

“Thank you. Have a glass of wine, Signor Ralfo,” Mario said, pouring him one.

“I understand that I disturb you, Mario. I can leave tonight, if you wish, if you know of a place. I didn’t bring my passport, you know, so it is hard to go to an hotel.”

Filomena came in on this, and heard it. Coleman’s Italian was quite simple. At least she was not still crying.

“The Signor apologizes, Filomena. You see, he has cleaned the kitchen,” said Mario.

“A thousand apologies, signora,” Coleman said, “for the loss of your
brodo
. I have done the best I could here. I was saying to your husband, I am grateful for your hospitality, but I should be going, provided—”

Mario gave a big and essentially rude shrug, looked at the ceiling, then said, “I think I can find a place for you. At Donato’s. If you don’t mind the cold. He has just a…”

Coleman did not know the word, but presumed Mario meant a shack. He might try that tonight, and look for something better, he thought. He didn’t relish the idea, but pride kept him from asking Mario if he could stay. And he could sense that Filomena was now against him, because he had started the fight. Coleman pulled his billfold—dampish, too—from his hip pocket, and produced a five-thousand-lire bill. “To you and Filomena, Mario, with my thanks.”

“Ah, no, signor, enough is enough!” Mario protested.

But he was genuinely poor, or poor enough, and Coleman insisted.

Coleman became more magnanimous, and declined the offer of Donato’s dwelling. He had caused Mario enough bother—
seccatura
—he said. Then Mario attempted a speech, to which Coleman listened politely. The essence was, it was dangerous in the times in which they all lived to go about the world without a card of identity. All quite predictable to Coleman. Coleman knew Mario was suspicious of the newspaper item, and that therefore, he ought to get himself a considerable distance from Chioggia. Coleman drank his wine, and Mario immediately poured more.

Filomena was busy at the stove again.

“Stay and eat dinner,” Mario said. “You must not leave our house with an empty stomach. If I worry about the police, that’s one thing. We all worry about the police. What a world we live in, eh, Filomena?”

“Si, Mario.” She dropped fat into the hot frying-pan. The fish Mario had brought lay at one side of the stove, split and cleaned.

“It’s true that I’m in danger of being attacked,” Coleman said. “You see, it happened once. That is what makes me so nervous. I have a daughter who made a bad marriage. She has said she will kill herself—” Another gasp from Filomena at the thought. “—but so far she has not.”

“Thank God! Poor thing!” said Filomena.

“The piece in the newspaper reminded me. But my daughter is in California, unhappy but still alive. I think of her often. My wife, her mother, died when she was four in a car accident. I raised my daughter myself.”

This brought a rush of wonder and praise from Filomena, a sympathetic nod from Mario.

“Now she is married to a man who is not faithful. But it is her choice. But me—I do not care to marry again. Only I get myself into trouble sometimes with women such as I am in now.” He smiled at Mario. “Up with life, away, eh, Mario? Now I must be off.”

He said good-bye to Filomena, and bowed over her hand. Mario accompanied him down the street to a small restaurant, because Coleman wanted something to eat. The restaurant might have a room he could rent, Coleman thought or someone there might know of a room. Chioggia was like Venice, but without its beauty. They crossed little canals, turned down tiny lanes, yet it was not Venice, and Ray was not anywhere near. That removed all interest in the place from Coleman’s point of view. Before the restaurant door, he said good-bye to Mario and thanked him once more.

“When I’m here again, we’ll go on another fishing trip,” Coleman said.

“Si, sicuro!” Mario replied, and Coleman felt he might even mean it.

Then Coleman had his dinner and pondered. He would stay in hiding another week, he thought. That shouldn’t be impossible. Ray had done it. He thought he should not take the chance of writing a letter himself to the police. He might, before a week, venture back to Venice for another try at Ray. Meanwhile, he was dead, faceless to everyone, because nameless. And because he was friendless, almost. Inez, like a few others, would be in a state of suspended mourning, not knowing whether to mourn wholeheartedly or wait a bit longer. So she would probably wait a bit longer, Coleman thought with amusement. And what was mourning? A long face for an hour, a day—not much longer in Inez’s case. Dick Purcell would miss him for a longer time. So would an old friend in New York, Lance Duquesne, a painter whom Coleman had known since the days when he was an engineer. But otherwise? Coleman was under no illusion that many tears would be shed for him. Mourning was for a few real friends to do, or for close families whose mourning was mainly for the rest of the living family to see.

After his meal, Coleman chatted with his young waiter on the subject of a room for the night. “I’m staying in Venice, but it’s a little late to get back tonight. Do you know of a place I might sleep for tonight? I would pay, of course, but I did not bring my passport…” He explained his shyness about going to an hotel.

The young waiter did indeed know of a place, a room in his own house. He set the price. Five hundred lire. “Very warm. The kitchen is the next room.”

Coleman accepted.

It was not even far away. The young man found five minutes between customers to show Coleman to the house and introduce him to his family. No questions—such as why an American didn’t go to an hotel—were asked. Coleman chatted with the parents in the living-room over a cup of coffee. The family’s name was Di Rienzo.

“I like Chioggia,” said Coleman, who had told them his name was Taylor and that he was a writer. “Perhaps you know of a place where I might rent a room for a week? I intended to fetch my typewriter from Venice.”

The man glanced at his wife, then said, “It is possible that I can find a room for you. Or you might stay with us, if it is agreeable to my wife. Let us see how we get along.”

Coleman smiled. He was sitting—he had arranged himself deliberately—so that his yellowish eye was not exposed to the light in the room. He exerted all his charm, complimented a wooden chest in the corner, which in fact was a lovely bit of workmanship and carving, and was told that it was a wedding present, made by the father of Signora Di Rienzo.

“At the moment, I’m writing a book on the history of wallpaper,” Coleman said.

“Of what?” asked Signor Di Rienzo.

“Of paper to put on walls.”

18

R
ay, when he returned to Signor Ciardi’s house, was told by Giustina that Signor Ciardi was out, and that she did not know when he would return. By now, it was a quarter to one. Ray went out again, thinking he would ring Inez Schneider, and remembered that the police and Zordyi wanted his house number. He looked at the barely readable, four-figure, stencilled number on the stone door frame, then walked to the bar-caffé that had the telephone. He rang the police first, then Zordyi who was not in, but he left his name and address. Then he dialled the number of the Gritti Palace Hotel, where the newspaper had said Mme Schneider was staying. He felt a desire to communicate with her, to put her mind at rest at least about himself, and maybe a little about Coleman, too. Ray expected to be told that Mme Schneider was out, that she had even left the hotel, but Ray was connected with her room at once, and she answered:

“Ray! How are you? Where are you?”

“I’m on Giudecca now. I wanted to say—I only wanted to say that I had a fight with Ed Tuesday night and left him more or less knocked out, I think, but I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Unconscious where?”

“In a little street near the Rialto. I’ve told the police about it. Tuesday night around eleven.”

“And—where have you been?”

“I’ve been by myself. On Giudecca.”

“I must see you. What are you doing now?”

Ray did not want to go to see her now, but he felt he had a moral obligation to see her. “Yes, I can see you.”

“I am supposed to meet the Smith-Peters at one, but I will cancel that. Can you come to the Gritti? Or I can meet you anywhere.”

Ray said he would come to her hotel in about forty-five minutes. Then he crossed to the mainland again, and went to the Giglio stop, the one after della Salute. It was the most beautiful bit of Venice, the Schiavoni quay, the della Salute stop where the great church seemed to expand to even greater size over the suddenly small vaporetto—mundane transport backgrounded by the Ducal Palace and the Campanile of San Marco so close across the water. Then the Gritti Palace hotel. Coleman was alive, Ray thought, and he was himself again, Ray or Rayburn Garrett, afflicted with an inferiority complex, passably attractive, fairly rich, though without any great talent. He was once more in communication with parents and friends, though fortunately his friends hadn’t had time to miss him, except perhaps for Bruce who would have written a week ago to the Pont Royal in Paris and would be expecting an answer. To his parents he would explain carefully, and they would understand—maybe not at first, but after a day or so. His mother might understand at once, his father might always think his behaviour a bit weak or neurotic. But it was nothing he couldn’t weather, Ray felt, so nothing really was wrong.

To Ray’s annoyance, he saw the Smith-Peters standing with Inez as he entered the lobby of the Gritti. But why not face them all at once, Ray thought. It took very little more courage, or whatever it was that he was using.

“Ray! Buon giorno! Bon jour, bon jour!” Inez said, and Ray thought she was going to extend her hand, but she didn’t.

“Hello, Inez. Hello,” he said to the Smith-Peters, with a polite smile.

“Hello, Mr Garrett,” Mr Smith-Peters said firmly, with a nod, as if to nail Ray down with it. He seemed not to know whether to smile and be friendly or not.

“You were hurt, Ray?” his wife asked, with more obvious interest and concern.

“Not seriously. Just a cut,” Ray said.

“That is from Tuesday night?” Inez asked.

“Tuesday night, yes,” Ray said.

“I have told Laura and Francis that you saw Edward then,” Inez explained nervously. “We all wanted to see you, so—” She made a helpless gesture. She looked thinner and older, and there were circles around her eyes.

“How about going into the bar here?” Mr Smith-Peters said. “I don’t think we feel like plunging into lunch, do we?”

“Oh, certainly not,” said Inez, glancing past Ray at the door. “I keep thinking Edward will walk in at any moment.”

“I hope he will,” Ray said.

They all, except Inez, ordered vodka and tomato juice.

“Well, where have you been?” Laura Smith-Peters asked Ray, with a try at a smile.

“I’ve been mostly on Giudecca,” Ray replied. “I wanted to be by myself for a while.”

The Smith-Peters looked at him for a moment in baffled silence.

“You certainly had everybody
wor-r-ried
,” Mrs Smith-Peters said.

“I’m sorry about that.” A throb of pain in the left side of his head at that instant put a perfunctoriness in his tone.

“And Tuesday evening?” Inez said. “What happened?”

“I was in a section of Venice I didn’t know,” Ray began, “around ten-thirty or eleven and—I saw Ed behind me. He didn’t look as if he were in a friendly mood, so I tried to get away from him.” He sensed a puzzlement in the Smith-Peters, who evidently did not believe Coleman’s dislike of him could take such proportions. The Smith-Peters were not an inspiring audience to address. “I found myself in a blind alley, and when I tried to get out, Coleman hit me with a rock he’d been carrying.”

“
Really?
” said Mrs Smith-Peters, a hand at her throat.

“It nearly knocked me out, but I did hit back. In fact, I got the rock and threw it back at him…He was on the ground when I left him, and I’m not sure if he was conscious or not. I’ve told all this to the police.”

“Then where is he?” Mrs Smith-Peters asked.

“I last saw him on the sidewalk by a canal,” Ray said.

“By a canal,” said Mr Smith-Peters, leaning forward over the table as Ray had seen him do before. “He couldn’t have fallen in, do you think? And drowned?”

“Francis! It’s a
hor-r-rible
thought!” his wife whispered.

“I suppose it’s barely possible,” Ray said, “but I think he was moving when I left, trying to get up.” Ray wet his lips. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that, because I’m not sure.”

Mr Smith-Peters was frowning. “Had he a lot of money on him, Inez?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. What is a lot? It depends on who is robbing. But I know what you are thinking.”

“You just left him,” Mrs Smith-Peters said to Ray, and there was a note of accusation in it.

“Yes,” Ray said. “I was nearly out myself, and you don’t—” He gave it up. Could she expect him to be a Samaritan to Coleman?

“And there wasn’t anybody around?” her husband incredulously.