Alibi: A Novel (19 page)

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That was good. You explain away one lie with another. What made you think I’d believe the new one? You killed him too.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Had him tracked, I should say. You never pull a trigger yourself. A whole bunch of them this time, thanks to you. They’re preparing the case now. Check with the hospital—see if anybody called about the records, first week in October, 1944.”

“But it’s not true,” he said, pale now.

“You want to know something? I don’t give a shit. I think it is true. And if this isn’t, something else will be. One way or another, they’ll get what they need. They’re good. And you were so close—getting away with everything. Except Claudia came back.”

He stared at me, not saying anything, his eyes still wide.

“The problem is, they want me to testify.”

“Testify? To what?”

“Our little heart-to-heart about the partisan, for one thing. It gives the story a certain heft. Not to mention it’s a confession about Claudia’s father, which isn’t going to win you any friends in court.”

“You can’t prove any of this,” he said, panting a little. “A trial. They can’t prove anything.”

“Well, they might. In fact, I’d bet on it. On the other hand, anything can happen in court. I’ve seen it. You might get lucky. But either way it’ll be a circus. You don’t want me on the stand, and I don’t
want to put my mother through it. So this time you really get lucky. No trial. You just go away. No, better—we’ll go away. All you lose is the money.”

“Bastard,” he said, trying to control himself. “Keep your money.”

“I will. I guess the usual thing would be to buy you off, but I figure you’re getting a great deal anyway. You go on as if nothing ever happened. Of course I can’t say about later—this kind of stuff has a way of coming out. But I can stop it for now, and that’ll buy you time. Then, who knows? Things change.”

“Stop it how?”

“I’ll get them to close the case. I can do it. I guess it’s obstructing justice in a way, but I’ll do it. That’s the truce. I don’t want a trial.” I looked at him. “And neither do you.”

“
Marmocchio
,” he said, almost under his breath, a rumbling. “
Sei uno stronzo. Cazzo
.”

“Not very nice, I guess. Whatever it is.”

“You shit. No, you know
sciocco
? Fool. You are a fool. I’ve tried everything with you.”

“Then try this. We’ll go away and your troubles will be over.”

“My only trouble is you. Crazy. Maybe that’s it, still crazy from the war. Maybe it affected your mind. You think you’re still in Germany? Always the Jews. Here, it’s another place. Not Germany, not the same. You want to put people on trial? For what, suffering in the war?”

“Not everybody suffered. You look like you’re doing all right.”

“It’s that Jewish whore. She makes you crazy. A woman like that. How many did she sleep with there? They should put
her
on trial.”

I stared at him, not responding, clenching my hands.

“But right now,” I said finally, “they’d rather have you.”

“You did this. You made this trouble.”

“No, you made it. But I can stop it. That’s the deal.”

He turned to leave. “You can go to hell. Do you think you can come here and put
me
on trial? Like a criminal? No, it’s a farce. You will be the one with the bad name, not me. A shame to your mother. Saying lies—and then, where’s the proof? Nowhere. No proof. You can’t prove anything.”

“Well, see, that’s the thing. They don’t necessarily have to prove it.”

“What?” he said, stopping.

“Not the people I talked to, anyway. They prefer it—professional pride. But sometimes, with the right guy, it’s enough just to say what they know, go public with it. Somebody else figures out the rest. Old partisans, maybe. Then they take care of it their own way.” He had paled again. “I told you I wanted to save your life. They did it to your brother. They wouldn’t think twice about doing it to you. Not once they know.” I looked at him. “You don’t want this trial.”

“It’s lies,” he said quietly.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t understand anything here—what these people are like.”

“I thought they were friends of yours. The one you helped—he’d speak for you, wouldn’t he? Or was he in the house that burned?”

“You—” Not finding the word, sputtering.

“Of course, they didn’t know about your other friends, over at Villa Raspelli. What are you going to say that was?” I shook my head. “It’s a great cover until the Germans talk. You know how they are, keeping track of everything. Reports to Berlin. Duplicates here. Verona, I guess. Everything that happened. All their little hopes and dreams. Their friends.” I stopped. “You don’t want this trial. They’d knock you off before you were halfway through. I don’t want any part of that. Not that you don’t have it coming. But I’m not going to be the one to do it. Make the truce.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“Make the truce.”

“
Cazzo
, make it yourself,” he said, throwing up his hand as he brushed past me so that it accidentally caught my shoulder. I reacted by flinging up my arm to push it away. A flicker of motion, but enough to trigger an alarm in his head. I didn’t even see the hand come up, just felt it on my chest as he pushed me back in a fury, banging my head against the wall. “Don’t you dare raise a hand to me,” he said, panting, holding me.

“Let go,” I said, seeing only the blur of his white front, his hand
coming out of a starched cuff. Then his face, clearer now, eyes glaring at me.

“You think I wouldn’t do it? Bah.” He loosened his hold, then dropped his hand. “And make more trouble. So you can run to Mama.”

“That’s right,” I said, staring at him. “You like someone else to do it. Even better when it’s official. When it’s the right thing to do.”

“Go to hell.” He started toward the door, smoothing back the sides of his hair, then turned. “I warn you.”

We stared at each other, a standoff, broken suddenly by the front doorbell. For a second neither of us moved, not yet jolted out of ourselves, then I stepped away from the wall.

“Fix your tie,” I said, brushing past him.

“
Cazzo
,” he said, spitting it, but he went over to the mirror to adjust himself, public again.

I opened the door to Claudia, looking worried, her hair a little scraggly in the moist air.

“So you are here,” she said. “The lights are out upstairs.”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“Yes, but it’s late.” She stopped, seeing Gianni in the hall. “Oh.”

“Ha, the whore,” Gianni said. “Now everything is complete. The
cazzo
and his whore. A perfect couple.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Why is he here?” Claudia said.

“To listen to nonsense. Now I go.”

Claudia looked at me. “What nonsense?”

“Nothing,” I said, drawing her in. “Just a little talk.”

“Talk,” Gianni said. “Nonsense.”

“You’re right,” I said, turning to him. He was elegant again, his hair back in place. “It is nonsense. Why bother? I don’t want a truce either. Not anymore.”

“No? What do you want?”

“I want to nail you. I want people to know.”

“At my so-called trial.”

“That’s right, at your trial. I’m looking forward to it.”

“What trial?” Claudia said. “What are you talking about?”

“More drama for you,” Gianni said. “You like so much to make scenes. Now you can tell everybody where your bed was at the camp. All your special privileges—how you earned them. He wants you to tell everybody. He wants people to know.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“My lawyer will ask the questions. I guarantee it. At this trial you want.”

Claudia moved from the door, backing into the hall. He followed her with words.

“You think I don’t know about you? Someone attacks me, I ask questions. I find out. Vanessi, the man at the camp—you think he would keep a woman out of pity? No. And not once, months. Not forced, a mistress. Someone who liked it. Who liked him, maybe.”

“No,” Claudia said softly.

“So, an actress. Maybe still acting.” He turned to me. “This is what you want? A wonderful witness. The camp whore.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t stop, once it starts. How can you stop it? Hold up your hand, like traffic? You think I won’t fight back? You make this trouble and then you think you can stop it. No, not when you like. So you shame her and it doesn’t stop there. Until everybody’s dirty. Then what? Nothing. You will win nothing.”

“I don’t have to win,” I said. “I just have to let them see you.”

He stared at me again for a minute. “I’m not going to let you do that,” he said finally. “Understand that. Never.”

His voice was low and steady, the same calm menace I’d heard in the restaurant, and I felt a prickling. It had already started, beyond fixing now, any polite truce.

“That’s what you think,” I said.

“Never,” he repeated, his voice still low. “Go home.”

“I’m not leaving her. Not with you.”

“You don’t know how it is. You don’t know anything. A fool. Like the father. Just like the father. He saw nothing. Under his nose, still nothing.”

“Saw what?” I said, feeling clenched, as if his hand were pushing me again.

“You think it’s the first time, with your mother? You know nothing. The father’s son. Another fool.”

A snap in my head, like the click of a safety.

“Shut up,” I said. “Just shut up.”

“Both of you, fools.” Each word like a prod with a stick.

“Shut up,” I said, my hands springing up without my being aware of it, pushing him back, away from me.

The shove caught him off-guard, so he staggered before he could catch his balance, his weight pulling him back toward the wall, his head hitting the edge of one of the sconces.

“Adam!” Claudia said, somewhere out of my line of vision.

Gianni put his hand to the back of his head, then looked at it, streaked with blood. I saw the white of his dress shirt, his blank expression, the smeared hand, everything utterly still, and then the blood seemed to jump, alive, as he lunged for me. I reared back, keeping my throat out of reach so his hand struck my chest. Then we were both falling, his hands now pounding at me, wild. The smell of blood. Claudia yelled something.

“
Cazzo
!” Gianni said, punching me.

I had never fought anyone hand to hand. Combat had always been a few kilometers away, even across a field. Now I could feel his breath on me, that close. I rolled away, not thinking, instinct. Protect your eyes. Get up. Now. No pattern to it, a blur, slaps and grabs and sudden bursts of pain.

I pulled at his shirt, the stiff white front, to draw him closer, immobilize his arms, but he pushed me away, landing one hand on the side of my face. I felt a dull burning and moved back. One of his shirt studs had popped out, opening up a patch of hairy skin in the evening clothes, suddenly primitive, what was real underneath.

I looked at the furious eyes, the disheveled hair, and saw that he was right, it wouldn’t stop now. His hand caught me again, my ear went hot, stinging, and I punched back until both of us were wrestling, close in, falling to the floor again in a heap, pulling each
other down the hall, trying to find a position, any kind of advantage. Then his grip loosened and I grabbed a chair, pulling myself up away from him. In a second he was on one knee, then pitched forward, pounding me in the side, a throbbing ache that didn’t go away, that would bruise.

“Stop it!” Claudia yelled, following us.

“Whore!” Gianni said, as if he were punching her too, finishing all of it.

I grabbed at him again, pushing, but he was ready this time and instead caught me and knocked me down. I dodged a kick, sliding away from his foot, then scrambled up and moved back toward the water entrance, the sound of my own breathing loud in my head. He followed, arms reaching out, implacable, the moving line at bayonet practice. No time to hesitate. Do it.

I jumped at him, my fist aiming at his nose, and smashed down. He howled, weaving a little, his hands to his face, looking up at me in shock. I backed away. There were red spots on the shirtfront now, then a longer drip, blood running out of his nose.

“Stop it!” Claudia said, grabbing his arm. He brushed her away, a gnat, and started toward me, implacable again. But he was slower this time, obviously in pain.

“All right,” I said, panting. “Enough.” A man my father’s age, not a soldier. Already slowing down, bound to get hurt. My father’s age. His friend, in fact, betraying him too. Not the first time. I held up my hand. “Enough.”

But he was looking down at his ruined shirt, bright with blood, not hearing me, dazed and then shaking, excited, everything about him ready to move. And maybe just then I wanted it too, that rush of blood.

He looked up at me, a quick glance, then, before I could move, he rammed his head into my stomach, knocking me over. I landed with a thud on the pile of paving stones poking up bluntly beneath the tarp, so that for an instant, winded, all I could feel was a spasm of pain. Then my head fell back too as he jumped on me, hands on my throat.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Claudia was hitting him on the back, trying to
pull him off, but he was oblivious, lost in his own adrenaline strength, tightening his hands on my windpipe. I choked. I could feel the blocks against my back, then the wetness of the tarp. Everything smelled of damp, the slick steps, the canal. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, punching his sides, but the hands didn’t budge and now began to shake me, banging my head against the tarp. I looked into his face and found no expression at all, just a kind of strained exertion as he kept his hands in place. Beyond him there were dim lights, the gondola up on its support rack, Claudia flailing at his back, her face frantic now. She pulled on his collar, yanking his head back, and I saw, absurdly, that the white tie was still in place, but then I was choking again, beginning to feel dizzy, without enough breath to shove his body off mine. Claudia was shouting, still pounding on his back, but I couldn’t make out the words, indistinct behind the pulse in my ears and the faint wheezing coming from my throat.