Alibi: A Novel (22 page)

I held up my arms, ready to dance.

“And now for you, this trouble. What if you had never met me?”

I took the champagne glass out of her hand. “Yes, what if?” I said, then put my arm behind her back and moved her into the room.

The orchestra, in formal cutaways, was playing “Why Do I Love You?” but slightly off-rhythm, as if they were sight-reading, more familiar with Strauss than a twenties show tune. Not that it mattered. The dancers were moving at their own pace, peering over shoulders, the music just an excuse to look around at one another. Everything gleamed—jewels, the huge mirrors, even the long parquet floor, polished probably for days. I thought of Byron’s famous party, when they threw gold plates into the canal.

“So you can dance too,” Claudia said.

“Miss Hill’s dancing class. We all had to go. The boys hated it.”

“And the girls?”

“They liked to get dressed up.”

She glanced around the room. “So nothing changes. Look at the clothes. Is it all right, the dress?”

“Perfect.”

“Ha, perfect. The poor relation.”

“Not too poor,” I said, putting a finger to the necklace. Off to the left I caught a quick flash of light, stronger than a candle.

“Jewels. If my father could see me—” She looked away, frowning. “Maybe it was for him, what happened. For him.”

But at that moment, my face suddenly warm, I knew it wasn’t. Not for him, not even for Claudia. I’d wanted to do it. I wasn’t in the cold boat anymore, unable to think. I’d wanted to do it. Even now I could feel the odd excitement of it, my arms shaking as I held his head under.

“What’s wrong?” Claudia said.

“Nothing. Just a little warm. Dance over there—I want them to take our picture.”

Another flash went off, and now the heat drained away from my face, as if my blood were running back and forth, like the tide in the lagoon.

“Adam? What are you doing here?” My mother was standing with a couple at the edge of the dance floor. I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“I decided you were right, so we borrowed a dress. Your idea, remember?”

My mother was taking in Claudia, giving a surprised glance at the necklace. Then she smiled, extending her hand, not missing a beat. “Claudia, how nice.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

My mother waved this away. “Wonderful what being twenty years younger can do for a dress. It’s perfect on you.” And I saw in her smile that she thought some other bargain had been struck, an end to the trouble, our coming a promise of smoother days ahead, more precious than rubies. Her face beamed with a kind of warm relief. “Oh, but let me introduce Inspector Cavallini. Signora Cavallini.”

“Inspector?” Claudia started, not expecting this, but the Cavallinis, half turned to the dance floor, missed the flicker in her eyes.

“Signorina Grassini, isn’t it?” my mother went on. “I’ve become so bad at names. And my son of course you know. I think you met at Harry’s.”

There were the usual nods and handshakes, something to fall back on while I collected myself.

“Yes, I remember,” I said quickly, a signal to Claudia. “I hope you’re not on duty tonight.”

“Only as an escort,” he said, smiling. “It’s my wife who brings me.” Signora Cavallini nodded, accepting this. She had the grave, long face of someone invited for her family connections.

“Well, if Gianni doesn’t get here soon you
will
be,” my mother said. “I’ll have to send you out to find him.”

“Ah, if every woman did that when the man is late, the police would never sleep.”

“Adam, you did call him.”

“Yes. At the hospital. I told him to meet you here. He’s probably around somewhere. It’s a mess downstairs. We were here for ages before we found you.”

Claudia looked away.

“No, it’s not like him. Well, it is like him, but not this much, if you see what I mean.”

“Excuse me, would you turn this way, please?”

The photographer stepped back onto the dance floor, motioning with his head for us to stand closer. A flash went off and there we were, evidence, Claudia and I standing next to the police. For one wild moment I wanted to laugh, caught by the unexpectedness of luck.

“Perhaps you would not worry so much if you were dancing,” Cavallini said. “May I?”

After a nod to Signora Cavallini, he led my mother out to the floor, leaving us to make small talk with his wife. It was a pity about the rain, but the ball was lovely, the way Venice used to be. So much food. Of course, it was easier for foreigners. When even this ran out, I looked at my mother, chatting happily while she danced, and I felt queasy again.

Signora Cavallini, whose English was poor, must have been as bored as we were, because she led her husband away before he could ask for another dance. They drifted into the next room, where supper would be served later, picking up glasses of champagne along the way.

“My god, what a country. Even the policemen go to balls. Imagine at home,” my mother said.

“How does Mimi know him?”

“His wife, I think. Of course, with Mimi you never know. She casts a pretty wide net. Look at them all,” she said, waving to the room. “And she was so worried. ‘They won’t come out in the rain.’ Well, they’d come out in a monsoon. You’ll never guess who’s here. Celia de Betancourt. I thought, the war really must be over if she’s back. Venezuela all this time. Imagine the boredom of it.”

“Who?”

“Darling, you remember. You were fascinated by her when you were little. On the beach. She would just tan and tan.”

I made a helpless gesture.

“Well, anyway, she’s here. Still brown as a berry too. Of course it’s sunny there, I suppose. That’s her, over with Mimi. Remember?”

I looked across the floor at a woman in a strapless taffeta gown, her dark neck entirely covered in diamonds.

“That’s some necklace.”

“The jewels are past belief. I think even Mimi was stunned. They said the war would put an end to all this, and just look.”

“I hope it’s all right,” Claudia said, touching hers. “About the necklace.”

My mother said nothing for a minute, her face soft and pleased, then put her hand on Claudia’s. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? Adam’s father gave it to me. Awful to think of it just sitting in a box somewhere. It’s nice to give it some air.”

“Like a pet,” I said.

“You know what I mean. What’s the point of having them if you don’t wear them? Anyway,” she said to Claudia, “I’m glad you did.” She turned to me, her eyes moist. “You look so like your father in those clothes. So like. He loved to dress up, you know. Parties.”

While you were—where? I thought, then felt dismayed for thinking it.

“So handsome. Well,” she said, and then, making a connection known only to herself, “You know, it’s not like him, not really. I’m worried. It’s all very well that policeman pooh-poohing, saying men are late, but he wouldn’t be late for this. What did he say to you?”

“Just that he’d see you here. It’s not that late,” I said, glancing at my watch. “He’ll be here.” Suddenly I wanted a cigarette, anything to steady the jumping in my stomach.

“But I called his house. He left hours ago.”

“Maybe he stopped for a drink somewhere.”

“A drink. And then fell into a canal, I suppose,” my mother said, dismissive. “Tonight of all nights.”

“The inspector didn’t seem to think—”

“Oh, I know what he thinks. Some woman. Why else would a man be late? A little stop along the way. I wouldn’t put it past
him
—he practically winks at you when he talks. But that’s not Gianni.” She put her hand on Claudia’s again. “I hope Adam explained things. What he’s like. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know. He wouldn’t know how.”

Claudia moved her hand, looking away.

“Anyway, you’ve come to dance, and I’m just fussing and ruining things. Off you go. I’ll wait here like Penelope with my weaving.” She made a shooing motion with her hands toward the dance floor.

The orchestra had switched to a piece of generic ball music, lilting and sweet without being recognizable as anything in particular, something to talk under as we danced. People were passing back and forth between the ballroom and the food tables next door, balancing little plates of hors d’oeuvres.

“What are you going to say to her?” Claudia said when we’d moved away from the edge.

“Nothing.”

“But if they never find him—think how it will be for her. Never to know.”

“If they never find him, we’ll be safe. She’ll be—”

What? All right? Frantic? Waiting for some word, the phone to ring. How long before a disappearance becomes painless, just a mystery? I looked at Claudia.

“We can’t say anything. You know that, don’t you? We can’t.”

She nodded.

“I’ll get her to go away somewhere. Maybe Mimi—”

“She won’t leave now. She’ll look for him.”

“She can’t look forever. It’ll pass,” I said weakly, not even convincing myself.

We stared at each other for a moment, not talking, just moving our feet in aimless circles to the music, then her eyes grew shiny and she turned her face away.

“Oh,” she said, a moan, cut off, turned suddenly into a kind of nervous giggle that caught in her throat. She pitched her head forward onto my shoulder to stifle it, steady an unexpected shaking.

“We have to get through this,” I said. “Then we’ll be all right.”

“Can’t we leave now? Everybody’s seen us.”

“If they find the body, they’ll try to fix a time of death. People have to think we were here all night.”

“How would they find it? You said he’d go to the bottom. In the lagoon.”

“If they find it.”

“Oh, god. And then what?”

“Then we were here all night. Having a good time.”

I pulled her hand to me, bending my head to kiss it, then saw my own fingers and froze. There were little rims of rust under the nails. No, blood. When I’d clenched my hands earlier, had I dug them in so deep? I opened my hand. No marks on the palms. His blood. Where anybody might see it if he looked closely enough. Cavallini hadn’t noticed, shaking hands, but what if we met again? I might be lighting a cigarette, bringing my fingers up, the rims suddenly visible, unavoidable. The smallest thing could give you away.

I turned Claudia’s hand over, spreading it. “Let me see. No, you’re all right.”

“What?” she said, startled, clutching her hand.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, letting my arms fall. “Have some champagne. Right back.” Turning away, not even waiting to see her expression, explain anything. Time enough later.

The nearest men’s room was on the other side of the stair landing, unmarked but guarded by a footman placed there to direct ladies down the hall. Inside, another servant was acting as washroom attendant, turning taps and handing out towels. Count Grillo stood in
front of the toilet bowl, still supported on one arm, his pee a trickle that barely made a sound as it hit the water. I dug my fingernails in again, waiting.

When he finished, flushing and then slowly buttoning up, I stepped forward to take his place, but nothing came out. I was too anxious now even to pee. But I had to—otherwise why had I come? And then the attendant turned on the tap, the sound of gushing water like a cue, and it was all right. I slumped a little, my breath spilling out too.

Count Grillo took forever to dry but finally shuffled away. I rubbed my hands around the bar of soap, lathering them, keeping my back to the attendant. My knuckles were raw, not broken but scraped—what happened to hands in a fight. I ran one nail under the others and dug at the dried blood. More soap. When I rinsed, there was just enough blood to stain the water, a thin pale stream. I stood for a minute staring at it, light rust, like something that might have come out of an old water pipe. There all along. Shaking hands with Cavallini, with scraped knuckles and blood under my fingernails. But he hadn’t seen, hadn’t thought to look. And now it was too late, the red running into the soapy water, then out some ancient drain to the lagoon. Safe.

“
Prego
.” The attendant had leaned forward, holding out a hand towel, the word loud in my ear. Had he been close enough to see? It didn’t have to be Cavallini. Anybody. Just one glance at the basin, the eye drawn to the unexpected stain.

“
Momento
,” I said quickly, turning my shoulder to block his line of sight. What if any of it had stuck to the porcelain? But I couldn’t wash the bowl, not with him standing there. I lathered once more, then rinsed, holding my hands out for the towel but keeping the water running, a last chance to let it wash away. The attendant reached over and turned off the tap. Not looking at the water, busy now with the towel, taking it from me and putting it in the hamper. Involuntarily I looked down at my hands. Pink from all the soap and water, but no more rims, no evidence. When I looked up, I found the attendant staring at me, his eyes a question mark. I dropped my hands, folding
the rough knuckles out of sight. He kept staring and for a minute, feeling chilled, I thought he had seen, was trying to decide what to do, but then he held up a clothes brush and I saw that he was just waiting for me to turn around so that he could dust me off, make the rest of me as clean as my hands.

An hour later we called Gianni’s house again, this time using Claudia to speak Italian.

“
Non in casa
,” my mother said, “that’s all I can get out of them. Well, I know he’s not at home.”

Claudia took the phone and spoke rapidly for a few minutes, but learned nothing more. He’d left the house on foot before eight. Dressed for the party. Did he say he was going anywhere first? No, he said he had to hurry, he was a little late.

The hospital knew even less. He’d left at the usual time. For home? Yes. And he hadn’t been back? No, he was going to a big party.

My mother now fidgeted, genuinely worried, as if Claudia’s Italian should have produced different answers.

“But it’s ridiculous,” she said.

“No one just vanishes.” “No,” Claudia said. “So he must have a reason.”

I looked at her, expecting to see her eyes dart away, but she met mine evenly, no longer skittish, her balance restored somehow by having to lie to my mother. Or maybe the lies were becoming real to us, what had really happened.