Alibi: A Novel (31 page)

She was silent for a minute, then moved away, carrying her cigarette to the table. “Only you,” she said, putting it out. “You want to know.”

“Don’t you? I want to be sure.”

“Sure of what? You want to use the police to prove he was guilty? Why? So that it was right for you—”

“I want to lead them somewhere else.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll lead them back to us.”

“The closer I am to them, the safer we are.”

She looked up. “Yes? Unless they use you.”

We stopped then, too tired to go any further, but the argument
went on in different ways, a general prickliness that began to seep into the days.

Claudia had found a job in a lace shop near San Aponal.

“You don’t have to work.”

“Yes, I have to. What do I do, sit and wait? Besides, after the Accademia, maybe they think I have a grudge. No job. So it’s better.”

“No one suspects you.”

“Maybe I want to do it anyway. What else? Sit with your mother, waiting for her to guess?”

So we saw less of each other, busy being careful in public. I went through reports at the Questura—a staff member to translate, a desk that wasn’t officially mine but was always available—and Claudia made a point of not asking where I’d been. One night, leaving her hotel, I realized that we’d made love because we were expected to, as if our comings and goings were still being monitored, even sex now part of an airtight alibi, something noted for a file.

On Sunday the weather was still fine and we went to Torcello, an excuse to get away. The vaporetto wasn’t crowded—a few families going out to Burano and two American soldiers in Eisenhower jackets who sat inside with half-closed eyes, out late the night before.

The military had been a light presence in Venice during the occupation, and since the official changeover in December soldiers were even less visible, more like tourists passing through than conquerors. In Germany it had been rubble and jeep patrols and lowering your eyes when a soldier passed, keeping out of trouble. Here, in the close quarters of the boat, the Burano families stared openly, curious, as if they were sizing up customers. I thought of the Germans finishing coffee at Quadri’s. Now the Allies. Who might like a little Burano lace to send home.

Surprisingly, however, the GIs got off with us at Torcello. I looked at the sluggish canal, the lonely marshes beyond, and wondered if they’d made a mistake, but after a quick glance at a map they went straight toward the piazza. Claudia hung back, letting them go ahead. No one else was around. Somewhere on the island, on one of the
farms, a dog barked. Otherwise it was quiet, no summer insects yet, just the wind moving through the reeds. By the time we caught up with the GIs, they were standing in the piazza, a worn patch of grass, looking as melancholy and lost as the shuttered buildings around it.

“There’s supposed to be a restaurant here,” one of them said. “Locanda. You know where that is?”

I pointed to the closed-up inn across from us.

“That’s the one Harry’s runs?”

“Yes, but only in the summer,” I said. “It’s too early.”

“Well, shit,” he said, then dipped his head toward Claudia, an apology to a lady.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“I never asked. I just heard about it. Shit.” He looked around the empty island. “What’s the rest, a ghost town?”

“No, people live here. Farms. It’s just a little early in the season. You’re welcome to have some of ours.” I pointed to the picnic bag.

“That’s okay, we’ll just catch the next boat.”

“That’ll be a while. You check the schedule?”

He shook his head, then grinned. “Never thought to look.”

We opened the wine and shared out the salami sandwiches, sitting on the steps of the Greek church, Claudia slightly away from us, uncomfortable. They were on furlough, trying to see something worth seeing before they headed back to Stuttgart. It was the usual service talk—where I’d been stationed, where they were from, when their separation papers were coming through.

“And I can’t
wait
,” he said. “I mean, I can’t fucking wait. They can keep the whole thing.” He spread his arm to take in all of Europe, then remembered Claudia and dropped it, embarrassed. Instead, as if it would explain things, he pulled out his wallet and showed us a picture of his wife, Joyce. Head tilted for the camera, blond, ordinary, holding a baby in her arms.

“A boy?” Claudia said.

He grinned back. “Jim junior. Haven’t seen him yet. Just this.”

“Well, but soon, yes? They’re sending everybody home now. We
saw it in the newsreels,” she said. “All the boats.” Thousands of waving soldiers, the skyscraper shot, then running down the gangplank, arms open.

“You from here?” he said, intrigued by her accent, maybe the first Italian he’d met. He looked around. “What is this place, anyway?”

“It was the first Venice, where it started.”

“So what happened?”

“The canals silted up. Malaria too, I think.”

He gave her an “I’ll bet” look. “Anything here to see? I mean, you came out, and you knew the restaurant was closed.”

“The basilica is very old, eleventh century. The original was seventh,” Claudia said. “The mosaics are famous.” But she was losing them. They were already looking away, uninterested. “And, you know, for walks.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Walks.” A smile, just a trace of a leer. “And here we are, in the way.” He brushed off his trousers, standing up.

“But you don’t want to see inside?”

“Tell you what, you take a look for me. I never know what I’m looking at anyway. We’ll just go wait for the boat, let you be.”

“It’s a long wait.”

“Not in this sun. I could just soak it up, after Germany.” He grinned. “Fucking sunny Italy, huh?”

They took a photograph of us, then headed down the canal path to the pier, turning once to wave.

“So that’s who comes to Cipriani’s,” Claudia said, amused.

“Not usually,” I said, leaning back. A favorite of Bertie’s before the war. “I wonder how they heard about it.”

“Oh, how do people hear about anything? Somebody tells them.”

“Yes,” I said lazily, closing my eyes. “And who tells him?”

“Somebody else.”

“And him?” I said, playing.

“I don’t know. Maybe Cipriani.”

I smiled, letting the thought drift, then sat up, taking a cigarette
out of my pocket. “So who told Gianni? I mean, how
did
he know?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Rosa said he wouldn’t know a partisan—somebody would have to tell him. Not the SS. If they already knew, why use him? Somebody else. Maybe I’ve been looking at this backwards.”

“How do you mean, backwards?”

“We’ve been tracking what happened
after
, and we’re getting nowhere. But what about before?” I bent over, lighting the cigarette, then saw her confused expression. “Look, the only one in that house who’d been in hospital was a man called Moretti. If there was a connection to Gianni, he’d be it. But he was discharged more than a week earlier. So where was Gianni all that time? There’s nothing to prove he was involved at all.”

“So maybe he wasn’t,” Claudia said calmly.

“No proof,” I said, not listening. “A few visits to Villa Raspelli. But if he did know about Moretti,
how
did he know? Maybe that’s what we should be looking for. The link before.”

“And if you don’t find that either?”

I exhaled some smoke. “Then we can’t prove he did anything.”

“He gave them my father.”

“But there’s no proof he did.”

“No,” she said, “only me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just my word. And now he can’t answer. So how can you prove it? Maybe I made it up. The camp too. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

“I didn’t mean—” I said again.

But she was gathering things up, finished with it. “Let’s see the church.”

I put out my cigarette, still thinking, and followed her inside. Santa Maria Assunta had been built before churches became theaters—the walls were austere and the air was damp. We could see our breath in little streams. Venice was still primitive here, the island a mud bank with reeds again, the world full of mystery and fear. But
then there were the mosaics at the end, cold and glittering, spreading over the chancel in an arch of colored light. People would have knelt here on the rough stone floors, dazed.

“You see the tear on her cheek?” Claudia said, pointing. “Mary crying. It’s unique.”

We studied the Apostles for a while, then walked slowly back to the west wall and the big mosaic of the Last Judgment, the afterlife arranged in tiers, a medieval sorting out, with hellfire on the bottom. Dying wasn’t enough for the early Christians—there had to be punishment too. Claudia stood before it with her arms folded across her chest, working her way down through the levels of grace to the figures on the lower right, engulfed in flames.

“So this is what happens after,” she said. “But they didn’t want the Jews to wait. They burned us here.”

The chill of the old stone followed us out into the piazza, not quite as sunny as before. We took one of the footpaths leading away from the canal, waving to the GIs, who were still waiting on the dock for the Burano boat. “Why are they laughing?”

“They think we’re going parking.”

“Parking?”

“Kissing. In a car. People drive somewhere to be alone.”

“America,” she said. “Everyone has a car.”

“Will you like that? You’ll have to learn to drive.” An unexpected thought, jarring, because I had never imagined us beyond Venice, anywhere outside her room.

“Drive,” she said, maybe jarred too. “Here, no one does.”

Except Gianni’s brother, I thought. Who had actually pushed him off the road? Maybe a connection. Something to ask Rosa.

We passed the farm with the dog, then turned onto a path that led down to the water, a cleared patch of dry land that looked back through the reeds to the campanile. In summer, lovers would come with picnics. Now we pulled our jackets tight against the wind.

It was only after his brother’s death that Gianni had made the house calls to Villa Raspelli. Younger, but head of the family, Father Luca had said. His brother’s keeper.

“So you’re thinking again,” she said. “Why is this so important to you?”

“I don’t want to be wrong.” I turned to her. “Then it’s just personal—something I did for myself.”

She stopped in the path. “He was trying to kill you.”

I looked over the reeds. His eyes, hesitating, about to stop, then the slippery stairs, my hand underneath, getting cold as I held him there, my breath ragged.

“What?” she said.

“No, I wanted to do it,” I said finally. “I wanted to do it.”

She came over to me. “You know what he was.”

“If he was. I was wrong about him and my mother. He was never after her money, never. Anyway, it turns out there isn’t any.”

“No?” she said, then started to smile, raising her hand to brush at my hair. “So it’s lucky I found the lace shop.”

“I was wrong,” I said, not letting go.

She brushed my hair again. “It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why? So you can blame yourself? And then what? For you it’s like the mosaic.” She tossed her head toward the church. “Always a judgment. There is no judgment. No one is judging. No one is watching.” She stopped, dropping her hand. “No one is watching.”

“Then we have to,” I said.

“Oh, like he did,” she said, annoyed, moving away. “Play God. Of course, a doctor, they’re used to that, aren’t they? Then he plays it with my father. Bah.” She waved her hand. “But that’s not enough for you. How guilty does he have to be? Before it’s all right?”

She walked to the end of the clearing where it was sunny and faced the water, using her back to put an end to the conversation. I went over to her, not saying anything.

“That’s Jesolo,” she said, pointing, meaning nothing, not expecting a response.

I took out my cigarettes and offered her one, waiting for her lead. But she seemed to enjoy the silence, turning her face to the sun, then
squatting down to test the ground for dampness, sitting, and lying back. I sat down next to her.

“This is better. All week in the shop, never any sun,” she said.

I stretched out, leaning on my elbow to prop up my head as I looked at her.

“You don’t have to work there,” I said, going along. “I mean, with your English. They’re always looking for translators. Joe would hire you in a second.”

“For the army? No, not even yours. Not carabinieri either. Or police. No uniforms.” She glanced over. “I don’t work for the police. One of us is enough.”

I turned and lay on my back, squinting at the bright sky. In the distance was the faint sound of a boat’s motor, maybe the GIs’ vaporetto. “What’s wrong?” I said. “All week. It’s not Cavallini, not really. What?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “I’m worried.”

“About what? I’m telling you, they don’t know.”

She shook her head. “Not that. It’s different between us. At first, it made us closer. And now, already we’re quarreling.” She turned to me. “You can’t change it. What it is. You want to make it better. Nothing makes it better.”

“I know.”

“But you keep thinking, maybe. It’s in your head.” She lay on her back again.

“Nothing’s different between us. I just want to know about him, that’s all. It’s important.”

She closed her eyes, another way of turning her back, and said nothing for a few minutes, then sighed, not much louder than the moving reeds.

“They have sun in Georgia?” she said. “Where that soldier lives?”

“Nothing but.”

“So he’s happy there. But not you,” she said, thinking aloud. “You don’t want to go home.”

“I’m happy here.”

“No. Something else. Those men on the ship—in the film,
remember? So excited. It’s over for them.” She turned, opening her eyes. “But not for you.”

I said nothing, remembering Rosa wagging her finger between us, both of us still with files.

“Maybe it takes an ocean, and then it’s gone,” she said. “Oh, I want—”

I looked over at her. “What?”