Alibi: A Novel (43 page)

“He worked with the Germans? Paolo says so?” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, finally there.

“Paolo worked with them. Paolo was perfect. The older brother. It was his name on the companies, the ones that were all ours, not just a piece. He was already friendly with them—a puppet, like everybody in the Salò government. The worse things got, the happier he is in the books. ‘I presented our proposal to Donati.’ So who is ‘our’? Him? No, my father. ‘I met with Rohrer and told Gianni that the plan had met with approval.’ His plan? No. So busy now, so important. Head of the family. Even his brother praises him, confides in him.”

“Uses him.”

“Yes. It’s my father who’s working with them. But no one knows that. They only see Paolo.”

“And kill him for it.”

She looked away for a minute, just shuffling to the music.

“I don’t blame my father for that. Paolo did that to himself. I don’t know, did Paolo have to do everything he did for the Germans? Help them with—whatever they asked. I think with my father it would have been different. But Paolo didn’t know where to stop. He was important, he liked that. So, you know, it’s his fault too. I don’t blame my father.” She looked up. “But my father did. He blamed himself. Now I understand it, how he was when Paolo died. His fault.”

“And now there was no one to run interference.”

“No. Now he had to deal with the Germans himself. It was too late to back out. If he wanted to. I don’t think he did. He hated the partisans for killing Paolo. Maybe he hated the Germans too. But it was the end, they would be gone soon, and he was still safe, if he was careful. No one knew. He was a doctor, a good man. You know, when the trials came right after the war, no one even thought of him.”

I remembered Rosa at the Bauer, her face filled with excitement, a new quarry.

“Work with the Germans? That was Paolo, it all died with Paolo. So my father survived the Germans, then he survived you.” She
waved her hand a little, taking in the rest of the room, the Allied occupation. “With his good name. My god, and now an American wife. And all the money. The money Paolo earned for him.” She looked down. “Sometimes I think I should admire him. It’s not so easy to survive. But then look what he did to Paolo.”

“And this is all in there? The Germans he worked with?”

“That Paolo worked with, yes. And him. I’ll show you. You have to know how to read them, how the businesses are connected.” She paused. “Are you still trying to defend him?”

“I just want to be sure.”

“You think I want this to be true? I wasn’t even going to tell you about them. But it was your idea, wasn’t it? Look through the papers. And what did we find? A man who sells his brother to the devil.” She paused. “And maybe Paolo had his revenge. His friend comes to the hospital. Such a small thing, and then it starts—” She drifted, following the bullet that didn’t stop, her chain of events, unaware that it had been an even smaller thing, a mere nod. I saw Gianni’s face twisted with fury in the entrance hall, thinking I was about to ruin everything because of something so small it hadn’t mattered to him.

“So this is who he was,” she said, her voice unsteady, eyes filling.

I glanced down at her. What I’d wanted to know, but not this way, making another wound.

“Part of who he was,” I said, trying to salvage something.

“Oh, because he was Papa? Well, which part do you pick? You think they’re all the same, all equal?”

“No.”

“No. Those people in the house are dead. Who knows, maybe others. What part was that?”

“We still don’t know he did that,” I said. “Just because he did business with the Germans. It doesn’t prove—”

But she wasn’t listening. “For me, Paolo, that’s the worst. His own blood. My blood. And I never would have known. Nobody would.” She looked up. “And nobody has to know now. Just the family. They can never put him on trial now. Moretti saved us all from that.”

For a second, the back of my neck prickling, I thought how easy it
would be to let it happen, let Moretti save all of us, just by being guilty.

“But now there’s his trial,” I said. “It’ll come out.”

“Not if he confesses,” she said, her eyes firm, not flinching, maybe the way they were when she talked to Cavallini. Family matters.

Mario cut in on me at the end of the song, so that both girls were now on the floor with the soldiers. Behind them, others were standing with their drinks, waiting a turn. The band, surprised to find a party, didn’t even break before moving into the next number.

“Well, I’m glad for this,” Cavallini said, watching the dancers. “I wanted to talk to you. That business at the hotel, asking questions about Signorina Grassini—I’m sorry for that. An absurdity. I assure you, not my men.”

“No? Then who?”

“I told you, some at the Questura, they’re not happy about Moretti. It’s politics, of course, but they don’t say that.”

“So they’re investigating Claudia?”

“No, no. Please don’t upset yourself. Reviewing the case, they say. Going over everything. Why? A waste of time, but there’s Moretti’s lawyer, making trouble for them. So there has to be the pretense. Looking at everything. I tell you this because I know they called your mother.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes, such an expense. And for what? What they already knew in the report. If she mentions it, tell her it’s nothing—some foolishness here, that’s all. She’s well?”

I nodded. “But what do they want to know?”

“If I made a mistake, that’s what. A time wrong, anything. Then they can discredit me. This is typical of the Communists. But do they find anything? No. It’s just as it is in the report. No mistakes.”

“They haven’t talked to me.”

“They will,” he said easily. “This is how things are now. A man who has been like a partner to us. You know, if it were up to the Questore—he knows your service. But even he—”

“I understand. They’re just being careful.”

“Still, an inconvenience. And after all, what can you tell them? You were with me.” He laughed, a joke on the Questura.

What could I tell them? I smiled back at Cavallini, but my mind was racing, the new questions a chance, maybe, to raise doubts about Moretti, open just enough space to let him wriggle free.

Cavallini patted me on the shoulder, a kind of reassurance. “Well, it’s a question of patience. I tell you frankly, though, I don’t like these delays. The longer it goes on, the more this boy becomes a symbol. I told the Questore, we should move him. Jesolo, maybe Verona, a facility somewhere out of sight. As long as he’s in Venice, the parties throw him at each other. This is a crime, not politics. And look how people use it. Well, here come the ladies.”

But they came trailing suitors, so there was another dance before they sat down and another round of drinks before I could rescue Claudia by asking her to dance.

“If you don’t take me home, I’m going to scream,” she said in my ear.

“I thought you were having a good time,” I teased.

“No. You’re having a good time. All your favorite people. The police. The wonderful Giulia. You think no one can see you, with your heads like that? So much to talk about.”

“All right, just a few more minutes.”

“What do you talk about, anyway?” she said. “Her father?”

“Actually, she was offering me a job.”

“What?” she said, the word catching in her throat, the beginning of a giggle.

“In the Maglione businesses.”

“A job? His daughter offers you a job?” she said, shaking now.

“Ssh,” I said, but she pulled back, putting her hand to her mouth, laughing, then gulping, her eyes shiny, and I realized that she was tipping out of control, pushed by drink and tension to somewhere easier, funnier.

“His daughter? His daughter wants to give you money? A reward?”

“Ssh, they’ll hear you.”

“What about me? Do I get something too?”

I pulled her close to me. “Stop it. Go to the ladies’ room—put some water on your face. I’ll get your coat.”

“And go?”

I nodded, my face against hers. “Just don’t say anything. Understand?”

“I know what job. Son-in-law. Ha, too late.”

“Claudia—”

“I know. Ssh.” She put her finger to her lips.

I got her off the floor to the ladies’ room, then stood outside for a second, shaken. Wasn’t this the way it always happened? All the answers, the cross-checked times, destroyed in a careless moment? I went over to the table for her coat.

“Sorry, but we’d better go.”

“She’s all right?” Giulia said.

“A little too much to drink, that’s all.”

“I’ll go see if—” she said, getting up.

“No, it’s fine. Good night. And thank you,” I said, taking her hand, looking directly at her, our secret.

“Yes, but I am the one who pays,” Cavallini said smoothly, a smile in his voice. He held up his hand before I could say anything. “No, I insist. A wedding gift. Here, let me tell the
cameriere
.” He led me away from the table, ostensibly to find the waiter but really to move out of earshot. “You see how remarkable she is. After losing a father.”

But I wasn’t thinking about Giulia. I looked toward the ladies’ room door, wondering what was happening inside. Was she talking to someone? Being sick? My forehead felt moist again, nervous sweat.

“And now more trouble. But at least we can protect her from this.”

“Protect her?” I said, distracted.

“This investigation—your Rosa. We had to start there, yes, but now it’s of no importance. He takes the medicine, he blames Gianni. What else matters?” I looked at him. Already making sure it went right. “These suspicions about Gianni. Imagine how it would hurt her.” He nodded toward the table where Giulia, alone, was lighting another cigarette.

“But the defense is bound to bring it up. They’d have to.”

“Well, if there is a trial.” What neither of them wanted now. “Let’s hope, for her sake—”

He let the rest of the thought float toward the table. She was looking out through the smoke toward the band, and suddenly I saw her as she would be, one of the ladies sitting alone at Harry’s or Florian’s. Rich, attended by Cavallini or someone like him, a curiosity, finally, for the tourists. How long would it take? Years, one layer of money at a time, the way varnish is spread over a painting to fix the colors. I squinted, as if I were really looking into crystal, waiting for the blur to clear, show me my own future, but nothing appeared, just Giulia sitting alone at Florian’s.

“These trials,” Cavallini was saying. “Who wins but the lawyers? You’re surprised I would say this? But I’ve seen it many times. One question, then another, something that doesn’t matter to the crime, and now it’s public. An embarrassment, worse. A reputation ruined—I have seen this—and for what? Think of Signorina Grassini—excuse me, Signora Miller.” He smiled, tipping his head slightly.

I turned to him, confused, not sure what connection he was making. “Claudia?”

He put his hand on my arm. “These are simple people, in the Questura. The obvious, that’s all they can see. In the end, what comes of it? Nothing. But meanwhile, it’s a trial, so they bring up everything.”

“Like what?”

“Excuse me, I don’t say this myself. I know she had a difficult time in that camp. And then to have to talk about it.”

“But why would she?”

“The way Vanessi died—you understand, these are simple people. Everything to them is suspicious. Of course, nothing was ever proven. But still they ask their stupid questions. Do they know how the person feels, to talk about this?” He gripped my arm more tightly. “A woman who has suffered that way. To talk about it, that’s not justice. That’s Rosa’s justice. Forgive me. It’s only my concern for you, how you will feel, if your wife—”

He stopped, as if enough had been said and anything more would overstep. I felt his hand, the message behind the words, literally strong-arming me, but to do what? Talk to Rosa? Get her to make Moretti confess? Did he really think that was possible, really think Moretti had done it? Or did it matter anymore? I stared at him, unable to reply, alarmed that Claudia had been discussed at the Questura. Simple people. The way Vanessi died.

“Ah, there you are,” Cavallini said to Claudia as she came out. “You’re feeling well?”

I glanced over, worried, but she was clear-eyed, herself again.

“Yes, fine. A little tired.” She moved toward the coat I held up. “Thank you for the wine,” she said to Cavallini.

“An honor.” He bowed.

We were standing near the bar, the way out, and Cavallini’s gesture caught the eye of a young Italian sitting on one of the stools. He made a sound to his friends, who laughed. Cavallini turned. “Eh,” he said, a polite warning, as if he were in uniform, not a double-breasted jacket.

“
Il conte, permesso
,” the kid said, sweeping his hand in front of him.

Cavallini said something quickly in Italian, which made the group laugh, probably because it was the cartoon response they’d expected, pompous and middle-aged.

“Hey, you’re not going?” Mario, with Jim and a few others.

“Yes. It was nice to see you. Good luck.”

The Italian at the bar said something to his friends, obviously a wisecrack, because Cavallini snapped his head around and told him to behave himself.

“What about us? Don’t we get a dance?” one of the other GIs said. “I mean, who else are we going to dance with?”

“Give it a rest, Lenny.” Mario winked at us, excusing him. “Four drinks and he’s the Rockettes.”

“Come on, babe, one turn around the floor. Souvenir of Venice.”

He moved forward, reaching for Claudia, but Jim stepped in between
and put a restraining arm around his shoulders. “Next time, Lenny.” Behind us, the Italian group started laughing again.

“Hey, he’s all right,” Lenny’s friend said to Jim. “Let him have a turn, what the hell.”

“The lady’s leaving,” Jim said, holding up his other hand.

“The lady’s leaving,” the young Italian said in English to his friends, in a mock singsong, then sputtered something in Italian, clearly obscene, and laughed.

I felt it before I saw it, a rush of air next to me, Cavallini’s arm shooting out, pushing the Italian off his stool and pinning him against the wall by the throat. Claudia jumped, but the rest of us froze, stunned by the animal speed of it, then the angry growl of words.