Midnight in Venice (5 page)

 

The skies opened just as Olivia was entering the Campo San Giacomo. She dived under the awning of the closest bar and looked toward the little supermarket in one of the palazzos that ringed the square. It wasn't that far, but she could hardly make out the supermarket sign through the downpour. Indeed, she could barely see the large medieval church in the square's center.

At first she was annoyed. She was tired and wanted to get home. While the main island of Venice is less than three square miles, it isn't the easiest city to navigate; it would take another half hour to get home.

She almost laughed. How could she, after only one month in the most wondrous city in the world, let the little things bother her?

Marco had left for Iceland right after New Year's, and every day since had been a whirlwind of working in the office and lunches with Silvio and his artists and dealers. Dinners too, just about every night, and at least a dozen parties. There would have been more, but the last two she begged off, telling Silvio she needed some early nights with her trip to New York only a week away.

Already Christmas seemed a distant memory. She and Marco had done everything as planned. Marco had rented a car and they'd driven to Padua, the city of her father's birth, and spread his ashes on the Brenta River, where he'd rowed his boat as a child. They had found the perfect Christmas tree and decorated it with paper snowflakes and garlands of popcorn. They had shopped at the Venetian markets and cooked all her dad's favorite meals, setting a place for him. They went to concerts of Christmas choral music so beautiful, in churches so beautiful, that tears ran down their cheeks. On Christmas evening, she called her mother in Vancouver, where she was just getting up, and spoke to her for an hour, telling her about the trip to Padua and reminiscing over past Christmases with Dad. She thanked her for the chattering teeth, omitting all the trouble with the handsome cop. Every day she failed to screw up her courage to call him, and it was now feeling a little unreal.

As she huddled under the awning, she decided the supermarket could wait. She'd have a drink instead and wait for the rain to stop. If it didn't, she'd run for the vaporetto, arrive home sopping wet, have a hot shower, open a bottle of wine, cook some pasta, and heat up some sauce out of a jar. She'd watch one of the action movies Marco had lent her and go to bed early. It was the perfect way to spend a rainy evening in Venice.

Still smiling at her new Zen attitude, she turned to go into the bar and almost collided with the man coming out.

“Olivia Moretti!”

Just like that. With no hesitation whatsoever, he remembered her name. Of course she remembered his—she'd looked at the card so often. But she was sure he'd have long forgotten hers.

Instead, he'd burst out with it as if he said it every day. Was it because he was happy to see her, or because those stupid plastic teeth had emblazoned her on his memory?

Finally she found her voice. “Hi, I'm fine,” she said before realizing he hadn't asked her how she was. Then, losing all control of her tongue, she blurted out, “You can't arrest me today—I don't have my wind-up teeth.”

He laughed, a wonderful, genuine laugh. “I think you should know those teeth made me the laughingstock of every police department in Venice. And, once the video went viral on YouTube, all of Italy.”

Okay, so it
was
those stupid teeth
.

“I'm sorry,” she stuttered. She'd met dozens of good-looking single men in the last couple of weeks, but none of them made her feel like he did. Just then, she comprehended the implications of what he'd said. “Oh no! Am I in that video?” She imagined a zillion people watching her scoop up her black lingerie.

“No, just me. Looking rather stupid.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know . . .”

At that moment, someone else plunged under the awning, and they were forced to step aside.

“No, no. Not at all. Look, I owe you an apology. I was a bit of a jerk that day. I was hoping you'd call, but then I realized I probably should've been more direct.”

She was wondering if she should tell him how much she wanted to call but was saved from answering when he offered to buy her a spritz.

“A spritz?”

“You've been in Venice all this time and you haven't had a spritz? Let me introduce you.” He seemed almost as nervous as she was.

“Okay, thank you,” she said, feeling this meeting was taking on all the awkwardness of a first date.

“Do you want to sit inside? Or should we sit out here and watch the rain?”

“Outside,” she said. The rain had tipped the day into night, and a waiter turned on the colored Murano-glass lights. They reflected yellow, red, and blue in the water now pooling on the stone square.

“Two spritz à Aperol,
per favore
,” Alessandro said as he held out a chair for her.

They were alone, and the rain pounded on the awning. It was damp and cold, but she didn't mind. She pulled her collar up more to give her hands something to do than to warm herself. He was wearing the same black leather jacket as that day in the airport, and she liked how his thick black hair brushed the collar.

She tried to think of something to say. He was quiet too, and just when she wondered if he was now doubting this impulsive invitation, he held out his hand. “Let's just start from the beginning. Hello, my name is Alessandro Rossi.”

She took it. It was strong and warm. “Olivia Moretti.
Piacere
.”

“
Piacere
,” he returned, and she couldn't help but think he had held her hand a moment longer than necessary. “Would you prefer to speak in English or Italian?”

She put her hand, now warmer than the other, back in her lap. “English, please. I've been speaking nothing but Italian since my cousin Marco left, and it's nice to speak English again.”

“That's the cousin you were meeting at the airport?”

“Yes, that's right.” He certainly didn't forget anything. “He's a partner in the gallery Silvio Milan. I'm working in the Venice office for the next few months. He's in Iceland right now, checking out an art cooperative.” She didn't say Marco had just sent her a text, a very enthusiastic one, about a man he'd met at an opening:
I'll be staying on for the next few weeks getting to know Aron. Silvio is okay with it. He's very happy with my work with the art collective—some great finds. Will be back by the time you return from New York.
She had a sneaking suspicion they'd soon be updating the gallery sign. Silvio Milan—Venice, London, New York, Toronto, and
Reykjavik.

She smiled as much at this thought as at the appearance of their drinks. Bright orange in color, with an olive and a wedge of orange, they were a cheerful sight. “I've seen these,” she said, popping the olive into her mouth, “but never thought to ask what they were. It's been so cold and these look so summery, so I always just order red wine.” She took a sip. “Very good—I've been missing out. What is it exactly?”

“Equal parts Prosecco, sparkling water, and Aperol. It's a favorite
aperitivo
, especially with the students. My aunt goes on about the evils of the spritz. In her mind, it's up there with devil worship.”

“What's Aperol?”

“It's a liqueur. Rhubarb, I think. Plus orange and herbs of some sort.”

“I don't think I would've guessed rhubarb in a million years.”

She was feeling relaxed now. Or almost. It was hard to hold his gaze when she spoke to him, and she wasn't sure what to talk about now that they'd covered the drink. Should she tell him her mother had made pies out of rhubarb?

No, that was dumb, but he saved her the trouble by asking her how Christmas went.

“Good,” she said. “I think I told you my father died last year . . .” Of course he'd remember that part; she'd cried all over that leather jacket.

“I remember,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “I'm sorry again for your loss.”

“My cousin Marco and I celebrated this Christmas for him, doing all the things he liked, and we took his ashes to Padua, where he was born.” She was amazed at how easily she could talk about this now, and how the happy memories were starting to replace her pain. “It really helped.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he said, and she thought she detected a slightly envious tone that she didn't understand. But when he spoke again, his tone was light. “I was born near Padua too. My family home is there.”

“Really?” she said, glad for this connection.

“Yes, though now I live here, by Sant'Elena. As I recall, you live on the Rio de San Vio. And is your father's home still in the family?”

“No, strangers live there now. His family moved to Canada in 1958, when he was still a baby. We stopped and took pictures to show my mother.”

“It's nice that you were able to see it. And are you enjoying living in Venice?”

“I love it. I'm only here until June, but I'm already wondering if there's any way I can stay longer.”

“Good. Not everyone feels the same way. It requires a certain patience to live here. Patience with the weather, the inconveniences, the tourists, the heat in summer, the rains and floods in winter. You know about the
acqua alta
?”

“The high waters. I've seen the raised sidewalks stacked up in some of the squares, ready to go just in case. And with this rain . . .”

“Not so much the rain. It's a combination of tides and winds that makes the water rise especially high. You may see it yet.”

“I don't want to say ‘I hope so,' as I know the high waters cause damage, but it would be interesting. I like the idea of wading through San Marco in my rubber boots. And you—how long have you been a police officer?”

“Two years. And not exactly a police officer. I'm with the Guardia di Finanza. It's a wing of the military. Corruption, white-collar crime, drugs, kidnapping, smuggling . . . that sort of thing. When I met you at the airport, we were helping out the Carabinieri, another wing of the military police, with the bomb threat.”

“And we both know how that turned out.”

They laughed.

“But only two years,” she said. “What did you do before that?”

“I was a concert pianist.”

“Really? How does anyone get from being a pianist to the Guardia di Finanza?”
She immediately regretted asking. She had never seen such a transformation. Whereas before he'd been relaxed, his smile had suddenly dissolved into something she could describe only as a profound sadness. “I'm so sorry . . .” she said.

“No, it's okay. It's a very long story. But in short, I lost someone very close to me.” He paused. “My wife was kidnapped . . . and murdered. The case was never solved, and I thought if I could do it, I'd finally have some closure, as they like to put it. I haven't handled everything as well as you.”

She wanted to take a drink to cover up her discomfort, but it seemed somehow disrespectful. It clearly had caused him a lot of effort to say this, and she could see he wasn't in the habit of telling strangers about it. It showed a lot of trust on his part, and she should be honored—if that was the right word—that he'd confided in her. “I'm so sorry,” she repeated. “Though I'm not sure it's the same thing. My dad died of cancer.”

“Maybe not,” was all he said.

Something told her that even if he solved the crime, closure would still elude him. He talked as if it had only just happened. But it couldn't have. It must take time to become a cop or whatever exactly he was.

She wanted to comfort him but was at a loss as to how. Impulsively, she placed her hand over his on the table. She meant to leave it only briefly—a gesture of sympathy to replace the words she didn't have—but to her surprise he turned his hand beneath hers and curled his fingers around it, holding it for a moment before releasing it. Her heart beating a little harder now, she reluctantly picked up her spritz.

When he spoke, his tone had shifted again, as if he'd taken a deep breath to clear the sadness that had taken such a strong hold on him. “It's lucky I ran into you here. I was on my way to dinner with my aunt—”

“The one who disapproves of drinking spritzes?”

“The very same. I was early so I stopped in—”

“And now I've made you late.”

“No, no,” he said hurriedly. “I had to wait for the rain to let up anyway. It's just that I'd like to ask you for dinner tonight, but I don't think I can stand up my aunt . . .”

Olivia finished her drink. The aunt could be an excuse, but she didn't think so. He seemed genuinely reluctant to go.

She looked at the square, disappointed the rain had let up considerably and was just a dull drizzle that her umbrella could handle. Not long ago, she'd wanted it to stop, but now, if it meant keeping him from his dinner with his aunt, she'd be happy.

“Tomorrow evening is my last chance to prepare for a recital,” he said, “but would you have time for lunch? I'll be at the office, but I can get away for a couple of hours at one . . . I mean, only if you'd like to . . .”

“I'd love to,” she said. She could hear the eagerness in her voice but couldn't have stopped it if she'd tried.

They left the bar at the same time, opening their umbrellas as they stepped out from under the awning. He didn't offer his hand this time but kissed her on both cheeks. It would be the same way he greeted his elderly aunt, but that didn't make it any less exciting.

She didn't turn into the street right away but watched him as he strode across the square. He was about to round the corner of the church when he turned and raised his hand to her, and while it was too far and dark to really tell, she was sure he was smiling.

She returned the wave and the smile before turning into the street and breaking into a run. There was just no way to contain what she felt. Around the corner, over the bridge, through the tiny square of Campo San Boldo, down streets barely wide enough for her umbrella. Puddles splashed up and drenched the hem of her skirt, filling her shoes with water as she dodged an elderly man who was walking a yappy dog. Sending the pigeons scattering in all directions, she caught the vaporetto just before it pulled away from the dock, and she was laughing as she ran aboard.