CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Redmond was pacing on the terrace. It was night; the wind was sighing through the shrubberies; Redmond was in mourning. He was relaxed, at peace with himself: now that Felicia was dead, drowned in an unfortunate accident when he surprised her fornicating in a punt with his half brother on the River Papple, his life would be quite different. He and Charlotte had secret plans to marry, though because of the possibility of gossip they would not make these public for some time. He gazed fondly up at her lighted window. Once they were married he would renounce his former wild and melancholy ways and settle down. She would play the piano and read the newspaper to him as he reclined beside a cheerful fire, wearing a pair of slippers embroidered by her own hand. They would have children, for now that his brother was dead, struck on the head by the overturning punt, he needed a son and heir to succeed him as the rightful Earl of Otterly. It had all worked out rather well, really. Strange that they never recovered Felicia’s body, though he had had the riverbed dragged.

The shrubberies stirred and a figure stepped out from them, blocking his path. It was an enormously fat woman dressed in a sopping-wet blue velvet gown, cut low on the bosom; her breasts rose from the bodice like two full moons. Damp strands of red hair straggled down her bloated face like trickles of blood.

“Redmond, don’t you know me?” the woman said in a throaty voice which, he recognized with horror, was Felicia’s.

“Well,” he said with marked insincerity, “I certainly am glad you didn’t drown after all. But where have you been for these last two months?”

She evaded this question. “Kiss me,” she said, passionately. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

He gave her a perfunctory peck on her white, clammy brow. Her hair smelled of waterweed, of oil and decaying food and dead smelts. He wiped his lips surreptitiously on his shirt sleeve. Hope guttered out in his breast like an expiring candle: what would he do now?

He noted with repugnance that the woman who called herself Felicia was undoing the fastenings of her dress; her fingers fumbled at the hooks. “Remember when we were first married?” she whispered. “And we used to slip out here at night, and embrace by the light of the full moon.…” She looked at him with an inviting simper, which turned slowly to an expression of heartbreaking anguish as she read the disgust in his face.

“You don’t want me,” she said brokenly. She began to cry, her large body shaken by uncontrollable sobs. What could he do? “You didn’t want me to come back at all,” she wept. “You’re happier without me … and it was such an effort, Arthur, to get out of that water and come all this way, just to be with you again.…”

Redmond drew back, puzzled. “Who is Arthur?” he asked.

The woman began to fade, like mist, like invisible ink, like melting snow.…

I could hear footsteps coming down the gravel path, at a great distance, as though through layers of cotton wool. I was still half asleep; I struggled out of the chair and all the towels fell off. I snatched one up, retreating toward the door, but it was too late, Mr. Vitroni was coming around the corner, along the balcony. He had on all his felt pens; under his arm he carried a brown paper parcel.

I backed against the railing, holding the towel in front of me. His eye took in the line of dripping underwear. He gave his little bow.

“I wish I do not disturb?” he said.

“Not at all,” I said, smiling.

“Your lightbulbs are shining?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

“The water is coming out?”

“The house is just fine,” I assured him, “I’m having a wonderful time. A wonderful vacation. The peace and quiet is marvelous.” I wished very much that he would go away, but it looked as if he was going to sell me another painting. I would be powerless to resist it, I knew.

He looked over his shoulder, almost fearfully, as if he was afraid of being seen. “We will go inside,” he said. Seeing me hesitate, he added, “There is something I must tell you.”

I didn’t want to sit at the table with him in a towel and my underwear; somehow it was more indecent inside than on the balcony. I asked him to wait, went into the bathroom, and put on one of my dresses.

When I came out he was sitting at the table with the paper parcel across his knees.

“You have been to Roma?” he asked. “You like it?”

I began to feel exasperated. Surely he hadn’t come here to ask about tourist sites. “It’s very nice,” I told him.

“Your husband, he likes it as well?”

“Yes, I guess so,” I said. “He did like it a lot.”

“It is a city one must visit many times to know well, like a woman,” Mr. Vitroni said. He took out some tobacco and began to roll himself a cigarette. “He will come soon?”

“I certainly hope so,” I said with a hearty laugh.

“I as well wish that he will come soon. It is not good for a woman to be alone. Others will talk of it.” He lit his cigarette, brushed the unused shreds of tobacco back into the packet, and replaced it in his pocket. He’d been watching me carefully.

“This is for you,” he said. He handed me the package.

I was expecting another black velvet painting, but when I took off the string and unfolded the paper, there were my clothes, the jeans and T-shirt that I’d buried so carefully under the house. They were neatly washed and pressed.

“Where did you get these?” I asked. Maybe I could deny they were mine.

“My father, he has seen them in the earth, down there where are the carciofi. He has seen someone was digging. He thinks there is mistake, to bury such clothes, which are not old. He does not speak English, so he ask me to give them to you back. My wife washes them.”

“Tell him thank you very much,” I said. “Thank your wife also.” There was no way I could explain, though he obviously wanted an explanation. He waited; we both looked at my folded clothes.

“People talk of this,” he said finally. “They do not understand why you have put your clothes beneath the house. They know of this. They do not know why you have cut off your so beautiful hair, that everyone remembers from the time you are here before, with your husband; you wear always the dark glasses, like a bat, and you have taken another name. These are things nobody understands. They make the sign” – he extended two fingers – “so the evil eye which you have will not make them sick or give them bad luck as well. I myself do not believe this,” he said apologetically, “but the older ones.…”

So they knew me. Of course they knew me, they remembered everything for five thousand years. What stupidity, to have come back here.

“They ask me to tell you to leave,” he went on. “They think your bad luck will come on me, my wife says that.”

“I suppose they think I’m a witch,” I said, laughing.

But Mr. Vitroni didn’t laugh; he was warning me, it wasn’t funny.

“It would be better if your husband also would come,” he said gravely. “Also, a man is here this morning. He asks for you. He does not know the name you gave me, but he says, a lady, so tall, with red hair, and I know it is you.”

“What?” I said, too quickly. “Who was it?”

He shrugged, studying my face. “I do not think it is your husband. Also he would know where you are living.” He could tell I was upset. If he was right and it wasn’t Arthur, who was it?

“What did he look like?” I said. “What did you tell him?”

“I think I should tell you first,” he said slowly. “I tell him you are in Roma, you will come back after two days. At that time, I tell him, perhaps I can help him. But I say to him perhaps you are not the lady he searches.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

After such kindness, I had to tell him something. I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “Mr. Vitroni,” I said, “I’m hiding. That’s why I used a different name and cut off my hair. No one is supposed to know where I am. I think someone is trying to kill me.”

Mr. Vitroni was not surprised. He nodded, as if he knew such things happened quite frequently. “What have you done?” he said.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I haven’t done anything at all. It’s very complicated, but it has to do with money. I’m quite rich, that’s why this person, these people, want to kill me, so they will get the money.” He seemed to believe this, so I went on. “This man who came, he may be one of my friends, or perhaps he’s an enemy. What did he look like?”

Mr. Vitroni spread his hands. “It is hard for me to say. He had a red car, like yours.” He was holding out on me, what did he want? “Perhaps the police should arrest this man,” he said.

“That’s very good of you,” I said, “but I couldn’t do that. I’m still not sure who this man is, and besides I have no proof. What did he look like?”

“He was wearing a coat,” said Mr. Vitroni helpfully. “A dark coat, American. He was tall, yes, a young man, not old.”

“Did he have a beard?” I asked.

“No beard. A moustache, yes.”

None of this was any help. It didn’t sound like Fraser Buchanan, though. “He says he is a reporter, from a newspaper,” Mr. Vitroni said. “I do not think he is a reporter. You are sure you do not wish him arrested? It could be arranged, I could arrange it with them.”

Was he asking for a bribe? It occurred to me that his visit was no friendly one. It was a negotiation, and no doubt a similar negotiation had gone on with the man. If I would pay, he would help me. Otherwise he would tell this man how to find me. Unfortunately I didn’t have enough money. I decided quickly that I’d have to leave that evening, I’d drive to Rome.

“No, really,” I said. “I’ll handle it in my own way.”

I stood up and held out my hand to Mr. Vitroni. “Thank you very much,” I said, “it was very kind of you to tell me all this.”

He was puzzled; he must have been expecting me to make a deal with him. “I could help you,” he said. “There is a house, farther back, away from the town. You could stay there until this man goes away, we would bring you some food.”

“Thank you,” I said, “perhaps I’ll do that.”

As he left, he patted my shoulder.

“Do not worry,” he said, “all will be happy.”

In the evening I packed my suitcase and carried it up to the car. But when I went to start it, the tank was empty. Stupidity, I thought, remembering it had been low on the trip back from Rome. But then I thought: It’s been drained.