quickly at her watch, but Ray doubted if she could see the time on it. “I think it’s before eleven. We are very good.”
He had reached a state of not hearing what she said, and yet he did not want to leave her.
“Something worries you, Filipo. Or are you just very tired?” She whispered now, as if in her own street she did not want to disturb the neighbours because she knew them.
“Not very tired. Good night, Elisabetta.” He squeezed her left hand in his for an instant, had no desire to kiss her or to try to, yet he felt that he loved her. “You’ve got your key?”
“Oh, but certainly.” She opened the door softly, and waved him good-bye before she closed it.
An old woman in black, whom Ray had never seen before, opened the door for him. Ray murmured an apology for his lateness, and she assured him cheerfully that she never slept, so it was no trouble to her. Ray climbed the stairs quietly. Never slept? Never undressed then? The mother of Signora Calliuoli? Ray leaned over the stairwell at his floor. The light below was extinguished now, and he heard not a sound.
7
A t a quarter past ten the next morning, Ray entered the Calle San Moise, the street of the Hotel Bauer-Gruenwald. He felt it was the ripe time of the morning, when most likely Coleman and Inez would be setting forth for their morning’s activities—shopping, a bit of tourism, or simply a walk. Ray walked with his head a little down, as tautly as if he expected a gunshot, a bullet in his body, at any second. He waited at the door of a shop across the street from the hotel’s entrance and some thirty feet to one side of it. It was Sunday, and only a few shops were open. And for twenty minutes, nothing happened, except that ten or fifteen people, including bellhops, went in and out of the hotel. Ray did not know exactly what he wanted or intended to do, but he wanted to see Coleman, or Inez, and see the way they acted. When they did not appear, he pictured them arguing upstairs in one of the rooms about whether he was alive or dead, though he knew this was irrational. They might be still breakfasting, or chatting casually as Coleman stood in the bathroom shaving.
Ray walked on and found a bar with a telephone. He looked up the Bauer-Gruenwald number and dialled it. “Signor Col-e-man, per favore,” Ray said.
“‘Allo?” said Inez’s voice. “‘Allo?”
Ray did not answer.
“Is this Ray?—Ray? Is it you—Edward, come here!”
Ray hung up.
Yes, Inez was upset. Coleman would be more upset, Ray thought. Coleman—if he knew Ray had not gone back to the Seguso, and Ray had not much doubt Coleman did know that—would assume he had drowned. Coleman would think, therefore, the silent telephone call was an accident, that the hotel switchboard had made a mistake, or cut someone off. But Coleman would suffer a little doubt, too. And whatever Coleman had told Inez, the telephone call would stir up the mystery again in her mind. Had it been Ray telephoning? If not, then where was Ray? Could Coleman tell her? Ray walked slowly past the Bauer-Gruenwald, and jumped slightly as he saw Inez in a black fur coat coming out the glass doors. Ray stepped into a narrow street to his left.
Inez walked briskly past him, only twenty feet away.
Ray followed her at a distance. She turned right into the Calle Vallaresso, which led to Harry’s Bar on the corner and to the vaporetto dock at its end. Ray saw that she was going to take a boat. There were several people on the dock, waiting. Ray walked to the right side of the dock and turned his back on the crowd, facing the water. Inez did not take the first boat. She was going in the other direction then. Ray wanted very much to see her face, but was afraid to look lest his eyes attract hers. He had not been able to see her face clearly when she came out of the hotel.
Another boat arrived, and Inez boarded it, as did most of the people on the dock. Ray got on among the last, and stood at the rear of the
He had reached a state of not hearing what she said, and yet he did not want to leave her.
“Something worries you, Filipo. Or are you just very tired?” She whispered now, as if in her own street she did not want to disturb the neighbours because she knew them.
“Not very tired. Good night, Elisabetta.” He squeezed her left hand in his for an instant, had no desire to kiss her or to try to, yet he felt that he loved her. “You’ve got your key?”
“Oh, but certainly.” She opened the door softly, and waved him good-bye before she closed it.
An old woman in black, whom Ray had never seen before, opened the door for him. Ray murmured an apology for his lateness, and she assured him cheerfully that she never slept, so it was no trouble to her. Ray climbed the stairs quietly. Never slept? Never undressed then? The mother of Signora Calliuoli? Ray leaned over the stairwell at his floor. The light below was extinguished now, and he heard not a sound.
7
A t a quarter past ten the next morning, Ray entered the Calle San Moise, the street of the Hotel Bauer-Gruenwald. He felt it was the ripe time of the morning, when most likely Coleman and Inez would be setting forth for their morning’s activities—shopping, a bit of tourism, or simply a walk. Ray walked with his head a little down, as tautly as if he expected a gunshot, a bullet in his body, at any second. He waited at the door of a shop across the street from the hotel’s entrance and some thirty feet to one side of it. It was Sunday, and only a few shops were open. And for twenty minutes, nothing happened, except that ten or fifteen people, including bellhops, went in and out of the hotel. Ray did not know exactly what he wanted or intended to do, but he wanted to see Coleman, or Inez, and see the way they acted. When they did not appear, he pictured them arguing upstairs in one of the rooms about whether he was alive or dead, though he knew this was irrational. They might be still breakfasting, or chatting casually as Coleman stood in the bathroom shaving.
Ray walked on and found a bar with a telephone. He looked up the Bauer-Gruenwald number and dialled it. “Signor Col-e-man, per favore,” Ray said.
“‘Allo?” said Inez’s voice. “‘Allo?”
Ray did not answer.
“Is this Ray?—Ray? Is it you—Edward, come here!”
Ray hung up.
Yes, Inez was upset. Coleman would be more upset, Ray thought. Coleman—if he knew Ray had not gone back to the Seguso, and Ray had not much doubt Coleman did know that—would assume he had drowned. Coleman would think, therefore, the silent telephone call was an accident, that the hotel switchboard had made a mistake, or cut someone off. But Coleman would suffer a little doubt, too. And whatever Coleman had told Inez, the telephone call would stir up the mystery again in her mind. Had it been Ray telephoning? If not, then where was Ray? Could Coleman tell her? Ray walked slowly past the Bauer-Gruenwald, and jumped slightly as he saw Inez in a black fur coat coming out the glass doors. Ray stepped into a narrow street to his left.
Inez walked briskly past him, only twenty feet away.
Ray followed her at a distance. She turned right into the Calle Vallaresso, which led to Harry’s Bar on the corner and to the vaporetto dock at its end. Ray saw that she was going to take a boat. There were several people on the dock, waiting. Ray walked to the right side of the dock and turned his back on the crowd, facing the water. Inez did not take the first boat. She was going in the other direction then. Ray wanted very much to see her face, but was afraid to look lest his eyes attract hers. He had not been able to see her face clearly when she came out of the hotel.
Another boat arrived, and Inez boarded it, as did most of the people on the dock. Ray got on among the last, and stood at the rear of the
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