Abroad (29 page)

*   *   *

It took a day for my narcotic hangover to dissipate. By the next morning the hallucinations had subsided, but the feeling of unease remained. It was all I could do to lie flat and wade through my yet-unfinished novel of Ripley.

Once Tom had off’d Murchison, I decided to get out of the house. Anna wasn’t answering my calls, but I expected that if I showed up, she’d talk to me. I missed her, especially in the wake of these very strange past few days. She was mercurial, but I liked her, possibly the best out of all the B4. It was sort of exciting, never knowing where one stood.

Though Luka had the most expensive flat, Anna’s was the most interesting: a decrepit, dank palazzo cut up into high-ceilinged rooms with loft beds. Her bedroom was huge and grim, with exposed-stone walls, six-foot-tall windows, a brown tile floor, and a tiny, added-on bathroom with a drain that smelled of something beyond dead. A leak in the plumbing added a constant, ominous dripping sound. It was exactly the sort of room, in fact, where you’d expect a disgraced, penniless noblewoman to languish.

The palazzo had at least ten other rooms like Anna’s and, at the end of a long, dark hallway, a bunker-like communal kitchen. The front door was locked, but all you had to do to enter was buzz or wait for someone to come in or out. No one ever asked me who I was or whom I was seeing. That morning, the heavy wooden door was pushed open by someone I actually knew—Ervin, the boy who sold Marcello the bad zanopane. I didn’t respond when he greeted me, and continued on into the gloomy front hall. I was about to call Anna’s name when I heard Luka’s voice; her tone caused me to pause out of sight.

“You can’t just
stop
. You know what she’ll do.”

“I don’t believe it. If other people knew, she would face it all as well.”

“No, Anna. She wasn’t
there
, remember? We were the only ones—”

Just then, the sound of something clattering to the floor. “Fuck it!” I blinked in surprise. I’d never heard Anna swear before.

“You have to be reasonable, all right? It’s not so very terrible, is it?”

“It
is
. It is. I’d rather die than keep on like this.”

“Ah, the dramatics. You know,
I’m
the one who loved her.”

“Which makes it all the more sick.”

“Anna.”

“It’s true. That …
bitch
is ruining my
life
. Without Arthur I’ve got no one.”

“You have us.”

“God! I don’t like
any
of you. I’m sick to death of you. Don’t you know I’m a different sort of person? I sit in libraries, I pore over the minutiae of what Orpheus’s last song to Eurydice might have sounded like. I hate your parties, your constant bloody boozing, your insipid conversations. No, I’m ending this. I’d rather just face it all than live this way.”

“Anna—”

A door slammed behind me. I tiptoed backward into the flatmate who had just come in.

“Ciao!” I shouted too loudly, then, to the girl’s confusion, turned around and stomped back toward Anna’s room. “Anna!” I cried. “Annnnnna! Oh,
there
you are. Hello!”

Luka was standing over Anna, who was lying on the couch with her hand over her forehead. Both gave me looks of pure irritation.

“Please stop shouting,” Luka grumbled.

I smiled brightly and pressed on.

“Listen, there’s this guy who just came out of here who’s quite sketchy. He must be dating one of your flatmates. I thought he was nice myself at first, but Jenny says he’s no good.”

“Dunno. Could be anyone,” Luka said. “This place is a fucking brothel.”

“Anyway. I was just walking this way, and I saw that pastry shop we like, and I thought—”

“I’m sorry, Taz,” Anna said. Her face was a frightening shade of white. “I cannot possibly fathom going out today.”

“I think it might lift your spirits. Besides, I want to talk to you. I had such an insane night with Claire. Did Jenny tell you?”

“If Jenny told me anything right now I’d—”

“She’s in a bit of a mood,” Luka said, cutting her off. “Better maybe to just leave her alone, Taz.”

“You, too, Luka,” Anna said. “I want you both to go.”

“Just please don’t do anything stupid,” Luka said. “You know this affects both of us.”

“What?” I asked. “I’m tired of being in the dark. What are you on about?”

“Just talking about the thing with Samuel and the idiot professor again,” Luka said. “She’s still upset.”

“Will you both just
go
?” Anna exclaimed.

Luka turned and left, with me close on her heel. When we hit the street, she began walking so fast I practically had to jog to keep up with her.

“Luka! Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Luka kept walking. “You don’t want to know. If you’re smart, you’ll go have an adventure with your weird flatmate and forget this entire incident.”

“I want to help.”

“No you don’t,” Luka said. “You want to
know
.”

“I—”

“That’s what you’ve always wanted. To know what it’s like on the inside. Because even though you are, you know you’re
not
.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “It’s just that Anna is my friend, and she’s in a bad way.”

Luka pulled a chocolate bar out of her purse and handed me a piece. “Here’s what you do, Taz,” she said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. You should cut us all off. Cozy up with that shady neighbor boy. Have a good time.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re a bad lot, Tabitha. A nice girl like you doesn’t need us around.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad lot,” I said. “I know all about you and I really don’t. We’re friends.”

“You don’t know anything,” Luka said. “You see, we’re just using you. You’re basically just our translator. That’s why Jenny always has you with her, why she sought you out.
We don’t bloody speak Italian
.”

“But I’m not even that good at it.”

“That’s the best part. Keeps you in the dark. Also keeps it from being so obvious to the Grifonians.”

“You
said
you liked me.” The words sounded so forlorn, so pathetic.

Luka bit off another square.

“Yeah, well. Not really.”

“You’re lying. Something happened.”

“None of us do, Tabitha. We
laugh
at you. The Irish poseur, trying to fit in. But you’re just a weak little thing, aren’t you? Following us around like a bloody shadow.”

“Look, I’m going to walk on,” I said. “But I have to say, you’re being very strange. If there is something bothering you, I wish you’d just tell me. Perhaps I’ve hurt your feelings somehow.”

“My feelings?” She looked at me, her big eyes barely open. Then she turned and, weaving slightly, disappeared down the street.

22

The next day—and years—was filled with clues that made themselves known, rearranged themselves, and faded in time with whomever was being accused at the moment. Almost as if we had all been playing a game in order to lead the police and the world down an endless array of paths. The answers were, in fact, there in the initial police report, though the story was infinitely complicated. The police wanted a snapshot, whereas the truth, as it often is, was more of a shadowy, ever-changing tableau.

But the belly of it, the real cause, was never mentioned or even asked about later. The thing I’m speaking of is hysteria.
Hysteria
, a condition diagnosed for thousands of years as a malfunction of the uterus.
Hysteria
, a word eventually used to describe the phenomenon of female sexual dysfunction.
Hysteria
, a term later morphing into a sort of split consciousness causing women to become unknowable.
Hysteria
, the sudden lack of reason that drives a person, or a group, to lose control over their actions. The medieval Catholic Inquisition and murder of witches—hysteria. And then, there was the hysteria I knew firsthand: a terrible, relentless tugging at the heart and mind that denies all reason.

I wish I had another word for it, but I don’t. It’s what it was. We were very young and the ground beneath our feet was shifting; the violence of our emotions was palpable. We didn’t know our boundaries anymore, and the hysteria was building at an alarming speed. We all felt it and moved among one another in those last days warily as cats, knowing, I think, that soon one of us would, inevitably, be torn limb from limb.

*   *   *

All Hallows’ Eve. A night Jenny and I prepared for with a keen eye for detail. We decided, after a Campari-soaked discussion, to be witches. Italians don’t usually dress up on their own, but local entrepreneurs had long since been catering to the students by setting up makeshift costume shops. We bought pointy hats, capes, red dye, black eyeliner, green makeup. She’d boasted of a party at an Italian diplomat’s apartment on the north side of the old city. Apparently, there was an indoor pool.

During the afternoon, I’d gone for a rare run down at the track, which was clogged with other students, mostly American. It was nearly dusk when I returned to the cottage. Upon opening the door, I paused: Gia was dressed in a lace bra, a long, tight white skirt, and a large white sunhat with a huge brim. Bright red blood dripped in lines down her face, her neck, and her chest. I turned to Alessandra for explanation, but her costume—an ancient granny nightgown, also splattered with blood—was no clearer.

Both of them were laughing.

“
Bella!
You must dress!”

“I am, I am. But what are
you
?”

“Bloody sexy,” Gia said in English, clearly delighted by her own cleverness.

“That’s very good, actually. And you?” I nodded at Alessandra.

“Bloody
nice
.”

“Nice!” We all burst into giggles. “I think you’ve got it down.”

Gia switched back to Italian. “It’s not an Italian holiday, so we decided on English costumes.”

“They’re terrific.”

“And you,
bella
? What are you? Sexy or nice?”

“Both?”

“The worst kind,” Alessandra said. “You want to come out with us?”

I was honored: it was the first time they’d asked me to do anything social. “I have plans, actually, but I’ll call you.”

“Ah,” Gia said, looking a bit relieved. “Good, good. With Marcello?”

“Partly.” I hadn’t actually seen him since our zanopane experience four days before. “Do we have any wine?”

“Too much,” Gia said, pointing to the floor. Indeed, below the table was a plastic two-liter jug filled with red from around the corner. As sour as it was, I poured myself a tumbler and drank it down.

“Halloween!” Gia cried, delighted.

I went into my room to dress: black jeans, a tight black top, a long black cape. I painted my face green, rimmed my eyes with black, and lined my mouth and neck with fake blood.

The girls were still getting ready when I came out, listening to loud music, a mashup of Michael Jackson and the theme to
The Munsters
. I waved at them through the cigarette smoke and slipped out to go downstairs.

I stepped into the fresh air, pausing. The gate was wide open. There appeared to be a figure hunched by the lemon tree, but when I looked closer, I saw that it was just a bag of trash the boys had been too lazy to put in the bin. I could hear music and voices drifting up the garden.

I rolled my shoulders back and went down. Marcello hadn’t called or even texted, despite leaving me in a drug-addled state alone in my bed. I opened the door with what I rather desperately hoped looked like confidence. The smoke was thick. A trio of Italian girls on the sofa, drinking and giggling, paused to give me a collective glance of appraisal. Alfonso was on a chair, a plump redhead with a welcoming set of breasts in his lap. To my great surprise, he was holding a pistol. The two of them were inspecting the barrel.

Marcello was in the corner, playing the guitar with what I now knew to be drug-induced intensity.

“Hi,” I said, standing in front of him. He looked up, seeming genuinely frightened to see me.

“Devil,” he said. “You look terrible.”

“It’s the point. Halloween.”

“I don’t believe in these costumes. But most of the girls are sexy witches, no? In bras and things. Garters. But you are a real green witch.”

“It’s just Jenny’s idea.”

“Oh yes. The girl who fools you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I sat on the arm of his chair. With his bearlike arms, he pulled me into his lap. “Marcello, why does Alfonso have a gun?”

“He’s going to shoot Gia later.”

“What?”

“Kidding. No bullets. He’s just an idiot, trying to impress that girl. Did you hear that, Alfonso?” He shouted.

Alfonso ignored him.

“Idiot!” he repeated.

“It’s creepy,” I whispered.

“So is this green face.”

“So are you coming out?”

“I don’t think so. This night, it’s just for foreigners. I don’t like it much.”

“You should come.”

He looked at me. “I thought you might be feeling strange,” he said.

“Why?”

“The other night, Tasmania.”

“Oh. No. I mean, it was a stupid thing. I don’t think we should do it again.”

“Devil.” He took my hand. “You know, we are not married.”

A cold, familiar feeling began creeping through my chest. “You’ve said that before.”

“So just because you won’t do that again, doesn’t mean I won’t. Do you understand?”

“I know that. I guess. I mean, sure. You do what you want.” I moved away slightly. There was a new distance between us. I could feel it.

“Because I thought it was fun. I thought we all thought it was fun.”

“I got a little sick.”

“I’m sorry.” Marcello leaned over to grab the bong. “Don’t drink too much tonight, then. Sometimes you girls drink too much.”

“Isn’t that what your father counted on? When he got the girls into the car?”

“All he needed was that car, Devil.” He inhaled, then blew out the smoke. “You have fun tonight. You and those girls. Dance with some new boys, maybe.”