Abroad (30 page)

“Dance?”

“And more, if you want. I’m trying to be nice to you. To tell you that I don’t care. That it’s all right for us to do these things.”

“Well of course it’s all right. It’s more than all right. What did you think, you were my boyfriend?”

“Come on, Tabitha.”

“It’s just my year abroad, Marcello. You’re acting like this means something to me. It doesn’t. It’s just a bit of fun. I’m seeing a lot of people. I have a lot of friends. I almost shagged a bloke in that castle. Really. You should know that.”

Marcello shook his head. “Don’t be angry, Taz. You are a nice girl. You live upstairs, I live down here. I will see you.”

I looked over at the girls on the sofa. How silly I was. How silly we all were. Here I was, getting blown off again. And I’d thought, because of Sean and everything else, I’d be all right with it. That I’d be in front of it. But of course, you’re never in front of the heart.

“I’m off,” I said. “Oh, and also, fuck off.”

“Devil, come on. We were all there. Devil?”

I was already out the door. As it closed, I could hear the redhead laughing at me.

Maria, 17th century AD

Maria Mencaroni, twenty-four, a midwife much in demand. In order to cut pain, she sometimes used strong poppy tea, a secret kept between herself and her patients. Opiates had been popular and accepted among the Etruscans and the Greeks, but by 1647, this practice was long over, and it was frowned upon for women to use wine and liquor, much less opium. When one of Maria’s patients remained drugged for a full day after the birth of her child, the baby went hungry for nursing. The father, a wealthy merchant, blamed Maria, a stonemason’s daughter from the edge of the city. There was a swift trial for witchcraft overseen by a tired and hungry magistrate. Within twenty minutes, she was condemned to the cages that hung from the Palazzo di Priori, where criminals starved to death in plain sight.

It took a week for Maria to die. Her sisters visited every day, crying and praying. She shouted to them when she had the strength, but after the fifth day, she accepted her fate and merely lay there, suspended above the square. On the sixth day, the prisoners were checked on by the guards through lovely windows at the top of the Palazzo. If the prisoners failed to stir when poked with a barbed spear, they were taken down; if they were still breathing, the soldiers would finish the job.

Maria died on her own, her eyes open, her face turned up toward St. Francis of Assisi. Her body was then turned over to the Compagnia, which took it along with three others and, after saying a sacrament, placed the dead prisoners in the crypt under the church. When the crypts became full, the skeletons were moved to another, neighboring chamber, and when that, too, overflowed, the mixed bones and dust were taken to a field outside the town, thirty feet behind a restaurant on the road to Ripa, six miles from Grifonia.

Maria Mencaroni, twenty-four years old, 17th century AD

23

I didn’t keep a journal in those days, but Claire did, one that was later grossly misinterpreted and pored over for clues that weren’t there. In it, she wrote of me, and Alessandra, and Gia, and Colin, and Marcello. She wrote of our cottage, of the Swede she slept with “on a dare with myself.” She wrote of being unable to concentrate on her homework because of her obsession with Colin’s “eyes like endless sparkling pools.” She never wrote anything negative, never a word about people she didn’t like. Jenny, for instance, was never mentioned. And a few times, next to my name, she drew a heart and a flower with a purple pen, just as Babs and I had done when we were little girls.

Those who read the diary during her interrogations tried to find something sinister in those hearts, something dark and sexual.
Killed out of obsession
, the Italians wrote in their spectacular tabloids about me.
Killed out of revenge.
The journal, of course, was good as smoke. Claire was in love with the same person as I was. This was true. And we were doubtlessly in love with each other. But she wasn’t a killer. Or she could have been, I suppose. But not without help.

*   *   *

Heeding Jenny’s last-minute text invitation, I met her at Pizza Bella. I could have told her about Marcello, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Anyway, somewhat appropriately, the mood was a somber one. Jenny wasn’t at a table drinking wine, but instead outside, shivering in line. Luka was also there, a fact that made me less than thrilled after our last conversation.

“No inside track tonight?” I asked.

“Different bloke than usual,” Luka said, though to me, he looked like the same man she’d always bribed before with perfect success.

“All right.”

“Listen—sorry about the other day. What I said. I was bloody hungover and in a pissy mood.”

“It’s okay.”

“What are you talking about?” Jenny asked. “You’re sorry about what?”

“I was a bit of a bitch. What else is new?”

“Luka, you must watch yourself,” Jenny said.

Everything felt off. I longed for a glass of wine.

“And, Taz, what’s with this blood on your face?”

“I was trying to be scary.”

Jenny laughed, looking anything but in the low-cut black dress she wore under her cape. Her hair was blown out to perfection and she had forgone the green paint we’d bought together for a full face of proper makeup. “The point’s to
attract
men, not frighten them away.”

“Fine. I messed up. Again. Are we still going to this party, then? With the indoor pool?”

“’Fraid not. Lost the connection I had to the host.”

“How?” This had never happened before.

“The guy just isn’t going,” she said impatiently.

The line moved quickly, but being a regular customer wasn’t nearly so pleasant as our former VIP status. We were served as slowly as anyone else in the place, and the waiter seemed to hover ominously throughout the meal, ready to shove us out as soon as the plates were cleared. Finishing too early to move on to the Red Lion properly, we sat on the cathedral steps, taking sips from Luka’s flask in the cold. I kept waiting for Jenny to make a joke about slumming it with the other students, but she was uncharacteristically silent. Or perhaps it was Luka’s mood, grim to the point of suffocation, keeping any sense of lightness at bay.

“Any news of Samuel?” I asked, for want of anything else to talk about.

“Over it. Bored me stiff.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“From what I heard, the boredom was all his,” Luka said. “Did he ever call?”

Jenny swiveled sharply. “You know, you and Anna are really trying my patience, Luka.”

“Oh,
I’m
sorry.”

“What is it, love? Might as well get it out.”

“I’m fucking bored, is it,” she said. “Same as Anna. We’ve
served
our time on this ridiculous venture, Jenny. We don’t need to go out together all the time. Or anymore, period, since you’re stopping things.”

“I’m not stopping forever. Just until she calms down.”

“I’m just sick of it. I want to do what
I
want. I need to go to Rome, take a painting class. I need to meet some new people. We’re here, in the most amazing place in the world, but we’re stuck being your window dressing. You know, Ben and his friends at Samuel’s were fun. Smart. We could have had a hell of a time in Rome with those blokes, but you mucked it up. You said it was all going to be fabulous, but you know what? It’s a prison.”

“You can go to Rome,” Jenny said. “I don’t need you.” She twirled a piece of wheat-colored hair around her finger. “You’re just sitting on me, that’s all. To make sure I won’t say certain things. Because if I did, what would happen, Luka?”

Luka didn’t reply.

“That’s right. If I talk about what happened to your girlfriend, it wouldn’t go so well, would it? Not that I would. I’m not usually like that. But I get sloppy, don’t I? Talky. That’s what you and Anna are worried about, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s what we’re fucking worried about.”

I sat hunkered in my cape, still as a stone.

“I never would. But then, I couldn’t live with it either. Not with what you lot did.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“That’s right. And it’s the worst part. That’s not staying in front of it. That’s just … meanness. Or is it murder? I can’t decide.”

Luka looked at me. “Jenny, stop it.”

“Oh Taz doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. She’s sweet as pie. No, I think it’s your guilt keeping you here, Luka. After it all happened I said I was still going, and you both rushed over to Italy to be with me. Not because it would be fun. Not that. You came to keep me quiet. You think I don’t know that? I never said I would tell. Never. But I do like to have a drink and talk. Yes I do.”

I glanced at Luka, who was crying, big tears hitting the ground.

“It’s Anna you have to worry about, right now. Not me.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you go home, love. You look terrible. We’ll talk about it all later.”

“Yeah.”

Luka looked at me again, her eyes red and lost, then retreated into the crowd. Jenny and I remained there for a while, sipping from the flask. After half an hour, I finally got up the gumption to talk.

“Can I ask?”

“It’s not important.”

“You said murder,” I said, carefully.

“Figure of speech, love. Just an old girlfriend of hers. You know how she can be about it. She’s fucking gay, and can’t just go with it.”

I knew Jenny was lying. She was never sloppy. Ever. Never said a word she hadn’t calculated and planned. But I was freezing and knew she wouldn’t tell me anything else.

“Shall we go?”

“Why not?” I said.

We marched together, arm in arm. I tried to shake off the heaviness of Luka’s outburst, but something was just different—I could tell as soon as we entered the bar. Usually when we walked in there was a feeling of the seas parting. Now people just looked at us and then went back to their conversations. We were ordinary now, simply two girls in trampy costumes swallowed by the crowd.

“Know anyone here?”

“No.”

Just then the Belgian girl with the frizzy curls who I’d met at the start of the semester spotted us. I almost didn’t recognize her; she was pale as a sheet and must have lost upwards of fifteen pounds. Who loses weight
in Italy
? I wondered. To my surprise, she tapped Jenny’s bare, glitter-painted shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “You going to the lake soon?”

“Certainly not,” Jenny said. “The weather’s rotten. Probably not for a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of
weeks
?” The girl’s bloodshot eyes darted back and forth. “Is anyone
else
going?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s total bullshit. I paid you and you said—”

“Calm. Down.” Jenny spit out the words.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing at me. “Well, if you
do
go, will you call me? Right away? All right?”

Jenny gave the girl a final glare that sent her scuttling away.

“Jenny, what is going on?”

Jenny raised her hand to hail the barman. “I’m taking a break from the business until I see what happens with Anna. She’s a live wire right now, and personally, I don’t want to go to Italian prison.”

“That girl seemed pretty keen on getting her supply, I suppose.”

“Well, she’s paid for it.” The barman slid Jenny a drink over the bar. “Listen, I hate to ask, but do you have any money for that pizza?”

“Of course.” I tried not to sound surprised, though I almost never carried much money with me anymore, as everything was always taken care of. I reached into my pocket and pulled out twenty euros.

“Wouldn’t mind a bit extra if you can spare it.”

“Sure.” I handed her another twenty.

“Thanks,” she said. “God, this is a miserable place. Let’s make the best of it, then. Have some shots and dance.”

I obliged. There was something particularly awful about the Red Lion that evening. Perhaps it was the crush of girls baring too much cleavage in their cat and barmaid costumes, or the ghoulish rubber masks the boys had bought in haste from the makeshift Halloween shops lining the piazza. The dancing was savage, the music grating, the stink of bodies thick in the pillowy air.

“I’m going to stand on the side for a while,” I shouted at Jenny, who had surrendered to dancing with some fat werewolves. She pointed to her ear to indicate that there was no way she could hear me. I moved to the bar to watch.

“Hey.” Claire was standing beside me, in jeans and a T-shirt, and a spider drawn on her face with black eyeliner, smudged. “You look awesomely terrifying.”

“Yes, I mistook the point of the evening, I’m afraid.”

“No, it’s great. All the zombies will want you, bad.”

“Where’s Colin?” I asked.

Claire shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. “Home,” she finally muttered. “He hates this place.”

“I sort of do, too, really.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Cheap drinks, music. I kind of like it. Are your girls here?”

“Jenny’s over there. With some wolves.”

“Appropriate.” Claire crossed her arms, looking at the dancers. “What a shitty night.”

“Why?”

“Colin. He’s doing … that thing. Pulling a fade. Not that he’s not always aloof. He’s quiet, you know. But he’s shutting me out.”

“Marcello isn’t being so terrific either. Just told me I could go make out with someone else. Thanks a lot.”

“There’s nothing worse,” Claire said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “You think you have someone, you know? You really have them. That you’re on the same page with each other. That you like each other the same amount.”

“You said love the other day.”

“That was stupid of me.” Claire gave me a look and took a drink. “I guess he’s just a little freaked out about the other night.”

“Oh? I thought the two of you might have done that before.”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Claire’s tone was sharp. I turned to study her face.

“Well, because you had no qualms taking it, Claire.”

“Oh, the
zanopane
.”