Siracusa (19 page)

P
ACKING
,
THE MAN ASSUMED
. How she found it. Found him out. A quick thumb through Stendhal, perhaps the book engaged her and then, reading, she found his margin notes.

That sort of thing interested him, the how of it. He tried to cast this catastrophe as a plot problem, and Lizzie, an unwieldy character that he hadn’t properly writ.

I lingered over the fantasy, a perverse amusement. Lizzie settling into the comfy chair, one leg slung over the arm. She flipped through
The Red and the Black
while tugging at a curl. She was a book lover, the sort to fall into or get caught up in an unlikely read.

Although what the fuck was she doing in my suitcase?

As a rule she didn’t pack for me and, as for herself, left it until the last minute. She was hunting either for the book or for evidence. What made her suspicious? Was it something I said? Or she saw? Was it something about the encounter with K at breakfast that tipped her? Had K sent another note, one Lizzie intercepted? That I doubted. Had Finn told Taylor, and Taylor
told her? Or had Finn told Lizzie? No. Finn would never hurt Lizzie.

But I would. I’m her husband.

Betrayal of this magnitude is the exclusive province of married couples.

Perhaps Lizzie had phoned home or checked e-mail and found a message from American Express. “Alert. Unusual activity. Call.”

Why would she assume that a charge from Artesa Jewels wasn’t a present for her?

I’d entered the room relieved not to have encountered K in the hotel. Relieved it was my last evening in this stone city in the company of the Dolans. I was near to being back in New York and thus able to resolve the mess where we lived, where we were entrenched, and everything would seem less unhinged and manageable. Where I had a chance of holding on to Lizzie. We weren’t rich enough for a decent divorce, were worth more as two and not just socially. Neither could continue his or her life on half the money.

Had Snow told Lizzie about K, whispering, hesitant, her eyes darting nervously? All Lizzie would want to do, all anyone ever wanted, was to ease this vulnerable girl’s anxiety. “I can’t hear you,” Lizzie would say sweetly, leaning down.

In that soft poisonous voice, what would Snow say? She specialized in nuggets. Queen of the short and cruel.

Of everyone who had victimized him on this trip, the man decided, she had been the cleverest. The most seductive. It was strange that in thinking of the collision of Lizzie and Kath, this Italian romp gone south, he now blamed Snow for all of it.

Although it made no sense to do so.

But he was a writer. He trusted his subconscious. He was used to letting unlikely truths float to the surface and then figuring out why they had.

How could I get rid of Kath? Get rid of her and not lose Lizzie? Eventually Lizzie would return to the room. Her clothes were here. Her passport.

When I’d walked in, the door swinging back had caused several pages to fly up off the tiles. They were scattered everywhere, some whole, some in shreds. Like a dead body, the hardcover lay there flat now, disemboweled.

M
ICHAEL HAD OFFERED
L
I
ZZIE
like she was a plate of sardines.

I can’t say I didn’t ruminate on that on my way over to Mario’s. Gina had set me up with him, a sad-eyed Sicilian with a feast of a shop not far from the dock. She’d talked him into letting me sample his wines. He knew the best. I fell hard for the Planeta vineyard and, with Gina translating, arranged for export. Gina was fun. Second night in Siracusa, after Tay had fired her, I’d spotted Gina while on my night prowl. She was with her friend Carina. They squeezed over. I squeezed in.

“I am
un restaurateur
,” I told Gina, with a pretentious little wave of the hand. “I am looking for some cheap Sicilians to import. Wines, not waiters.” It was late enough that only the desperate or drugged were still out, Gina a little of both, and even a joke that bad got a laugh.

What haunts me—Snow’s hand in Kathy’s as they sashayed off down the street. I remember wondering if Kathy was Catholic.
How she came by that forgiving nature. Thinking, if I could stand Michael, I’d ask.

“You let her go with a stranger?” said Taylor, so rigid she was vibrating.

“She’s not a stranger.”

“When did you last see them?”

“At three or so.”

She burst into tears.

“Babe, stop it. It’s what—not even seven. That’s noon Sicilian time. Maybe they’re with Michael.”

She was shaking her head, her nose running and she didn’t even know.

“Hey, she’s okay.”

“Not with Michael. I saw him.”

She sank down on a chair and clasped her hands. “God, bring her back. God, please.”

First time she’d ever mentioned God. I noticed that. Tay doesn’t pray. On Christmas Eve we go to church and she sits with her arms folded, head swiveling, taking in the architecture, never opening a Bible even to sing. Snow’s being missing—soon I was freaking too—split me in two, part of me right there scared shitless and knowing it was all on me, the other part making dumb observations, disconnected like I’m on the other side of the world because that was where I wanted to be.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“I told you. Tasting wine, salami, green olives, ricotta, every sea critter or veggie that could be marinated.”

“How come you’re not drunk?”

“Who said I’m not? Want me to get some more ice for your cheek?”

“That cat. I was going down the street thinking that you and Snow might be coming from . . .” She shook her head. “Shut up. Please just shut up. I probably need a plastic surgeon.”

“Do you want to go to a hospital?”

“In Sicily?” Scorn.

“Nothing’s happened to Snow. Kathy’s nice. Good-hearted. A little flaky maybe.”

“Flaky?”

“Enthusiastic.”

“You let your daughter go off in a foreign city with someone flaky?”

“She might not realize the time is all. When Snow dropped her ring in the water—”

“What?”

“That monster she was waving around at breakfast. She let Snowy try it and it fell off her finger. Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Some octopus is wearing it.”

“Poor Snow.”

“Yeah. It ripped her up. In a flash, done, over, no way to take it back. She was sobbing her little heart out. You would have been proud of Snow. She apologized. Took responsibility.”

“You are the stupidest man I have ever met.” Contempt. I didn’t recognize it till I rehashed it with Dorothy. Contempt,
that’s Dorothy’s word. The nostrils on Tay’s skinny nose flared, her eyes narrowed, her lip curled. I felt like something dirty she’d forgotten to wash off.

Tay threw herself into packing.

I watched that sick enterprise—the compulsively neat way she folded things. One uneven crease and she begins again. “Motive,” she said.

“Motive?”

“I don’t believe for one single second she forgave her.”

“She did.” But I was thinking, Did she? “Motive for what?”

“Make them call the police.”

I phoned Michael first. “Is Snow with you?”

“No. Have you seen Lizzie?”

“My daughter didn’t come back from being with your girlfriend.” I hung up.

“Girlfriend?” said Tay.

“He’s fucking her.”

“I’m sure he’s not.”

“Fine. He’s not.”

At the desk, the second I said
police
, Carlo, the slump-shouldered night receptionist, summoned the manager, who bustled down the hall straightening her jacket. “Marianna Bianchi,” she said, shaking our hands. She was a stout woman, no idea how old. She had a firm handshake and a sensible brown suit. Her short yellow hair was a bit of a bird’s nest. Tay referred to it later as an unfortunate perm. “May I help you? Is there a problem?”

“Signor Dolan’s daughter didn’t return,” said Carlo.

“She’s ten. She’s missing,” said Tay. “Our daughter went off with Kath—”

“Kath?” said Marianna.

“Signorina Bicks,” said Carlo.

“Your daughter’s name?” said Marianna.

“Snow.”

Marianna spun a pad on the counter her way to take notes. “Where did they go?”

“We don’t know,” said Tay. “If we knew—”

“My wife’s upset.”

“Of course I’m upset.” She started crying again.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Marianna.

“Why are you apologizing to her?” said Tay. “Signorina Bicks is one of your hotel guests. Call the police right now.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn up,” said Marianna, with a practiced smile. “It often happens. Siracusa is very stimulating. Many men, as you say, flirt. The girls stop in a café, they make friends. ‘Can I buy you a Prosecco?’ the boy asks.
E così
, it’s three hours later.”

“It’s over four hours. She’s not a mother,” said Tay in my ear.

The lobby was happening now, guests on their way to dinner crowded into the small sitting room where wine was open on the table along with water and a tub of ice. A boy sat on a chair with a bounce, jumped up, and bounced back down again. His little sister hid her face in her mother’s skirt while the mom had her change purse out examining her coins, trying to see what was what. A man with three cameras slung around his neck was discussing a trip to the Papyrus Museum. Taylor put her hands
over her ears, strode outside and back in. “You don’t want to call the police,” she said loudly, “because the last thing you want is the police in your hotel. It’s bad for business.”

“I assure you, Signora, it is not true,” said Marianna.

“Tell her ‘bullshit,’ Finn.”

“My wife needs you to call them right now.”

“Fight.” Taylor jabbed me.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.” To Marianna she said, “I am head of the tourist bureau in Portland, Maine, and I am well aware of how little any hotel wants to have police on the premises.” With that she burst into loud sobs, and Marianna gestured that we should go down the hall. She directed us to a small office and waited for us to settle in the two white metal chairs before sitting at her desk—a pine plank with a phone, a laptop, and a stack of papers that she picked up and placed on the floor.

“We have small crimes. Pickpockets—
borseggiatori
—but nothing dangerous.” She dialed.

While she waited for an answer, her eyes landed on Tay’s face and got stuck there.

“My wife was scratched by a cat.”

She nodded. The bitch didn’t believe me.

We listened to her torrent of Italian on the phone. “They are coming,” she said, hanging up.

“We’ll wait in the lobby,” said Tay.

“May I provide you some refreshments? A cocktail? Bruschette?”

“No,” said Taylor.

We sat silently on the couch near reception. I put my arm around Tay. She slid away. “I want a divorce,” she said.

I went outside. The moon floated in a strip of sky between heavy clouds. My skin was prickly with fear. I was praying. “Mother Mary, full of grace—”

I ducked around the corner, took a few drags, popped a Tic Tac, and returned.

“I mean it,” said Tay, her tone bloodless, her face too except for those cat scratches brighter and uglier.

“Snow’s missing,” I told Michael when he exited the elevator and saw us.

“What do you mean?”

“Is she reliable?” Tay started to cry again.

He sat down and put his arm around her. “Is who reliable?”

“Kathy,” I said.

“I barely know her. What do you mean, she’s missing?”

“They went for ice cream after the boat trip,” I said, “and didn’t come back.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” he said.

“What?” squeaked Taylor. “Why not?”

“I don’t know her, just an impression from the restaurant, but she seems sweet, excitable but not reckless.” He shut up then. I figured he was reconsidering that, the asshole. “What happened to your face?” he said.

“I picked up a cat.”

Michael threw a look my way. Couldn’t read it. Was it,
She’s
protecting you
, like I was some animal who’d clawed her, or sympathy ’cause Tay and I were in the soup?

“Maybe Snow’s with Lizzie?” he said.

“They don’t like each other.”

After I said it I heard it ’cause of the silence. I hadn’t known I knew that. No one disagreed.

A bright blue car with a white stripe and the word
POLIZIA
pulled up. Tay rushed outside and sank to the ground.

An officer grasped her elbow, raised her up, and held on until she was steady on her feet.

“Our daughter is missing,” I said, and heard Marianna behind me translate. “She went for ice cream and didn’t return.”

I was in another dimension still, jumpy with terror yet aware that I should have comforted Tay, should have leapt to help when she dropped. It must have looked odd to the cops that I didn’t, but if I’d tried, she would have yanked away.
Don’t
, she would have sneered.

I was afraid of her, that was what Dorothy said. Who knows, maybe I still am. It’s a way of life.

I was sure they were going to slap the cuffs on and arrest me. Guilt, said Dorothy. Tay thought I was a lousy father and she’d turned out to be right. I’d let my kid prance off with a stranger, and God help me, she was gone, and after the deli I’d spent a couple of hours hanging with Gina, smoking, lying on a chaise on her tacky terrace, and feeling an unfamiliar calm looking over tile roofs into an empty sky, same light blue as Agente Penzo’s polo shirt.

There were two, Agente Penzo and Detective Carrudo—
Penzo fair, Carrudo dark with blazing black eyes and a mole on his cheek. I thought I’d spotted Carrudo singing karaoke on one of my night prowls. I remembered the mole.

We crammed into Marianna’s office. Penzo spun her chair around and straddled it. Carrudo loped a leg over the corner of the desk, crossed his arms, and stared down at us seated before him like misbehaving pupils. Marianna, beside him, crossed her arms, hoisting her breasts, and viewed us sternly as if she’d joined the force. Michael squeezed into a corner.

“She has extreme shyness syndrome,” said Tay again and again, keening.

They didn’t seem to understand that—fuck, who would, and fuck knows what the translation was—but Carrudo, after taking our names, made a show of noting that on a pad he’d pulled from his back pocket.

“My wife is saying that Snow is very shy, she’s nervous alone, nervous with strangers.”

“Nervous crossing a street,” said Tay, while she continued to rock and moan.

“She’s vulnerable and innocent,” said Michael. Tay threw him a grateful look.

That caught their attention. “Name?” they asked him.

“Michael Shapner. My wife and I are traveling with them.”

“He’s a famous American writer,” said Tay.

“Hardly,” said Michael.

“He is,” said Tay.

“Where’s your wife?”

“On a wander.”

That drew a blank from Marianna. “Sightseeing,” said Michael.

There were pauses while we waited for Marianna to tell us what they said and to tell them what we said, and the pauses were freaky—places for our words to hang out and start to sound funny. Innocent answers grew horns.

The cops conferred with each other and with Marianna. Carrudo’s hands danced, illustrating whatever the hell he was talking about, tapping his cheek, his fingers swimming here and there.

“They want to know about your face, signora,” said Marianna.

“A cat scratched her,” I said.

“Around the corner, do you know the cat?” Tay pleaded with Marianna. “Gray and white. I picked her up.”

They all conferred again.

“There are strays all over Siracusa,” Marianna finally said. “Everywhere. Even in cafés. Did you not notice?”

“We’re not looking for a cat,” said Michael. “We’re looking for a ten-year-old girl.”

Tay gave him a weak smile. Again Carrudo took note, not an actual note, but he scratched his nose while shifting his gaze among us.

I showed him a photo, they passed my phone between them, and I told them what Snow was wearing. It was surreal. Snow last seen wearing . . .

“Bella,”
said Carrudo, viewing the photo and giving Tay a nod of credit.

My phone pinged.

“Oh God,” said Taylor.

Carrudo handed it back and waited for me to check the text. From Lizzie.
I need you.