The Bay of Foxes (20 page)

Dawit thinks about what to say. “Perhaps, though it’s hard
for me to say. She certainly likes her vodka in the evening, doesn’t she?” he says cautiously, smiling.

“Was she depressed, do you think, when you drove her to the airport?”

Dawit considers. “She did seem rather down, but I thought it was because she had finished the book—a sort of letdown after the fact, postpartum depression—you know?”

“But she should be happy. It’s very good,” Gustave says, looking doubtfully at Dawit, who has the distinct impression he has divined the whole story. Will he go straight to the police on his arrival in Paris? He’s quite sure the man will do whatever is in his own interest.

Dawit adds, soothingly, “I’m sure she’ll call you soon. She admires you tremendously, and your opinion is so important to her.”

“Good,” Gustave says and smiles.

“Now let me get on the telephone for you. Do you mind going via Rome or Milan?” Dawit asks.

“Not at all, just get me on a plane,” Gusave says. Obviously he is in as much of a hurry to leave as Dawit is to see him go.

Dawit rises fast from the breakfast table and goes down the steps into the living room. He feels Gustave watching him as he crosses the living room floor in his elegant linen pants and white linen shirt. Perhaps he should not have worn the new, elegant clothes M. had bought him. He wonders what the editor is really thinking and what he is deciding to do. Why is he in such a rush to return to Paris? Is he going there in order to call the police? Does he really think M. might
have committed suicide? Surely he knows her well enough to realize she would never do something of that kind. Gone off on a drunken spree? Or does he suspect Dawit of murdering her?

He makes the necessary calls, gets the editor scheduled for a plane that afternoon, and carries his brown leather bag to the car. He drives him back to the airport, all in virtual silence, Dawit concentrating on the road.

“Just drop me off,” the editor says, but Dawit feels obliged to park the car and accompany him into the airport. He waves good-bye to the man at the gate with a huge surge of relief, though he is not at all sure what is on Gustave’s mind or what will happen next. Afterward, he goes to the bar at the airport and buys himself a vodka and tonic. He’s beginning to like the taste of the drink.

While he’s at the airport he decides to book his own ticket, to leave the next day for Rome. He buys the ticket and then calls Enrico and tells him he’s arriving the next day. He considers calling Gustave, too, later that evening, and speaking in M.’s voice, but he decides he may have to get rid of M. for good. It is time he stood in his own shoes, he thinks with a smile, looking down at the expensive soft shoes she’d bought him.

Instead, he decides to call Gustave himself and speak in his own voice later that night, when Gustave has arrived at his apartment in Paris.

He tells him he hasn’t heard from M. He, too, is starting to worry. He informs him of his departure for Rome the next day. He says he will be staying with a friend. He’ll give
him the number when he gets there in case Gustave needs to reach him.

“Thanks so much for your excellent hospitality. You have been most helpful. Have a good time in Rome,” Gustave says cordially and adds, “If I were you, I might think about an alibi, someone who knows where you were the night M. was last seen,” and he hangs up the phone.

H
AVING SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT
, D
AWIT WALKS THROUGH
the empty rooms of the villa. He looks around him for the last time. He knows it must be the last time. How could he ever come back to this beautiful and terrible place?

He goes into M.’s room and stands at the window looking across the bay, then he closes the shutters above her desk. He is careful to leave all of her belongings exactly as she had left them, even her Olivetti on the desk under the window, her letters and bills in neat piles. He puts her emerald rings back into the tulip-shaped glass bowl by her bed. How could he even have imagined he would wear them? He opens the safe and takes out only what he thinks is a fair amount of money to pay the couple for all their work this summer, a considerable sum of lire. Then he closes the safe, wipes off his fingerprints. He packs his bag, taking only a few of the clothes M. had given him.

When the couple arrive that bright, sun-filled morning, he tells them he is leaving for Rome. “So soon,” Adrianna exclaims, looking disappointed. They ask if the signora is coming back this autumn, and he says he doubts it. He hasn’t heard from her for a while. He says good-bye to Adrianna in the big blue-and-white-tiled kitchen, giving her a kiss on her
smooth, fragrant cheek. He tells her to take any food that is left in the refrigerator and asks her to close up the house and make sure all is safe.

“As we always do,” she says proudly. She adds, “We do hope you will come back soon, signore,” obviously sincere in her wish, and gives him an affectionate hug. “It’s lovely here at Christmas. You can even come and stay with us if you like,” she says generously.

He climbs the hill and takes a last look at the sweep of the beautiful bay, the sun sparkling on the water, standing there with Michelino—who has insisted on carrying his bag—beside him. He has asked Michelino to drive him to the airport in M.’s Jaguar and leave him there.

Inside the airport, he buys them both a cappuccino at the bar and thanks Michelino for all his help this summer. It has been a privilege getting to know the couple, he says truly. He gives Michelino the money, telling him M. has asked that he pay him.

Michelino takes the wad of lire and looks at Dawit somewhat dubiously. “So much? The signora is very generous this year,” he says, looking Dawit in the eyes. Obviously Dawit has given the couple much more than they usually get. He wonders if this was wise. Michelino hesitates a moment, seems on the point of saying something, but then he just gives Dawit a big smile, a hug, and thanks him. He wishes him good luck. He waves as Dawit leaves to catch his flight. Dawit wonders what they would say about him, if the police ever questioned the couple.

He sits in the airplane shifting restlessly in his seat all through the short flight, thinking about Enrico, what he will
have to tell him, and how he might react. Enrico has given Dawit the address and telephone number of the apartment in Rome. He has told him to take a cab from the airport and meet him in the street near the Spanish Steps.

Dawit tries to imagine holding Enrico again in his arms, but what he sees is an Italian policeman waiting for him at the airport.

D
AWIT WAITS FOR
E
NRICO ANXIOUSLY, WATCHING THE PEOPLE
pass by in the Roman street, in the sunlight. It is still warm in late September, and the trees retain their leaves. He watches the people’s faces and admires their elegance, and often, their beauty. They stare at him frankly, too. He has the impression that unlike the French, they really see him, looking him up and down. He wonders what they think about this tall, well-dressed Ethiopian in his fancy sunglasses. He has dressed up for Enrico, put on his smartest navy linen suit and Panama hat, pulled down slightly to one side.

He sees a group of Gypsies begging on the street corner. A young, thin girl with a dirty face, dressed in a long, bright skirt with little glittering pieces of metal embroidered on her blouse, beats a tambourine and dances, turning and lifting her arms, her skirt swaying. Dawit thinks of his mother dancing in the palace hall. The girl’s little brother, who has the streaks of tears on his cheeks, reminds Dawit of Takla. He goes over and drops a bill in the hat they have left on the pavement, and the young girl smiles at him and picks up the little boy. “Say thank you to the nice signore,” she tells him.

Dawit wonders how Asfa’s family is getting on. He remembers Takla looking up at him with big eyes as he consumed his
pain au chocolat
, sitting on the floor, little legs before him. It seems to have happened long ago.

Now that he is here, safely in Rome, he is filled with a sudden exhilaration. Clearly, Gustave has not sent the police to pick him up, or not yet. He is overjoyed to have escaped Cala di Volpe, where something unspeakable has happened. He is excited to see Enrico, uplifted by the beauty of the city around him as he was driven through the streets: the long-stemmed pine trees, reaching up to the sky, the brief glimpses of the famous Roman monuments he recalls from the postcards his parents sent him from a trip they had made with the Emperor: the Colosseum, the Circus Maximus, Hadrian’s Arch. He hears his mother say, “
Levavi oculos!
” How he feels her presence here!

Now he is standing on a narrow side street near the Spanish Steps. Everywhere he looks, history was made, Italian history, with all its ambiguity. He thinks of the efforts the Italians made to colonize his country and his countrymen’s brave resistance: his grandfather’s stories of the Battle of Adwa, where the Italians expected an easy conquest and instead suffered a humiliating defeat. How proud his grandfather was of the soldiers he had led as a very young man into battle. How ironic that Dawit should be here now.

He begins to fear that Enrico will not show up. What will he do? Why had they decided to meet on a street corner? He is almost giving up, deciding he will have to look for a hotel, when he sees Enrico walking toward him, hurrying through the crowd, the sunlight shining in his red-gold curls. He is in his shirtsleeves, his linen jacket over his arm, almost running, his face lit up with joy. He lifts one arm to wave gaily from
a distance. “My God, you made it!” he says exuberantly, as though Dawit is the one who is late. He grins widely, kissing him on both cheeks effusively and once again. “You look wonderful to me,” Enrico says, waving his fine hands in admiration. Dawit looks back at the round amber eyes, the long lashes, the straight nose, and thinks how beautiful he is. “I’m so pleased to see you,” Dawit says, realizing just how much pleasure this man has given him, how this ordinary Italian, in no way remarkable, has filled his life, has become his sole source of sorrow and joy. At the same time, with Enrico beside him, he is aware of how terrified he is of losing him completely, afraid of how he will react to what Dawit feels he must tell him.

Enrico leads him down the street, opens the heavy wooden door to a palazzo, and goes before him into a cool courtyard, with plants in big earthenware jars. He holds Dawit in his arms, pushing him back against the ancient stone wall, pressing his lips against his. Dawit can feel Enrico’s whole body trembling. “Come, quickly come,” Enrico says. “I’ve missed you too much. I’ve been a dreadful grumpy husband and father without you,” he says, then grabs Dawit by the wrist, wrenches his suitcase from him, and half drags him up the worn marble steps.