The Honeymoon (44 page)

But when they got to Milan, she wrote to Barbara that she felt within herself a
“hidden river of sadness.”

As she read over her letter before posting it, she wondered, should she have confided her sorrow to Barbara? By admitting it, she was making it real. She added a sentence, leavening it.
“But this must always be with those who have lived long.”

In Milan, they toured the Brera Gallery, San Ambrogio, Santa Maria delle Grazie. Then Johnnie brought back to the hotel the most important letter of all. She glimpsed the familiar handwriting on the envelope and grabbed it from him.

“My dear Sister,”
Isaac wrote,
“I have much pleasure in availing myself of the present opportunity to break the long silence which has existed between us, by offering our united and sincere congratulations to you and Mr. Cross upon the happy event of which Mr. Holbeche has informed me … Your affectionate brother Isaac P. Evans.”

Even as she finished reading the words, the anger caught her by the throat. He’d managed to stay silent all this time. His stupid, rigid, country principles, his old-fashioned ignorance, his jealousy.

Politely, formally, she wrote back:
“It was a great joy to me to have your kind words of sympathy for our long silence has never broken the affection for you which began when we were little ones.”

She would never see him again, she knew that. Too many years had passed, over a quarter of a century, unrecoverable time. She was no longer the same little girl who had loved him. She envisioned him, aged now, retired, or soon to be retired, from his position as agent for the Arbury Estate, still living in Griff House, still with his strong posture and his big Evans nose, gray-haired, the rigid sureness of his authority.
No longer the impetuous little boy with the rosy cheeks who’d led her through the fields like Pan with his pipes. The pain of what he’d done had erased her love for him.

She thought of the lines she’d written about him when Thornie was dying, as she sat by his bed, trying to recover some happiness from the past:

The next morning she and Johnnie took the train, their destination Venice.

O
n Wednesday morning in the Hotel Europa, she was awakened by a loud crash. She rushed to the door of her room, and in the gray light of the dawn, she saw him stumbling around the
sala
. He’d knocked over a chair.

“Johnnie?” She entered the main room, and immediately she was hit by the reek of alcohol.

He sat down hard at the dining table. His shirt was unbuttoned, his cheeks stubbled.

“Where have you been?”

She went closer. She could smell vomit on him and filth. The front of his shirt was stained yellow. “You’ve been sick?”

He looked down at himself as if not remembering that he had vomited.

“Where did you go, Johnnie?”

“I went … to the Rialto,” he said confusedly, “with Corradini.”

“You went out with that dreadful man? What did you do?”

“We went to … a place …”

“What place?”

He looked vague. “A
taverna
 … by the bridge … I couldn’t sleep. I went out. He took me there …”

Images came to her, of figures in the shadows of the bridge, furtive movements and shapes coming together,
fusing, pulling apart. She tried to blank them out. She didn’t want to know. Something terrible, outside her ken. Something she didn’t have a way to give meaning to. She squeezed her eyes shut, forced the images away.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’d better go to your room. To bed.”

He frowned. “I think I may be sick again.”

“Well, don’t be sick here, please.”

He looked up at her and grimaced. “I’m sorry …”

“I don’t know what you’ve done, Johnnie.”

He stood up unsteadily, then he pitched forward and grasped the table with both hands to stop himself falling.

“Please, Johnnie …”

“What do you want from me?” He glared at her, his eyes big and wild and round, as if she were a monster who terrified him. “Don’t touch me! Get away from me!”

He covered his face with his hands and backed away, trying to shield himself from her. Then he peeped around the edge of his hands, eyes darting from side to side.

“Johnnie, I think you should see a doctor!”

From behind his hands, he suddenly peeked at her coyly, grinning like a naughty child, as if to gauge her reaction, daring her, seeing how far he could go. He stepped back in exaggerated horror, hands still covering his face, but looking out at her through parted fingers. Then he twisted away and covered his face completely, his shoulders hunched.

When she could summon language, she said quietly, firmly, “Go to the bedroom, Johnnie. Please.” She passed him fearfully, as far away from his body as possible, and
opened the doors to the bedroom. “In there, Johnnie, I’m going to get help.”

He snatched his pamphlets from the table and went inside. He stood in the middle of the bedroom with his head bent, his eyes darting sideways at her, grasping the pamphlets possessively to his chest as if he were afraid she was going to take them. Carefully, she approached the doors and shut him inside.

Where was Willie? How long would it take him to come? He’d have to get to Dover, and then take the boat, then the train, all the connections to Venice. It could take days.

She tugged at the bell cord. Within seconds, Gerita appeared. “We need a doctor,” she told her. “Please. Go at once. My husband’s ill. Go!” The girl turned to leave. “Where does the doctor live?”

“The
dottore
is on the Ponte dei Conzorzi. On the other side of the Piazza, Madame.”

“Go!” she ordered.

Twenty minutes passed. He was behind the door. What if he came out again? Would he hurt her? He’d pushed her on the beach. He hadn’t cared if she fell.

She paced back and forth. From within the room, still there came the incessant murmur.
“… the figures of Adam and Eve, sculptured on either side …”

There was a rap on the
appartement
door. It was Marseille, the manager, and behind him a tall man carrying a black bag.

“
Il Dottore
is here,” Marseille said.

The man inclined his head. He had long, greasy, gray hair drooping in waves on the sides of his face, and wore a
slightly soiled, shabby, gray linen suit. “Giacomo Ricchetti,” he said. He looked around the room for the patient.

“He’s there,” she cried, pointing to the bedroom. “He’s very ill. I don’t know what’s the matter.”

The doctor crossed to Johnnie’s bedroom doors, grasped the handle to open them, but they didn’t yield.

“He’s locked himself in,” the doctor said.

He pushed his shoulder against the doors and tried to force them. She went up behind him and knocked. “Johnnie, can you let us in? We’ve got the doctor here to see you.”

From within now came a bestial cry, a long, dry cry of agony, “No–o–o …”

“Get someone to open it!” the doctor commanded.

Just as Marseille moved to find help, there was a loud splash on the canal below, then shouts. Marseille and the doctor rushed to the balcony, looked down, then ran out of the room.

She hurried to the balcony. Below on the
riva
, there was a commotion, someone was thrashing wildly about in the canal, sinking and foaming and spluttering to the surface. She knew instantly it was Johnnie.

One of the gondoliers dove into the water and swam out toward him. “Let me die!” came Johnnie’s voice from below. “I want to die!”

Three other men jumped in. He flailed at them, choking and sinking as they lunged at him.

A group of tourists had gathered to watch. On the canal, the gondolas had come to a halt. From the corner of her eye, she saw people standing on their balconies watching the spectacle.

At last they succeeded in grabbing him, his thrashing grew feebler. They began trying to pull him to shore. Was he dead? Was it too late? Then, from three stories above, she heard the words again, “I want to die!”

They dragged him up onto land, but his body went slack and they had to pull him across the stone. One of them, she saw, was the gondolier, Corradini.

Above, on the balcony, Gerita gripped her arm. “Oh, Madame.” Marian couldn’t bear to look. She buried her face in the girl’s shoulder.

Minutes later, Corradini and the other gondoliers were at the door of the
appartement
, half carrying, half pulling the heavy body, followed by the doctor and Marseille. Johnnie refused to stand up, strands of kelp and filth hung in his hair and face, his clothes were half off, his trousers down around his knees. “No … no,” he said. “I want to die.”

“Tenetelo giù sulla sedia!”
the doctor ordered.

They struggled to lift him up onto a chair. Corradini pushed him down and the chair clattered backward onto the floor. “Get a sheet,” Ricchetti commanded.

While they grappled with him, Gerita ran into his bedroom and tore the sheet from his bed. They bound it around him and tied him to the chair. Kicking his legs out, he tried to free himself. Corradini pressed his weight down on them.

The doctor searched through his bag and took out a bottle of medicine and a spoon. He commanded the gondoliers, “
Ora tenetegli la bocca aperta
. His mouth! Hold his mouth open.”

Corradini tried to pry open his jaws, but Johnnie bit down hard on his fingers.
“Cazzo!”
Corradini yelled.

“Fatelo!”
the doctor said. “
Voi!
Do it! Hold the nose closed.”

Corradini pinched his nose tight. Johnnie kicked and squirmed.

Ricchetti attempted to spoon the liquid into his mouth, but he spat it out and it dribbled down his face and neck. Ricchetti kept on trying to force it down his throat.

There was a crowd in the doorway now, Marseille, a footman, hotel guests attracted by the commotion. Thank God for the darkness of the girl’s shoulders, her little arm holding Marian tight.