This Crumbling Pageant Read online

  He went clothes shopping, hitting all the flagship stores and letting the commessa at each adorn his body according to her considerable opinion. Grey leopard-print jersey? Okay! Black mohair coat? Why the fuck not! Flannel shirt? (They were everywhere). If you say so! He felt like a harlequin. Holly broke into actual applause when she saw his new get-up, and pounced on him. As promised, she too was trying to change. She still rushed home after work, but this time it was to stay home.

  Finally, the dreaded haircut. Scott needed one bad, but whenever he loitered outside and peeked into the gloom of a barbershop, with its clannish, many-eyed atmosphere, he would chicken out. Once inside, however, he was reminded that Italians are the nicest people. Scott’s babyish Italian was encouraged and praised to the skies by the men there, who didn’t speak English. One, who was not even accustomed to speaking straight Italian, went so far as to say that Scott’s was better than his own. The locals talked cracker-barrel politics. They talked about WWII and apologized for Mussolini, who was a bad man. Scott had to agree he was a bad man, and the others became quite melancholy. But at least, he added, he wasn’t as bad as Hitler. This lifted their spirits enormously, and in the end Scott left with the most masterful haircut he’d ever gotten—a timeless, scissors-only, gentleman’s cut.

  One evening he phoned and left a message with his biological father in Napoli. He said he was looking into acquiring dual citizenship and needed help with some papers. As soon as he hung up, the phone rang. It was Lou, his agent. He wanted to know if Scott was interested in a two-year contract in the Dominican winter league. Scott turned down the offer, saying he and Holly were trying to make a go of it where they were. He asked if Lou knew of anything in Italy. Lou said he wasn’t sure, but he was in Rome right now on vacation and would ask around.

  “Tell them my father is Italian,” Scott told him, “and that I’m eligible for citizenship. See if that does anything.”

  That Saturday at work he sprang a “cultural activity” on his students. He shepherded them outside and through alleyways and then into the wide-open, godforsaken spaces of Piazza dell’ Otto Agosto. They gathered round and scrutinized him as he put his Red Sox equipment bag on the ground and unzipped it.

  “This,” Scott proclaimed, “is a wiffle ball!”

  “Questo,” Damon shouted the translation, “è un palo di wiffle!”

  Scott handed the ball over to the children. They dropped it on the ground and started playing soccer with it. He picked it up, shook his head disapprovingly, and demonstrated how to throw a ball. They had some difficulty grasping the concept of baseball, of a field without clearly marked sides. Scott started them on a game, using jackets as bases and a brick horse stable from Ancient Rome as a backstop. Then he stood back and observed. When they at last finished an inning, he went over and took the bat and tossed himself the ball, hitting a high fly. His students watched it disappear in the clouds. Then the ball dropped and they staggered around as if from a percussion grenade. He let them continue playing, but called Damon over and gave him an intro to pitching. Then he coached Bruno on how to play catcher and paired him with Damon. The two were naturals. And it occurred to him that Holly had been right. He did like working with kids. He was good at it.

  “We go… to a restaurant… tonight,” he said to her on Sunday, in Italian. He was bent on finally learning the language. “I want…” he plowed on valiantly, “to have a meal like you read in books. Where everything is very…” He faltered. “Is very…” He buried his face in his hands, like a poet looking for the right word. “Delicious.”

  He wanted to have one of those sumptuous feasts so scrupulously detailed in books about Italy, where each sweet ricotta and walnut-stuffed raviolo is crafted by hand and where the sauce is dribbled on in artistic shapes like a treble clef symbol.

  He knew just the place, too. On his way to Janet’s one cold, clammy night, he had tarried to look through the basement window of a restaurant; and the gaslit tableau inside, with its flickering flames, wine racks, white linen, gleaming silverware, handsome families, and aristocratic servers, was like a tramp’s vision of the good life.

  18

  At 6:30 pm, the maid pressed the buzzer to Janet’s apartment. She was supposed to hand wash the woman’s delicates and then get paid for the week. The American boy had been right. After the argument, Gemma had calmed down, swallowed her fiery pride, and apologized to Signora Brillo for her behavior. She couldn’t afford to lose this or any of her other jobs. She pressed the buzzer again. Under a streetlight, an aged crone picked up a windfall cigarette butt. Gemma pursed her lips and searched her bag for the keys. On the top floor, she knocked on the apartment door, but again there was no answer. She tried the handle, and was surprised to see it turn.

  “Hello?” she called into the big room. The lights were on. “Signora?”

  Two cockatiels flapped past her on the floor, shrill, their clipped wings beating blurrily. Gemma gasped and jumped back. Peering around, she took a cautious step into the apartment.

  Seconds later she was rushing woozily down the stairs. On the ground floor, she flung herself outside and screamed for help.

  &

  Since the weather that evening was relatively nice, Holly said she’d like to walk to the restaurant. She was clad in a clingy black dress that Scott had bought for her, her purple coat, and wedge heel boots that didn’t kill her feet. Scott wore a white button-down shirt, camel coat, charcoal trousers, crocodile belt and distressed leather shoes. “In celebration of Lincoln’s birthday,” he said. “I also made reservations for Valentine’s day at this other place.” With a romantic twinkle in his eye, he added, “In Verona.”

  They were almost at the restaurant when Holly let go of Scott’s arm and sailed off, gazing down a side street.

  “What’s going on down there?” she said.

  There was some activity in the dark neighborhood, in front of one of the massive stone houses. Its many wooden shutters were sticking out, revealing the bright core within. Little human figures peeped out from the tall windows. Outside, there were onlookers, and someone hysterical, and one man standing above it all, on a fourth story balcony across the street. He kept singing out the same word. A crystal chandelier blazed in the apartment behind him. He was an old man, but his voice was true, and the word carried effortlessly down the street. “Omicidio!”

  “I don’t know,” said Scott, coming up behind her. “But this is where Janet lives. Let’s go around the other way. I don’t want to see her.”

  “What are they all doing?”

  “I don’t know, but come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  She stood there listening.

  “Holly?”

  She looked at him. Again the word swelled over their heads, black and operatic. “Omicidio!”

  Scott asked, “What’s he yelling? What’s that word mean?”

  “It means murder,” she said.

  They heard sirens and got out of the way just as an itty-bitty patrol car whizzed past them toward the building, followed closely by another. Then a policeman on foot patrol hurtled by, almost knocking Scott over. The man was holding his belt in place and talking breathlessly into his radio.

  Scott took Holly by the arm and followed. By the time they reached the building—Janet’s—the police had parked their cars cockeyed and sprinted inside, Berettas drawn. In the pulsing blue light, matronly women wearing furs over their housecoats whispered in clusters among hatless men. Scott said to Holly, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait.” She tried to grab him. “Where are you going?”

  Inside the main corridor were residents, standing by their doors. They shrank back as Scott entered. In the stairwell, on every landing, more residents, of all ages. Smells of dinner. Sounds of television. People. Scott had visited this building a hundred times and had never seen any people. It unnerved him that they’d been there all along. The fourth floor was so crowded he had to push
to get through. He shoved and shouldered and drove forward until he broke through and almost fell into Janet’s apartment.

  One cop was turning toward him and shaking his bowed head. Another crossed himself. At first, Scott didn’t see what was so wrong. A fallen birdcage, that was it. His eyes traveled around the familiar room, then widened when they reached the fireplace.

  “Oh God,” he gagged.

  &

  One of the officers stuck a relentless hand on Scott’s chest and backed him out of the apartment. In the hall, a visor-capped, brocaded, jackbooted policeman was questioning people. He seized Scott’s arm and fired off some idiomatic Italian.

  “Non so niente,” Scott said. I know nothing.

  He shrugged off the man’s hand and began to thread his way toward the stairs, glancing at the people around him. Perhaps the most surreal sight was this teenage girl, maybe fifteen, who was standing by herself in her underwear and bra. She had marbly limbs, and large, alluringly lopsided breasts. Her mouth was ajar and her eyes were round, like two Giotto Os. Her presence had excited the interest of the entire hall. She alone seemed unaware of herself. Even the policeman looked vexed by this distraction. It was an established fact: Janet’s corpse was being upstaged.

  For it had definitely been Janet. There was no question about that. She had always been unmistakable, in any contortion. But that wasn’t the only thing. When he looked at the fireplace, Scott had absorbed a second shock.

  On the way downstairs, he passed some men going up. They wore green latex gloves and what looked like spacesuits. Behind them was a young guy with a camera, followed by an intelligent-looking man in plain clothes who gave Scott a plain look. At the entrance, Scott skirted past another couple of men, wearing white coats and carrying a stretcher.

  Back outside he recognized Gemma. A female officer in a parka was jotting the maid’s words into a notebook. He snuck by without being seen. He went to where he’d left Holly, but couldn’t find her. Eventually he tracked her down talking to a man on a motorcycle.

  “Holly!” Scott said through clenched teeth. She threw him a startled look and then hurried over. He started walking away without her. He was trying to sort it all out.

  “Scott! Slow down!” Holly caught up to him. “Where are you going?”

  “Just keep walking.”

  She did. They passed an unmarked sedan and ducked under red and white-striped police tape. After a short distance, she asked what was happening.

  “Janet’s been killed,” he told her.

  “What! Are you serious?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Her fingers went up to her lips. Then she murmured, “How could you tell she was killed?”

  He gave an awful smile and looked her in the eyes without slackening his pace. “Trust me. You could tell.”

  “Maybe we should stay,” Holly said uncertainly. She had to run a few steps to keep up with him. “Maybe we should tell the police we knew her.”

  Suddenly Scott stopped and grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her into the shadows of an alley.

  “Listen to me, Holly.” He swallowed hard. “Please listen to me. I need you to tell me the truth, alright?”

  “What is it?”

  He drew a breath, and asked in an undertone, “Did you ever tell anyone about the painting?”

  “Which painting?” Holly said stupidly. “You’re hurting me.”

  He released his grip on her.

  “What are you talking about, Scott?” she asked, rubbing her shoulders. “Her painting? No. I told you a million times. Why? You think that has something to do with this?”

  “It was missing.”

  She stared at him.

  “Did you hear me, Holly? It was fucking missing.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Now please. Sweetheart. This isn’t just me being crazy anymore. This is serious. I need to know if you told anyone. I promise I won’t get upset, whatever you tell me. Whatever the truth is, I’ll understand. All that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re honest with me, because if you did mention it to somebody, if you did confide in somebody about it, we could both be in real danger right now. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him.

  “Holly? Are you listening to me?”

  She looked up at him, suddenly bloodless. “I’m sorry. What was that last thing you said?”

  “Goddamnit Holly!” he shouted in desperation. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No, Scott. I told you already.”

  “Are you sure?” he pressed her. “You look worried about something.”

  “Yes I’m sure,” she snapped at him. She made a bitchy face. “Leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone?”

  “I’m not a liar, Scott,” she continued, “and I don’t appreciate you calling me a liar.”

  She’d spoken angrily, directing her words somewhere behind him. It was all screamingly clear now to Scott. He peered into her face with a dark, vindicated grin.

  “Who’s calling you a liar, Holly?”

  “You are!” Her eyes met his. “You keep accusing me and accusing me and I shouldn’t have to keep defending myself to you!”

  “I knew it I fucking knew it!”

  Holly was staring at him as if he’d finally lost his mind.

  “Scott. You’re really starting to scare me now. I mean it, honey. I’m worried about you.” She went to touch his face. “You need help.”

  “Please.” He recoiled. “Don’t even try that. It’s too late for that. You already gave yourself away. But thanks, by the way, for trying to gaslight me. Thanks”—his voice cracked, and he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead—“for trying to make me think I’m crazy.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything,” she said, whimpering in frustration.

  “Then tell me, Holly, just out of idle curiosity. What exactly do you think I’m accusing you of? What is it you think I’m imagining?”

  “I have no idea!” she cried. Then the strain overcame her, and she began to cry for real.

  “Of course,” he said, nodding. “Here come the tears.”

  That made Holly sob even harder. In a thin, wrenching voice, she said, “I can’t take this anymore.”

  Scott watched, gutted, as she wept. He felt insane, or omniscient. He tore at his hair. He pressed, “Can’t take what anymore, exactly?”

  19

  Either Luca was a plausible murderer.

  There was San Michele, a wealthy playboy driven, conceivably, to new depths of debauchery. Scott could imagine him listening with amusement to Holly’s story—one evening in bed—and deciding to kill Janet simply for sport. Or to experience one more uncommon sensation. Or for the temporary tonic effect murder might have on a jaded constitution, as one might visit a Turkish bath, or swallow whole the live heart of a cobra. The painting would subsequently be brought home to his mansion and hung in some private room to be exhibited to select visitors, as a particularly choice piece in his collection of rare treasures with colorful histories. “I bought this one from a Brit who had been a Nazi sympathizer during the war. I picked that one up at auction just to upset an enemy. Ah, and this one I acquired after twisting the neck of an American woman in her apartment.” And lest Scott forget, San Michele was an art lover, so… it all tied up.

  Then again, so was the other Luca. Plus, Luca Gallo was poor. He would do it for the money. He would tear the frame apart, roll the canvas up and keep it stashed away in his grandmother’s closet while indiscreetly casting about for someone to buy it at a fraction of its fair market value.

  Or not. Scott tried to recall something the artist had once said, something about how he had destroyed one of his own paintings because he didn’t respect the person who had commissioned it. In other words, Luca Gallo was a subversive—the kind of extreme young man who would leap at the chance to kill for a princip
le. The story of the great painting wasting away in the home of some supposed slob would have been an affront to his demented ideals. If he were Russian, Janet would have been an old pawnbroker and the murder weapon an ax.

  Of course, it was always possible Scott was way off. What probably happened was this: Holly had ended the affair, and that was enough to trigger the spurned Luca. Surely the timing of the crime was significant. Was it a coincidence that it occurred just after Scott had patched things up with his wife?

  One thing was certain. If Scott could find out who Holly had confided in, he’d know who killed Janet and stole the painting. More to the point, if he could solve the mystery of the murdered woman and the missing masterpiece, he could finally learn the full name of the man who had fucked his wife.

  &

  They had walked directly home, no fancy dinner. Neither had spoken, except when Scott told Holly to hurry up. In the apartment, she dragged herself to the bedroom, massaging the glands in her neck. “I think I’m coming down with something.” She shed her boots and collapsed on the bed. She was out within seconds.

  Her sleep, however, wasn’t restful. She flopped around on the mattress. She flung a pillow across the room with a temperamental look on her semiconscious face. Later, she awoke twisted in the blankets. Scott peeled off her drenched clothes and helped her into some fresh pajamas. Then he stepped out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. All the lights in the apartment were off. In the black kitchen, he rolled up his sleeve, reached into the ghostly trash bag, and felt around the bottom until his fingers closed on a pack of cigarettes. Then he went into the living room, opened the windows, and spent a sleepless night smoking, pacing, staying in the shadows, feeling twitchy and paranoid.