Those Who Walk Away Read online

  Dawn was rising now. A gondolier swathed in navy blue propelled a cargo of Coca-Cola crates into the canal beside the pensione. A motor-boat dashed in a straight line up the Giudecca Canal, as if scurrying home guiltily after a late party.

  Ray ran up the arched steps of the Accademia bridge and headed inland for San Marco. He walked through narrow grey streets whose shop-fronts were tight closed, through small squares—Campo Morosini, Campo Manin, familiar, unchanged, yet Ray did not know them well enough to remember every detail of them. He passed only one person, an old woman with a large flat basket of Brussels sprouts. Then the American Express’s tiles appeared under his feet, directing him with an arrow to their office, and he saw the lower part of the Piazza San Marco’s columns in front of him.

  He walked into the giant rectangle of the Piazza. The space seemed to make a sound like ‘Ah-h’ on his ears, like an unending exhalation of a spirit. To right and left, the arches of two arcades diminished in regular progression. Out of a strange self-consciousness at standing still, Ray began to walk, shy now of the humble brushing sound of his desert boot soles on the cement. A few awakening pigeons fluttered around their nests in the arcades, and two or three came down to peck for food on the Piazza. They paid no more attention to Ray, who walked very near them, than if he had not existed. Then Ray took to the shelter of the arcade. Jewellers’ shops were curtained and barred by folding grillwork. Near the end of the arcade, he went out into the Piazza again and looked at the cathedral as he walked by it, blinked as he always had at its complexity, its variety of styles all crammed together. An artistic mess, he supposed, yet it had been erected to amaze and impress, and in that it succeeded.

  Ray had been to Venice five or six times before, beginning when he had come with his parents at the age of fourteen. His mother had known Europe far better than his father, but his father had been stricter about making him study it, making him listen to his teaching records in Italian and French. The summer he was seventeen, his father had presented him with a crash course in French at the Berlitz School in St Louis. Ray had always liked Italy and Italian cities better than Paris, better than the chateau district which his father so admired and whose scenery had seemed to Ray as a boy like calendar pictures.

  It was six-forty-five. Ray found a bar-caffé that was opening, went in and stood at the counter. A healthy-looking blonde girl with large blue-grey eyes and cheeks like peaches took his order for a cappuccino, and made it herself at the machine. A boy assistant was busy filling glass containers with buns. The girl wore a fresh, pale blue smock uniform. She looked into his eyes as she set the cup before him, not in a flirtatious or even personal way, but in the way Ray felt all Italians of whatever age or sex looked at people—as if they actually saw them. Did she live with her parents, Ray wondered, or was she recently married? But she went away before he could glance at her hand for a ring, and in fact he didn’t care. He cupped his cold hands round the hot cup, and was aware of the girl’s happy, healthy face on the other side of the counter, though he did not look at her again. With his second coffee, he got a croissant, paid the extra to sit down, and went to a small table. Next door, now, he was able to buy a newspaper. He sat for nearly an hour while the city awakened around him, and the street outside began to fill with people hurrying in both directions. The skinny little boy in black trousers and white jacket took out tray after tray of cappuccini for delivery in the neighbourhood, and returned swinging his empty tray between thumb and forefinger. Though he looked no more than twelve and should have been in school, he had a crush on the blonde girl, who treated him like a kid brother, tweaking the back of his hair.

  It was up to him to find Coleman and party, Ray supposed, not for them to run into each other in some restaurant or in the Piazza, Coleman perhaps registering shock, or saying, “Ray, what a surprise to see you here!” But it was barely eight, too early to try to ring them at the Gritti or anywhere. Ray debated going back to the pensione for some sleep, then decided to walk a bit farther. Shopkeepers were arranging their wares now, hanging pocketbooks and scarves outside the doors of cramped shops, rolling up blinds to reveal windows full of leather goods.

  Ray looked through a window at a green-black-and-yellow scarf, its floral pattern nearly covering its white ground. A pang had gone through him at the sight of it, and it seemed that only after the pang did he see the scarf, and still a second later realized he had noticed it because it looked like Peggy. She would have adored it, though in feet he did not remember a scarf of hers that was like this one. He walked on, five or six paces, then turned. He wanted the scarf. The shop was not yet open. To kill time, Ray drank an Espresso and smoked another cigarette in a bar in the same street. When he returned, the shop was opening, and he bought the scarf for two thousand lire. The salesgirl put it into a pretty box and wrapped it with care, thinking he was going to give it to a girl.

  Then Ray walked back to the Pensione Seguso. He was calmer now. In his room, he hung the scarf over the back of his straight chair, threw away the paper and box, and got into pyjamas again. He sat on his bed and looked at the scarf. It was as if Peggy were in the room with him. It needed no touch of her perfume, no folds from her tying, to look exactly like Peggy, and Ray wondered if he shouldn’t remove it, put it away in his suitcase at least? Then he decided he was absurd, and lay back on his bed and slept.

  He awakened at eleven to the sound of church bells, though he knew they had chimed every quarter of an hour since he fell asleep. Try Coleman, he thought, or they’ll be out for lunch and not back until five. There was no telephone in his room. Ray put on his trench-coat and went into the hall to the telephone that stood on a sideboard.

  “Would you ring the Hotel Gritti Palace, please?” he asked.

  There was no one named Coleman at the Gritti.

  Ray asked for the Royal Danieli.

  Again the answer was no.

  Had Coleman lied about going to Venice? It seemed rather likely that he had, would have done, whether Ray were killed or not. Ray smiled at the thought that Coleman might be in Naples or Paris or even still in Rome.

  There was the Bauer-Gruenwald. Or the Monaco. Ray lifted the telephone again. “The Hotel Bauer-Gruenwald, please.” A longer wait, then he put the question to the new voice.

  “Signor Col-e-man. One moment, please.”

  Ray waited.

  “‘Allo?” said a female voice.

  “Madame—Inez?” Ray did not know her last name. “This is Ray Garrett. I’m sorry to disturb you. I wanted to speak to Ed.”

  “Ah, Ray! Where are you? Here?”

  “Yes, I’m in Venice. Is Ed there? If he’s not, I can—”

  “He is here,” she said in a comfortingly firm tone, dropping all her aitches. “One moment, please, Ray.”

  It was a long moment. Ray wondered if Coleman was declining to speak. Then Coleman’s voice said:

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. I thought I’d let you know I’m in Venice.”

  “Well, well. Quite a surprise. How long are you here for?”

  “Just a day or so—I’d like to see you, if possible.”

  “By all means. And you should meet Inez—Inez Schneider.” Coleman sounded just a trifle rattled, but recovered as he said, “Dinner tonight? Where is it we’re going, Inez—Da Colombo around eight thirty,” he said to Ray.

  “Maybe I can see you after dinner. Or this afternoon? I’d rather see you alone.” An explosive blast like a Bronx cheer from the telephone numbed Ray’s ear for a moment, and he lost what Coleman was saying. “Could you say that again? Sorry.”

  “I said,” Coleman’s taut, ordinary American voice said in a bored manner, “it was high time you met Inez. We’ll see you at eight-thirty at Da Colombo, Ray.” Coleman hung up.

  Ray was angry. Should he ring back and say he wouldn’t come for dinner, that he would see him at any other time? He went into his room to think about it, but within a few seconds he decided to let it go and to turn up at half pa
st eight.

  3

  Ray was deliberately fifteen minutes late, but not late enough, as Coleman had not arrived. Ray walked twice through the big restaurant, looking for him. He went out and entered the first bar he saw. He ordered a Scotch.

  Then he saw Coleman and a woman and a young man walking by the bar, Coleman laughing loudly at something, his body rocking back. Not quite two weeks after his only child had died, Ray thought. A strange man. Ray finished his drink.

  He entered the restaurant when he thought they had had time to be seated. They were in the second room he looked into. Ray had to go very close to the table before Coleman deigned to look up and greet him.

  “Ah, Ray! Sit down. Inez—may I present Inez Schneider? Ray Garrett.”

  “Enchantée, M. Garrett,” she said.

  “Enchanté, madame,” Ray replied.

  “And Antonio Santini,” said Coleman, indicating the dark, wavy-haired young Italian at the table.

  Antonio half stood up and extended a hand. “Piacere.”

  “Piacere,” Ray said, shaking his hand.

  “Sit down,” said Coleman.

  Ray hung his coat on a hook and sat down. He glanced at Inez, who was looking at him. She was a darkish blonde, about forty-five, slight, and she wore good jewellery. She was not quite pretty; she had a receding and rather pointed chin, but Ray sensed a warmth and femininity, perhaps something maternal in her, that was most attractive. And again, looking at Coleman’s bloating face, his unappetizing brown moustache, his balding head freckled from Mallorca, imagining the bulging belly below the table level, Ray wondered how he could attract women as fastidious as Inez seemed to be. Coleman had been with another woman very much the type of Inez, when Ray had met him and Peggy the spring before last at an exhibition in the Via Margutta. My father’s always the one who says good-bye, Peggy’s voice said in his ear, and Ray hitched himself forward nervously in his chair.

  “You’re a painter?” asked Antonio on his right, in Italian.

  “I’m a poor painter. I’m a better collector,” Ray answered. He hadn’t the energy or the inclination to inquire into Antonio’s work. Coleman had said Antonio was a painter.

  “I’m very happy to meet you finally,” Inez said to Ray. “I wanted to meet you in Rome.”

  Ray smiled slightly, and could think of nothing to say. It didn’t matter. He sensed that Inez would be sympathetic. She was wearing a good and rather powerful perfume, earrings with a pendant green stone, a green and black jersey dress.

  The waiter arrived, and they ordered. Then Inez said to Ray:

  “You are going back to the States?”

  “Eventually, but I go to Paris first. I must see some painters there.”

  “Doesn’t care for my work,” Coleman mumbled across his cigar.

  “Oh, Edward,” Inez said, pronouncing the name “Edouard.”

  Ray tried to look as if he hadn’t heard. He was not fond of Coleman’s current pop art phase, but it had simply never crossed his mind to invite Coleman to join his gallery. Coleman now considered himself ‘European.’ As far as Ray knew, he was not and did not want to be represented by a New York gallery. Coleman had given up his job as a civil engineer when Peggy was four years old and had started painting. For this Ray liked him, and for this Peggy’s mother had divorced him, claiming Peggy. (And perhaps there had been another woman in the picture, too.) Then in less than a year, Peggy’s mother had been killed in a car she was driving. Coleman, in Paris, had then been informed that he had custody of his daughter, and that his deceased wife, who had been rich, had settled a trust fund on Peggy which Coleman could not touch, but which would pay for her education and bring her an income when she became twenty-one. All this Peggy had told Ray. Peggy had become twenty-one while they were married, and had enjoyed four months of the income. It could not, Peggy had said, be passed on by her to her father or anyone else. On her death it had reverted to an aunt in America.

  “You are going to start a gallery in New York,” Inez said.

  “Yes. My partner—Bruce Main—hasn’t got the space as yet. We’re trying for it.” Ray could scarcely talk, but he made an effort. “It’s not a new idea of mine. It’s an old one. Peggy and I—We’d—” He glanced inadvertently at Coleman, and found Coleman’s small eyes fixed calculatingly on him. “We were planning to go to New York after our year in Mallorca.”

  “A little more than a year,” Coleman put in.

  “Peggy wanted to stay on,” Ray said.

  Coleman shrugged, as if to express disbelief or that what Peggy had wanted was of no consequence.

  “Are you seeing painters in Venice, too?” Inez asked.

  Ray was grateful for her civilized voice. “No,” he said.

  Their food arrived. Ray had ordered cannelloni. Meat was repellent, the cannelloni merely uninviting. Coleman ate with appetite.

  “What did you want to talk about?” Coleman asked Ray, pouring wine from the carafe for himself first, then for Ray.

  “Perhaps I can see you some time tomorrow,” Ray replied, Antonio was listening to every word, hanging on their conversation, and Ray was inclined to dismiss him as of no importance; but as soon as he thought this, it occurred to him that Antonio might be a partner with Coleman, a young man who would help Coleman get rid of him, for a little money. Ray glanced at Antonio’s shiny dark eyes, his serious rather crude lips now gleaming with olive oil, and came to no conclusions about him. And Coleman, talking to Inez, had not answered his suggestion that they meet tomorrow.

  “Where are you staying?” Coleman asked Ray.

  “The Pensione Seguso.”

  “Where is that?”

  “At Accademia.”

  A big table of men at the back of the room was extremely noisy.

  Ray leaned forward and said to Coleman, “Is there any time tomorrow when I could see you?”

  “I’m not sure—about tomorrow,” Coleman said, eating and not looking at Ray. “We’ve got some friends here. They’re joining us tonight, matter of fact.” Coleman glanced towards the door, then looked at his watch. “What time did they say?” he asked Inez.

  “Nine-thirty,” Inez replied. “They eat early, you know.”

  Ray cursed himself for having come tonight. Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but be polite and leave as soon as possible. But he could think of nothing, absolutely nothing, to say to Inez. Nothing to say to her even about Venice.

  The time dragged on. Antonio talked to Inez and Coleman about the horse races in Rome. He was enthusiastic. Ray could not listen.

  Coleman stood up, letting his napkin fall. “Well? Better late than never. Here they are!”

  A man and woman approached the table, and with difficulty Ray tried to focus on them.

  “Hello, Laura!” Coleman said. “Francis, how are you? Mr and Mrs Smith-Peters, my—former son-in-law, Ray Garrett.”

  Ray stood up and acknowledged the rude introduction politely, and found an extra chair that was needed. They looked like very ordinary Americans in their mid-fifties, and they looked as if they had money.

  “Oh, yes, we’ve eaten, thanks,” Laura Smith-Peters said, sitting down. “Americans, you know. We still like eating around eight.” She was speaking to Inez. She had reddish hair, and her voice was too high and rather nasal. From her hard ‘r’ Ray gathered she was Wisconsin or Indiana.

  “And we’re on demi-pension at the Monaco, so we thought we had to eat there tonight, because we were out to lunch,” Mr Smith-Peters said with facetious precision, his thin, birdlike face smiling at Inez.

  Ray became aware that Mrs Smith-Peters was gathering herself to speak to him, no doubt about Peggy, and he braced himself.

  “We’re really very sorry to hear about the tragedy in your life,” she said. “We’d known Peggy since she was eighteen. But not well, because she was always away at school. Such a lovely girl.”

  Ray nodded.

  “We’re from Milwaukee. I am. My husband’s a Cali
fornian, but we’ve lived most of our lives in Milwaukee. Except for the last year. Where’re you from?”

  “St Louis,” Ray said.

  Coleman ordered another litre of wine, and glasses for the Smith-Peters. But Mrs Smith-Peters did not want any wine, and at last, on Coleman’s insistence that she have something, asked for a cup of tea.

  “What do you do?” Ray asked Mr Smith-Peters, feeling the question wouldn’t bother him.

  “Manufacturer of sporting equipment,” Mr Smith-Peters responded briskly. “Golf balls, tennis rackets, skin-diving stuff. My partner’s carrying on in Milwaukee, but the doctor ordered complete rest for me. Heart attack a year ago. So now we break our necks climbing three flights of stone stairs in Florence—we live there now—and closing around Venice—”

  “Darling, since when are we chasing around?” his wife put in.

  He was a man who liked to move quickly, Ray saw. His hair was nearly white. Ray could not imagine him young, with more weight on him, but it was easy to imagine his wife young, bright-blue-eyed and pert, with a rather common Irish prettiness that needs youth or else. Mr Smith-Peters’s face reminded Ray of certain old baseball players’ faces he occasionally saw on sports pages in the States and never cared to read about. Lean, hawk-nosed, grinning. Ray did not like to ask if he had been keen on any sport before he started his business. He knew the answer would be either baseball or golf.

  Ray felt Mrs Smith-Peters’s eyes on him, looking him over perhaps for signs of grief, perhaps for signs of brutality or coldness that might have precipitated Peggy’s suicide. Ray did not know what Coleman had told them, but it would not have been anything favourable, not a single thing, except perhaps that he had money, a fact Coleman would have stated with faint contempt. Yet Coleman had a nose for money himself, witness his wife, and the woman he was with now. And the Smith-Peters. The Smith-Peters were typical of the people Coleman collected for social and economic reasons. They probably cared little about art, but Coleman could sell them one of his paintings. Coleman could take a woman, with whom he contemplated an affair, to a party given by people like the Smith-Peters, and impress her. Peggy, for all her rather primitive terror of and respect for her father, had deplored his sponging and his hypocrisy.