Alan Furst - The Foreign Correspondent

Weisz, his face burning, was still beneath the stall. As he started to crawl out, an immense woman, wearing a hair net and an apron, came rushing toward him, her eyeglasses, on a chain around her neck, bouncing with every step. She held out a hand, Weisz took it, and she hauled him effortlessly to his feet. “You better get out of here,” she said, voice almost a whisper. “They’ll be back. Do you have a place to go?”

Weisz said he didn’t-he sensed danger in the idea of returning to the via Corvino.

“Then come with me.”

They hurried down a row of stalls, then out of the piazza into the vicoli. “That bastard would arrest his mother,” the woman said.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” She came to a sudden stop, took him by the shoulders, and turned him so that she could see his face. “What did you do? You don’t look like a criminal. Are you a criminal?”

“No, I’m not a criminal.”

“Ah, I didn’t think so.” Then she took him by the elbow and said, “ Avanti! ” Walking as fast as she could, breathing hard as they climbed the hill.

The church of Santa Brigida was not splendid or ancient, it had been built of stucco, in a poor neighborhood, a century earlier. Inside, the market woman went down on one knee, crossed herself, then walked down the aisle and disappeared through a door opposite the altar. Weisz sat in the back. It had been a long time since he’d been in church, but he felt safe, for the moment, in the pleasant gloom touched with incense. When the woman reappeared, a young priest followed her up the aisle. She bent over Weisz and said, “Father Marco will take care of you,” then gripped his hand- be strong -and went on her way.

When she’d gone, the priest led Weisz back to the vestry, then to a small office. “She’s a good soul, Angelina,” he said. “Are you in trouble?”

Weisz wasn’t quite sure how to answer this. Father Marco was patient, and waited for him. “Yes, in some trouble, Father.” Weisz took a chance. “Political trouble.”

The priest nodded, this was not new. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“Until tomorrow night. Then I’ll be leaving the city.”

“Until tomorrow night we can manage.” He was relieved. “You can sleep on that couch.”

“Thank you,” Weisz said.

“What sort of politics?”

From the way he spoke, and listened, Weisz sensed that this was not a typical parish priest. He was an intellectual, destined to rise in the church or be banished to a remote district-it could go either way. “Liberal politics,” he said. “Antifascist politics.”

In the priest’s eyes, both approval and a hint of envy. If life had been different …“I’ll help you any way I can,” he said. “And you can keep me company at supper.”

“I’d like that, Father.”

“You’re not the first one they’ve brought to me. It’s an old custom, sanctuary.” He stood, looked at a clock on the desk, and said, “I have to serve Mass. You are welcome to take part, if it’s your custom.”

“Not for a long time,” Weisz said.

The priest smiled. “I do hear that, quite often, but it’s as you wish.”

Weisz went out once, that afternoon, walking over to a post office, where he used the telephone to call the contact number for Emil. It rang for a long time, but the woman never answered. He had no idea what that meant, and no idea what had happened at the piazza. He suspected it might have been, in his case, an accident-with the wrong person at the wrong time, the landlord spotted and denounced when he entered the neighborhood. For what? Weisz had no idea. But this was not the OVRA, they would have been there in force. Of course, it was just barely possible that he’d been betrayed-by Emil, by Grassone, or someone in the via Corvino. But it didn’t matter, he would sail on the Hydraios the next day, at midnight, and, in time, it would be for Mr. Brown to sort things out.

28 June, 10:30 P.M.

Sitting on the rim of a dry fountain, at the top of the staircase that led down to the wharf, Weisz could see the Hydraios. She was still tied to the pier, but a thin column of smoke drifted from her stack as she got up steam, prepared to sail at midnight. He could see, as well, the shed opposite the pier, and Nunzio, the customs officer for the crews of merchant ships, his chair tilted back against the table where he processed documents. Very relaxed, Nunzio, his night duty a soft job, idly passing the time, this evening, with two uniformed policemen, one lounging against the door of the shed, the other sitting on a crate.

Weisz could also see the crew of the Hydraios, drifting back from their liberty in Genoa. They’d left together, the night the ship docked, but now they returned, rather the worse for wear, in twos and threes. Weisz watched as three of the sailors approached the shed; two of them holding up a third, his arms around their shoulders, sometimes venturing a few steps, sometimes losing consciousness, the tips of his shoes bumping over the cobbles as he was towed along.

At the table, the two sailors produced their passports, then, a bad moment, hunted for their friend’s papers, finally discovering them tucked in the back of his pants. Nunzio laughed, and the cops joined in. What a head he’d have tomorrow morning!

Nunzio took the first sailor’s passport, laid it flat on the table, and looked up and down, twice, the action of a man checking a photograph against a face. Yes, it was him allright. Nunzio gave his port-and-date stamp an officious wiggle on an ink pad, then brought it down emphatically on the passport. As he worked, one of the policemen strolled up to the table and, peering over Nunzio’s shoulder, had a look. Just making sure, might as well.

11:00. The church bells rang. 11:20. A rush of sailors headed for the Hydraios, hurrying to get on board, two or three officers in their midst. Ten minutes later, the second engineer showed up, dawdling, strolling along the wharf, waiting for Weisz, so he could walk him through the passport control. Eventually, he gave up, joined the crowd at the table, and, with a final glance back toward the quay, climbed up the gangway.

Weisz never moved. He was not a merchant seaman, he was, according to his libretto di lavoro, a senior official. Why would he be traveling to Marseilles on a Greek freighter? At 11:55, a deep blast on the ship’s foghorn echoed over the waterfront, and two seamen cranked the gangway up to the deck, while others, assisted by a stevedore, hauled in the lines that had secured the ship to the pier.

Then, at midnight, with one more wail of its horn, the Hydraios steamed slowly out to sea.

7 July.

A warm summer night in Portofino.

Paradise. Below the terrace of the Hotel Splendido, lights twinkled in the port, and, when the breeze was right, music from parties on the yachts came drifting up the hillside. In the card room, British tourists played bridge. At the pool, three American girls were sprawled in steamer chairs, drinking Negronis, and seriously considering the possibility of never going back to Wellesley. In the pool, their friend floated languidly on her back, swished her hands now and then to keep from sinking, gazed up at the stars and dreamed of being in love. Well, dreamed of doing what people did when they were in love. A kiss, a caress, another kiss. Another caress. Twice, he’d danced with her, the night before: gentle, courtly, his eyes, his hands, his Italian accent with a British lilt. “May I have this dance?” Oh yes. And, on her last night in Portofino, he could have had a little more, could Carlo, Car-lo, if he wanted.

They’d talked, for a time, after they’d danced, strolling along the candlelit terrace by the bar. Talked idly, of this or that. But when she’d told him she’d be going off to Genoa, where she and her friends would sail for New York on an Italian liner, he seemed to lose interest, and the intimate question had never been asked. And now, she would be going back to Cos Cob, going back- intact. Still, nothing could stop her from dreaming about him; his hands, his eyes, his lips.