Donna Leon - The Jewels of Paradise

“ Scusi , Signorina?” the waiter said with a smile. “ Non ho capito.” She gave him a startled glance. No, no one would understand what she had done and what it might lead to.

“ Un caffè ,” she said. She didn’t want coffee but the thought of adding alcohol of any sort to her fear repelled her. The coffee came quickly, one of the advantages of sitting back here. She tore open an envelope of sugar and spilled it slowly into the cup, stirred it around, set the spoon on the edge of the saucer, and turned to one side, more to avoid her reflection in the mirror than to be able to see Sergio arrive.

Waiters came to the bar and spoke their orders, carried trays out to the people sitting at the tables in the cafè. She had noticed some courageous souls sitting at tables in the Piazza, shivering in their jackets and scarves in the thin spring sun as part of the full price of the Venetian experience.

She looked back at the coffee, realizing it would be cold by now and even less appealing. When she looked up again, Sergio was there: tall, thick-bodied, safe. She slid from the stool and wrapped her arms around him, put her face into his neck, and said, “I’m sorry, Sergio. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

When she pulled away from him, she saw surprise spread across his face, and when she glanced at the waiter, she saw it mirrored on his, though mixed with open curiosity.

“What’s wrong?” Sergio asked. “What’s happened?”

“That man. What did he do?”

Sergio held her by the arm and moved her back to the stool and didn’t release her until she was back on it. “What happened?” she asked, needing to know the worst.

“That man?” Sergio asked.

She felt a sudden flash of irritation. What other man could she mean? “What did he do?” she asked.

Sergio turned to the waiter and asked for a glass of white wine, anything he had. He looked at her untouched coffee, placed the back of his fingers against the side of the cup, then picked up the cup and saucer and reached over the counter and set them on the other side. “Two glasses,” he said to the waiter and turned to Caterina.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, then added, “Please.”

Sergio tried to smile, finally managed it, though she suspected it was to soothe her anxiety more than at the story he had to tell. “I couldn’t go until yesterday evening. I had to talk to some people in a hotel about metal reinforcements.” Involuntarily, Caterina clenched her teeth at the mention of this useless detail.

The waiter set the glasses down in front of them. Sergio handed her one but did not bother to tap his glass against hers, nor did he say “ Cin cin .” He took a long drink and set the glass on the counter. He scooped up a handful of peanuts and began to put them into his mouth, one by one, with his other hand. How long would she have to wait before he told her what had happened?

“I went in about seven. No one else was there. The store is full of crap, that stuff they get from China. Terrible, ugly things. Robaccia .” Was he wasting time to calm her down and prepare her for the worst?

“I went in, and he looked up and smiled, sort of waved his hand around the shop to tell me to take my time. As if any of that stuff would interest me.” Then he surprised her by saying, “But some things did. He’s got some of those butterflies the guy in Calle del Fumo makes. Really nice. Only thing in the shop—except for him—that’s Venetian.”

From wanting to hold him and protect him, Caterina had passed to wanting to put her hands around his throat to choke the information out of him. But she said nothing, picked up her glass and took a sip, tasting nothing.

“So I picked up one of them and went back to where he was sitting, reading the paper.” Sergio finished the peanuts and took another sip of wine, set the glass next to hers.

“I figured I’d do it like the guys in the movies do. Be a tough guy, start right from the beginning and frighten the little creep.” The man who had followed her was ten centimeters taller than she; only Sergio would see him as little.

“So what did you do?” she ventured.

“I held up the butterfly right in front of him and asked him what he was doing following my sister-in-law around and frightening her. Then I broke one of the wings off the butterfly and let it drop on the page he was reading.” Having said this, Sergio looked at his feet, then reached for his glass and took a larger sip.

He held the glass up between himself and Caterina, his thick fingers easily capable of snapping the stem with the least of efforts. He set it down and took some more peanuts.

“What did he do?” she asked, needing to know the consequences of her own rashness.

Sergio put his handful of peanuts down on the napkin beside his glass and said, “He pushed his chair back until it hit the wall and tried to stand up.” With his index finger, Sergio pushed at the peanuts, as if he were trying to straighten them into a single line. Caterina realized then that he wanted to have something to look at other than her as he spoke.

“But he couldn’t stand up. He was shaking so hard he had to put his head between his knees.” Sergio lined up a few more peanuts.

“When his head was still down there and all I could see was the back of it, he said, ‘Please don’t hurt me, please. My father made me do it. I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t even talk to her.’” Sergio looked at her for confirmation.

Caterina could do nothing more than nod. He hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t spoken to her. He’d followed her and terrified her, but he hadn’t hurt her.

“What did he do to you? What did he say?” Sergio asked.

She shook her head. “He frightened me,” she said. Then, realizing how inadequate that sounded, she said, “He terrified me.”

Voice much lower, Sergio said, “He started to cry. Not like people in the movies, with tears down his face and you know it’s all fake. He was almost hysterical, sobbing and wrapping his arms around his chest and keeping his head hidden like he had to protect himself.” Sergio’s voice came in gusts, like the November wind on the Lido. “He kept saying, again and again, ‘I didn’t want to do it. My Daddy made me do it. I had to frighten her. He said she doesn’t work enough.’ It was like he was a kid again. He really couldn’t stop.”

“What did you do?”

Sergio threw his arms out to his sides; they were so long that one of the waiters had to dance away from his hand, which caused Sergio to apologize to him and the waiter to smile and say it was nothing.

When Sergio looked back at her, he seemed calmer. “If it had been one of the kids I would have told him to quiet down and given him a handkerchief and told him it would be okay. But this was the guy who followed you.”

“So?”

“So I asked him his father’s name.”

“And.”

“Scapinelli,” Sergio said. “That mean something?”

“Yes,” Caterina said, realizing she was not at all surprised. “Then what?”

“Then, I was so embarrassed, all I could think of to do was ask him how much the butterfly cost.” Seeing her surprise, Sergio said, “I know, I know it was a stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing I could think of.”

“What did he do?”

Sergio smiled or came close to smiling. “I guess he was as surprised as you were, or I was, because he looked up at me and said it cost twenty euros but I didn’t have to pay for it. He’d tell his father it got broken by a client.”

“And?”

Looking surprised that she would be in any doubt about what he would do, Sergio said, “I did what I had to do. I reached into my pocket for my wallet.” He paused and gave her a pained look. “When he saw me move, he pushed away to the side like he thought I was going to hit him. Right along the wall, still in the chair, but against the wall. And this time he bent down and put his arms over his head.” He waited a moment, then, as though the story wouldn’t be complete without this last detail, he said, “And he made a noise. Like an animal. In a trap.”