Joseph Kanon - Alibi

Claudia had found a job in a lace shop near San Aponal.

“You don’t have to work.”

“Yes, I have to. What do I do, sit and wait? Besides, after the Accademia, maybe they think I have a grudge. No job. So it’s better.”

“No one suspects you.”

“Maybe I want to do it anyway. What else? Sit with your mother, waiting for her to guess?”

So we saw less of each other, busy being careful in public. I went through reports at the Questura-a staff member to translate, a desk that wasn’t officially mine but was always available-and Claudia made a point of not asking where I’d been. One night, leaving her hotel, I realized that we’d made love because we were expected to, as if our comings and goings were still being monitored, even sex now part of an airtight alibi, something noted for a file.

On Sunday the weather was still fine and we went to Torcello, an excuse to get away. The vaporetto wasn’t crowded-a few families going out to Burano and two American soldiers in Eisenhower jackets who sat inside with half-closed eyes, out late the night before.

The military had been a light presence in Venice during the occupation, and since the official changeover in December soldiers were even less visible, more like tourists passing through than conquerors. In Germany it had been rubble and jeep patrols and lowering your eyes when a soldier passed, keeping out of trouble. Here, in the close quarters of the boat, the Burano families stared openly, curious, as if they were sizing up customers. I thought of the Germans finishing coffee at Quadri’s. Now the Allies. Who might like a little Burano lace to send home.

Surprisingly, however, the GIs got off with us at Torcello. I looked at the sluggish canal, the lonely marshes beyond, and wondered if they’d made a mistake, but after a quick glance at a map they went straight toward the piazza. Claudia hung back, letting them go ahead. No one else was around. Somewhere on the island, on one of the farms, a dog barked. Otherwise it was quiet, no summer insects yet, just the wind moving through the reeds. By the time we caught up with the GIs, they were standing in the piazza, a worn patch of grass, looking as melancholy and lost as the shuttered buildings around it.

“There’s supposed to be a restaurant here,” one of them said. “Locanda. You know where that is?”

I pointed to the closed-up inn across from us.

“That’s the one Harry’s runs?”

“Yes, but only in the summer,” I said. “It’s too early.”

“Well, shit,” he said, then dipped his head toward Claudia, an apology to a lady.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“I never asked. I just heard about it. Shit.” He looked around the empty island. “What’s the rest, a ghost town?”

“No, people live here. Farms. It’s just a little early in the season. You’re welcome to have some of ours.” I pointed to the picnic bag.

“That’s okay, we’ll just catch the next boat.”

“That’ll be a while. You check the schedule?”

He shook his head, then grinned. “Never thought to look.”

We opened the wine and shared out the salami sandwiches, sitting on the steps of the Greek church, Claudia slightly away from us, uncomfortable. They were on furlough, trying to see something worth seeing before they headed back to Stuttgart. It was the usual service talk-where I’d been stationed, where they were from, when their separation papers were coming through.

“And I can’t wait,” he said. “I mean, I can’t fucking wait. They can keep the whole thing.” He spread his arm to take in all of Europe, then remembered Claudia and dropped it, embarrassed. Instead, as if it would explain things, he pulled out his wallet and showed us a picture of his wife, Joyce. Head tilted for the camera, blond, ordinary, holding a baby in her arms.

“A boy?” Claudia said.

He grinned back. “Jim junior. Haven’t seen him yet. Just this.”

“Well, but soon, yes? They’re sending everybody home now. We saw it in the newsreels,” she said. “All the boats.” Thousands of waving soldiers, the skyscraper shot, then running down the gangplank, arms open.

“You from here?” he said, intrigued by her accent, maybe the first Italian he’d met. He looked around. “What is this place, anyway?”

“It was the first Venice, where it started.”

“So what happened?”

“The canals silted up. Malaria too, I think.”

He gave her an “I’ll bet” look. “Anything here to see? I mean, you came out, and you knew the restaurant was closed.”

“The basilica is very old, eleventh century. The original was seventh,” Claudia said. “The mosaics are famous.” But she was losing them. They were already looking away, uninterested. “And, you know, for walks.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Walks.” A smile, just a trace of a leer. “And here we are, in the way.” He brushed off his trousers, standing up.

“But you don’t want to see inside?”

“Tell you what, you take a look for me. I never know what I’m looking at anyway. We’ll just go wait for the boat, let you be.”

“It’s a long wait.”

“Not in this sun. I could just soak it up, after Germany.” He grinned. “Fucking sunny Italy, huh?”

They took a photograph of us, then headed down the canal path to the pier, turning once to wave.

“So that’s who comes to Cipriani’s,” Claudia said, amused.

“Not usually,” I said, leaning back. A favorite of Bertie’s before the war. “I wonder how they heard about it.”

“Oh, how do people hear about anything? Somebody tells them.”

“Yes,” I said lazily, closing my eyes. “And who tells him?”

“Somebody else.”

“And him?” I said, playing.

“I don’t know. Maybe Cipriani.”

I smiled, letting the thought drift, then sat up, taking a cigarette out of my pocket. “So who told Gianni? I mean, how did he know?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Rosa said he wouldn’t know a partisan-somebody would have to tell him. Not the SS. If they already knew, why use him? Somebody else. Maybe I’ve been looking at this backwards.”

“How do you mean, backwards?”

“We’ve been tracking what happened after, and we’re getting nowhere. But what about before?” I bent over, lighting the cigarette, then saw her confused expression. “Look, the only one in that house who’d been in hospital was a man called Moretti. If there was a connection to Gianni, he’d be it. But he was discharged more than a week earlier. So where was Gianni all that time? There’s nothing to prove he was involved at all.”

“So maybe he wasn’t,” Claudia said calmly.

“No proof,” I said, not listening. “A few visits to Villa Raspelli. But if he did know about Moretti, how did he know? Maybe that’s what we should be looking for. The link before.”

“And if you don’t find that either?”

I exhaled some smoke. “Then we can’t prove he did anything.”

“He gave them my father.”

“But there’s no proof he did.”

“No,” she said, “only me.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Just my word. And now he can’t answer. So how can you prove it? Maybe I made it up. The camp too. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

“I didn’t mean-” I said again.

But she was gathering things up, finished with it. “Let’s see the church.”

I put out my cigarette, still thinking, and followed her inside. Santa Maria Assunta had been built before churches became theaters-the walls were austere and the air was damp. We could see our breath in little streams. Venice was still primitive here, the island a mud bank with reeds again, the world full of mystery and fear. But then there were the mosaics at the end, cold and glittering, spreading over the chancel in an arch of colored light. People would have knelt here on the rough stone floors, dazed.