April Smith - White Shotgun

A special kind of excitement rises, as when pieces of an investigation start to fit. Hot damn. Six thousand miles away and I am back on home ground.

With a little push in the right direction from a bearded fellow at the English-language bookshop, I trot downhill on Via di Pantaneto until stopped by the words Happy Hour! chalked on a blackboard before a narrow doorway set into the stone-gray blocks of a nondescript building. A sign above says, WALKABOUT — AN AUSTRALIAN PUB. If you still had doubts such a thing could exist in the middle of Siena, Italy, the vestibule is stacked with placards for “Dundee Cocktail Hour.” The absolute darkness inside is like walking into a movie theater. A few groping steps, and then a gilded bar comes out of the gloom like a vision, a sparkling trove of golden beer taps and glistening glasses. There are strings of Foster’s beer flags, and toward the back, a tattered map of Australia. All the lights in the Walkabout are crimson, the way a bar should be; the stools are hard; the booths are hung with drawings of kangaroos.

The bartender is on a cell phone.

“It’s been sorted,” he says in a monotone. “I’ve given them the good news.” The bartender is English, stern, in his late forties, with buzz-cut hair, hefty, wearing a white T-shirt and burnt-orange jeans. He closes the phone and in the same clipped accent asks what he can get me.

I ask if Muriel Barrett is around.

“That’s her,” he says, indicating an empty stool and two full shot glasses.

“What is she drinking?”

“ Rum e pera. Rum and pear juice.” “Oh my Lord.”

“Special of the house.”

“Go for it,” I say.

“You’re American.”

“I’m from L.A., and please don’t tell me your favorite TV show.” “I don’t watch TV,” the bartender growls, putting two glasses before me. “First shoot the rum, then the pear.” I do it, and a few moments later, from approximately the third chakra, the Tuscan sun bursts forth.

The bartender goes back to washing glasses. In the rear, some guys are throwing darts. The stool beside me remains empty. I stare at an endless motorcar race on the flat-screen. Who is this doll, Muriel, alone at a bar doing shots in the afternoon? I’m imagining she’s a solitary painter with a history of failed relationships, so she moves to Siena, a place so beautiful just walking out the door can give you an eye orgasm. She’s rail-thin, worn-looking, a couple of years older — way too fast for a sixteen-year-old, but what does Giovanni know? The race cars go around another dozen laps, along with the rum in my brain.

A high-pitched female voice shrills at us: “Saved my spot?” A short aging Englishwoman with kinky gray hair hauls herself up onto the stool. She is in her sixties, round like a barrel and eager as a toddler.

“Good man!” she cries, downing the rum and pear, one two.

The bartender says, “We thought you were a goner.” “I was in the loo,” declares Muriel Barrett theatrically. “Having a nice bowel movement.” The bartender cracks a smile and offers another round. I am thinking it might be a good time to switch to Foster’s.

“This lady has been waiting for you,” he explains to Muriel.

Muriel, apparently playing the Queen of Rum, inquires imperiously, “Who is she?”

I introduce myself as Giovanni Nicosa’s aunt and ask if she knows him.

“Yes, of course I know Giovanni. You’re his aunt?” And that kicks off the whole saga of how I came to be in Siena. I leave out the part about being an FBI agent.

Muriel Barrett has the face of a beagle, complete with errant whiskers, but she is not stupid. Her large brown eyes take in everything and hold it for future use. I ask how she knows Giovanni.

“Everybody knows everybody in Siena. Especially the English-speakers.” “Knows them, how?”

“Oh, the occasional game of darts.” “In a pub? He’s sixteen years old. What’s the drinking age in Italy?” “I don’t think there is one, is there, Chris?” the cloud-painter asks the bartender.

“The drinking age in Italy is when you’re old enough to see over the counter,” Chris replies.

“I’m his aunt. ” Muriel watches with watery eyes. “You’ve explained the family history with stunning clarity. I do understand that you are his aunt.” “I’m concerned about Giovanni.” “Why? What’s going on?”

Muriel’s voice has dropped a key. Gone is the imperious bullshit. The eyes have adjusted to the line of questioning: cautious and indignant.

“He came to see you last night.” “Really? When was this?” “Around ten-thirty. Were you home?” “No, as a matter of fact, I was here. Wasn’t I, Chris?” Chris raises an eyebrow.

“His car is still outside your apartment.” Genuine surprise: “It is? I didn’t notice.” Then, “How do you know where I live?” “Giovanni was attacked last night.” “Attacked!”

“He’s in the hospital.”

Muriel stares.

“What happened to him?”

“Tower on Goose,” Chris pronounces flatly.

“Not necessarily.”

“Really?” he mimics, sarcastic now. “Like the Sienese aren’t all fucking nuts?” “But — why did you come to my studio?” “I wasn’t looking for you, Muriel. I was looking for Giovanni’s car. I asked around and met your landlady. She said he was there last night. He knocked on your door.” “I had no idea.”

“His parents are at the hospital. I’m trying to help them understand what happened.” “Will he be all right?”

“We don’t know. He was hurt pretty badly.” Chris is paying attention now. “This doesn’t happen in Siena.” I look at my watch. “I should call the hospital.” “No worries; I’ll take care of it,” he says. “You don’t want to deal with Italian phones.” Muriel uses a cocktail napkin to blot her tears. We wait in silence as Chris engages with someone at the hospital. He thrusts the phone at me. “Tell them you’re a relative.” My mind stalls. I can’t think of one word in Italian.

“How do you say it?”

“Sono la zia di Giovanni.”

I repeat the phrase like a dummy. Chris takes the phone and listens deeply. Now he’s thanking them. His tone has become polite. Muriel and I wait uneasily. He clicks off and speaks in that calm, eerie monotone.

“The boy is being taken to the operating room.” “For the leg?”

“Nothing regarding a leg. His heart is failing.” “Did he have a cardiac arrest?” “Might have. She said it’s critical.” “I’ll drive. I’m perfectly able,” Muriel announces crisply, and slips her purse beneath her arm.

Even before I get to Giovanni’s room, there is a jam-up of nurses and technicians in the hall. As I peer at the huddle of green scrubs, listening to instructions ordered back and forth in Italian, the truth of being a foreigner has never been clearer. The huddle starts to move as one, and then the gurney shoots out the door, trailing IV stands and monitors. They veer left, and Giovanni passes right beneath my eyes. It is almost indecent to look at him, helpless and exposed, unconscious, pure white skin, his beautiful head in a blue paper cap lolling as they turn a corner. My jaw aches. I have been clenching my teeth.

Muriel, who has been arguing with someone at the nursing station, wobbles toward me looking flushed and unsteady.

“He has to have an operation on his heart. It’s all I could get out of her, the cheeky little snit. And why does she insist on wearing that God-awful smock?” Muriel sways on her feet. I grab her fleshy biceps and ease her into a chair, wondering if the rum e peras have finally hit.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve been through several bouts of cancer with my partner, Sheila. As a result, I tend to have a hard time in hospitals.” In the car I learned that Sheila works for a bank in Piccadilly, and only comes to Italy for three weeks in spring. Nevertheless, their ten-year relationship has endured across the channel. Winters in Siena, Muriel is happy to roost like a hen among her cloud paintings. “It works out,” Muriel assured me, while speeding to the hospital along a commercial shortcut through the sunflower fields, past storage silos and water treatment plants.