Mark Lee - The Canal House

I stared at them, impressed and appalled. “And the villagers said they’d go for this?”

“Hell, yes. All the young people there want a good job. That working on the farm stuff gets old real fast.”

I excused myself, grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray, and drifted into the dining room. Everybody was talking about the two heads in formaldehyde. Apparently the Count had just bought them from a young British genius for ten million lire. The pig had pale skin with blue veins, like a human, and its eyes were closed. I asked one of the servants if the pig was Fame, but he didn’t speak English.

Perhaps I should have been angry with Daniel for using me to conceal his love affair, but the new suit changed everything. Although I didn’t know enough Italian to flirt with the women, several of them smiled at me and I smiled back. Usually I feel like I’m sitting in the cheap seats watching other people perform in an endless play. But with my Italian suit I was up on the stage—not in a big role perhaps, but definitely part of the story.

Daniel and the Contessa had disappeared. The Count didn’t seem to care. Around midnight Michael Cesare showed up with his entourage. The opera singer was a big man with a small blond ponytail. He demanded a special drink that included lime juice, cold tea, and a raw egg. The Count scurried in and out of the kitchen trying to find all the ingredients. It was difficult to figure out who was sleeping with whom, but one thing seemed clear: the Texans were going to lose all of their money.

I was drinking more champagne and eating my third plate of shrimp when the Contessa cornered me. She looked angry.

“You think that your friend is loyal, but that is not true. He only cares for his work.”

“Daniel isn’t my friend.”

“Good. I would not travel to Africa with him. He is a cold man. Un egotista . If you get sick or injured he will leave you there.”

The Count approached us and pointed to my camera bag. “You,” he said as if I were a plumber who had just shown up to fix a leaky faucet, “take a picture of me and Michael Cesare.”

“Why?”

“Our photograph must appear in my friend’s newspaper.”

“Then get one of their guys to do the job.”

The Count jabbed his finger at the breast pocket of my new sports coat. “I order you to do this! Immediatamente! ”

I was going to tell the Count to go to hell when Daniel stepped in front of me and spoke in a soft voice. “What’s the problem, Nicky?”

“I don’t want to take their picture.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a news photographer. That’s what I do. I’ll risk my life to take a picture that’s important, but I won’t do it just to pump up somebody’s ego.”

Daniel nodded, but he didn’t move away. “We’re guests, Nicky. We’ve eaten the man’s food and drunk his wine. If you don’t want to do it, then give me the camera.”

He reached out and held both my arms as if to keep me from falling. I knew that he was going to take the picture, regardless of what I said. What the hell, I thought. Don’t want him touching my equipment.

“All right,” I told the Count. “Go over there and hug your buddy.”

The Count turned gracious and charming. He hurried over to Cesare, threw an arm around him, and they both grinned like school-boys. I raised my camera, took one step to the right to get the pig’s head in the frame, then took the picture.

Daniel whispered something to the Contessa and she laughed loudly. He coaxed me out of the apartment and led me down a marble staircase. I was still annoyed that he had maneuvered me into taking the picture.

“What’s the problem?” I asked. “Why did we have to leave?”

“You’re drunk, Nicky. Time to go home.”

“How come the Count lets you screw his wife?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“If we’re going to work together, then we’ve got to be honest with each other. I want to know what’s going on so I can evaluate the risk. I’m not going to get killed like Victor Zikowski.”

Daniel spun me around on the landing and slammed me against the wall. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him. Are you making a point, Nicky? Trying to tell me something?”

“Maybe.”

“It was his idea to go up that road and I went with him. Victor knew how dangerous it was. We both took the same risk.”

I was too drunk to come up with a reply so I let him drag me out into the square. It was dark and the crowds had disappeared. An old man stood by one of the fountains and played a sad song on an accordion. Somehow we made it back to the Spider. I closed my eyes and leaned against the door as Daniel started the engine.

I assumed he was going to drop me off at the hotel, but when I opened my eyes again we were speeding north on the Appian Way. The road was very narrow and bumpy. Garden walls and pine trees lined both sides and it felt like we were trapped in a tunnel. No road signs. A faint glow came from the car’s instrument panel, but it was difficult to see Daniel’s face. All I knew was that we were driving as fast as possible toward some unknown destination.

I WOKE UP AT DAWN, still sitting in the car. My muscles were stiff and I felt sick to my stomach. A flock of sparrows were perched on the hood of the Spider. I lurched forward and they all flew away.

The car was parked on a hillside somewhere in the country. Peering through the windshield, I could see an oak tree and a clump of thornbushes. My hand found the door handle. I got out, took two steps, then felt ill and sat down on some gravel. Daniel had left me here. God knows where he had spent the night. After a few minutes of fighting with my stomach, I closed my eyes and lay on my side.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel, and I felt the shock of cold water splashed on my face. I sat up, sputtering, and an old woman carrying a red plastic pail began screaming at me in Italian. She was less than five feet tall, dressed in black with white hair slipping out from beneath her kerchief.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I don’t know what you’re saying. If you could just talk a little slower …”

She tapped her forefinger on her head to indicate that I was crazy, then turned away from me and took a path that led up the slope to a gray stone farmhouse. A patio was at the front of the house and it was covered by a latticework intertwined with grapevines.

I stood up, still wobbly, and saw Daniel come out of the house carrying a silver coffeepot and some cups. He bowed slightly to the old woman. She pointed down the hill and delivered a few more comments, most likely about my sleeping habits and moral degeneracy.

My new pants were covered with dirt. Burs and stickseeds clung to my suit coat. Slowly I followed the pathway up the hill. I passed one terrace dotted with olive trees, then a second terrace supporting a large vegetable garden. When I reached the arbor I found Daniel sitting at a wooden table wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt, torn blue jeans, and running shoes.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He filled a cup with hot coffee and mixed in some evaporated milk. The sticky, sweet milk usually made me gag, but that morning it softened the harsh taste of the coffee and helped settle my stomach.

“Where the hell are we?”

“North of Rome, near the village of Bracciano.” Daniel made a circular motion with his right hand, taking in the farmhouse, the olive trees, and the vegetable garden. “This is my home.”

The old lady came out with more coffee and banged the pot down on the table. She spoke to me in Italian, not shouting this time, but giving me lots of advice.

“Nicky, I’d like you to meet La Signora. She lives in another house farther up the hill.”