Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“I see.”

There was a pause in the conversation. They had walked back to the Automobile Club and were leaning against the metal door now.

Renato said, “Will you be going to Rome?”

“Yes. Well, outside of Rome actually. The Abruzzi. I’m taking my sister to Aquila.”

“That’s not far from Rome,” he said. “Only a few hours’ drive.”

“My sister is ill,” Julia said.

“Aquila is pleasant,” he said. “Especially if you are ill.” His smile widened. “Perhaps only if you are ill.” He paused. “Will you be staying long?”

“Not too long.”

“How long?”

“Why?”

“You always say ‘why.’ I ask questions because I want to know the answers. It’s not necessary to say ‘why.’ How long will you be staying?”

“Several months.”

“Perhaps you may stay longer.”

“No.”

“How can you tell?”

“I have a husband and a son at home.”

“Yes, and they will miss you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I know.”

He was silent again.

“Aquila will be good for your sister,” he said at last. “The air is clean.”

“Yes, that’s what we were told.”

“Where will you be staying in Aquila?”

“We’ve rented a villa.”

“How much are you paying?”

Julia laughed suddenly. “You ask very funny questions,” she said.

“I want to make sure you’re not being cheated.”

“A travel agent arranged the rental for us.”

“There are thieves among travel agents, too.”

“Yes, but that applies to everyone, and I would rather trust people, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I don’t care to trust people,” he said. “Nor they me. It doesn’t matter. How much are you paying?”

“Two thousand lire a month.”

“That’s high.”

“It’s a beautiful villa.”

“Will you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come into Rome sometimes?”

“I suppose so.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, there are things I want to see in Rome.”

“I know an excellent guide,” Renato said.

“Who?” she asked.

She watched him intently, slightly frightened by what was happening and yet totally free of any feeling of guilt, and the guiltlessness frightened her even more. She knew where this was leading, and yet she felt powerless to stop it. He had said, “I know an excellent guide,” and she had said, “Who?” and she knew what his answer would be. She knew he would say, “Me.” She was certain he would say, “Me,” and she waited somewhat breathlessly for his reply, not sure what her reaction would be when it came, not sure whether she would end whatever was happening then and there, smile pleasantly but aloofly and say, “Thank you, that’s very kind, but I don’t think so,” not sure at all what she would say when he made his offer.

He did not answer at once.

“Who?” she said again, and waited.

“A woman named Maria Scalza,” he said.

“What?” She stared at him, surprised.

“Yes. She is a fine guide. If you like, I will give you her number.”

“I... thank you, but...”

“Ahhh,” Renato said, “the professor returns.” He looked at his wrist watch. “He said a half hour, and a half hour it is. Il Duce should send him a medal. He should send us all medals.” He raised his arm in greeting. “Ah, professor!” he called. Then he winked at Julia and said, “You’re late, professor,” and burst into laughter when the old man exploded in rage.

She brought the carnet to the customs office afterward. Renato waited until they had stamped it and returned it to her, and then he walked her to the car. Millie had fallen asleep on the front seat.

“Where do you go now?” Renato asked.

“Stresa. Just overnight.”

“You will like Stresa,” he said. “Are you staying at the Grand Borromées?”

“Yes. Have you ever stayed there?”

“Me?” He began laughing. “ Cara mia , I’m a farmer,” he said. “But it’s pretty on the outside.” He paused. “Like you.” He opened the car door for her. “ Arrivederci . Have a good trip.”

“I... thank you for your help. You were very kind.”

“It was my pleasure, believe me.”

“Thank you again.”

“ Prego. ”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he said.

She first saw the paintings in one of the palaces where she had gone with her sister Millie in a gondola. It had been a misty day in Venice, the sky spread overhead like a taut translucent skin, gray-white, the sun behind it evenly illuminating the canopy and creating a shimmering glare on the water and the buildings. It seemed as if the sun would break through at any moment. Instead, as the morning lengthened into afternoon, the sky turned ominously gray. When they stepped out of the gondola, it began raining. They ran for the shelter of the building. A bronze urchin stood in the entrance arch, a lovely statue in an angelic pose, his genitals rubbed shining bright by luck-seeking tourists. He stood grinning at them with his small shining penis as if inordinately proud of its glow, and she smiled as she passed it and noticed that Millie turned back for a second puzzled look.

The paintings were on the third floor, a series that showed men and women alike wearing white masks that covered their faces. At first she thought the paintings depicted some sort of masquerade ball, some fourteenth-century Mardi gras. And then she thought perhaps the plague had visited Venice at one time and the masks were a protection against the disease. Their guide explained the meaning of the masks, an explanation she never quite believed, but which nonetheless planted an idea in her mind. The guide told Julia and Millie that in those days there was great intrigue in Venice, and it was not uncommon to find noblemen with slit throats floating in the canals on any given morning. In order to protect themselves from homicide and assorted mayhem, the noblemen took to sending their servants out dressed in their clothes and wearing white masks that covered their features. The point of the masquerade, then, was to confuse would-be assassins. No one wanted to run a dagger across the throat of a supposed Count only to discover it was his own brother-in-law who worked in the Count’s kitchen. But, as with many another measure originally conceived of necessity, the masks became quite popular and enjoyed a sort of curious vogue. The women began wearing them as part of their everyday dress, and the masks became more ornate, decorated with pearls and jewels, dominos hid the eyes and the nose, the city was suddenly filled with faceless citizens.

The concept of the masks intrigued Julia.

For the first time in her life, she began wondering exactly who she was, began wondering who was the noblewoman and who was the scullery maid in disguise, began indeed to wonder whether the mask hid the true face or whether the mask was the face itself.

She had never questioned herself along these lines. She had long ago dismissed soul-searching as a particularly obnoxious fictional device, had long ago in fact stopped reading fiction of any sort, because she felt it added nothing to her understanding of herself as a wife and a mother. There were things Julia accepted, and things she refused to accept, and she had always believed that her own freedom of choice was the very fabric of her life. But now she began wondering if her freedom wasn’t simply the security of a jungle animal in captivity. She felt undeniably different in Italy. She could not honestly say she had changed in any way, because there was no tangible change she could see, and really no essential inner change she could feel. She seemed to move in exactly the same way, and think in exactly the same way — and yet there was a difference. A mask had been lowered, or perhaps a mask had been raised. She did not know which, and the uncertainty was puzzling. To Julia, there had always been things that were true and things that were false. She had always known exactly which was which, and she had governed her life accordingly, sure of their constancy. Now, she wondered.