Territorial Rights (12 page)

Arnold finally let himself be put on a boat to Murano, with instructions to buy some small glass objects as presents to take home.

‘It would have been too bad, too unfair to Robert, to let him start making enquiries,’ Curran said. ‘A lot of these students are English-speaking and so are the Venetians. Robert would be furious when he came back to know that his father—’

‘If he does come back,’ said Mary. ‘In my opinion he’s left for good.’

‘Did you give him much money?’

‘No, I’ve only got my travellers’ cheques with me. I gave him seventy pounds. I’m sorry I did, now.’

‘He won’t go far on that,’ Curran said. He himself had given Robert a great deal more, only last week.

‘He didn’t ask for it, either,’ Mary said. ‘I just thought he might like it, to take his girl out to dinner, you know.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Curran said, ‘Robert isn’t short of money. He could always go where he liked, all the time.’

They made a rough radius of the Pensione Sofia, trekking through the narrow, crowded streets, the alleys, round a few squares and across bridges, enquiring for Robert wherever they found a group of young people. Many of these groups were of mixed nationalities. Curran and Mary together managed to make known their quest. Generally, the Venetians in the streets and in the bars were fairly obliging. They hesitated, took time, made suggestions, or wished the older couple good luck in finding their friend.

Curran, after two hours, four drinks and two espresso coffees at various bars, began to show his irritation at the lack of results; he was used to a fairly quick response to his demands; ideally, one pressed a bell and something began to happen; he began to feel appalled at the total nullity of the quest so far, and the probability that the two hours could be extended to eternity. It occurred to him to wonder if, should he catch sight of Robert himself standing on a bridge or leaning on a counter in a bar, he would not prefer to walk on, ignoring him. To Mary, he said, ‘We’ve been at it for two hours.’

‘Over two hours,’ said Mary. ‘If I’d known, I would have put on different shoes. My heels are a bit high for walking.’

‘I hate to be defeated,’ Curran said. ‘We should at least go to the University and fish around there.’

‘You know,’ said Mary, ‘you and I, Curran, are very much alike. I was just thinking we should go to the University, and I also hate to be defeated.’

Curran knew that her mind was not really set to the purpose when, on the way to the University, she said, vaguely, ‘We could, of course, try the hospitals. You know, he could have been run over, or something. …’

‘What by? A gondola?’ said Curran.

‘Or he could have been taken ill.’

‘He’s in the best of health,’ said Curran, ‘wherever he is. You can be sure of that.’

They took the water-bus to the nearest stop for the University and walked around for some time without seeing many students. Those whom they approached knew nothing of Robert Leaver.

‘My feet are tired,’ Mary said. ‘Why didn’t you bring Lina? He must have been seen with her. Someone might remember her by sight.’

‘I thought of Lina,’ said Curran, ‘but to be quite honest I don’t feel I should draw her into this at the moment. There’s nothing to be absolutely alarmed about, you know.’

‘Do you really want to find Robert?’ Mary said.

‘No, not particularly,’ Curran said. ‘You’re a clever woman, aren’t you?’

‘But you just want to make quite sure he’s gone.’

‘Something like that,’ Curran said. ‘It would be a damn nuisance, too, if the police started making enquiries. It isn’t a police affair.’

At a students’ eating-house, they found an American girl who seemed to remember Robert; at least, he was called Robert and fitted the description. She had met him in the library just off the Santa Maria Formosa, but that had been sort of last week. They had left the library together, walked around the church. ‘I think he was studying the church of Santa Maria Formosa.’

‘That’s right,’ Curran said.

‘Well, I think he was sort of thinking of writing a novel.’

‘A novel!’ said Curran.

‘Yes, I think so. Kind of, with that part of the city as a background.’

‘It’s quite probable,’ said Mary. ‘They all write novels.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Curran, ‘quite typical of Robert,’ and he looked at the American girl, a lumpy girl with an open shiny face, and asked her, ‘What next?’

‘Oh, nothing. I had a date and I just said, you know, good luck with your book. I didn’t see him around since.’

‘Thank you,’ said Curran. ‘Well, I expect we’ve missed our friend; he must have moved on.’

‘I guess so,’ said the girl.

Mary and Curran decided to go back to the Pensione Sofia. ‘Maybe we could question some of the guests,’ Mary said.

The two women have already done so. Nobody remembers him very much, and many of the guests who were there last week left at the week-end; new ones came.’

On the way back they stopped for lunch at Curran’s favourite restaurant near the Pensione Sofia. There, without prompting, the waiter said to Curran, ‘Where’s your young friend?’ It occurred to Curran that in any other circumstances this would have been indiscreet. But now he responded eagerly, ‘We’re looking for him. You haven’t seen him by chance? Has he been in here lately? The last few days?’

The waiter gave thought to these questions, screwing up his eyes. ‘He’s left his hotel,’ Curran said, ‘and we don’t know where he is.’

‘I saw him …’ said the waiter. ‘Oh, yes, it was Thursday, our day of rest, We close on Thursdays. I was out where did I see him? He was … yes, outside the church of the Santa Maria Formosa, talking to some people. I greeted him as I was passing. I remember he turned and saw me and said “Buon giorno”, that’s all. It was about midday on Thursday last.’

‘The people he was with, who were they?’

‘I don’t know who they were, but I think Italians, Venetians, not tourists. There was a middle-aged man and a young woman.’

‘The man rather short and the girl a bit taller, with long blonde hair?’ Curran said.

‘Yes, that’s right. I think so.’

‘Well,’ said Curran, to Mary, ‘that brings us up to Thursday, anyway. Let’s order our lunch.’

When the waiter had gone Mary said, ‘Who are the people Robert was talking to?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Curran. ‘But I saw them several times following Lina, then they started following Lina and Robert together. I thought it was Lina they were after.’

‘You know,’ said Mary, much revived by a few sips of the wine Curran had poured out for her, ‘you are making my holiday, Curran.’

But Curran wasn’t thinking of her holiday. ‘He was seen talking to these people on Thursday at noon,’ he said, ‘And he didn’t go back to the hotel on Thursday night. I hope he’s not going to make a damn nuisance of himself. I hope he isn’t up to something.’

As soon as they entered the hall of the Pensione Sofia, Katerina said, ‘Curran, there’s a letter addressed to you. Someone left it on the desk.’

The envelope was typed. Curran looked at it before he opened it, and said, ‘Who left it?’

Katerina said, ‘I don’t know. Eufemia and I weren’t here.’ Curran realised as she spoke that Katerina was agitated and was doing her best to conceal it; after all, he had known Katerina for a long time. He opened the letter. It was typed:

Curran, you’re making a fool of yourself going round Venice in that company. The blonde is a husband-poisoner. You have been going around enquiring for me. Your sweet old friends Katerina and Eufemia are advised not to inform the police of my disappearance. Side-effects might ensue such as exhumations, etc., etc. From there would follow the implications that touch on your complicity. Collect my things from my room in the Pensione Sofia. You are to pack them yourself and keep them in some safe place. I have been kidnapped. You are to pay the ransom. My custodians will be in touch with you by telephone. Tell everyone only that you have had a letter from me to say I have gone for a trip to an undisclosed destination, that I don’t want to be followed, that I don’t want to be looked for. Prepare the money. It has to be a lot, I warn you. Several million dollars. They know everything. As I do. When I am released, I can promise you that it is over between us. It will be goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,

Robert

The signature was Robert’s or very like it. But Curran spent no time studying this or any other detail. He folded the letter and put it in his inner pocket. Mary had sat down and was attempting to make conversation with Katerina, who stood by, fidgeting with the edge of her pullover and watching Curran eagerly. ‘Isn’t it peculiar,’ said Mary in a voice which was rather shrill in an effort to make herself understood to someone not English, ‘how the beauty, the great beauty, of Venice simply changes when one has some worry on one’s mind. Take this morning, for instance, when we were looking high and low for this young man, Robert, it wasn’t so enchanting as it was the other mornings when I went for walks in Venice. The beauty simply—’

‘It’s from Robert,’ Curran announced. ‘He’s all right. He got a friend to drop the letter in; very obliging of him. He asks me to pay the bill and collect his belongings. So that’s what I’ll do, Katerina.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s the best. I can get that done for you right away. Eufemia said she hoped we wouldn’t have to tell the police.’

‘But where is he?’ said Mary, looking at Katerina as if finding it somewhat curious that Katerina herself had not asked this question.

‘It’s infantile,’ Curran said, sitting down beside her. ‘I’m afraid Robert’s behaving in a quite infantile way. But it’s quite simple really. He says … he says. …’ Curran pulled the letter out of his pocket and scanned it casually. ‘He says … “Tell everyone that I have gone for a trip to an undisclosed destination, that I don’t want to be followed, that I don’t want to be looked for.” Those are his very words. Pompous, infantile. Anyway, at least we can forget him, now. He asks me to take his belongings. I’ll get Violet to look after them. Well, Mary, we might have saved our shoe-leather and our breath.’

‘Could I see the letter?’ Mary said, holding out her hand.

‘Oh, later, later,’ Curran said, putting it back in his pocket. ‘I’ll have the key to his room, Katerina. I’d prefer to do the packing myself, since he asks me to do so. Where’s Eufemia? One of you had better come with me to make everything correct. I don’t suppose he has anything valuable, but I want to make a list, and I’ll give you a receipt.’

‘Eufemia’s in bed with a headache. She’s taken a bad turn,’ Katerina said, in Italian.

‘Speak English,’ said Curran. ‘Mrs Tiller is present.’

‘I understand a good bit of Italian,’ Mary piped. ‘More than you think.’

‘The Signora understands Italian,’ Katerina said.

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Curran. ‘But we don’t want to be rude, do we?’

One of the clients was at the desk waiting to pay for some postcards. Katerina went over to serve him. Then she said, pointing rather angrily to the rows of pigeon-holes, ‘The key to number 28 isn’t here. The maid must have taken it.’

‘I’ll wait for you,’ said Curran. ‘We’ll go up together.’

‘But I can’t leave the desk,’ Katerina said. She buzzed on the intercom, evidently to Eufemia’s room, and spoke in rapid Venetian, from which it emerged that Eufemia was by no means able to rise from her bed at that moment. Katerina said something final and harsh-sounding, and banged down the receiver.

‘I can wait,’ Curran said. ‘What does the maid want with the key?’

‘She has to tidy the room.’ Katerina was distraught, with a number of people now crowding round the desk.

Curran sat down beside Mary. ‘You’d better get back to the Lord Byron,’ Curran said. Tell Arnold that there’s nothing more to worry about.’

‘He isn’t worried. He won’t be a bit surprised that Robert’s walked off like this. Arnold thought that’s what he’d probably done. I’d like to come and help you pack.’

‘There won’t be much. He travels light,’ Curran said. ‘I have to pay the bill, and so on. Please do go ahead. I’ll join you later.’

After many protests he at last persuaded Mary to leave. Just as she was going out of the front door, in came Grace Gregory followed by her bright and hairy Leo. This caused Mary to change her mind and turn back, all eager as she was to be the first to impart the news from Robert. It was just on four o’clock when afternoon life was starting up again. People were coming downstairs; they were coming in the front door and going out of it; they were crowding in the hall, going out to the footpath and coming in from it. Curran sat mutely with the letter burning in his pocket, while Katerina frantically coped alone with the guests who wanted postage stamps, and with the telephone-board that kept buzzing with incoming and outgoing calls.

Grace pushed through the crowd towards where Curran sat at a low round table which was covered with some sensational Italian, glossy magazines of an old and ragged date. He lifted one of them as if he hadn’t recognised Grace, although he had seen her on one of her sallies to the Lord Byron. But he glanced up as she came to his table followed by Mary and Leo. Mary was still in the process of recounting their morning’s hunt. ‘And then,’ said Mary, as she crowded in on Curran with Grace and Leo, ‘when we got back here there was this letter for Curran from Robert. My dear, the fatigue. …’

Curran stood up, while Mary introduced him. The women settled themselves in the chairs beside him; there was no chair for Leo, but he stood in a vacant space blocking, as it seemed to Curran, the only route of escape. ‘And you see,’ Mary rattled on, ‘Arnold was right after all. Robert simply went off, leaving all his stuff for us to mop up. It’s really very inconsiderate of him, even though, between ourselves, it’s understandable if you remember your own young days. I feel like a drink. Is the bar open? Oh, yes, of course it’s open, I forgot; this is Italy. I wouldn’t say no to a gin and tonic.’

Curran was looking at her abstractedly as if he hadn’t heard. But he pulled himself together when Leo, who was ready to go and fetch the drinks, put his hairy head close to Curran’s face, saying ‘Place your order,
please.’