The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (26 page)

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “I won’t believe it of him.”

Samuel looked as distraught as I felt. “We may not have a choice.”

The kitchen door opened; we both turned to see Nero come inside. My heart seemed to swell; I felt thick with love and longing. But then it all slammed into a nauseating, horrible knot. He looked ravaged with grief, face drawn, dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair looking as if he’d run his hands through it dozens of times.

“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been—what is it? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “What happened with the police?”

He frowned, but thankfully he was too distracted to pursue it. “I’ve told them everything I know. They’re talking to Giulia now, and I’m to send the two of you up. It’s a lot of bother for an accident, if you ask me, but it seems they’ve nothing else to do today. Do you mind? I’ve told them about the exorcism and Padre Pietro already, but they have some other questions.”

“Like what?” Samuel asked.

“They aren’t sharing them with me.” A quick, forced smile. He sat on the end of the bench near Samuel. “I’ve no idea what they expect to find. But if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything about a ghost. They already think everyone here is mad.”

I did not let myself look at Samuel. Instead I stared at Nero, soaking him in, those laughing eyes that weren’t laughing now, the question mark of a curl near his ear, the blade of his collarbone beneath the open collar of his shirt.

“What is it?” He asked me, bemused. “Have I something on my face?”

“No. It’s just that . . . I love you.”

His eyes warmed; his smile was answer enough, soft and quiet and real despite his obvious strain and grief. He turned to Samuel. “You won’t say anything about hauntings, will you? They’re already half inclined to take you away. The whole Satan thing troubles them—well, how could it not? A ghost would send them over the edge, I’m afraid. I don’t really relish the thought of arguing with four hundred Venetian officials about where they’ve taken you.”

It could not be him. Look at him there
. How could it possibly be him?

Samuel said, “What do you think, Elena?”

I knew he wasn’t just asking me about whether or not to tell the police about the ghost. “We’ll say nothing,” I said firmly.

He nodded, but he was so somber it ached.

“You’d best go up,” Nero said. “They’re waiting.”

Samuel rose and opened the door. The damp, chill air rushed in, along with a few snowflakes, bigger now, and wetter, more slush than snow. He stood back, waiting for me to precede him, but Nero caught my arm, rising and pulling me to him in one motion. He whispered in my ear, “I love you too, cara,” and gave me a quick kiss, and I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms, to believe completely in his innocence, and yet . . . there it was, that little prick of conscience and suspicion. Oh, how I hated it.

I kept hating it as he let me go, and I followed Samuel out into the courtyard, leaving Nero behind.

Chapter 32

Neither Samuel nor I spoke as we went up. Giulia opened the door, her face swollen and streaked with tears, and I remembered Nero saying how Madame Basilio had rescued Giulia and Zuan from the street when they were children. As we followed her bowed, grief-stricken steps to the sala where the police waited, I wondered what Giulia thought, if she suspected Nero in this at all. They’d been lovers, and I could not help but wonder how recently.

I pushed away the thought, which was unfair and unworthy. He said he loved me; I would know if he was lying. I would know. I knew just what to look for. The brief shift of a glance, the too ardent protestations, the wheedling manipulation.
“If you do this for me, we’ll be free. We can go away. We can be together. Come away with me.”

The memory pressed as if to torment me:
“You and I can leave all this behind. We’ll make love in every city on the Continent
 . . .
”
Nero next to a barrel of wriggling, splashing eels. Pressing his forehead to mine.
“Let’s not go back.”

It wasn’t the same. Nothing about him was the same as it had been with Joshua Lockwood. He was not lying to me.

Inside the salon, two police officers spoke to each other in low voices. When we paused at the doorway, and Giulia said in a choked voice, “Mamzelle Spira and M’sieur Farber,” they stepped apart. They’d seen us already in the courtyard, but now they studied us as if for the first time, and I felt them measuring; I felt their questions and suspicions as if they’d voiced them, particularly when they looked at Samuel.

I put my hand on his arm, the only support I could offer, and I saw how they noticed that too, how every movement we made seemed full of gravitas and import, a clue for them to follow.

Giulia withdrew; one of the officers gestured to a settee. Samuel’s limp seemed to become more pronounced, the sala too large to cross, as we went and sat.

One—tall and handsome, with a lovingly tended mustache, long and waxed at the tips to hold its smiling shape—introduced himself as da Cola, and his fellow—broad shouldered and thick, like a fit battering ram, with a face that looked as if he’d served as one—as Pasqualigo.

Da Cola said in French, “When did you last see Madame Basilio?”

I answered in kind, “Yesterday afternoon. But I heard her, last night. In the courtyard.”

“You’re certain it was her?”

“She was calling to the housekeeper. Yes, it was her.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. I’d been sleeping. Perhaps midnight? It had just started to snow.”

Da Cola frowned. “Where were you?”

“In my bedroom.”

“You were looking out the window?”

“No, I—” I felt myself redden. “I was in bed. As I said, I’d just awakened.”

“How do you know it had just begun to snow?”

There was no way to avoid it. “When M’sieur Basilio came in, he said it.”

“He came into your bedroom?”

I felt Samuel tense beside me as I said, “Yes.”

“You’re lovers?”

“Is this necessary?” Samuel asked.

Da Cola glanced at Pasqualigo. “Yes, I’m afraid so, m’sieur. Mademoiselle Spira, answer the question please.”

I stared down at my hands. “Yes, we are.”

“Was he with you all night?”

I nodded.

“You’re certain? Perhaps you fell asleep and he snuck out?”

“I would have known,” I said. “And . . . it would have been a very long time later.”

“Ah.” Da Cola’s smile was knowing and a bit obscene. He leaned back on his heels. “Very good. And you, m’sieur? When did you last see Madame Basilio?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“I don’t remember.”

Pasqualigo said, “She was here with the priest, yes? For the exorcism?”

“She was.”

“She stayed for the entire rite, yes?”

Samuel looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Pasqualigo crossed his arms over his burly chest. “You were the subject of the rite, were you not? You were there.”

“I don’t remember any of it.”

“Because the devil had you in his hands, yes?” da Cola asked. “I would very much like you to tell me how it is, m’sieur. I have heard of such things, but I have never seen it myself. I’m quite curious. When Padre Pietro called the demon forward, were you there as well, watching? Your . . . soul . . . or conscious mind . . . whatever one calls it? Were you aware of what was happening?” He sounded genuinely curious, but I could not be certain. It required all my skill to translate.

“I don’t know how an exorcism usually is,” Samuel replied steadily, though I saw how tense he was. “But no, I was not aware.”

“Is it like slipping into sleep? Or perhaps . . . swooning?”

“No,” Samuel said tightly.

“But you have no agency, yes? So the devil could make you do . . . well, anything, and you would not know it or remember it?”

“I don’t think it had anything to do with the devil.”

“You are not possessed? Then why call the priest?”

“It wasn’t my idea—”

“But you allowed it, yes? So there was a part of you that believed it may be true that a demon resided within you?”

“No, I—”

“The housekeeper says you convulsed and screamed. She said she had never seen such a thing. She believed the devil was inside you.”

I could not help myself. “That isn’t what happened at all.”

Da Cola didn’t even glance my way. He raked Samuel with a razorlike gaze. “Those bruises around Mademoiselle Spira’s throat. Who made those?”

I felt something within Samuel surrender. “I did.”

“And around your own throat?”

“I did that as well.”

“Do you remember doing this?”

“No.”

“Did it happen during this exorcism?”

“Yes.”

“So it was the devil, then, working through you? Would this same devil have, do you suppose, followed Madame Basilio into the early morning? Perhaps onto a bridge?”

I gasped. “No! No, that’s not what happened at all! Samuel’s an epileptic. The exorcism caused him to have a seizure. He didn’t know what he was doing. It’s not uncommon for them not to remember afterward—”

“Elena,” Samuel warned.

“—and I never thought it was a demon. That was Father Pietro’s idea. I just wanted to know if there really was a ghost, and what she wanted. Then she possessed Samuel and made him strangle me—”

“Elena!”

Samuel’s voice called me to myself. I broke off, horrified at what I’d said.

“What ghost?” da Cola asked.

“Laura Basilio’s,” I said lamely.

Da Cola threw a questioning look at his partner, who said, “The daughter of the old woman. She died two years ago. Three, maybe. Drowned in the rio.”

“Just like her mother?”

Pasqualigo’s grin was a thin line. “Bad luck.”

“Who is seeing this ghost?” da Cola asked.

Samuel and I were both quiet. I dared not look at him.

“Let me guess. M’sieur Farber, yes? A ghost that possesses him and makes him strangle people? Perhaps like . . . a demon?”

Again, we were silent. The sick churn in my stomach worsened.

Da Cola said, “We spoke to Father Pietro earlier. He told us that M’sieur Farber became violent enough that he had to be restrained.”

“He was unconscious by then. There was no need,” I said angrily.

“Was this exorcism successful?” da Cola asked Samuel, who shrugged.

“Don’t ask me. I don’t remember.”

“Nothing?”

Samuel shook his head.

“When is your next memory?”

“From later, when I woke up. I was in bed. Buckled in. Elena was there. I asked her to take off the restraints.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

“So you were free to go anywhere?”

“He asked me to tie him again,” I rushed in. “I tied him to the bedpost.”

“He asked this why? Because he feared he might hurt you again? Did you fear that too?”

“No, I didn’t.” It was a lie.

I saw that da Cola noted it. “Do you think he was capable of hurting someone, mademoiselle?”

“He was very weak.”

“But still you tied him. So you believed there was a threat.”

“He insisted on it.”

Da Cola’s gaze slid to Samuel. “Did you ask to be tied because you believed the devil was still inside you? Did you believe you would hurt someone again?”

Samuel bowed his head; I felt him sag. “Yes.” The word was a breath.

Da Cola looked back at me. “Did he remain tied the entire night?”

“He would not have followed Madame Basilio. He was far too weak.”

“Was he tied, mademoiselle?” the officer persisted.

“He was deeply asleep. You don’t understand. After such seizures, patients are exhausted. They can barely move. He slept for hours.”

“Was he tied?”

“No,” I admitted reluctantly. “But he had nothing to do with Madame Basilio’s death.”

“And how do you know this, mamzelle, if you were safe in your own bed all night with M’sieur Basilio? Unless—” he gestured between Samuel and me and jiggled his brows insinuatingly. Pasqualigo laughed.

Samuel started to rise. “If you’re finished here . . .”

Pasqualigo’s laughter died abruptly. “Sit down. We are not finished with you, m’sieur. But Mademoiselle Spira can leave. We have no more questions for her.”

I didn’t like what I was hearing. I hoped it was only that my French was inadequate. “I’d rather stay,” I said.

“We are not offering a choice,” Pasqualigo said. “We know where to find you if we need to.”

Samuel sighed heavily. “Go, Elena. It’s no good. Just go.”

“I can’t just leave you to this,” I said quietly.

“It’s all right.” He looked exhausted, and when he raised his eyes to mine I knew what he was thinking. I knew he was afraid and why. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I feared Nero had somehow sneaked out in the night, that he was lying to me. But now . . . if Samuel had done this, it could not be Nero.

I saw the pain in Samuel’s eyes, and I knew he’d seen what I felt. “Go on, Elena.”

I whispered, “You didn’t do this.”

He leaned close, his lips against my ear. “Can you say for certain that I didn’t? Because I cannot.” He drew away. “Please go. It only hurts me that you stay.”

It was only the knowledge that I might hurt him more that allowed me to rise, to walk out of that room, past Giulia sitting blank-faced and silent in the receiving hall, to the third floor. But when I closed the door behind me, I knew the rooms were not empty; I did not feel alone. I hated the twinge of fear that came with the thought. I did not want to feel it.

“Nero?” I called softly.

“In here.” His voice came from my bedroom.

The door was open. Nero sat on my bed, holding a black Carnivale mask in his hand. The trunk that had been beneath was pulled out, the lid open to reveal the black-and-white cloaks and tricornered hats of dominos. Two other masks—one checked red and white on half, black-and-white on the other half; another painted bronze, with sharply defined brows and a spadelike nose and a broad mustache—lay on top.

Nero looked up as I came inside. His eyes were red from tears, his face sharp with grief. I found myself searching for cunning, for guile, for Samuel’s suspicions and my own, which I did not want to have. I saw none of it. I saw only sorrow and desolation. “This used to be my room in the summers. Did I ever tell you that?”

I shook my head.

He rolled the mask in hands. It had a large nose, pointed and sloping. “This was mine,” he said. “Pulcinello. I wore it every year for Carnivale. He’s a trickster, and he can be vicious. You can’t trust him at all. He’s very smart, though he pretends to be too stupid to know what’s going on.”

I went cold. Softly, I asked, “Is that what you think of yourself?”

He exhaled heavily. “Every Carnivale, yes. It was a license for bad behavior, though Carnivale is not what it was. Those days were gone long before I was born. Still . . . there were parties enough, and I took advantage. Laura too. The Harlequin was hers.”

“And the other?”

“Brighella. The crafty old man. My father’s. My aunt declined to participate.” Again tears started. He blinked them away. “She thought Carnivale depraved. She didn’t want to see it brought back after the unification.
Chi comincia mal, finisse pezo
.”

I had heard those words before.
No, not the same ones. No.
I could barely force myself to ask. “What does that mean?”

He searched for words. “Ah . . . I guess you would say, a bad beginning makes a bad end. My aunt thought Carnivale belonged to another world and had no place in a civilized society. Mostly I think she worried for Laura and for me. Hard to believe, isn’t it? That she once worried for me? When she’s dedicated the last years to thwarting me at every damned turn? I should be glad she’s dead. I expected to be. I’ve been waiting for it long enough.”

“I know you loved her.”

“Did I?” He raised questioning eyes to me. “I don’t know what I felt for her.”

“Nero—”

“I want to feel relief, but I don’t.” He put the mask on his head, pulling it down over his face, that beaklike nose, only his mouth showing, eyes darkening, suddenly nothing but cunning and guile, the face I’d been looking for, the one I’d been afraid to find.

“Take it off,” I breathed.

“You don’t like it? You don’t think I look dashing?” He rose, coming toward me, black and devilish, smiling so his upper lip nearly disappeared.

“I don’t like it. Take it off.”

“Come, Elena. Let us be joyous. Let us be gay. Let us celebrate my aunt’s passing by doing everything she disdained.” His voice rose, an edge of hysteria that only frightened me more. He made a quick gesture, a flick of his fingers,
come here
.

Instead, I found myself backing away, my breath coming fast and my heart pounding, all my suspicions gathering painfully in my chest, a knowing I did not want to have.
No, no, no
, this was not what I wanted. He was not Nero, he was not the man I loved, and I saw in him now what I didn’t want to see.

“Elena?” He reached for me.

My panic surged. I ran.

“Elena?” He was right behind me. “Elena, stop!”