Free Alibi: A Novel by Joseph Kanon Page A

her back. “I don’t believe it’s all the same for you.” No answer but the click of her heels on the stone. “Tell me it was the same.”
    “Yes, the same,” she said, not turning around, still walking. Then she stopped, her shoulders drooping. A long quiet. “No,” she said finally.
    I stood for a minute, then started moving toward her gently, as if she were a bird that still might be scared off. I stepped around to face her, not saying anything. She looked up, her eyes still uneasy.
    “Not the same?” I said softly.
    “No,” she said, the word not much more than a breath.
    “Then let’s go home,” I said, stepping closer, our faces almost touching.
    “You’re so sure. How can you be so sure about this?”
    “We can get a taxi at the Gritti,” I said, putting my arms around her, feeling her head fall against my shoulder. “Is that all right, a taxi?”
    She nodded, resting against me. “To the gardens. Not to the house. Signora Bassi, the owner, she lives there too. The noise—”
    We were quiet in the taxi, as if Signora Bassi were already listening. The room was plain, up a staircase at the side of the house, overlooking the small misty canal and a back calle full of clotheslines. We stayed quiet in the room, not making love, just holding each other in bed. I did get to see her asleep, hours later, in the predawn when I usually tried to make out the Redentore and wonder how I was going to spend the day. Now in the light from the window all I could make out was the sewing machine and a dressmaker’s dummy, her own shape standing straight and purposeful, the way she had at Bertie’s party, and in some wonderful way I saw there were two of them now—the public, tailored Claudia at the window and the one only I knew, who’d stepped out of the dummy to crawl into the warmth beside me.

CHAPTER THREE
    T he library ceiling was as beautiful as Gianni had promised.
    “Early sixteenth century,” he said, not a boast, just placing it. “The carving is the best in Venice, I think. Of course today it’s difficult to see.”
    The morning had been dismal, and even the long side windows were not much help—the library seemed barely lit. But the ceiling turned the patchy light to its advantage, forcing you to look at it carefully, follow its intricate lines into shadow. Only Venice could have a hospital like this, a converted
scuola grande
whose façade was crowded with trompe l’oeil and marble panels. The entrance hall was a soaring space with pillars, as damp and gloomy as an old church, filled with the ghosts of shivering consumptives, but beyond it the working hospital was bright and up-to-date with wards and nurses’ stations and X-ray rooms, what you’d see anywhere. And now the old medical library, which Gianni had saved for last, a special finale.
    “Not as grand as the Sansovino staircase,” he was saying, “but I think more beautiful. The proportions.”
    “It’s wonderful. Is it still used?”
    “In theory. In practice, no. Now it’s—a treasure.”
    “Locked away,” I said as he closed the door and we started down the stairs.
    “Yes. Otherwise—” His voice drifted off in the drafty hall, where families had begun to arrive for visiting hours.
    “I feel privileged.”
    Gianni accepted this with a nod, then smiled. “Good. And now, are you hungry?”
    “I don’t want to take you away from your work.”
    “No, no, it’s all arranged. A restaurant very near. We can talk.”
    About what, I wondered, but Gianni was all smiles and affability, clearly wanting to please.
    “Quite a hospital,” I said, looking at the façade again as we came out.
    “Well, the
scuola
was suppressed—I can’t remember why—and so there was a big public building to use. Not so practical, maybe, for modern times, but in Venice nothing is practical, so you adapt. The facilities are good. And of course it’s pleasant, every day to see it.” He pointed to one of the reliefs. “Saint Mark helping