Free Alibi: A Novel by Joseph Kanon Page B

Antinus.”
    “Who?”
    “A beggar in Alexandria. The series is Saint Mark’s life. But I always think if you didn’t know, it could be a doctor helping the sick. Appropriate, yes? Who knows? Maybe Lombardo had a presentiment that it would be a hospital.” He smiled. “Anyway, it’s an idea.”
    “What happened during the war? I mean, was it a military hospital?”
    “No. It was never a war zone here. You know, behind the lines it’s a kind of peace. Things keep going. The hospital too. There was always food. In the south, with the fighting, it was different. Terrible shortages. Here at least no one starved, we could manage.” We were crossing a bridge out of the campo, and he indicated the houses on the other side of the canal with their running sores of fallen plaster. “But no paint, no wood, nothing like that. See there? No repairs, not for years. The city is falling apart. Of course the visitors, for them it’s always falling apart, they love the decay. Your mother thinks that. Don’t fix it, it’s all part of the charm. Well, maybe it’s lucky for me she thinks that way. At my age, I’m falling apart too.”
    I laughed, the expected response.
    “You know we have become good friends,” he said.
    I kept walking, not sure how I was meant to answer.
    “She has a gift for that, I think. A rare quality. To make people happy. Here we are.”
    He turned toward a door. No getting out of it now. But what excuse could I have found?
    The restaurant was in the little campo that faced Santa Maria dei Miracoli. In summer there would be tables outside, people writing postcards and looking up at the marble walls. Now it was a poky room with a bar in front and just enough space in back to be intimate without being noisy. Gianni was evidently a regular, known to the waiter.
    “You like granchi?” Gianni said to me. “He says it’s the special today.”
    “Yes, fine,” I said, toying with my fork, already uncomfortable.
    “Wine? I can’t, but if you like—”
    “No, water’s fine.”
    For a minute or so we watched the waiter pour the mineral water.
    “I’m glad we have the chance,” Gianni said, “to meet like this.” Leaning forward, opening.
    “Yes, thank you,” I said, steering away. “For the ceiling especially. I never would have seen it otherwise. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask—who are the Montanaris?”
    His forehead wrinkled for a second, then cleared. “Ah, in the box. Who are they? They made an impression on you?”
    “The other way around. I don’t think they approved. They left early.”
    Gianni laughed again. “They always leave early. They come for the interval, to see her friends. The music?” He brushed away the idea with his hand. “Ah, the crabs,” he said, leaning back for the waiter.
    “I just wondered who—” I began, but he’d moved on from the Montanaris, speaking before I could finish.
    “I wanted to talk to you,” he said and then stopped. He sipped some water, hesitant, as if he were putting the words together in his head. “You know I admire your mother very much.”
    I waited.
    “Very much,” he said again. “We have a love for each other. This seems strange to you, maybe. At your age, I remember, it is impossible to think this happens after—what? Thirty? Forty? To have these feelings. But we do. Sometimes even more so. We can’t be so careless anymore, we know how valuable, to find someone. You’re embarrassed, that I’m talking this way to you?”
    “It’s not that.”
    “Yes, embarrassed, I think. It’s my English. What I want to say—”
    “Look, the point is, you don’t have to say anything. If you and my mother—it’s none of my business.”
    “But now, yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It is your business now. We want to marry.”
    “What?” Blurting it out, as if I hadn’t heard properly.
    “Yes, to marry. You’re surprised?”
    “But why?” I said, another involuntary response, not even thinking.
    “Why?