The Bay of Foxes: A Novel Read online

  “Mortorio?” Dawit says without thinking.

  “That’s it. Let’s go there before it gets too dark and have a swim.”

  Dawit cannot think of anything to say. He considers pleading illness—indeed, he feels ill but realizes it would be unwise. Better to keep the man busy, even if he seems to have had the most diabolical idea. How can Dawit take him back to the place where he left M.?

  He is obliged to drive the man down to the harbor and to walk along the quay as he did with M. in his arms in the dawn light. He has not been back here since her death, has carefully avoided the place, the boat. He is not even sure there are not traces of his blood on the boat’s engine. The sun is beginning to set as it was rising that day, as he helps the portly editor into the boat. He unties the docking lines, unable to say a word, sunk into a reverie. Fortunately, Gustave, who is obviously not a boatman, seems to concentrate on the ride. Dawit sits in the stern of the boat, behind the editor, who sits in the middle, his back to Dawit, his plump hands spread out on each side of him to steady himself. He turns to smile at Dawit benevolently, decked out in his expensive striped bathing trunks, a thick Hermès towel around his red neck. Dawit starts up the engine without difficulty and looks across the water, the late afternoon sun a glare in his eyes, but what he keeps seeing is M.’s face in the sea, the floating white hair and the white nightdress that bubbled up as she sank down. He looks at the oars lying in the bottom of the boat and glances at Gustave’s back, the roll of flesh protruding from his shirt as he hangs over the side of the boat, trailing plump fingers in the clear water.

  “Such clear water,” he repeats, as if to remind Dawit of his predicament, turning back to smile contentedly at Dawit, making him draw in a sharp breath, imagining the body coming loose from its heavy chains and floating up to the surface or even, having drifted into shallow water, becoming visible at the bottom of the clear sea.

  The editor, to make matters worse, quizzes Dawit as he attempts to concentrate on the steering of the boat. He asks him about M.’s departure. When did she leave? he wants to know. Dawit stares across the water and tells him he had driven her into Olbia to catch her plane for Geneva a few weeks ago. He keeps things as vague as possible. “I left her in the evening at the airport,” he feels he can safely say. “She had been in Sassari to do a reading and came back early,” he says, telling as much truth as possible. Besides, the editor may have heard about the visit to Sassari, for all he knows.

  “Did you know she was to do a reading in Sassari?” Dawit asks.

  “First I heard about it,” Gustave says, turning his head.

  “Had you two quarreled or something?” Gustave asks shrewdly, looking Dawit in the eye. “It surprises me she went off alone. She seemed so fond of you—I’d even use the word besotted. She seemed to want you always at her side,” and he laughs his big laugh, which shakes his stomach like jelly.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, non! We never quarrel. How could I? She has been so good to me. I’m very grateful,” Dawit says quickly, and then realizes his words are too strong and do not sound sincere. Such phony dialogue, he would never put into a novel.

  “I know how difficult and demanding she can be,” Gustave says, taking the towel off and laying it down beside him in the boat. “She and I have had a few quarrels, I can tell you,” he adds, glancing back at Dawit.

  Dawit just stares across the sea and says, “Really?”

  Gustave adds, “Certainly you have lasted much longer than the others.”

  “Others?” Dawit asks.

  “Oh, God, yes. There have been a string of young, attractive men over the years, I’m sure you must know. None of them has lasted more than a few weeks, as I recall.”

  “Really?” Dawit says again, though he has certainly suspected as much.

  “In my opinion you have been smart, helping her with her work, which I certainly hope she appreciates,” Gustave says, turning toward Dawit with a grin.

  Dawit continues to steer the boat to a spot as far from the place where he left her as possible, but he is not at all sure the body would not have drifted in the currents or even risen to the surface.

  “This is a perfect spot for a swim. Shall we anchor?” Gustave suggests. Dawit says he will stay in the boat, he doesn’t feel like swimming this evening. He has not been swimming since the night she died. He cannot get back in the water.

  “Too bad. The water looks wonderful to me,” Gustave says as he prepares to make a leap from the side of the boat, holding his nose like a child and landing with a large splash, shaking the boat dangerously. He comes up to the surface and lies on his back and kicks up a spray. He calls out to Dawit to join him.

  “I think I’ll just stay here. I’ve done enough swimming recently,” Dawit says to Gustave, reaching for one of the oars, just in case.

  XXIX

  DAWIT WANTS ONLY TO BE ALONE, ABSORBED BY HIS OBSESSIVE thoughts, but now he has to entertain this thick-necked, large-bellied Frenchman, who is no fool. He decides to do it lavishly. While Gustave showers and dresses after his swim—Dawit can hear him singing lustily in the shower—Dawit goes into the kitchen and asks the couple to stay late and serve dinner. They have done the shopping for Dawit in haste and are now preparing a large platter of seafood for the hors d’oeuvres: oysters, clams, and grilled calamari. Adrianna is grilling lobster for the entrée, melting butter and stirring in lemon and parsley.

  “This all looks fabulous,” Dawit says, smiling at them, glad he has taken the trouble to ingratiate himself with the young couple. “Che pranzo splendido!” Dawit says to them.

  The couple are obviously happy to be back in the house, working. Adrianna has brought a large glazed fruit pie from the excellent baker in Abbiadori, as well as lettuce and tomatoes for salad. He has them open the good champagne, put out nuts and olives. Fortunately, he has the key to the cellar and knows the combination on the lock of the safe. He considers these expenses legitimate ones, business expenses.

  He looks at Adrianna and tells her to pin up her hair and put on some makeup. He adjusts her apron, pulling it in at the waist and tying a bow at the back. He smiles at her and Michelino. “Bellissima, la tua moglie,” he says, thus complimenting both of them.

  It is a beautiful, clear night, and Dawit has the couple open the shutters on the patio behind them. A fine white cloth covers the round stone table, the silver shimmers, and bougainvillea spills from a vase in the center. On one side lies the bay with its moonlit water and on the other, the patio with the dark purple bougainvillea climbing up the wall. The air is redolent with the fragrance of herbs.

  “What a feast, absolutely delicious,” Gustave says, looking up at the flushed Adrianna, who serves the dishes with a big smile.

  “What do you think of M.’s latest?” Dawit asks the editor as he cracks a lobster claw. “Did you have a chance to read it this afternoon?”

  “I did actually read the whole thing in a couple of hours. I started it and quite honestly and rather unexpectedly couldn’t put it down. It’s unusually readable for her. I think it’s the best thing she’s done in a long while.”

  “I’m so glad you think so,” Dawit says with genuine pleasure, lowering his gaze, adding, “She will be delighted, I’m sure.”

  Gustave looks Dawit in the eye. “Have you read it as well?” he asks him.

  “Oh, yes, a few times. We worked on it through the summer. In fact, I did a little editing,” he says modestly, and grins at Gustave and then lowers his gaze.

  Gustave smiles at him with complicity, and says, “I thought you might have, actually. There is something quite different about the prose.” He searches for the right word. “A youthfulness, perhaps?” Dawit smiles.

  Gustave cracks another lobster claw, extracts the flesh, and dips it into the butter. He asks Dawit, “Would you have any thoughts for the title?”

  Dawit thinks and says, “What about Black Eyes, White Hair?”

  “Not bad,” the editor says. “I like it.”

&nbs
p; The editor sips his champagne thoughtfully and says, “I don’t know what your relationship with M. is exactly, and quite frankly it’s none of my business, but between you and me, I think she’s lucky to have met you. Her work has improved considerably since you’ve been with her. You’re a good editor, and for all I know a good writer. I hope she can convince you to stay around.”

  “I intend to,” Dawit says to the man and pours him another glass of M.’s excellent champagne.

  XXX

  DAWIT IS WOKEN IN THE NIGHT BY THE LIGHT. FOR A MOMENT, half asleep, he thinks M. is back in his room watching him sleep, as she did so often. He feels a presence near him, a hand on his shoulder. He is not dreaming; this is real. Someone is definitely standing over him, menacingly. Someone is shaking his shoulder insistently. He sits up shaking, certain M. has come back to wake him up once again, to haunt him. Instead, when he opens his eyes properly, he sees not M.’s gaunt figure or any specter but the very real and stout Gustave, who leans over him in his maroon-striped pajamas. He says irately, “There is some fellow on the phone by the name of Enrico, who insists on talking to you. I answered because I thought it might be M. calling at this ungodly hour.”

  “God, I’m so sorry,” Dawit says, jumping out of bed, holding the sheet to cover his nakedness. He adds, grinning foolishly, “My tennis buddy.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not talking about tennis! Hell of a time to call. Three in the morning, and I wouldn’t have woken you, but he sounds rather upset, and the more I spoke, the more upset he got,” Gustave says, looking suspiciously at Dawit.

  Dawit apologizes again and begs the editor to go back to sleep.

  Once he has left, shuffling across the tile floor in his leather slippers, Dawit picks up the telephone beside his bed, his hand shaking. It is indeed Enrico, shouting into the phone. “What the hell happened to you? What’s going on? I haven’t heard a word from you. You knew I was leaving. Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you come to the tennis club? And in God’s name who answered the phone?” Enrico says, slurring his words, sounding very drunk. There are voices around him, people talking. He must be in some bar in Rome.

  “Nothing. Nobody. Nothing is going on. Look, I can’t talk now. It’s three in the morning. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow and explain. Give me a number where I can call you, a time,” he says. He doesn’t want to implicate Enrico, and he is not at all certain that the editor is not listening in to this call, would not be able to understand Enrico’s Italian. He has not heard the receiver being replaced.

  Enrico gives him his number at his office and tells Dawit to call around ten the next morning. “I’m sorry I woke your guest,” Enrico says, his voice heavy with irony.

  “It’s M.’s editor, who is visiting,” Dawit says in a low voice.

  “Oh, really? Well, go back to bed. Go back to your sweet sleep,” Enrico says irately.

  But Dawit cannot sleep, afraid Gustave has overheard and might be growing suspicious. He leaves the house before dawn. He runs down to the Piccolo Pevero, lies on the sand in the faint light, staring up at the sky. He wants to go to Rome to find Enrico and talk to him. He needs to talk to someone frankly, to tell someone what he has done. Who else can he speak to, whatever the risk?

  He calls Enrico from the hotel, after his run, and says, “Look, I’ve missed you terribly, but I can’t talk about it over the phone. You’ll understand when I explain. I’ll come to Rome, if you can find time to see me, somewhere I can stay.” He is beginning to feel Rome might be a safer place for him. “Can you find me somewhere to stay that won’t cost a fortune for a few days?”

  “Of course, no problem. You can stay at my brother-in-law’s pied-à-terre for free. He’s away, and it’s not far from our apartment near the Piazza di Spagna. It’s very small but it has a little terrace and a great view.”

  “Are you sure he wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. They have so many of those millions. He’s got about ten houses,” he says, laughing. Dawit imagines Enrico lifting his beautiful hands in the air and shaking out the fingers like leaves on a tree to indicate the millions. “I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you terribly. I’m sorry I called so late. Who was that man I spoke to? He sounded rather angry.”

  “Oh, I told you, just M.’s editor from Paris who has been staying in the villa.”

  “I see. Well, let me know just as soon as you have your ticket. Come soon,” Enrico says.

  “I have so much to tell you,” Dawit says. “I’m going to come as soon as possible.”

  XXXI

  GUSTAVE RISES LATE AND OVER BREAKFAST ANNOUNCES, to Dawit’s relief, that he will be leaving today if Dawit can get him on a plane to Paris and to the airport on time. “There’s no point to wait around for M.’s return. I want to get this book into production as soon as possible. Tell her if she calls, will you, that we want to rush it through? We can talk about the contract later,” he says to Dawit, who nods his head and immediately says he’d be happy to make the arrangements.

  Gustave looks at him. “I think we’ll see if we can get it out by Christmas.”

  Dawit says, “Really, so soon!” then smiles and says he’s sure M. will be thrilled.

  Gustave looks at him from the sides of his shrewd blue-gray eyes and says, “If you hear anything from her, let me know, will you? I’m a little concerned, quite frankly. There is something strange going on, don’t you think? I can’t believe she missed my visit like this. I’ve been coming here at the same time for years. Was she drinking more than usual when she left, did you notice?”

  Dawit thinks about what to say. “Perhaps, though it’s hard for me to say. She certainly likes her vodka in the evening, doesn’t she?” he says cautiously, smiling.

  “Was she depressed, do you think, when you drove her to the airport?”

  Dawit considers. “She did seem rather down, but I thought it was because she had finished the book—a sort of letdown after the fact, postpartum depression—you know?”

  “But she should be happy. It’s very good,” Gustave says, looking doubtfully at Dawit, who has the distinct impression he has divined the whole story. Will he go straight to the police on his arrival in Paris? He’s quite sure the man will do whatever is in his own interest.

  Dawit adds, soothingly, “I’m sure she’ll call you soon. She admires you tremendously, and your opinion is so important to her.”

  “Good,” Gustave says and smiles.

  “Now let me get on the telephone for you. Do you mind going via Rome or Milan?” Dawit asks.

  “Not at all, just get me on a plane,” Gusave says. Obviously he is in as much of a hurry to leave as Dawit is to see him go.

  Dawit rises fast from the breakfast table and goes down the steps into the living room. He feels Gustave watching him as he crosses the living room floor in his elegant linen pants and white linen shirt. Perhaps he should not have worn the new, elegant clothes M. had bought him. He wonders what the editor is really thinking and what he is deciding to do. Why is he in such a rush to return to Paris? Is he going there in order to call the police? Does he really think M. might have committed suicide? Surely he knows her well enough to realize she would never do something of that kind. Gone off on a drunken spree? Or does he suspect Dawit of murdering her?

  He makes the necessary calls, gets the editor scheduled for a plane that afternoon, and carries his brown leather bag to the car. He drives him back to the airport, all in virtual silence, Dawit concentrating on the road.

  “Just drop me off,” the editor says, but Dawit feels obliged to park the car and accompany him into the airport. He waves good-bye to the man at the gate with a huge surge of relief, though he is not at all sure what is on Gustave’s mind or what will happen next. Afterward, he goes to the bar at the airport and buys himself a vodka and tonic. He’s beginning to like the taste of the drink.

  While he’s at the airport he decides to book his own ticket, to leave the next day for Rome. He buys the ticket
and then calls Enrico and tells him he’s arriving the next day. He considers calling Gustave, too, later that evening, and speaking in M.’s voice, but he decides he may have to get rid of M. for good. It is time he stood in his own shoes, he thinks with a smile, looking down at the expensive soft shoes she’d bought him.

  Instead, he decides to call Gustave himself and speak in his own voice later that night, when Gustave has arrived at his apartment in Paris.

  He tells him he hasn’t heard from M. He, too, is starting to worry. He informs him of his departure for Rome the next day. He says he will be staying with a friend. He’ll give him the number when he gets there in case Gustave needs to reach him.

  “Thanks so much for your excellent hospitality. You have been most helpful. Have a good time in Rome,” Gustave says cordially and adds, “If I were you, I might think about an alibi, someone who knows where you were the night M. was last seen,” and he hangs up the phone.

  XXXII

  HAVING SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT, DAWIT WALKS THROUGH the empty rooms of the villa. He looks around him for the last time. He knows it must be the last time. How could he ever come back to this beautiful and terrible place?

  He goes into M.’s room and stands at the window looking across the bay, then he closes the shutters above her desk. He is careful to leave all of her belongings exactly as she had left them, even her Olivetti on the desk under the window, her letters and bills in neat piles. He puts her emerald rings back into the tulip-shaped glass bowl by her bed. How could he even have imagined he would wear them? He opens the safe and takes out only what he thinks is a fair amount of money to pay the couple for all their work this summer, a considerable sum of lire. Then he closes the safe, wipes off his fingerprints. He packs his bag, taking only a few of the clothes M. had given him.