HAT NIGHT I AWOKE several times to the sound of Louise vomiting in the bathroom adjoining mine. She didn’t call for me, though, and I didn’t go to her. I didn’t even feel particularly sorry for her.
In the morning she was hungover, wrung out, her headache blazing. She lay weakly on the pillows with no thought of picking up the phone. “I think I have a virus,” she said. “Or maybe food poisoning.” The room still looked like a tornado had hit it. Mechanically I started cleaning up, gathering the glasses onto the desk, placing the empty bottles in a row by the door, throwing trash in the bin, folding pieces of clothing that had been left behind. “Thank you,” Louise said. She sounded like she meant it. After a while she asked if I would bring her some tea. When I brought it, she lifted the cup to her face and let the steam slide over her. She pointed to a tie I had overlooked, an eggplant-colored length of silk slung over a chair. “Give me that,” she said. I did, and she laid it across her lap and stroked it gently, as though it were a pet.
“Whose is it?”
“Johannes Roth’s. He works at the Deichtorhallen.” She paused, her hand slowly smoothing the tie from the wide end to the narrow.
I wondered if I had seen him. Was he the ogler in the black-framed glasses? Had he taken off more than his tie?
“I’m going to get up,” Louise announced. “I can’t spend another day in this room.” She slid gingerly to the edge of the bed and arranged her feet on the floor, but when she tried balancing upright she wobbled and sat heavily down again, both hands pressed to her head. “Do you have any Tylenol?” she said. “Maybe just another hour in bed,” she said. She looked awful, her face blotched and sallow, her eyes ringed with smudges.
I brought her two Tylenol and a glass of water. “Can I get you anything else?”
She grimaced, a wan, unhappy attempt at a smile that was more recognizably human than the cold, critical ones she usually displayed. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “You go ahead and see what you can. I’ll meet you back here later.”
I almost wished she wasn’t acting suddenly so human. It made it harder to justify how much I despised her.
I went back into my room and shut the connecting door. I was almost dressed when the telephone rang with the long old-fashioned bell of a phone in a black-and-white movie. I let it ring for a long time—after all, I might have been in the shower—but my upbringing would not permit me to ignore it altogether.
“Oh, good!” I recognized Bernard’s voice immediately—warm, thin, half abstracted—as though I’d known him all my life. “I’d almost given up on you. Did I wake you up?”
My heart thumped hard, alarming in its puppy-dog ardor. “No. I’m awake.”
“I’m going to Padua,” Bernard said. “For the day. Do you want to come?”
Padua! For the day! Was he serious? Once in Venice for the Biennale, how could you leave? It was as preposterous as Louise spending yesterday in bed. “But there’s so much to see here,” I said.
“There’s also a lot to see in Padua.”
I laughed from the sheer fizzy absurdity of it. Somehow I had slipped out of my life into a new, quixotic dimension where desire, sudden inspiration, and contingency ruled in place of logic, toil, consequence. I was Dorothy awakened after the cyclone into Technicolor, Alice stepping through the gauzy looking glass. I was Danaë ravished by a shower of gold.
Bernard met me in the lobby wearing a seersucker suit over a white open-necked shirt, a Panama hat set jauntily on his head. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a speakeasy, except that he seemed drawn and abstracted rather than lighthearted and boozy. He took my arm without a word, almost without seeming to see me, and drew me out the door and down the hot street to the canal, taking fast strides on his long legs so that I had to almost scramble to keep up. I felt like a chess
In the morning she was hungover, wrung out, her headache blazing. She lay weakly on the pillows with no thought of picking up the phone. “I think I have a virus,” she said. “Or maybe food poisoning.” The room still looked like a tornado had hit it. Mechanically I started cleaning up, gathering the glasses onto the desk, placing the empty bottles in a row by the door, throwing trash in the bin, folding pieces of clothing that had been left behind. “Thank you,” Louise said. She sounded like she meant it. After a while she asked if I would bring her some tea. When I brought it, she lifted the cup to her face and let the steam slide over her. She pointed to a tie I had overlooked, an eggplant-colored length of silk slung over a chair. “Give me that,” she said. I did, and she laid it across her lap and stroked it gently, as though it were a pet.
“Whose is it?”
“Johannes Roth’s. He works at the Deichtorhallen.” She paused, her hand slowly smoothing the tie from the wide end to the narrow.
I wondered if I had seen him. Was he the ogler in the black-framed glasses? Had he taken off more than his tie?
“I’m going to get up,” Louise announced. “I can’t spend another day in this room.” She slid gingerly to the edge of the bed and arranged her feet on the floor, but when she tried balancing upright she wobbled and sat heavily down again, both hands pressed to her head. “Do you have any Tylenol?” she said. “Maybe just another hour in bed,” she said. She looked awful, her face blotched and sallow, her eyes ringed with smudges.
I brought her two Tylenol and a glass of water. “Can I get you anything else?”
She grimaced, a wan, unhappy attempt at a smile that was more recognizably human than the cold, critical ones she usually displayed. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “You go ahead and see what you can. I’ll meet you back here later.”
I almost wished she wasn’t acting suddenly so human. It made it harder to justify how much I despised her.
I went back into my room and shut the connecting door. I was almost dressed when the telephone rang with the long old-fashioned bell of a phone in a black-and-white movie. I let it ring for a long time—after all, I might have been in the shower—but my upbringing would not permit me to ignore it altogether.
“Oh, good!” I recognized Bernard’s voice immediately—warm, thin, half abstracted—as though I’d known him all my life. “I’d almost given up on you. Did I wake you up?”
My heart thumped hard, alarming in its puppy-dog ardor. “No. I’m awake.”
“I’m going to Padua,” Bernard said. “For the day. Do you want to come?”
Padua! For the day! Was he serious? Once in Venice for the Biennale, how could you leave? It was as preposterous as Louise spending yesterday in bed. “But there’s so much to see here,” I said.
“There’s also a lot to see in Padua.”
I laughed from the sheer fizzy absurdity of it. Somehow I had slipped out of my life into a new, quixotic dimension where desire, sudden inspiration, and contingency ruled in place of logic, toil, consequence. I was Dorothy awakened after the cyclone into Technicolor, Alice stepping through the gauzy looking glass. I was Danaë ravished by a shower of gold.
Bernard met me in the lobby wearing a seersucker suit over a white open-necked shirt, a Panama hat set jauntily on his head. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a speakeasy, except that he seemed drawn and abstracted rather than lighthearted and boozy. He took my arm without a word, almost without seeming to see me, and drew me out the door and down the hot street to the canal, taking fast strides on his long legs so that I had to almost scramble to keep up. I felt like a chess
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