might be near. Now I know that it is not so. You are no longer interested in the work. I have watched you and listened to you speak of it. When you leave, it will be as it was before. You possess something that he lacks. I have tried to analyze it, but I cannot."
I shrugged.
"What is America like?" she asked me, leaning farther forward and staring into my eyes, a faint smiling occurring now.
"Big," I said. "Pretty in some places, ugly in others. The same as anyplace else. Its big cities are like most big cities. I like cities."
"I like cities, too," she told me. "I was once ready to become a nun, but I did not take the final vows—I could not—because I like to wear pretty dresses, and I like good food and wine and travel. So I came to the city and met Carl Bernini. He gave me some of these things, sometimes. But more often, it was as if I were back in the convent. He lives from job to job, never thinking of the future."
She laughed then and located a cigarette, held it. I lit it for her. I could give her that, at least.
Then, "You will be a successful art dealer," she told me, and finished her coffee.
It was several days later, after we had disposed of our merchandise, that she and Carl had had an argument, most of which I did not overhear. He began slapping her around, however, and while it was none of my business I did the same to him, on general principles. It turned into a very nasty fight, and I expanded my Italian vocabulary considerably that day. This terminated our partnership, somewhat ahead of my schedule. I did not see him again until I found him in my gallery. I had not seen her since.
The telephone rang, and despite the years I recognized the voice that answered.
"Hello, Maria," I said. "This is Ovid."
*
"It has been so long…" she said, after a silence that made it about ten seconds longer.
"Yes," I agreed, "but here I am in Rome and wanting to see you. May I come over?"
"Of course," she replied. "But there has been so much time…What of Carl?"
"You haven’t seen him lately?" I said.
"No."
I decided then that it was best to be brief and blunt.
"He’s dead," I said. "I found his body."
"Oh."
After another pause, "How did it happen?" she asked.
"He was murdered," I told her. "With a knife. At my place."
"Who did it?"
"I don’t know. The police have not been able to find out yet. They suspected me, but I didn’t do it. They had to let me go."
"Was he visiting with you when it happened?"
"No. I wasn’t even aware that he was in town until I found his body."
"How long ago was it?"
"About a week and a half. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you."
"Do not be," she said. "It had been all over between us for a long while."
"Then why did you ask about him?"
"Curiosity," she replied. "He did once mean very much to me, and I wished him no ill. I am sorry that he is dead. I had heard that he was going to America. I had thought that he would visit his old friend—if for no other reason than to ask for money or a place to stay. I am very sorry about the way things turned out for him."
Since I could not see her face or hands, it was difficult for me to gauge her feelings. She was speaking again in that slow, dignified fashion I had heard on but one other occasion.
"So you think he was somewhat down on his luck?" I asked.
"He was when we broke up," she said. "Things were not going at all well for him. He had been in jail for a time. Then he was ill for a long while. He began drinking heavily. Our arguments grew worse and worse. Finally, I threw him out."
"About how long ago was that?"
"Oh, many months. April, perhaps…"
"Have you any idea who might have killed him?"
"No," she said. "I knew nothing of his current affairs."
"Is it all right if I come over now?" I asked. "I’d like to take you somewhere for dinner or buy you a drink or three."
"I am sorry, but tonight is impossible," she said. "I have to work until quite late. I only came home to eat, and I was on the way
I shrugged.
"What is America like?" she asked me, leaning farther forward and staring into my eyes, a faint smiling occurring now.
"Big," I said. "Pretty in some places, ugly in others. The same as anyplace else. Its big cities are like most big cities. I like cities."
"I like cities, too," she told me. "I was once ready to become a nun, but I did not take the final vows—I could not—because I like to wear pretty dresses, and I like good food and wine and travel. So I came to the city and met Carl Bernini. He gave me some of these things, sometimes. But more often, it was as if I were back in the convent. He lives from job to job, never thinking of the future."
She laughed then and located a cigarette, held it. I lit it for her. I could give her that, at least.
Then, "You will be a successful art dealer," she told me, and finished her coffee.
It was several days later, after we had disposed of our merchandise, that she and Carl had had an argument, most of which I did not overhear. He began slapping her around, however, and while it was none of my business I did the same to him, on general principles. It turned into a very nasty fight, and I expanded my Italian vocabulary considerably that day. This terminated our partnership, somewhat ahead of my schedule. I did not see him again until I found him in my gallery. I had not seen her since.
The telephone rang, and despite the years I recognized the voice that answered.
"Hello, Maria," I said. "This is Ovid."
*
"It has been so long…" she said, after a silence that made it about ten seconds longer.
"Yes," I agreed, "but here I am in Rome and wanting to see you. May I come over?"
"Of course," she replied. "But there has been so much time…What of Carl?"
"You haven’t seen him lately?" I said.
"No."
I decided then that it was best to be brief and blunt.
"He’s dead," I said. "I found his body."
"Oh."
After another pause, "How did it happen?" she asked.
"He was murdered," I told her. "With a knife. At my place."
"Who did it?"
"I don’t know. The police have not been able to find out yet. They suspected me, but I didn’t do it. They had to let me go."
"Was he visiting with you when it happened?"
"No. I wasn’t even aware that he was in town until I found his body."
"How long ago was it?"
"About a week and a half. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you."
"Do not be," she said. "It had been all over between us for a long while."
"Then why did you ask about him?"
"Curiosity," she replied. "He did once mean very much to me, and I wished him no ill. I am sorry that he is dead. I had heard that he was going to America. I had thought that he would visit his old friend—if for no other reason than to ask for money or a place to stay. I am very sorry about the way things turned out for him."
Since I could not see her face or hands, it was difficult for me to gauge her feelings. She was speaking again in that slow, dignified fashion I had heard on but one other occasion.
"So you think he was somewhat down on his luck?" I asked.
"He was when we broke up," she said. "Things were not going at all well for him. He had been in jail for a time. Then he was ill for a long while. He began drinking heavily. Our arguments grew worse and worse. Finally, I threw him out."
"About how long ago was that?"
"Oh, many months. April, perhaps…"
"Have you any idea who might have killed him?"
"No," she said. "I knew nothing of his current affairs."
"Is it all right if I come over now?" I asked. "I’d like to take you somewhere for dinner or buy you a drink or three."
"I am sorry, but tonight is impossible," she said. "I have to work until quite late. I only came home to eat, and I was on the way
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