Rules of Vengeance

49

Ghosts in the gathering light, the figures floated across the docks, gathering nets, hauling tackle, and coiling ropes as they fitted their craft for sea. It was not yet 5 a.m. and the port of Civitavecchia was wide awake. The docks never sleep, thought Jonathan as he trudged along the quai. He was tired and hungry and his pants were wet from sleeping on the grass in a field outside of town. To the north, intermittently visible through the patchy morning fog, lay moored the massive oceangoing ferries waiting to board at first light and deliver their passengers to ports in Corsica, France, and Spain. To the south, an armada of fishing boats bobbed inside the jetty, readying for another day’s labor.

Jonathan bought a bag of warm roasted chestnuts and found a place to sit, anonymous among the passing seamen. The port looked neither familiar nor strange. Eight years had passed since he’d visited. It had been February, not July, the streets cold and empty, the town melancholy. Hardly a place begging to be visited.

Yet Emma had insisted they come.

“No one stays in Rome,” she’d said. “It’s much too expensive. Civitavecchia is the real thing. You practically feel as if you’ll run into Nero around every corner.”

He knew now that her reasons were excuses. She hadn’t come to escape the high prices or the tourists. In February, there weren’t any. She’d come for the same reason that had brought her here three months earlier.

She’d come because she had to see someone. And he had a suspicion that that someone’s name had the initials S.S.

He crunched on a chestnut, dredging up memories of their visit. Eight years was a long time, and he’d been too preoccupied with the last-minute change in posting that had cut short their honeymoon to play the eager tourist. He glanced over his shoulder at the cafés and coffee bars that lined the seafront. All were dark, awnings retracted, chairs stacked next to the door and chained to prevent theft.

And then he saw it. Large, colorful block letters unchanged since that day in February so long ago. He read the words, and it came back to him in a torrent. The quicksilver feelings of confusion, apprehension, and anger.

The sign read, “Hotel Rondo.”

How was it that he had forgotten?

Emma threw her camera onto the table and collapsed on the bed. “So what do you think? Wasn’t I right to suggest we come?”

It was four in the afternoon. Jonathan was drenched from an afternoon squall that had come in from the sea, taking them by surprise. They had made a tour of the ancient port city of Civitavecchia that would have exhausted even the most ardent sightseers.

“I think I’ve seen enough Doric columns to last me until I’m forty.”

Emma punched him on the arm. “Be happy I only insisted on visiting the most important sites. Three hours isn’t so much.”

“Three hours? I thought it was three days.” Jonathan watched as Emma peeled off her wet togs. First the jacket, then her blouse, the pants and socks. She turned, clad only in her underwear, which were sensible women’s Jockeys. But on Emma, even a paper bag looked sexy.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I deserve a reward. You know, for actually paying attention when you read all that stuff from the guidebooks.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do indeed. Something that will make me forget that we could have been admiring the Sistine Chapel instead of all those ancient craphouses.”

“You just like the sight of all those naked women.”

“Michelangelo’s eye for beauty was almost as good as mine.”

“Really?” Emma gave him a look as if to say he was too arrogant by half. “Well, then, I think I can do something about that,” she said, matching his tone and upping him one. “And I can give you your tour of the city at the same time.”

“Interesting. I’m curious.”

“Take a seat on the bed. And not too close. No touching the docent.”

Jonathan jumped onto the bed and arranged the pillows behind his back as Emma disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned three minutes later, she had let her hair down, and the damp tresses fell onto her bare shoulders. A towel covered her chest, and she held one hand hidden behind her back. “Close your eyes,” she said.

Jonathan complied.

“All right. Open them.”

Jonathan opened his eyes. Emma stood at the foot of the bed, naked. One hand cover her pubis. The other held a polished red apple and was extended toward him. She was Eve from the Sistine Chapel.

“Adam never stood a chance,” he said. “Where does the line for original sin begin?”

Emma snapped her fingers. “Close your eyes again.”

Jonathan obeyed. This time when he opened them, she had seated herself on a chair and sat gazing mournfully at Jonathan’s wet patrolman’s jacket arrayed across her legs. The emotion in her eyes caught him by surprise and struck a chord deep inside him. “You’re Mary. I mean, the Pietà,” he said.

“Very good.” Emma sprang from the chair. “One more.”

Jonathan closed his eyes a third time. When she asked him to look, she was standing on the same chair, one leg perched saucily on an armrest, her hands bundling her hair above her head. “Birth of Venus,” he said.

“Wrong. It’s in the Louvre.”

“Caravaggio. Didn’t he paint something in this town?”

“Strike two.”

“I don’t know. I’m a doctor. I spent all my time studying anatomy books, not art history. I give up.”

Emma leaped onto the bed and snuggled next to him. “Emma Rose Ransom. Miss February. Your own private masterpiece.”

Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms. The rain had started up again and rattled their windows with a troubling intensity.

“Why Belgrade?” asked Emma. “Of all places. It’s not fair.”

“We’re just flying into Belgrade. We’re going to Kosovo. That’s a province in Serbia. It’ll just be for a few months.”

“But it’s dangerous there. I’ve had enough of bullets and hand grenades for a while.”

“The war’s over,” said Jonathan, propping himself on an elbow. “We’re helping them get back on their feet. Half the doctors left the country. Besides, we’re only there for three months, then we go to Indonesia as planned.”

“They could have at least allowed us to finish our honeymoon. Everything’s always a crisis. You’d think they could get along without us.” Emma rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later fully dressed. “I’m going out,” she said. “You want anything?”

“In this rain?”

Emma peeked out the window. “It’s not so bad.”

“Compared to what-the Flood?”

“Aren’t we biblical.”

“Coming from Eve herself, I guess that means something.” Jonathan chuckled, then threw off the blankets and stood. “Hold up, Mrs. Ransom, I’ll come with you.”

Emma came closer, kissing him. “Stay here. You look tired. Why don’t you take a nap?”

“Nah, I’ll get some air, too.”

“Really,” she insisted. “It’ll be a bore. Do something useful. Reconfirm our flights. Better yet, find us a decent place for dinner.”

Jonathan looked at Emma. He saw something in her eyes that he’d never seen before. She did not want him to join her. “Probably a good idea. I’ll reconfirm the flights and book us a table at the best place in town.”

“I want something decadent. Spaghetti carbonara with warm bread andbutter, and zabaglione for dessert.” She twisted up her face. “What do they eat in Kosovo, anyway?”

Emma went out. Jonathan took a shower and dressed. As requested, he reconfirmed their flights. According to the concierge, the best place in town was Trattoria Rodolfo. Jonathan was sure that the prices were sky-high, but what the heck? He didn’t think he and Emma would be hitting any three-star eateries in the Serbian countryside.

Satisfied that he’d met Emma’s expectations, he dug out his paperback and began to read. He checked his watch every fifteen minutes. When an hour had gone by, he put the book down and went to the window. If anything, it was raining harder than before, a veritable deluge. He smiled to himself. There he was, going all biblical again. Slipping on his jacket, he went downstairs.

“Scusi,” he said to the concierge, “did you see my wife, Signora Ransom?”

The concierge said that he had. He came around from behind his counter and showed Jonathan the direction she had gone in upon leaving the hotel. Jonathan put on his baseball cap, then pulled his hood over it. Venturing onto the street, he made his way down the hill toward the port, hugging buildings and ducking under any available awnings. The rain was awful and the cobblestone streets were slick. He kept his eyes open for Emma, but after five minutes he’d had enough. He entered a kiosk to get some relief. He studied a carousel of postcards and picked out one of an amphitheater and another of the catacombs he’d toured that morning.

“Three euros,” said the sales clerk.

Jonathan fished in his pocket for some coins. Waiting for change, he glanced out the window. Across the street, the doors to a hotel opened, granting him an unobstructed view of the lobby. It was a deep, dimly lit space with a polished wood reception counter and, oddly, a replica of an English phone booth stuck in the far corner. Walking across the lobby, deep in conversation with a man, was Emma. It was immediately apparent that they knew each other well. Emma rested a hand on his arm, and her attention was riveted on him. The man’s back faced him, and all Jonathan noticed was the twill green raincoat and the matching trilby hat.

The next moment the hotel doors closed.

Jonathan stood for a moment, confused at what he had seen. At the same time, he recalled Emma’s insistence that he remain in the hotel room. Gathering up the postcards, he crossed the street, careful not to rush or to appear in any way upset. He was certain that there was a satisfactory explanation for why she had left the hotel to surreptitiously meet another man. But by the time he entered the lobby, Emma and the man with whom she had been so earnestly engaged were gone.

Jonathan checked the adjoining pub (that explained the phone booth), as well as the lounge and reading room, but to no avail.

Emma was nowhere to be seen.

Jonathan dropped the bag of roasted chestnuts into the trash and made his way up the narrow road toward the Hotel Rondo. He was walking quickly, a man in search of something. After so long, it was hard to remember exactly what he had seen that day.

Emma was in the room when he returned. As calmly as possible, he asked if it had been her inside the lobby of the hotel. She had replied that it hadn’t. She had gone for a walk by the harbor. When he pressed her about it, she grew neither upset nor self-righteous. She simply replied that he must have been mistaken. And then she had given him a paperweight in the shape of an ancient Roman trireme that she’d purchased at a store they’d visited in the opposite direction from the Hotel Rondo.

That’s where the matter ended. Jonathan believed her. The light in the lobby had been dim. The rain hadn’t helped matters. He put it off to a case of mistaken identity. Never once in all the intervening years had he thought to question her story.

Until now. Until Emma had been picked up by an ambulance eight years later at this very address. Via Porto 89. Civitavecchia.

The address of the Hotel Rondo.