The Bellini Card

47

Maria was sitting quietly in a chair when she saw the door handle turn.

The first man had a scar that ran from his eye to his mouth; he was thin and Maria guessed him to be about forty, forty-five. The other man was younger, bigger, and puffy eyed. He looked like a drinker.

Neither of them looked like friends of Signor Brett.

“Waiting for someone?” The man with the scar stood in the doorway, stropping his hand with his gloves. He looked annoyed.

“I’m waiting for Signor Brett,” Maria snapped. “Who else? Hey, you can’t come in here,” she added, as the big man walked past her and glanced out the window.

The man with the scar ignored her. He closed the door behind him.

Maria felt afraid.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The scar-faced man walked up to her and looked into her face. “Tell us about your boyfriend, my dear,” he said.

Maria stuck out her lip. “There’s nothing to tell. He’s American.”

“American? Oh-oh. It’s not what I hear, pretty one. Like, where he buys his hats.”

“His hats?”

“You heard what I said. Istanbul. Constantinople. You have heard of Constantinople? I do hope so. I do hope you’re not stupid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maria said.

The scar-faced man stood looking into her face. His eyes were expressionless.

Without warning he drew back his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek.

Maria gave a cry and staggered sideways.

“I don’t like lying women,” he said. “I don’t like whores.”

“I’m not-”

He slapped her again.

Maria looked up: the candlelights were huge and blurred. She felt dizzy.

“This is his room,” she said thickly. She could taste blood in her mouth. “Get out of here.” She sounded drunk; her head was pounding. “Get out.”

There was a faint whistle; the scar-faced man pointed a finger at Maria, who was kneeling on the floor.

Maria tried to move but the other, silent man took her arms and dragged them roughly up behind her back.

“Another sound out of you, and you can kiss your lover goodbye.” Scar-face went to the mantelpiece and pinched out the candle.

The silent man shoved her ahead of him, through the doorway. At the door scar-face looked at Maria and said, “Where’s your bonnet?”

She shook her head. He went inside and reappeared with it, crushed up in his hand.

“Now we’re going to make you look all pretty.” He dropped the bonnet over her head and tied it around her chin. “We’re going to walk downstairs and out the door and if you make one move, one sound, I’m going to stick this blade between your ribs. One shove, and I twist it around, carissima.”

She was aware of going downstairs. One arm was behind her back and the pain as they jolted down the steps made her want to cry out. She wanted to sob, but her lungs felt paralyzed. She pressed her lips together and they passed out into the night.

Another man joined them at the corner.

“A little information,” scar-face said. “But right now she doesn’t speak our language too well. I think I can change that.”

The newcomer grunted. “Place clean? The man says it’s got to be clean.”

“Just this one piece of dirt,” scar-face said. “But we’ve taken it out.”

The man undid his bandanna. Scar-face used it to blindfold Maria, removing and replacing her bonnet.

“Let’s go. And you, cara — remember what I said. Keep your head down.”

They walked, or stumbled on, for a few minutes: Maria lost all sense of direction. Once the man holding her pulled her back so roughly she almost fell, her leg crumpling under her; she felt the heel snap off her shoe. The man pulled her upright by the hair at the back of her neck. She supposed that they were avoiding passersby, but she couldn’t call out. Eventually they crossed some rough ground, and she could hear something scraping; then the stench of mold, as if they were in a cellar, and the air was damp and fetid.

Her hands were tied behind her back and she was shoved violently forward. A sharp edge caught her on the shin and she tripped, turning her head to avoid smashing her face onto the stone floor.

A door slammed.

Maria was alone.

Slowly she began to scrape her way across the floor. She found a wall and huddled up against it, her knees drawn up to her chin. The cold seeped through her thin muslin dress in a moment, and she began to shiver uncontrollably.