The Search

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was mid-morning, buildings were taking in their awnings of shadow. Walker’s train did not leave for an hour and he made his way to the station, limping slightly. His body ached everywhere. His left arm was strapped across his chest but any sudden movement made his shoulder flinch with pain.

Blue sky fitted snugly over the city. Jutting above the cramped buildings he saw the twin towers of the cathedral. At a café he ordered an espresso and sat watching people pass by, wondering what he had learnt from the events of the last months. Maybe he would feel differently in the future but, for the moment, the more he thought about it the less sure he became. It had not made him sadder or wiser. All he could say for sure was that he had applied himself to something and could now head home and feel content for a while. Walk down to the beach and watch the ocean heaving in. Sleep in the same bed, see the same things day after day. Like someone coming to the end of a shift at a factory, he could go home and put his feet up. The longer the search had gone on the more he had hoped for some ultimate revelation — but such expectations already seemed ludicrous. The best you could hope for was to be free from the itch of restlessness, for a while at least. To put your feet up. For nothing to happen.

He took out the photo of Rachel, looked at it closely for several minutes and folded it away again. It looked like a picture from a dream, proving nothing, promising everything. He sat for a while longer, paid for his coffee and got up to leave, careful not to jar his arm.

He walked down Via Dante until he came to the river. A film of algae concealed the movement of the water, making the river look like a green sponge, thick enough to walk on. Halfway across the ornate bridge he picked up a stone and tossed it into the river. There was a slight plop and a tiny rip appeared in the green film. A few moments later the rip had vanished and the green sponge was intact again. His eyes followed the river curving into the distance. Shuttered houses, a few gulls.

On the other side of the bridge was a pay-phone. He dialled Rachel’s number but there was no answer. From a window nearby — he looked around but couldn’t locate it exactly — he heard a phone ringing: someone else who wasn’t there. He let the phone ring twice more and then hung up. Perhaps it was just as well: if he was dreaming he did not want to be woken up, not yet. He wanted to speak to her but had no idea what to say. Maybe in the course of the journey home he would know. Or perhaps not then, not until he saw her. Perhaps not even then. Home: the familiar shape the word formed in his mouth.

The phone he had heard earlier was still ringing but it seemed fainter now, as if whoever was calling had almost given up hope. Walker picked up the receiver again and called Marek, who answered immediately.

‘Hi, it’s Walker.’

‘Walker. Shit! Where are you?’

‘I’m in town. On my way to the station.’

‘But, I mean, what happened to you? Where have you been? Where are you going?’

Smiling, Walker said, ‘If I remember rightly, there’s a painting by Cézanne called something like that.’ He listened to Marek laughing into the phone.

‘It’s Gauguin actually.’

‘Gauguin. OK. Anyway, how you doing?’

‘Fine, but what about you? Where are you going?’

‘Home. My train leaves in half an hour. I was calling to say goodbye — and good luck with the film.’

‘What happened, though? You found Malory?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well. . Like I said, it means I’m heading home,’ he said, glad of the chance to say the word again.

There was a pause and then Marek said, ‘Hey, listen, we found some more film. Super 8.’

Walker looked back across the bridge: people flowing over it, carrying bags of shopping, holding hands, wearing sunglasses and hats, tourists with their cameras.

‘Walker? You still there?’

‘Yes. What does it show?’

‘You don’t want to see it?’

‘No.’

‘You want me to tell you what’s on it?’

‘No. Yes.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Go on.’

‘I think it must have been taken the day after, or sometime later anyway.’

Out of the corner of his eye Walker saw a bird swoop down and glide low over the river.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘It shows him on Via Dante, near the river. He walks over the bridge and stops in the middle. On the other side he. .’

Walker opened his hand and let the receiver drop. It jerked and dangled, moving slightly in the breeze.

Walker limped away but for a few steps he could hear Marek’s voice, growing fainter by the word, explaining how he had walked from the phone and across Via San Marco, leaving the river behind. Glancing back just once before disappearing into the crowds on Via San Lorenzo.