The Eighth Day (16 page)

Stepping into the corridor, she hesitated. His room was to the right and hers to the left. “Well,” she said, her perfect almond eyes searching his own.

“G’night,” he muttered. “Thanks. It was really great.” Leaning down, he gave her a peck on the cheek and headed toward his room. He felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. Standing before the door to 302, he fumbled with the key and cursed the wave of virtue that had broken over him. A voice in the back of his head—a sort of counterconscience—shouted:
What are you doing? What are you thinking? She’s gorgeous—you’re drunk. Caleigh’s six time zones away! She’s not even in the same day you are! Go for it!

But no. He was being good. The key turned in the lock, and the night’s temptation was behind him. Going into the bathroom, he undressed slowly, washed, and brushed his teeth. He didn’t think he’d had that much to drink, but the wine had really gone to his head. Tapping a couple of Advil from a bottle, he swallowed them with a glass of water, hoping they’d soften any hangover he might have in the morning. Then he flicked off the light and headed for bed.

And there she was—
in
the bed, with her hair fanned out across the pillow and a teasing smile on her lips.

Jesus Christ,
he thought, standing in the middle of the room in his boxer shorts.
Now what?
Without intending to, he found himself moving to the side of the bed, as if he were on one of those moving sidewalks at the airport. He didn’t know what to say.

She stretched, and her breasts heaved. “I’m not quite done looking after you,” she purred, and patted the bed beside her.

It’s too much,
he thought.
I can’t do this. There’s only so much—

Wordlessly she drew back the sheets, and he saw in a glance that turned into a stare that she was completely undressed. The look in his eyes brought a smile to her lips. “What are you waiting for, Picasso? Dive in.”

TEN

Lying in bed with his eyes closed, Danny drifted in and out of sleep, increasingly conscious of the sunlight filling the room around him. Sightless, his field of vision was a blank page—empty, bright, and glowing. Which was fine with him. That was just the way he liked it. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to stay where he was, in the never-never land just this side of dreaming. But no. He had to get up. He had things to do and music to face. Bravely then, because he knew that he had a hangover, he opened his eyes and, quick as a gunshot, slammed them shut against the flashbulb of morning.

Lay there, thinking,
Ohhh, man . . .

Furtively he moved his arm in an arc across the sheets and breathed a sigh of relief when his hand found nothing but fabric and air. With a low groan he forced his eyes open for the second time, sat up, and swung his legs from the bed.
You’re scum,
he told himself.

For what seemed like a long while, he sat where he was with the sun on his back, staring at his bare feet, thinking dully about the night before. Lorenzetti’s frescoes, Donatello’s reliefs, Paulina’s . . . everything.

“Ohh, Jesus,” he muttered, remembering something he’d said, a line he’d delivered late at night. Not that a line had been necessary. Images of Siena flickered through his mind: the tables in the Campo, Paulina being funny and beautiful, the platters of food, blue and gold glitter sifting down from the sky. What was it she’d said?
What are you waiting for, Picasso? . . .

God, he felt awful—and sitting there, he examined the parameters of his hangover. There was a percussive throb at the base of his skull and a jittery feeling behind his eyes. A sense of pressure throughout his head, too, as if his brain were slightly too big for his skull. But all in all, he could tell that it wasn’t such a bad hangover. He hadn’t had
that
much to drink—didn’t have
that
much of an excuse. Still, he didn’t feel
well
. Getting slowly to his feet, he slumped into the bathroom, turned on the tap, cupped his hands, and pressed the water against his cheeks and eyes. He simultaneously gasped at the cold and sighed with relief. Looking up, he saw a crimson imprint on the mirror. A kiss.

And there, against the chrome-plated toothbrush holder, a note on hotel stationery—addressed to
Danielissimo
:

Working at Sistema (borrr-ing). Back at two or so to give you a lift into town. B. wants you at the palazzo by two-thirty. Mmmmmm . . . what a notte di amore! I’ll never forget—and don’t you. Love and kisses (and you know where the kisses go)!

P.

Jesus,
Danny thought, crumpling the note. A “notte di amore.”

He tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. Even as he tested the temperature of the shower, images of the night before flashed through his mind. Paulina this way and that, the way she tasted, the soft incline of her belly, the rise and fall of her breasts. As he stepped into the shower, it occurred to him that it was something of an understatement to say that he’d gone to bed with her. In reality, he’d reveled in her like a dog rolling on the lawn.

It wasn’t his best moment.

Turning his face to the showerhead, he let the water wash her off and gradually felt his hangover ease. When the room was thick with steam and he’d begun to feel human again, he stepped out of the glass-enclosed shower and dried off with a terry-cloth towel as thick as his wrist.

That done, he took a facecloth to the mirror and did his best to eradicate Paulina’s kiss but succeeded only in reducing it to a pink smear. Giving up on the mirror, he ran a brush through his hair and pulled on some clothes. His eyes were bloodshot. He was going to need some shades.

Finally, he took the stairs down to the terrace, where he attempted to jump-start the day with a double espresso, chased by a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

It worked. Sort of.

It was almost noon. The sun was blazing, stabbing at his eyes. The clerk at the front desk told him where he could find sunglasses and told the bellhop to get him a cab. As Danny turned to leave, the clerk handed him his passport.

“Grazie.”

The cab took him to the outskirts of town, where he bought a pair of Maui Jims. Then he returned to the hotel. Going up to his room to pack his duffle bag, he hesitated over what to do with the floppy—the one with Terio’s files. He didn’t need it anymore. His work for Belzer was over, and Inzaghi had the files. Still, he was curious, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek when he got back to the States. So he jammed the floppy into his bag and zipped it closed.

Returning to the lobby, he asked the concierge about train connections between Siena and Rome. Alas, he was told, the trains were infrequent. Siena was only a branch off the main line. A bus would be better.

“The thing is: I’ve got a nine-fifteen flight.”

“But you’re staying for the Palio?” the concierge asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Then I think your connection will be difficult. The race starts at four, so the only possibility is the five forty-eight to Chiusi. From there, you could catch the six forty-five to Rome. That will put you in the city by . . .”—his hand rotated one way, then the other—“. . . eight, or a little after. Then a taxi to the airport—another half hour. I don’t know. . . .” He looked skeptical and disappointed, all at once.

Danny nodded. “It’s tight, but I’ve got a first-class ticket, so—”

“In that case,” the concierge said, “it’s possible. But still difficult. I think, perhaps a taxi.” He screwed up his face. “Although it’s such a busy weekend, it might not be possible.”

“And how much would that cost?” Danny wondered, thinking if it was a District cab it would be thousands.

“To Rome?” The concierge shrugged. “Maybe two hundred dollars.”

Danny told the concierge to arrange it, figuring he could expense the cost because, after all, if he didn’t make the plane, he’d have to get a hotel. The concierge promised to try, although that was
all
he could promise. The
signore
had to understand that the Palio was only twice a year. “The number of people is three times as many, but the taxis—they are the same, you understand?”

Danny said he did, and the concierge promised to do his best. Then Danny went to the front desk and checked out, leaving his bag with the clerk so that, when he returned from town, all he had to do was grab it and go.

He sat in the lobby and waited for Paulina, although the truth was he would have preferred not to see her, to simply take a taxi. At two-twenty, he wondered how long he should wait. Belzer was a busy guy, and Danny certainly didn’t want to be late. If she didn’t show up in five minutes—

Before he could finish the thought, the cell phone went off—emitting an urgent and quavery tone. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, thinking it must be Paulina.

Someone barked his name. “Daniel?!” A man’s voice.

“Yeah . . . who is this?”

“Inzaghi! Can you hear me?”

“Big-time.”

“What?!”

“I said I can hear you. You don’t have to shout.”

“Where are you?” the priest demanded, making little or no effort to modulate his voice—whose amplitude betrayed a sense of urgency.

“Siena. On the way to the Palio. I told you.”

“Don’t go. It’s not safe for you.”

“What?”

“Come back to Rome. We have to
talk
.”

“ ‘Talk’? About what?”

“Listen. I’ve been up all night with the files,” the priest said, “and—”

“What files?”

“Terio’s files, what do you think? The ones on the computer. And it’s terrible! You can’t imagine what he’s up to, this Zebek!”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked. Before Inzaghi could answer, Paulina came rushing into the lobby, wearing a tiny black suit, a big white hat, and huge sunglasses. Danny glanced at his watch. Two-thirty. “Hang on a minute,” he said. And got to his feet.

“Sorry I’m late,” Paulina told him, holding on to her hat with one hand. “You ready? I changed the appointment to three, but we have to hurry.”

Danny acknowledged this with a nod, then spoke into the phone again. “I’ve got to go. Let me call you back in a couple of hours, okay?”

“No, Danny, it’s not ‘okay.’ I think you should—”

Paulina pointed urgently to her watch as she looked at him.

“Listen, I’m really sorry, but . . . I have to go,” Danny said into the phone. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” And then, over the priest’s protests, he ended the call and followed the hurrying Paulina out to the car.

The cell phone rang again, but when he heard the priest’s voice, Danny pretended it was a bad connection. “I can’t hear you,” he said over Inzaghi’s protests. “Sorry, Father. You’re breaking up.”

“Persistent,” Paulina said as she got into the Lancia.

As a precaution, once he was in the car’s passenger seat Danny turned the telephone off. He was curious about what the priest had to say, but right now what he wanted above all was to see Belzer, get paid, and hustle back to Leonardo da Vinci in time to catch his plane. Anyway, he certainly couldn’t have a conversation with Inzaghi about Terio’s files in front of Paulina. Better to call the priest when he was on his way to Rome.

“Do you have a hangover?” he asked Paulina as they bounced down toward the city.

“Ooooof—what do you think? I’m dying.” She laughed, but it sounded a little subdued.

Soon they arrived at the city wall. A red-and-white-painted barricade—manned by a uniformed policeman—blocked the big archway. Paulina pulled into an area of striped pavement off to the right. She got out of the car but left the motor running.

“No cars at all permitted into the
centro
today,” she said. “I’ll drop you here. Just head downhill. All roads lead to the Campo and you know where to go once you’re there. At the palazzo, just go to the gate—it’s beneath the long balcony we sat under last night. They’ll have your name on a list.” She glanced at her watch. “You don’t have to run, but you can’t . . . window-shop, okay?”

“But what about you?”

“Ah—no.” She shrugged. “I’m off to Torino, where I have some work to do. Translating. A bit of a rush job. And anyway, I’ve seen the Palio many times.”

“Well—thanks for everything.”

She took her hat off, sailed it into the backseat, tossed her hair, leaned forward, and, before he could stop her, kissed him full on the lips. “Ciao then, Danny. Maybe I’ll see you again. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

When he reached the Campo, Danny waded through the surging crowd in search of Zebek’s palazzo. Scanning the walls of the ancient square, he spotted the blue-and-gold flags flying from a long and curving balcony. Making his way toward the flags, he saw that the tables previously ringing the perimeter of the square were gone. Thick pads were suspended from some of the walls of the buildings that enclosed the plaza. By the time he arrived at the open iron gates—with peacocks figured into the wrought metal—it was nearly three o’clock.

Beyond the gates, in a shaded courtyard studded with Palio flags, a muscular security guard stood beside a trickling fountain. He wore what would turn out to be a sort of uniform worn by all the “help” at the party: black slacks and Doc Martens and an expensive black T-shirt with
pavone
emblazoned on the chest. The
o
in
pavone
was the turquoise-and-gold eye of a peacock’s feather. The guard asked Danny his name and consulted a printed list. Satisfied, he then whispered into a cell phone and told the American to wait. Soon a curvaceous young woman appeared, wearing a gold miniskirt and a blue halter top that ended just above her navel. “Hi-iii,” she cooed in an accent that sounded vaguely German. “I’m Veroushka.”

“Danny,” he managed.

“I know.” Leaning into him, she entwined her arm with his own and said, “I’m supposed to look after you, okay?”

What was he supposed to say? “Great.” Together they ascended a stone staircase, heading toward laughter and a piano, with Danny thinking,
I know this woman, but . . . how? You’d think I’d remember. How do you forget someone like that?
She was gorgeous. At the top of the stairs, he turned to her. “How do I know you?”

She giggled. “I don’t know.”

And then it hit him: she was one of the girls in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Caleigh got a new one every month, and Veroushka was on every other page.

A moment later, they were in the midst of what must have been the most cosmopolitan party in Europe. A Scandinavian chanteuse sat by herself at a massive black Steinway, singing “When Did You Leave Heaven?” in a sweetly plaintive voice, while NATO generals and white-robed sheiks mingled with a blond duo Veroushka told him were the transgendered heirs to a German industrial fortune. Danny recognized a couple of people from magazines and television. Veroushka identified others. There were bankers and businessmen, writers and politicians. She squeezed his arm and nodded toward a young man who was sitting by himself, reading a comic book. “Rivaldo,” she confided.

Plucking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, Veroushka took Danny by the hand and led him out to the balcony, where they gazed across the throbbing Campo. Below them, child-drummers in medieval costume strutted past while another contingent threw flags in the air. “Where are the horses?” Danny asked.

His escort giggled. “In church,” she told him, “getting blessed.” Seeing his skepticism, she snuggled against his arm and laughed. “
Really!
”

“They take them to the church?”

“Chapel—every
contrada
has one. Then they bring the horses here and put them into the starting gate.” She gestured to the right. “It’s over there. They bring them only a few minutes before the race and then they seal off the Campo until it’s over.” She sipped her champagne. “If you’re betting, you should put your money on Pavone.”

“Is there a lot of betting?”

She hiccuped, giggled, then nodded solemnly. “Ohhh,
yes
.” Danny smiled and continued to make small talk, but he didn’t really feel like it. Everyone at the party seemed to be rich and famous—except himself. And yet here he was, with this lingerie queen on his arm, handicapping the Palio.
What’s wrong with this picture?
he wondered. And the answer came back,
You’re out of your league, kiddo. You’ve been out of your league for a long time.