Venetian Masks Read online

  HE WOKE up as he often did, drenched in sweat, heart beating rapidly, breath rasping through his lungs. His throat felt raw, and he wondered whether he’d been yelling again. At least nobody was pounding at his apartment door, trying to find out if someone was being murdered.

  Jeff climbed out of bed on slightly wobbly legs and shivered a little in the cold as he walked to the kitchen. The window showed only darkness, and he didn’t want the harshness of the overhead lights, but there was enough of a greenish glow from the microwave clock for him to find a glass and fill it from the tap. He drank the water in quick gulps. And then he just stood, clutching the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt his hands.

  He should have known better than to think a change of continents would rid him of the nightmares.

  Well, he’d learned his lesson. Tomorrow night he’d take his pills.

  Chapter 4

  HE COULDN’T fall back to sleep after the nightmare; he rarely could. He was tired, though, and his eyes felt gritty. He hadn’t thought to buy any coffee at the Billa, but the apartment didn’t have a coffeemaker anyhow. He tried to read but couldn’t focus, so he ended up spending a couple of hours staring at his laptop screen, clicking absently from link to link. Oh, look. A Kardashian was pregnant.

  He’d left the shutters open so he wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic, and when the morning rays finally brightened the living room window, he stood and stretched and decided to get on with his day. He gathered the trash into a plastic grocery bag and dropped it next to other bags against a wall outside. There were no garbage bins in Venice, and the instructions in the binder said you had to leave the stuff out between seven thirty and nine for collection. Unlike in Sacramento, you weren’t allowed to just drag it out to the curb the night before—not that there was a curb here—due to marauding seagulls or something.

  He had to turn on the heater before his shower, but this time it was a cinch. He stood under the water for a long time, wishing he could wash away the weariness and tension that always haunted him after one of his dreams. Kyle used to massage his neck and shoulders sometimes. Jeff missed that. At least he had some nice soap he’d picked up at the store the day before. It made a thick lather and smelled of almond and lemon.

  Clean, shaven, and dressed, he felt slightly human by the time he ventured out into the city. He wandered aimlessly for almost two hours and then stopped for an apple pastry and a really good double espresso. Of course the espresso was good, he reminded himself. He was in Italy. Feeling slightly brave, he decided to deviate from the previous day’s plan to visit specific sights. For now he’d just get to know the city. He walked awhile longer and was pleased that he was beginning to recognize small landmarks: the shop with the marzipan candies, the streetlight that looked like a dragon. He detoured by the fish market and was sorely tempted to buy something, but he wasn’t sure just what and whether he could communicate with the fishmongers. And then he’d have to figure out how to prepare it. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t inherited his mother’s lack of culinary skills.

  A little after eleven o’clock, he crossed another big bridge—Ponte dell’Accademia. Hundreds of padlocks were affixed to the metal handrails, and the sight of them twisted Jeff’s heart a little. According to one of his guidebooks, the locks were placed there by sweethearts to symbolize their love. He and Kyle had planned to put one there, and Kyle had even gone out and bought one, a silvery Master Lock on which he’d written their initials in black Sharpie and had drawn a lopsided heart. He had left the lock at Jeff’s place, along with the Crock-Pot and other unwanted junk. Jeff had thrown it away.

  There were a lot of art galleries on the far side of the bridge, and Jeff did a little window-shopping, wondering how filthy rich he’d have to be before he’d drop forty thousand euros on a piece that looked like a gigantic upside-down lightbulb. On the other hand, he did enter one shop and spend three euros on a hand-printed card with a stylized design of Venetian windows. He knew his mother would like it.

  Speaking of filthy rich, Peggy Guggenheim had lived in a building that now housed an art museum named after her. She’d had a pretty impressive collection of modern art, but what Jeff liked most were the gardens, where wisteria hung in fragrant curtains and her dogs were memorialized right next to her grave. He also liked the big back terrace, which had a panoramic view of the Grand Canal, as well as an amusing statue of a nude guy who, by all appearances, was really happy to be riding a horse. Jeff sat on a bench, snickering to himself and wishing he were wealthy enough to put something like that in his yard. Not that he’d have a yard to put it in pretty soon, he remembered, and his mood sobered.

  He had lunch at the museum, seated outdoors alongside the garden. A young French couple was there too, trying patiently to eat while their toddler of indeterminate gender whined and fidgeted. When the kid waddled over to Jeff’s table to stare up at him, he smiled slightly and waggled his fingers. He never knew how to act around children. This one just goggled until its parents called it away.

  He was completely exhausted by the time he walked back to his section of the city, but the thought of locking himself away in his borrowed apartment seemed pathetic and depressing. He could have used a nap but was afraid he’d dream again, and it was too early to take his pills. So he found a café on a quiet campo in the shadow of a pinkish church, and he ordered a stracciatella gelato and another double espresso. He sat there for a long time, sipping at a glass of water and reading his Kindle.

  Sometimes he glanced up for a few minutes to watch people walk by or to gaze at a gondolier making his way down the nearby narrow canal. It was during one of these brief breaks in his reading that he happened to look at a table to his right. He was startled to recognize the man who was just sitting down. It was the guy with the tattoos on his arms. This time he was alone, wearing tight jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a dark blazer. Jeff blushed as he remembered his fantasy from the night before, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Then the man turned his head slightly and caught Jeff staring, and Jeff’s face blazed with heat as he quickly ducked his head over his Kindle.

  “Surfer dude or farm boy?”

  Jeff jerked his head up so quickly his neck hurt. The hot guy was standing at Jeff’s table, smiling, one hand resting on the back of the opposite chair. “Wh-what?” Jeff stammered stupidly.

  “With that long blond hair you’d be right in place on a longboard, but I don’t know. The freckles on your cheeks say hayloft and John Deere.”

  “I’m in IT,” Jeff said, feeling like a complete idiot and inwardly cursing the complexion that made his embarrassment so obvious.

  “Guess that makes you the It Guy,” said the other man in his American-accented English before pulling out the chair and slouching into it. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you? Expats should hang together.”

  “I….” Jeff swallowed. “How’d you know I’m American?”

  The man pointed. “Kindle. Levi’s. Merrell shoes. Rick Steves.” Jeff noticed he had left his guidebook sitting on the table.

  “Oh. I’m not… not really an expat though. I’m just here on vacation.”

  “That’s cool. I’ve been bumming around Europe a while. It’s nice to talk to a homey.”

  As Jeff processed this and tried to think of something to say—without sounding as if he had a single-digit IQ—a waiter brought his new friend a glass of beer. The man took a long swallow, smacked his lips approvingly, and held out a hand. “I’m Cleve Prieto.”

  Jeff shook the hand dutifully. It was warm and smooth, the grip lingering maybe just a touch longer than necessary. “Cleve?”

  “Short for Cleveland. My dad was a history teacher. My brother’s McKinley and my poor sister’s Roosevelt. We call her Rosie.” Cleve was even more handsome close-up, where Jeff could make out the little flecks of green and gold in his brown eyes. He smelled good too, like cinnamon and musk.

  “I’m just Jeff.”

  “Good to meet you, Just Jeff.” Cleve to
ok another sip and then gestured at Jeff’s Kindle. “What’re you reading?”

  Dammit, Jeff was blushing again. He’d been in the middle of a historical novel about a pirate and the spoiled but handsome young man he’d taken captive. “Um, nothing. It’s boring. Technical stuff for work.” He hugged the device closer, and Cleve smirked a little as if he suspected the truth.

  “So. Where are you from?” asked Cleve, leaning back in his chair. In the late afternoon sun, his hair tended more toward bronze.

  “Sacramento. How about you?”

  Cleve shrugged gracefully. “Here and there. I’ve moved around a lot. You been to Venice before?”

  “No.” Jeff didn’t add that he’d never been anywhere before.

  “I like it, least this time of year. During the winter it floods a lot, and in summer there’s so many tourists you can hardly move. But spring and fall are nice.”

  Jeff nodded and slipped the Kindle into his inner jacket pocket. But that left his hands free, so he started playing with his nearly empty water glass. He couldn’t remember ever being this flustered in front of a man before, but then men with movie-star looks rarely struck up conversations with him. “Are you a student?” he finally asked, although Cleve seemed too old for it. Grad student, maybe.

  But Cleve laughed. “No, man. I’m just a bum, and I got kind of itchy feet.” He drank some more beer and then looked at Jeff through slightly narrowed eyes, his head tilted a little to one side. When Jeff was a kid, he’d had a calico cat named Muffin, and she’d looked at toys exactly that way when she was considering whether to pounce.

  Jeff shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Um, I should—”

  “You here alone?”

  After a few blinks, Jeff answered, “Yeah.”

  “Cool. ’S a good way to travel, you know. Not weighed down with anyone else. You can do whatever you want whenever you want to. I’m by myself too.”

  Jeff thought about the man he’d seen with Cleve the day before. Maybe he was another stranger whom Cleve had struck up a conversation with, but their interaction had seemed too emotional for that. Ah, but what did Jeff know? Maybe they’d been talking about something touchy, like politics or sports. Jeff worked with a guy who was capable of going completely off the deep end and throwing a tantrum if someone said they preferred PCs to Macs.

  Cleve finished his beer, glanced at his wristwatch, and leaned forward in his seat. “Tell you what. I gotta go. But how ’bout if we meet for dinner? Meals are always better with company, and I know this great seafood place.”

  It was probably all some kind of elaborate joke, Jeff decided. He’d show up at the agreed-upon place and time, and Cleve would hide around a corner, snickering with his hip buddies over the geek he’d stood up. And yet somehow Jeff found himself nodding. “Okay,” he said.

  “Great!” Cleve smiled widely and stood. He looked around for the waiter, who was nowhere to be seen at the moment, probably inside the restaurant itself. “Hey man, I really gotta scram. Would you mind?” He waved his hand at the empty glass.

  Jeff decided that even if he never saw Cleve again, the company had been worth the price of a beer. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thanks. And here.” Cleve took a pen and a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scribbled quickly. “Eight o’clock?”

  “Sounds good.” Jeff took the paper from him. It was a Billa receipt, actually, although Jeff couldn’t tell for what. Not that it really mattered. The important part was the name of a restaurant—Osteria Tommaseo—and what he took to be an address.

  “See ya at eight,” Cleve said and rested his hand briefly on Jeff’s shoulder. Then he was rushing away, and Jeff’s head was still spinning.

  BACK at the apartment, Jeff checked his e-mail. A quick note from his mother, sent right before she left to show his house. A longer note from his boss, apologizing for interrupting his vacation, then asking how to fix a minor bug in the accounting software. Notices that he’d won a lottery, inherited millions, and could increase his penis size. A newsletter from his favorite romance publisher, with a few tempting titles. An envious message from his cousin Ashley, who had a two-year-old son and five-year-old daughter, and who despaired of going anywhere that didn’t boast french fries and a play structure. And that was it. Not that he’d expected anything more.

  He shot off quick replies to his mother and Ashley and a somewhat longer answer to his boss. He added a couple of titles to the wish list on his account with the romance publisher. And then, because it was still nowhere near eight, he decided to go for another walk.

  He’d always been pretty lean, but workdays hunched over a keyboard didn’t do much for his fitness level. He belonged to a gym and worked out regularly. He liked to bicycle too, and when he and Kyle could get away for a day, they used to head up to the Sierras for some light hiking. But he didn’t usually walk to get somewhere. Like most of California, Sacramento wasn’t really a walking kind of place, and the summer months were too brutally hot for non-air-conditioned exertion.

  So strolling was a new thing for him, and he decided he liked it. He smiled at the pretty salesgirl who knelt in the doorway of a shoe store, petting a shaggy dog. He stopped to try—unsuccessfully—to puzzle out the meaning of a plaque affixed to a verdigris statue of a man with a weird hat. He scoped out restaurant menus for future meals and almost gave in to the temptation to buy a Nutella crepe. He managed to communicate his desire to buy a postage stamp from a newsstand vendor. He studied the sign graphics at a vaporetto stop and decided to go for a boat ride the following day. He smirked smugly at lost tourists who frowned over their maps.

  It was slightly past seven when he returned to his building. Mita was on duty, smiling as always. “Is it love yet?” she asked.

  “No. But I think I’ve developed a crush.”

  “Favoloso!” She looked genuinely pleased, as if getting people to adore her city was her major goal in life. And maybe it was.

  Jeff held out the paper Cleve had given me. “Can you tell me where this is?”

  She peered at it for a moment and brightened. “Certo! It is very close.” She pulled a paper map out from under the desktop and marked a location with a red X. “This is here, yes? Tommaseo is just here.” This time she drew a small circle, maybe six blocks away. Then she slid the map closer to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you eat there tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Jeff didn’t want to commit, in case Cleve stood him up.

  “It is very good. Very fresh frutti di mare—seafood, yes? Nothing frozen.”

  “Sounds good. Um, do you think… should I dress up?” He looked down at himself doubtfully: green-and-white-striped button-down and jeans. He’d brought a tie and a nice jacket, and he could change to slacks if need be. But then he’d feel like an even bigger idiot if Cleve didn’t show. Christ, why was he so worked up over this?

  But Mita shook her head. “No, you are fine. Molto bello.”

  After more thanks, Jeff returned to his flat. He brushed his teeth and hair, clicked through several incomprehensible TV shows, and paced. At ten minutes to the hour, he checked himself in the mirror one last time and headed outside.

  THE osteria was down a very narrow street, just off a small campo. Jeff arrived a few minutes early, and since there was no sign of Cleve, he gazed in the shop windows. He didn’t want to appear too obvious about the waiting. He was admiring a messenger bag and had almost talked himself into buying it when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him startle and whirl around.

  “You hungry, dude?” Cleve asked with a grin. “’Cause I’m starved.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “C’mon, then.” Cleve led the way to the restaurant. He entered confidently, as if he was familiar with the place. And he probably was, because the waiter glanced over at him, smiled, and waved them to a small table near the back.

  It was a small restaurant—maybe twelve to fifteen tables—and the ceiling wa
s low. The walls were uneven stone, and the floor was made of the same material but worn smoother, giving the impression of a cave. But it was a cozy cave, dimly lit by a few wall sconces and flickering candles on each table. It smelled like wine and olive oil and fish and bread, so that Jeff’s empty stomach rumbled expectantly. Judging by the murmur of conversations, most of the other customers were Italian. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy, laughing quietly or talking with gestures in that wonderfully Italian way.

  Cleve seemed content to let Jeff rubberneck a little, and just when Jeff was going to attempt a little awkward conversation, the waiter arrived and handed them sheets of printed paper. Jeff’s heart sank a little when he looked at his. “Uh-oh.”

  “What’s the matter?” Cleve asked.

  “Do you think they have one in English?” Because he could only understand a word or two on the menu. Funghi meant mushrooms, he guessed, and salmone must be salmon, but he was clueless about the rest.

  Cleve was looking at him, one corner of his mouth slightly quirked. “You trust me?”

  “Um… okay.”

  “I’ll order for both of us.”

  Jeff considered for a moment before nodding, albeit uneasily. He liked to know what he was eating. When Kyle had lived with him, Jeff had always refused to eat anything new that Kyle prepared unless his boyfriend fully disclosed the ingredients. It wasn’t that he was an especially picky eater or anything—he just liked to know.

  But Cleve seemed pleased with his acquiescence. “Cool. You gotta let me know if you have any allergies or anything. ’Cause me, I’ll put anything in my mouth.”

  Suddenly very thankful that the darkness of the room hid his blush, Jeff ducked his head. “I’m not allergic.”