Chapter 33

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR.

“Captain Angel,” barks the detective.

“Coming,” I say.

I open the door, try not to look the stout, bearded man in the eye, nor the uniformed cop who accompanies him.

I tell them both to come in and step aside.

The door shuts behind them.

“You have been doing some redecorating I see,” the detective comments.

My stomach drops for the second time in as many minutes.

“Tell me, Captain Angel,” he says. “How do you manage such maneuvers in the dark?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, as if I don’t understand his question.

“Isn’t it a dangerous proposition to be moving heavy furniture when you are blind?”

I laugh. But nothing’s funny.

“Now I understand, Detective,” I say, pushing the sunglasses farther up on the crown of my nose. “I’ve been trying to work with my blindness. Testing my skills without the use of my eyes. It’s a way for me to try and train myself for a life of no sight, should it come to that.”

I’m not looking directly at him. But out the corner of my eye, I catch the detective nodding as he shoots a glare at the uniformed cop. The cop returns the glare. The tight expressions on both their faces scream of suspicion.

“Do you mind if we sit down?” poses the detective.

“Of course,” I say. “I’m sorry I don’t have any coffee brewing. I can try and make some.”

“No, grazie. We’ve already had ours.”

I move myself slowly, guiding myself with the fingers on my right hand, even if I can see. Until I pretend to locate the couch’s armrest, where I perch myself instead of sitting beside the detective. Behind me, the uniformed cop remains standing at the apartment door, as though guarding it.

“Who is the painter?” the detective asks after a weighted silence.

“Grace is the painter,” I answer. “And the poet. You should know that by now.”

“Who is the model for the woman with child?” he asks.

I think about Grace, kidnapped, stranded.

“Grace is her own model.”

“Then she is pregnant, Captain?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

“Whatever the case,” he says, “she wears many hats, including that of your wife- to-be.”

“Yes, she does. It’s all a part of what makes her beautiful.”

“Endearing, Captain. How interesting that she should fall in love with a soldier.”

“I don’t see your point, Detective?”

“I’m having trouble picturing an artist as accomplished as Grace falling in love with a military man. Usually artists seem to attract artists. They tend to shun the military type.”

He smiles, but I pretend that I can’t see him smiling. I know he’s trying to bait me. But I’m not sure why he’s doing it.

“You might recall that I’m a writer,” I say. “I might not be a visual artist. But there’s definitely art to what I do.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Captain. I forgot all about your book writing. All I remember is this ungodly war in Afghanistan which has dragged on now for ten years. Of course you are an artist. Now it all makes sense.”

Sliding off the armrest, I face the detective without actually looking at his face.

“Please tell me. Do you have news?”

“Yes,” he says, half under his breath. “I’m afraid I do.”

I begin to feel my limbs tremble. Even with the sunglasses on I try not to look directly at him when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a passport.

“Hold out your hand, Captain Angel,” he says.

I do it.

He sets the passport into my hand. I feel the familiar, flexible plastic-coated cover. I don’t need to look directly at it to know that it’s wet. That it’s been dunked in water, or left out in the rain, or both.

“Do you know what you are holding?” the detective begs.

“A passport,” I swallow.

“That’s correct. Your fiancée’s passport.”

“Where…where did you find it, Detective?”

He stands.

“It was fished out of the Grand Canal by a couple of tourists during their gondola ride.”

“What does this mean?” I beg.

“It means that we know for certain now Grace is not leaving the country. We also know it’s possible that harm has come to her.”

I try to avoid looking directly at Grace’s picture when I open it, and pretend to scan the pages with my fingers.

“I’ll need that back, of course,” the detective adds.

Before handing it back to him, I thumb back to the first page and run my fingers over Grace’s face. My eyes fill, and I find it hard to swallow. With a trembling right hand, I return the passport to him.

He pockets it and stands in silence for a moment. The silence makes me feel uncomfortable. Exposed. Like I’m standing inside a fishbowl.

“Detective,” I say, “what are you going to do to find Grace?”

I see and hear him reach into his pocket for his cigarettes. He holds them up to me, as though asking me if he has permission to light up.

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “You can smoke.”

He lights up with his flip-top Zippo, returns the lighter to his jacket pocket. I tell him there’s an ashtray on the counter at the kitchenette. Slipping past me, he locates the astray and hovers over it while he smokes.

He says, “With your permission, I’d like to list Grace as officially missing earlier before the required forty-eight hours have passed. Now that we have evidence of possible foul play.”

“Please,” I beg. “What can I do to help?”

I see him glancing at the uniformed cop, then to me, and back to the cop.

“I’d like you to come in for more questioning. Say later today. If that’s okay with you.” Smoking, laughing wryly. “I can’t imagine that in your condition, you have much in the way of plans, Captain Angel.”

He once more glances at the cop standing by the door, who is also smiling wryly now.

“No,” I confirm. “I don’t have much in the way of plans.”

He stamps out the cigarette.

“I’ll have someone pick you up. Say about fifteen-hundred?”

“Three o’clock. That’s fine.”

“Yes, you would be used to European time since it is the same as military time.” He begins making his way to the cop and the door. “Oh, and one more thing, Captain. When you and Grace argued in the café the other day—”

“We weren’t arguing, Detective.”

He smiles.

“Of course not. Allow me to rephrase. During the course of your, uh, discussion, Grace didn’t happen to mention if she might have been seeing anyone else while you were away at the war? Seeing someone romantically? Something more long term and aside from a…how you say in the United States…a one-night stand with her ex-husband?”

My heart, dropping, along with my stomach.

“We were…are…committed to one another. Grace wouldn’t do a thing like that without telling me.”

“But the one-night stand with Andrew. She kept that a secret for a time. Such things might cause an old soldier to become angry. To lash out, perhaps.”

“Need I remind you again, Detective, that she called me in tears and confessed to it right away. Immediately. And I am in total control of my anger.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, biting down on his bottom lip. “You did tell me that, didn’t you. The mind is not as sharp as it once was.” Then, “And you have not received any more strange phone calls over the land line? Anything my people might have missed?”

I tell him I haven’t.

He nods, and I pretend not to see it.

The uniformed cop opens the door, steps on out. The detective follows. Until he stops and turns once more.

“Captain,” he says, “I never actually asked you if I could smoke.”

I feel my heartbeat pick up at the comment.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I merely pulled out the pack of cigarettes and gestured to you like I wanted to smoke. I never actually asked.”

Heartbeat speeds up now. Pounds.

“Since I’ve lost my eyesight, Detective,” I say, “I’ve learned to recognize the sounds of things. I know you are a smoker, and I heard you go into your pocket for your pack of cigarettes. I heard you pull out your lighter.”

He nods, once more shoots a glance at his colleague.

“Of course,” he sighs. “How silly of me.”

He steps out and shuts the door behind him.