Siracusa by Delia Ephron

Author:Delia Ephron
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-06-09T11:27:53+00:00

Michael

THE RECEPTIONIST SLID A PAPER across the desk. “For you.”

I read it. “Not for me.” I slid it back.

“But you are Signor Shapner?”

“Yes, and yet this is not for me.”

She was in Siracusa. Not possible. Not here. A joke. Clever. Cleverer than K. Beyond her capabilities. Not taking my calls, teenage revenge, that would be Kath. Someone had helped her plan this joke. It was a joke. Had to be.

“What was that?” Lizzie asked, taking advantage of the elevator to grope and nuzzle. Mirrored. Four sides mirrored. From every angle I saw myself entangled with Lizzie, my face scrubbed clean of panic, fear, worry, guilt. From every angle I saw myself, innocence in close-up. Couldn’t help but admire how well I concealed. She could not be here and yet she was. surprise!!!!!! meet me at the café in piazza duomo. 4 o’clock. katarina. Her handwriting. It was her handwriting. Babyish. No capitals. Hearts too. Tilting this way and that.

“An invitation to scuba dive,” I’d said, and somehow Lizzie found that plausible.

She investigated the room, what there was of it, laughed at a statue out the window. Insisted I look too. I fucked us up, Lizzie. Can you ever forgive me?

“Sleep. I need sleep,” I said instead. “Do your usual scout, darling, and report back.”

It took her forever to leave, or so it seemed, calling the desk, getting a hair appointment, dallying at the mirror, changing her shoes, despairing over her misshapen toes. Women are ridiculous.

Finally she left, blowing a kiss. “I love you.”

Waited ten minutes.

Had the receptionist read the note? A sheet of paper folded in half, not even stationery, not even sealed. Did it matter? This is Italy. In Italy men cheat. Everywhere men cheat. In hotels—albeit this was slightly less than a hotel, something unfortunately more intimate—it had to be common.

Was K staying here? If so, God help me. It would be as if she were in my home. Still, the receptionist had seen it all. At twenty-three—she could not be older than that—she had surely seen this. Reading the note, did she mark me for a shit? Or perhaps she found it romantic.

“Where is Piazza Duomo, Dani?” A conscious choice to use her name, conveniently on a tag. In the world of cheating there always seemed a less or more guilty way to behave.

She flourished a map. Drew a star where we were and a path. A big X. Spun the map my way to see the route and destination. “Not far,” she said. “Nothing is far. Out the door.” She gestured right.

I tipped her ten euros, a bribe in case, in case of what? Banking goodwill for whatever trouble might be coming. Folded the map small, crammed it in a back pocket. Carrying a map. That alone would make Lizzie suspicious. Wondering still. Was there some sick joke awaiting me or K herself?

Across the parking lot a woman waved. I held up my arm to block the sun. Taylor. She was chatting with Kath. Did she know Kath? I suddenly couldn’t remember who knew who.

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