I’m in Venice. Is Ed there? If he’s not, I can—”
“He is here,” she said in a comfortingly firm tone, dropping all her aitches. “One moment, please, Ray.”
It was a long moment. Ray wondered if Coleman was declining to speak. Then Coleman’s voice said:
“Yes?”
“Hello. I thought I’d let you know I’m in Venice.”
“Well, well. Quite a surprise. How long are you here for?”
“Just a day or so—I’d like to see you, if possible.”
“By all means. And you should meet Inez—Inez Schneider.” Coleman sounded just a trifle rattled, but recovered as he said, “Dinner tonight? Where is it we’re going, Inez—Da Colombo around eight thirty,” he said to Ray.
“Maybe I can see you after dinner. Or this afternoon? I’d rather see you alone.” An explosive blast like a Bronx cheer from the telephone numbed Ray’s ear for a moment, and he lost what Coleman was saying. “Could you say that again? Sorry.”
“I said,” Coleman’s taut, ordinary American voice said in a bored manner, “it was high time you met Inez. We’ll see you at eight-thirty at Da Colombo, Ray.” Coleman hung up.
Ray was angry. Should he ring back and say he wouldn’t come for dinner, that he would see him at any other time? He went into his room to think about it, but within a few seconds he decided to let it go and to turn up at half past eight.
3
R ay was deliberately fifteen minutes late, but not late enough, as Coleman had not arrived. Ray walked twice through the big restaurant, looking for him. He went out and entered the first bar he saw. He ordered a Scotch.
Then he saw Coleman and a woman and a young man walking by the bar, Coleman laughing loudly at something, his body rocking back. Not quite two weeks after his only child had died, Ray thought. A strange man. Ray finished his drink.
He entered the restaurant when he thought they had had time to be seated. They were in the second room he looked into. Ray had to go very close to the table before Coleman deigned to look up and greet him.
“Ah, Ray! Sit down. Inez—may I present Inez Schneider? Ray Garrett.”
“Enchantée, M. Garrett,” she said.
“Enchanté, madame,” Ray replied.
“And Antonio Santini,” said Coleman, indicating the dark, wavy-haired young Italian at the table.
Antonio half stood up and extended a hand. “Piacere.”
“Piacere,” Ray said, shaking his hand.
“Sit down,” said Coleman.
Ray hung his coat on a hook and sat down. He glanced at Inez, who was looking at him. She was a darkish blonde, about forty-five, slight, and she wore good jewellery. She was not quite pretty; she had a receding and rather pointed chin, but Ray sensed a warmth and femininity, perhaps something maternal in her, that was most attractive. And again, looking at Coleman’s bloating face, his unappetizing brown moustache, his balding head freckled from Mallorca, imagining the bulging belly below the table level, Ray wondered how he could attract women as fastidious as Inez seemed to be. Coleman had been with another woman very much the type of Inez, when Ray had met him and Peggy the spring before last at an exhibition in the Via Margutta. My father’s always the one who says good-bye , Peggy’s voice said in his ear, and Ray hitched himself forward nervously in his chair.
“You’re a painter?” asked Antonio on his right, in Italian.
“I’m a poor painter. I’m a better collector,” Ray answered. He hadn’t the energy or the inclination to inquire into Antonio’s work. Coleman had said Antonio was a painter.
“I’m very happy to meet you finally,” Inez said to Ray. “I wanted to meet you in Rome.”
Ray smiled slightly, and could think of nothing to say. It didn’t matter. He sensed that Inez would be sympathetic. She was wearing a good and rather powerful perfume, earrings with a pendant green stone, a green and black jersey dress.
The waiter arrived, and they ordered. Then Inez said to Ray:
“You are going