We walked down to the river and north and went to a restaurant I liked off the Piazza di Sta. Cecilia in Trastevere. Both of us had decided to forget about the big issues and the tension of the afternoon, and we had our usual out-of-marriage good time. After dinner we walked back slowly, arm in arm, and talked about light matters or were companionably silent for long stretches on the dark streets. In the hotel, we both went to our separate rooms, after a set of Euro-style cheek kisses, very civilized.
I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep; I paced and watched Italian TV with the sound off for a while, and then found myself waggling the knob of the door to the next room. It was unlocked. Meaning what? She’d neglected to lock her side? Or maybe this is how they did it in Italian hotels when a couple opted for adjoining rooms.
I walked in and sat at the little desk and watched her sleep, and after a while I took a couple of sheets of hotel stationery and the short pencil they supplied for taking phone messages and made a drawing of Lotte as she slept, the rich spill of hair, her ear, the lovely strong lines of neck, jaw, cheekbone. Then I went and retrieved one of the boxes of Staedtler pens I’d bought as presents for the kids and added color, and I was soon caught up in the technical problem of how to get interesting effects with the unsubtle chemical tones they put in these things, and I found myself cruising down the old expressionist highway, pushing the color with lots of overlayering, and it got to be kind of fun.
After that I went back to my room and did a portrait from memory of the two of us sitting up in bed, kind of Kirchneresque, but with the anatomy correct and more detailed, stronger drawing, a Wilmot, in fact, and this made me feel good, although I kept slipping into those strange dreamlike states you fall into at such times and then jerking awake.
And thinking, I have not been sleeping well; I wake from unpleasant dreams in which there are roaring monsters on the canals and half-naked women riding on their backs. And almost every night, even when I do manage to sleep, I am awakened by shouts and gunfire. During my time here there have been outbursts throughout the city, day and night, some affray between the great families of Venice, and the ambassador gives me to understand that it is ever thus. Yet also, Venice plays a dangerous game between the Pope and the power of Spain and the Empire; it was explained to me, but I cannot understand it, something to do with the principality of Montferrat. Assassins prowl the streets; yesterday I saw them fish a body from the canal. My copy of the Crucifixion of Our Lord by Tintoretto is almost done, and after that I will copy his Christ Giving Communion to the Disciples. Now that I have seen the paintings that are here, I am ashamed of how I have composed my own, but I count it ignorance rather than lack of skill. Once you have seen it done scores of times, you say, of course, this is how to arrange figures.
I think the best thing I have seen is the altarpiece that Titian did for the Pesaro family; there is nothing like it in Spain. He commands your eye with masses of color, so that you see the different parts of the work in the order he prescribes. It is like a Mass in itself, one thing following another, and each wonderful-St. Peter and the Virgin and Child, and the banner and the captive Turk and St. Francis and the family of Pesaro, with that remarkable boy staring at an onlooker from out of the picture-that face alone would make a masterpiece, and the audacity of it! But I can do this as well.
Now I hear shots and cries from the direction of San Marco. I think I will leave as soon as I am done with my copies and go on to Rome.
Then I was wide awake, sweating, my heart going fast. I’d come to out in the street; somehow I’d pulled my pants and shoes on and got out there. Terrific! That must’ve been his first visit to Venice in 1629. I always liked that Pesaro Titian myself. Strangely, my memories of this hallucination include memories of dreams he’d been having, and it appeared that he was dreaming my twenty-first-century life. Or I was somehow recalling my life while I was being him. The whole thing was unspeakably terrifying and wonderful at the same time, if you can imagine that, like I suppose skydiving is, or would be if you dove through time rather than space, and the experience began all by itself.
Anyway, this little excursion into woo-woo knocked me out pretty good, and I went back into the hotel, getting an interested look from the night man, and returned to my own room. I slipped the drawings I’d done under the door to Lotte’s room, fell into bed, and was instantly asleep. I woke up late the next morning, a little past ten. I cleaned up and dressed and tapped on the adjoining door. No answer. Then I noticed one of the drawings had been slid back onto my side. She’d folded a note onto the double portrait, on which she’d written: “!!!” and a heart with little electric lines around it, and “At breakfast, L.”
I went up to the roof café and found Lotte. She was sitting at a table talking to Werner Krebs.
I was so startled that I froze at the entrance to the café and just watched them for a while. They seemed to be the best of friends, chatting away in French. Lotte had the look she has on whenever she’s speaking her native tongue, a certain relaxed formal look, if that makes sense, as if it’s taken her some effort to conform to the sloppy way that Americans hold their bodies and their faces and now she’s snapped back into a persona that was, paradoxically, more natural.
It wasn’t just surprise; it was like being knocked down by an unexpected wave at the beach, disorienting, you don’t know which way is up, you can’t breathe.
While I was standing there paralyzed, a waiter approached and asked whether I wanted a table. This caught their attention, and Lotte looked up and waved. I went to their table; Krebs rose, gave a little bow, and shook my hand. I was thinking about how he’d arranged this, about how he must be having me watched, and also dying to know what they’d been talking about.
I sat down at their table. It was a little chilly and the buildings across the street wore pale banners of mist, but the hotel had set up tall steel heaters, far more efficient than the pitch-soaked flaming Christians that Nero had used in his own wintry Rome for the same purpose.
Krebs said, “This charming lady was just telling me that you spent the night drawing, with wonderful results.”
Here he indicated the drawing of Lotte lying on the table before him. “This is quite remarkable, for a drawing on cheap paper with a hotel pencil and children’s markers. No, actually, it would be remarkable in any medium-the energy of the lines and the colors combine to give a real sense of mass and living presence.”
Lotte said, “He did another one that’s even better.”
“Really? I would like to see it.”
“I’ll go and get it, if you like,” she said. “If you give me your key, Chaz.”
Like a zombie I handed her the key and she walked off.
“What are you doing here?” I said, trying, perhaps unsuccessfully, to keep the hostility out of my voice.
“You seem surprised. I have a good deal of business in Rome and this hotel is convenient to the studio. Why should I not be here?”
“Having breakfast with my wife?”
A dismissive gesture. “Your ex-wife, I believe, was looking at your drawing, and I expressed appreciation, and then the whole coincidence emerged. And not only that: it is also the case that I know her father slightly, in the way of business.”
“He was investigating you.”
“That is a harsh way of putting it, I think. He was engaged in an official international investigatory commission, and I was happy to help with my expertise. A charming woman, if I may say so.”