Z walks to the guardrail at the edge of the piazza. The waitress tells him to stay put and commune with nature while she checks them in.
He takes in the majesty in every direction, settling his gaze on the bay below, and all those humongous yachts—ten times bigger than the ones in Berlin. He finds that he misses sailing with Farid. This confuses, for Farid is, however distant from the acts, a killer. And further confusing is accepting that, however distant from that one-ton bomb, Z is a killer himself.
Z is pulled from this wretched reverie by a loving yank. The waitress, hooking a finger through one of his belt loops, draws him close.
She’s returned with a room key on a giant brass knob. This she hangs off the first finger of her non-jeans-tugging hand.
He puts an arm around her—feeling cared for—and pulls the waitress back his way. It feels so sweetly couple-like. It feels, to Z, what life could be on the other side of this hellacious ordeal.
“Let’s go get you some burrata,” she says, “and a bowl of vodka. We’ll fuck and take a nap, and then I’m going to stick you on this metal ledge in one of the pools. It has a million tiny holes in it, and each one of those holes is a tiny jet. You can lie there like a sausage cooking red under the sun, while all those little bubbles take your worries away.”
“Shouldn’t we say hi to your parents first? Or, at least, tell them you’ve brought along a spy on the run? It’s a pretty big surprise.”
“You really don’t understand the rich, do you?”
Z, evidently, does not. No more than he understood Italy and its media moguls, before.
“If you have all the money in the world, it’s boring just to get more money. The only things left that hold any interest are sex and power.”
“And how does that break down in my case?”
“For me, sex. For my father, a wonderful, international game of power.”
The hotel room is a chichi duplex, with an open staircase to a lofted bedroom and, off the living room, a wraparound balcony hanging out into infinity. Z did not think it possible, but it’s even fancier than their Parisian suite.
If one didn’t know that everything was coming down around him, one would reckon, from his lakeside mansion in Berlin all the way to this extravagant space with this extraordinary woman, that Z must be doing something right.
They eat and drink, they have sex and take a nap, repeating the cycle throughout the day until they finally spread out naked on the lounge chairs on their balcony to watch the sun set.
When the room phone rings, the waitress takes her time getting it. When she says, “Pronto,” into the receiver, Z thinks he may die of love.
She listens, and covers the mouthpiece, and whispers too loudly, “Get in the shower. Clean up as best you can.” When she hangs up she says, “We really should have run back down to the shops for some decent clothes.”
They wait at a candlelit table down the stairs from the lower pool. They are perched on the edge of a private strip of hotel terrace, overlooking the black water and the endless, immeasurable world.
The waitress’s father, who is strapping and gray-templed and younger and stronger than Z might have imagined, takes a moment to shake Z’s hand, before disappearing back into an extended round of hugging and laughing and talking to his daughter in Italian at great speed. Z cannot imagine how young her mother must be, as her father looks like he had her when he was ten years old.
At some point, which Z thinks is a long time after his arrival, the waitress says to her father, in English, “We’re being rude.”
Taking their seats, she says to Z, “Typical mother,” and shakes her head. And her father, in silver suit to match his hair, and white shirt open a button too far, says, “My wife will join us in a couple of days. Evidently, there’s still something left in Milan that she hasn’t yet bought.”
“She’s selfish,” the waitress adds, as explanation.
“Now, Porcospino, that’s not nice,” her father says.
Then he slaps Z on the back, with some force. “Do you know why she’s upset, your girlfriend?”
“No, sir,” Z says, feeling like he’s ten years old himself.
“Your girlfriend is upset because, without her mother here to keep me distracted, you two are stuck with me. We are all on a lavish three-person date.”
“It’s a nightmare!” the waitress says, sounding serious, while her father beams at her with a proud smile.
It’s not until all the dinner plates have returned to the kitchen that the waitress, in a very politic manner, utters the truth about Z.
Her father, studying his guest like a pinned butterfly, says, quite loudly, “A spy?”
“He is,” the waitress says.
As the desserts are marched out and placed on the table, the waitress’s father takes hold of the server’s arm.
To Z, he says, “This calls for some whiskeys.” And from the waiter he’s restrained, her father orders a round.
While they poke at their sweets, a global version of Z’s problems is shared.
The waitress’s father nods knowingly, turning to his daughter to assess her, and then to Z to do the same. “That’s quite a story,” he says, markedly unruffled.
“You’re taking it well,” Z says. “Me being in trouble, and all. And needing such serious help. It’s really kind.”
“Believe it or not,” her father says, clamping a hand down on Z’s wrist, “this girl, she is a monster,” and here he releases Z to press the back of that hand, most delicately, against his daughter’s cheek. “She’s nicer than her mother. But, still, a terrible headache. These? Your problems? They are not so bad. You are—even as a fugitive spy—not yet close to the worst boyfriend she’s ever had.”
2002, Tyrrhenian Sea
At breakfast, the waitress’s father says, “One seat on a private flight, where they don’t so much as peek at who is aboard. Is that all you’re after?”
Z offers a diffident nod.
“And you have a passport?”
“A couple,” he says, with a sad laugh. “But, yes, I have one with me.”
“So this is your big disaster? You need someone with blurry eyesight to put a stamp on a page, or maybe have Customs check the cabin while you’re locked in the bathroom taking a piss?”
“Yes, sir,” Z says. “That would be a dream.”
“I thought this was a big favor? You didn’t need to come to me for this, you could merely have come to Naples. Do you know how many metric tons of contraband have already, this morning, moved through? One nice Jewish boy would easily disappear into the mix.”
“Should I take the ferry back? If there’s someone who can really make that happen—”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” her father says, patting Z on the hand. “I have a couple of calls out. But you, my son, are in Italy on a Sunday. You should have chosen a country less Catholic if you wanted to accomplish something today. Also, if you’re expecting my help you should keep your own commitment. I’ve rented us a beautiful yacht for a sail, and you two promised to be my date.”
Z feels himself turning pale.