When he woke, it was with a start. He was on his back looking straight into the blazing chandelier above the bed. He lay there disoriented for a few moments. Then it all came back, in a rush, with an overwhelming sense of urgency. He sat up suddenly, and glanced to his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He had slept for over two hours. It felt like two minutes. He took the map from his pocket, and began searching for the Soviet Embassy.
Chapter Thirty-one
Melanie stood on the top step of the staircase in the Archives beneath the Sapienza, pounding on the door with her fists, and screaming for help at the top of her lungs. It was more out of frustration now. She’d been doing this on and off for hours to no avail. Finally, she overcame her anxiety, sat down again on the steps in the darkness, and started thinking.
She had survived New York’s Streets and subways for twenty years, not to mention the blackout in sixty-seven. She was in her early twenties and new to the city at the time, and spent that night backstage at the Odeon, a dumpy theater on Houston Street in the East Village where she’d gone to audition for Oh Calcutta! on a dare. But that evening, others had groped through the blackness with candles and bottles of wine and pizzas, and it turned into quite a party.
This was different. She was alone, hungry, and softened by middle-aged comforts. She’d expected her eyes to acclimate and bring vague suggestions of steps, and walls, and light fixtures into view. But after the first hour, she still couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The absence of light was total, as if she was suddenly struck blind.
She was digging through her purse for a package of gum to alleviate the dryness in her mouth when she began thinking about the footsteps she had heard earlier and recalled the sequence of events: whoever locked the door had come down the staircase a short distance, then the lights went out, and then footsteps ascended. That meant the switch was on her side of the door! She ran it through her mind over and over, trying to hear the footsteps, trying to count them.
With one hand on the rail, the other on the wall, Melanie started down the steps in the pitch blackness. It took several tries, first one wall, then the other, sliding her palms over the dusty surfaces before her fingers found a run of electrical conduit which led her to the rotary switch — Click! The bare bulbs exploded with light, sending the angled shadows up the walls and illuminating the cobweb tapestries.
She was startled by the sudden brilliance. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust and focus on the eeriness, which she found comforting now.
Bolstered by the triumph, and resigned to her incarceration, Melanie decided to make use of the time. She descended the twisting staircase to the stone room and resumed her search for Aleksei Deschin’s records.
Marco Profetta spent the evening at Allegro, a gay bar on Paccione, not far from the Sapienza. For hours, Marco had resisted the advances of a barrel-chested businessman who fancied the wiry sleekness of his body. Marco would have liked nothing better than to let the big German take him back to his room in the DeVille, and pound him mercilessly into the sheets. But Zeitzev had agreed to pay Marco the 500,000 lire that he wanted for the Information Card to deal with Melanie Winslow. And his work wasn’t finished.
It was 11:23 P.M. when he left Allegro to return to the Sapienza. He cruised the courtyard in his red Alpha. The headlights revealed dozens of motor scooters still parked in the area. Some were clustered near the entrance to the Records Office. Marco got out of the car, and examined them. His eyes darted to the words SCOOT-A-LONG stenciled across a green Motobecane. A tag displaying the distinctive logo had dangled from the key ring clutched in Melanie’s fist that afternoon. He smiled at his cleverness, lifted the scooter’s molded plastic engine housing, and began the next phase of his plan.
Hours of searching still hadn’t turned up the elusive name Melanie sought. She was opening another folder when her head snapped up in reaction to the creak of the door hinge above.
“Pronto? C’e qualcuno qui?” came the prissy voice from the top of the staircase, “Hello? Hello, anyone down there?”
“Yes! Yes, there is,” Melanie shouted back.
She grabbed her purse and ran like hell, her dancer’s legs taking the stairs three at a time.
“Yes, wait! I’m coming,” she shouted as she climbed.
Marco stood to one side of the opened door, hands on hips, smiling slyly at the relief he heard in her voice. She would be so grateful.
The dashing footsteps got louder, and suddenly, Melanie charged through the open doorway, past Marco, into the records office.
“Signora!” he exclaimed. “We thought you had left,” he said, feigning confusion.
“Somebody locked me in,” she replied breathlessly. “I shouted and shouted. I can’t imagine no one heard me.”
“Ah,” Marco said, knowingly. “Janitor, sordo,” he went on, cupping a hand behind his ear, indicating the fellow was hard of hearing. “Sordo.”
“Oh,” Melanie said, understanding.
“I came back for my book,” he said, holding up a text. “I saw light under the door.”
“Thank God,” she said in a more subdued tone.
“You need a ride?”
“No, I rented a scooter,” she replied. “Thanks.”
She took a moment to collect herself, and they went outside together.
“Ciao, signora.”
“Ciao, Marco. Molto grazie.”
Marco waved and sauntered toward the parking area.
Melanie stood in the courtyard for a few moments, drawing the cool, fresh air into her lungs. Then she walked quickly toward her motor scooter.
Marco got into his car, and watched expectantly.
Melanie dropped onto the Motobecane’s seat, fishing through her purse for the key. In ten minutes, she thought, twenty if she detoured to one of those cobblestoned streets, she would be standing under the hot shower in her room; after which, she’d go down to the cozy hotel bar. God, how she wanted a tall, frosty gin and tonic that would wash the musty taste of the archives from her mouth. She found the keys and, in her haste, stabbed the key at the ignition upside down. She fidgeted with it for a moment until she realized her mistake, then, all in one motion, reversed the key, pushed in, and turned it. The engine kicked over, but refused to start. She waited a few seconds and tried again. Nothing. She sighed, slumped on the seat, and noticed headlights approaching.
Marco leaned out the window of the Alpha coupe which pulled up next to her.
“Walk-A-Long strikes again,” he said, chuckling.
“I’m afraid my sense of humor’s been dealt a fatal blow,” she replied with a thin smile.
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Gregoriana.”
“Come on, I’ll take you.”
“What about the scooter?”
“Call them, and they’ll pick it up. Come on.”
Melanie gathered her things, and got into the Alpha next to him. Marco smiled and drove out of the parking area, heading north on Delia Scroffa.
“What are you looking for down there, anyway?” he asked offhandedly.
“Information about my father.”
“Oh,” he said, filing it away. “My father went to the university, too; graduated in fifty-eight, I think.”