Chapter 16 Gayle
G AYLE
While Mike works on his blog in bed, Gayle opens up her Bible but finds that she’s unable to focus. Noah changing his number without telling her is what she deserves, she knows that. But the knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.
It’s quiet in the hotel now after the shouting that came from the Bianchi apartment, which is right next door to their suite. It was rather frustrating, Mike said, not being able to understand what the Bianchi women were arguing about.
For Gayle, a family argument is far less worrisome than the anguished screams of last night. The wrongdoing of having ignored those screams sits deep within her. Her eyes glaze over the words of the old leather-bound book, seeing nothing. If indeed she had read the words on the open page in front of her, she would have seen this: Proverbs 31:8 Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.
When Mike’s finished his blog, she proofreads it for him, smiling at the good bits:
The mosaics at the basilica in Torcello are quite something! Mosaic art stretching all the way up the wall to the vaulted ceilings. And those ceilings aren’t exactly low.
Let me tell you though, folks, these Italians are all about the Virgin Mary. It’s Santa Maria this, Santa Maria that. The gift shop even sells Santa Maria pyjamas – imagine! Needless to say, we didn’t buy any sacrilegious merchandise, but we did find some very nice ‘I love Torcello’ coasters (at quite a bargain price I might add), so we couldn’t go past those.
And she frowns at the bad bits:
You’d think these Italian waiters have their eyes painted on. Thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds they left us standing at the restaurant tonight. If an establishment in Arkansas tried on that kind of behaviour, they’d be shutting their doors within a week. Unfortunately, being rude to customers is accepted in Europe. I’d go so far as to say it’s even expected. There’s a fair degree of racism towards Americans that I can gather, and that’s the truth.
The blog doesn’t mention the Venice Rising protest art they saw on the church wall this evening.
Once the blog’s posted, Mike complains, ‘I know I had that big dinner, but I’m getting hungry again. There’s nothing to eat here except for the dry biscuits from the minibar.’
Gayle closes the Bible. ‘Remember when we checked in, young Rocco told us to help ourselves to the sweets they keep in the restaurant at the end of the day?’
‘I do remember him saying that!’ His voice lifts. ‘A nice piece of cake would hit just the spot.’
‘Let me go on down there and see what they’ve got.’ She’s already up and looking for her robe. ‘I’ll bring you back something good.’
‘See if there’s any of that almond cake left.’
‘Sure, hon.’ She’s glad for the excuse to get out of the room; her shame’s stifling her in there.
Out in the hallway, the door to another suite is wedged open with a Bible. It upsets Gayle to see the Lord’s word being used as a doorstop.
Downstairs, the concertina doors leading from the foyer to the restaurant are open and the thousands of fairy lights in the potted trees create a bright glowing light. She spots a plate of cake slices and shortbread on the big trestle table and walks over to it, but stops dead in her tracks at a sudden movement from under the table. She bends down to see what’s there and her breath catches.
Curled up small on the floor with a basket of pastries in her lap is a skeletally thin young woman, barefoot and in a flimsy nightgown. Gayle’s seen her around; she’s the wife of the wonderful Australian doctor who saved Signore Bianchi’s life yesterday. Gayle thinks she must be around the same age as her oldest granddaughter, Ava, who’s thirty. She even has her chestnut brown hair cropped short in a pixie cut like Ava’s, but that’s where the similarity ends. This young woman’s head is too big for her tiny body. Her arms and legs are matchstick thin. It’s as if she could break just by being hugged.
When the woman sees Gayle, she gasps. Her cheeks are bulging. She quickly chews and swallows, looking mortified. The poor little mite, gorging herself in secret like this, must have an eating disorder.
Gayle squats down, about to apologise for scaring her, but before she can say anything, she sees the marks. Oh, the marks! Too many to count. Both of the woman’s eyes are blackened, her cheeks are bruised, there are red marks on her neck as well as scratches and bruises around her collarbones. Her shins are black and blue all over. And they’re only the parts of her that are exposed. What else is hiding beneath that nightgown?
The woman remains silent, frozen, staring up at her. The terror in her expression brings tears to Gayle’s eyes.
‘Hey there, sugar. It’s okay, don’t be scared,’ Gayle says gently, keeping a good distance away. She sits herself onto the cold floor, landing on her backside with a thud. She has no idea what to say, what to do. She just knows she can’t leave that poor girl there alone. They sit facing each other in silence.
The woman eventually speaks. ‘Christian, my husband, he’s strict with my food. He’s gone out for a while so ...’ She lets the sentence hang. Her voice is tinny, weak. Her accent is hard to decipher. She looks Italian, with her dark eyes and dark hair, but she doesn’t sound Italian.
‘You poor child. Was it you I heard screaming last night?’
The woman nods.
Gayle gulps down a fresh wave of guilt.
The woman looks at the pastry that’s crushed in her fists and crumbled over the floor. She tries to scoop the crumbs off the pavers without much success. ‘I’ve made a mess.’
‘Don’t worry. They’re nice people here.’
Gayle isn’t the kind of person who likes to pry. Her whole life, she’s stayed in her own lane. She’s only ever made it her business to know the ins and outs of her own family. She follows the scriptures when it comes to that kind of thing, the way God tells her to do in Proverbs 21:23: Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble . Gayle likes to keep herself out of trouble.
But this isn’t a time where she’s able to keep her mouth and her tongue. The Lord also asks his followers to be good Samaritans, and this beaten young woman, curled up on the floor, is in no less danger than the beaten man left on the side of the road over two thousand years ago in Jericho. Gayle’s not about to pass by her again.
‘My name’s Gayle,’ she says. ‘Gayle Dawson. My husband, Mike, and I are here on vacation. What’s your name, sugar?’
‘Elena.’
‘My, that’s a pretty name. Elena, tell me what I can do to help you. Do you want me to report him to the police?’
Elena shakes her head fast. ‘No! God, no. He’ll kill me if he finds out I told anyone.’
What in the Lord’s name are you doing with this monster? Why haven’t you left him?
It’s only when Elena answers that Gayle realises she said those things out loud.
‘He wasn’t always like this. He was lovely. He still can be.’ Elena sighs. ‘He’s a powerful man, very well connected. He once showed me a document with the address of every women’s shelter in Australia. I wouldn’t have got far if I tried to leave with no money, no friends. I didn’t have access to my passport.’ Her hands glide along the marks on her neck.
‘Tell me what I can do to help,’ Gayle says again. ‘I have money.’
Elena breathes in and out, raggedy nervous breaths. She’s silent for a long time, staring down at her hands as she flicks her nails, before she finally speaks. ‘There is something. It’s a lot to ask though.’
‘Tell me.’ Gayle gives her an encouraging nod.
‘I was planning to give my mother a letter. She lives here in Venice, and I need her help to escape. But I’m worried I won’t get a chance to leave it in her apartment somewhere I know she’ll find it without Christian noticing. He’s always watching me. Could you take the letter to her? She lives in the Jewish Ghetto in the Cannaregio district. It’s not that close, about half an hour by vaporetto.’
Gayle’s pulse speeds. This isn’t what she was expecting. What will Mike say? ‘Yes, I can do that, of course. I’ll go with Mike tomorrow. What else can I do for you?’
‘The letter’s all I need, thank you. I’ll slip it under your door in the morning. Which suite are you in?’
‘Three.’
‘Thank you. I’m very grateful.’
‘Please don’t thank me. Let me give you my phone number just in—’
‘I don’t have a phone.’ Elena crawls out from under the table. ‘I have to get back to my room. If Christian doesn’t find me there when he gets back, I’ll be in trouble.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s looking at the new art installations.’
So the man beat his wife black and blue, then walked around the city admiring art.
Gayle stands up too, using the table for support.
Elena gives her a small smile. ‘Thank you so much for helping me.’
‘It’s the least I can do. God bless you, sugar. Everything will work out, don’t you worry now.’
Elena takes a few steps towards the door and then stops. ‘I used to be somebody. Five years ago I was impressive.’
‘You still are, Elena.’
The young woman drops her head and leaves.
Gayle walks into the kitchen attached to the restaurant. She hunts around until she finds a dustpan and broom tucked away in a cupboard, which she uses to brush the crumbs off the ground as best she can.
Her body feels old and heavy as she lugs herself back up the stairs to the suite. Her head is filled with images of Elena, of her bony hands, and her big bulging eyes that were so solemn and so sad, and dear Lord, those strangle marks around her neck.
It’s only when Gayle walks into their room and sees Mike’s expectant face that she realises she forgot to bring him anything from the restaurant.
‘Sorry, hon, I got talking and forgot about the cake.’
‘I was wondering what took you so long. Who were you talking to?’
‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. I’ll go back down and get your cake.’
‘I’ll go,’ he says. ‘You stay here, you look tired.’
As Mike heads out, she crawls under the covers and says an urgent silent prayer for the young woman whose life is in danger because of a man who bears the name of the Lord.