Bridge of Sighs

It’s not mortality that’s troubling you, the possibility of a bad diagnosis. No, you’re identifying with criminals making their final journey from the court to the dungeon, from which only death can free them. Thanks, that really cheers me up.”
    “It’s a good painting.”
    “Good painting, bad painting. Who cares?”
    “I do.”
    “What worries me isn’t the quality of the work. It’s that the painting is a lie. The rage, the self-loathing staring out from behind those dead eyes, that isn’t you, Robbie. I’ve known you for a long time, and you’re far from a saint. Truth be told, you’ve never been anything but a pain in the ass, but the face in that painting isn’t yours. For better or worse, you’ve always been honest. You’ve painted what you saw, and if
that’s
what you’re seeing, something’s very wrong.” Hugh was staring at him, black lipped now, a rather gruesome sight, actually. And it was his turn to lean toward the center of the table. “I almost hope you
do
have cancer. Most cancers are treatable.”
    “More melodrama.”
    “You’re in trouble, Noonan. I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. Your friends know it, too.” He paused here to let this sink in. “You’ve become a recluse, and don’t pretend you haven’t.”
    Noonan snorted. “Who told you that? Anne Brettany? Please.”
    “You may be interested to know Anne said nothing, even under direct questioning. And you know how skilled I am in that regard.”
    “Who, then?” Noonan said.
    Hugh seemed to be weighing whether or not to reveal his source. “The only time anybody’s seen you in months, you were sobbing uncontrollably in some church. In the middle of the bloody afternoon.”
    Madonna dell’Orto, to be precise. Noonan remembered the afternoon. And now he knew who. Todd Lichtner, the prick.
    “And another thing,” Hugh said, on a roll now. “When was the last time you punched somebody?”
    “A long time ago,” Noonan said, pleased to be given this opportunity to prove his mental health. “I can’t even remember, it’s been so long.”
    “Exactly,” Hugh said triumphantly. “I mean, what have you been for your entire life? I’ll tell you. You’ve been a provocateur. A goad. An insensitive brute. At times a bully, a total dickhead. But here’s the thing: it’s always
worked
for you. Every time you got into a rut, whether it was a marriage rut or a work rut, you’d find somebody to piss you off, promptly break the fellow’s nose, pack your things and move someplace new. And your very next painting would be great, your rut a thing of the past. Now? You’re crying in churches. It’s like all the fight’s gone out of you.”
    “I’m closer to breaking
your
nose right now than you appear to realize,” Noonan said, his wrist throbbing in anticipation. He expected Hugh to blanch at the threat, and so was surprised when instead Hugh leaned forward and offered his chin.
    “Do it,” he told him, and unless Noonan was mistaken, there were tears in his eyes. The room had gone quiet, and the other diners were watching expectantly. “Be a belligerent. And don’t tell me you don’t remember how, because we both know better.” Grinning now, each tooth grotesquely ringed with squid ink.
    “Go look at yourself in the mirror,” Noonan suggested, bringing his companion up short.
    “What?”
    Noonan shook his head. “Nah, I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”
    It was a full ten minutes before Hugh returned from the men’s room, his teeth gleaming white again. In his absence, Noonan had finished his pasta
fagioli,
the food suddenly tasting good. Could his friend be right, that the very idea of punching someone in public had improved his appetite?
    The other diners had all gone back to their meals. “Battalions,” Noonan said when Hugh sat down.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    It had come to him when Hugh was in the gents. Troubles come not singly but in battalions. Suddenly his spirits improved, along with his appetite.
    When the sea bass was served, the larger portion was placed in front of Noonan, who gleefully dug in before the plates could be switched. Hugh just glared at him, finally saying, “So, are you going to tell me about it or not?”
    “Tell you what?” Why he’d been crying at Madonna dell’Orto? That was the question Noonan had been expecting, and he was prepared with a glib answer. There were two damned fine Tintorettos in that church. Good enough to reduce any painter worth