Bridge of Sighs

what?” he said groggily, rising up on his elbows. At the sound of his voice, modulated and sane, she visibly relaxed. Flight wouldn’t be necessary after all.
    So far she was the only person to witness one of his night terrors. This was now over a month ago, but the experience was still fresh in her mind. Half an hour after falling asleep, he’d awakened in a paroxysm of rage. When she made the mistake of trying to calm him down, he lashed out, not even recognizing her, really, and punched her in the face, hard. The resulting black eye had been hard to explain to her husband, and since then they’d agreed not to risk a repetition. They’d continued their sporadic, desultory sex, but when it was over either she or Noonan went home before postcoital sleepiness could descend. The last thing she’d done tonight before drifting off was ask him if he felt sleepy. He’d said no, thinking he’d be able to stay awake, but then fell asleep anyway.
    “I suppose you could tell me what you’re sorry about.”
    “I was talking in my sleep?”
    She sat on the edge of the bed now, holding the back of her hand gently to his cheek. “You kept saying how sorry you were. Didn’t sound like you at all.”
    “It didn’t sound like my voice?”
    “No, it was your voice, all right. Just not the sort of thing that comes out of your mouth, if you know what I mean. Sort of like Hugh Morgan saying
I don’t know.
Anyway, I accept your apology, even if it was meant for someone else.”
    Noonan swung his feet out of bed. “I gather you’re leaving?”
    “It’s almost midnight.”
    “If you can wait till I put my pants on, I’ll walk you home.”
    “We really shouldn’t be seen together,” she said, but he could tell this objection was his to override.
    As it turned out, they had both the vaporetto and the streets to themselves. Even San Marco was deserted, except for the last of the musicians putting away their instruments outside Caffè Florian and some waiters stacking chairs on a gurney.
    “When does Todd get back?” he asked when they arrived in Campo San Stefano, off of which her gallery was located, their living quarters above.
    “Tomorrow,” she said. A failed novelist turned travel writer, Todd Lichtner was often away on assignment for one of a half-dozen magazines. “Speaking of which, will you see Hugh again?”
    “It’s possible. I got the impression he wasn’t finished badgering me.”
    “Remind him he promised to stop by the gallery?”
    “If he promised, he won’t need to be reminded.”
    “I have one or two pieces I’d really like him to see.”
    “The Ponti?”
    She nodded. “And Jean Nugent’s new work.”
    Noonan shrugged. “The Ponti’s good. Hugh might like it.” Probably not, though. And he couldn’t think of a single reason for Hugh or anyone else to like the Nugent.
    Evangeline must have read his mind and, perhaps, even shared his assessment, because when she looked away there was just enough light from a nearby streetlamp to see that her eyes were moist. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay open,” she said, her voice full of terrible resignation. “Some days I can’t even remember why I want to. Most of what I do anymore is just habit, starting with getting out of bed in the morning.”
    Getting
into
bed with him was another example, clearly—no need even to state it.
    “People get into ruts,” Noonan said. And ruts weren’t always a bad thing. Maybe an artist’s discipline, process and routine—habit, if you will—were just ruts with a purpose, and if you were talented and lucky they paid off in a kind of freedom, at least within the borders of canvas. Counterintuitive, granted, but there you were. The danger was that the purpose of your regimen would be lost, leaving mere habit to explain and justify itself if it could. And when it couldn’t? Well, maybe you were done. Going through the motions, those motions a feeble prayer that was unanswered, unanswerable. Why had he become a nocturnal walker, taking the same route night after night? All five
sestieri:
San Marco, Castello, Cannaregio, San Polo, Dorsoduro, always in that order, never the reverse, gauging time by space and vice versa. In the end, how different was he from his father, whose strict discipline had never been rooted in anything more profound than a selfish need to be in control.
    “I do love Venice,” Evangeline continued, “but it’s absurd living here.”
    “Where would you