by R P Nathan
I looked at him blankly.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. And anyway the urn’s not big enough. The cross was four foot long—”
“It’s just the sapphire that’s in there. That’s all Polidoro was interested in.”
“Right,” I said not sure whether I should be humouring him or not. “And how did it get in the urn?”
“Well he put it there of course. Polidoro I mean. He makes a journey to go and get Bragadino’s skin. Surely he would have used that trip to recover the sapphire as well. He said he would if it took him his whole life.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. Why is he hiding it?”
“Because the authorities were after it. They would have searched him for it. In the urn it would have been safe. But somehow he wasn’t able to retrieve it…” His eyes widened. “I think it’s still in there.”
“But Sarah said they opened the urn in the ’60s. They would have found it then.”
“It must be in a secret compartment at the bottom of the urn.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “A secret compartment. How could I have been so stupid? Can we stop this now? You’re doing my head in.”
“Suit yourself,” he said and he turned to face the other way.
I opened my mouth to say something more; but then just shrugged. Let him have his fantasies of treasure. I had fantasies of my own after all. And I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling, trying my hardest to conjure an image of Sarah into my mind.
Chapter 11
We both had a nap and afterwards I was relieved that Patrick had forgotten about the urn and was, like me, more preoccupied in finding something presentable to wear from the crumpled and limited selection of clothes in our rucksacks. We settled eventually on a maroon polo top for him and a cornflower blue long sleeved shirt for me. Plus, because we wanted to make an impression, trousers rather than jeans, and shoes instead of trainers.
At seven o’clock we stepped outside feeling if not quite a million dollars, then certainly as close as we could get on an inter-rail budget. The rain of the day had given way to blue sky and warm sunshine and we walked through the early evening streets enjoying the crisp sound of our shoes against the cobbles and despising the tourists around us padding along in their too-white trainers.
The girls’ hotel was a few streets away and the route took us past the McDonald’s which we approached nervously. But the cordon was gone and everything seemed to be business as usual. We shrugged and carried on to the girls’ address. It seemed a bit seedier than our hotel but, I chuckled to myself, if things worked out right, Sarah and Maya would not be sleeping there too often.
We went straight up, climbing four flights of winding, fire-trap stairs to the top floor. We did a last minute inspection of each other and knocked on the door of number 44. We heard movements inside and then the door opened a little. It was Sarah. I noticed with momentary disappointment that she was still wearing jeans and anorak but this evaporated as she leant forward and gave me a kiss. We were both moving at the same time so it ended up on the edge of my lips rather than my cheek, which suited me fine and she just giggled.
“Hi guys. Welcome to our luxurious abode.” She opened the door wider and we could see Maya sitting on the bed directly facing the door. Patrick’s face lit up.
“Hi guys,” Maya called. Reclining there she reminded me of Manet’s Olympia albeit a partially clothed one in a pair of shorts and tight fitting T-shirt.
“Hi,” I said casually walking into the room with Patrick, both of us leaning down and giving her a kiss.
“Hi Maya,” said Patrick blushing. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much better thanks. Well I haven’t chucked me guts up for at least twelve hours anyway.”
Patrick grinned and blushed again and nodded and said something; and Sarah started speaking at the same time to apologise for the untidiness of the room; but I didn’t listen to either of them because over them both I heard a familiar sound. Pssht. Then again.
Pssht.
The sound of a can of drink being opened.
And looking round, I saw for the first time that we weren’t alone in the room. There were two more single beds over by the window and sitting on them were Julius and Duncan.
Pssht.
“Hi guys,” said Duncan, looking up. “Do you want a beer?”
“But... But you’re in Naples.”
Duncan reached over and pinched Julius who punched him back. “No, we’re here.”
“The girls convinced us to meet them in Bologna,” said Julius taking a casual sip from his can and holding out another two for Sarah and Maya. “We spoke to them before they left Rome.”
“So you… you’ve been together for the last couple of days?” I stared at him in disbelief.
“That’s right. Beer Patrick?” He waved a can at him but Patrick just flopped down on the edge of Maya’s bed in a daze.
“But... but you didn’t say anything about it.”
“Just like you didn’t mention that you were meeting Sarah in Venice.”
“But…” My mind was doing somersaults as it tried to process the information hurled at it.
“To being together again!” toasted Duncan as he drained his beer and crunched the can. Belched. “Sorry ladies,” he said to Patrick and me.
“You two look nice,” said Sarah.
“Yeah!” said Duncan coming closer while he popped open another can. “Yeah, you boys look a picture.” I felt my colour rising. “Those shoes man. Those are serious shoes.”
“Where are you going tonight?” asked Sarah.
“To an interview.” Duncan guffawed with laughter.
I blinked my eyes and then looked directly at Sarah, ignoring Duncan as far as was possible. “We thought you and Maya might like to go out for dinner with us.”
“Oh. That’s so sweet.” She looked across at Maya. “But I don’t think M’s going to be up to it.”
The colour had drained from Maya’s face at the mention of food. “I’m not having nothing but toast. That’s all I can face.”
“Sorry,” said Sarah giving Patrick and me a rueful smile. “Let’s do it tomorrow maybe.”
“Well how about having a drink with us.” I felt a rising tide of desperation well up inside me.
“Is it OK if we just stay here?” said Sarah. “I’m running a bit low on money and this hotel room’s draining us, even when it’s split four ways.”
I’ll pay for you, I didn’t say. Patrick’ll gladly pay for Maya, I didn’t add. Just anything to get them out of that room with us.
“Is that OK?”
“Yes, of course.” I forced a smile. But within a second of seeing Julius lean over and start talking to Sarah I knew I had to get out of there. “Actually,” I said walking to the door, “I’ve just remembered I gave the restaurant my credit card number. They’ll charge me unless I go and sort things out.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Patrick hurriedly.
“Fair enough,” said Julius looking fairly neutral about whether we stayed or not. “But, anyway, why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow? Just to show there’s no hard feelings. There’s an authentic little trattoria in Campo San Geremia. That’s where you’re staying isn’t it?”
I nodded at him noncommittally, not trusting myself to say anything. Patrick was the first to the door and was through it even before anyone had said goodbye.
“Thanks for coming over,” said Sarah following me out into the corridor. Patrick was already halfway down the stairs by now. “Look,” she whispered, letting the door swing closed behind her. “I’m sorry about all that. It wasn’t what you were expecting. I thought you knew they were here.”
“I guess not,” I said shrugging.
“No. I guess not. But it’s not how it looks you know.”
“How does it look?” I was pleased to see her blush through her tan.
“I mean there’s nothing going on. Between Julius an
d me – or anyone. We just couldn’t find a room. So we had to take one for all four of us.”
“Right.”
“And…” She took a breath. “And I’m sorry about the other night as well. I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
My chest tightened. “Wrong idea about what?” I said trying to sound as calm as I could.
“About me.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I mean I really like you. Don’t get me wrong. I do. But I was so drunk that night. And I was acting like an idiot. Do you know what I mean?”
I knew exactly what she meant. But even her giving me the brush-off was still interaction with her. It was still contact. “I’m not sure…” I said in the end to see her eager brown eyes gazing back at me for a little longer.
“It’s just we were both really drunk and it was fun but it wasn’t cool. You were. But I was super uncool. And it’s just completely the wrong time because I’m getting over someone at university who used me to get over someone else and I don’t want to do the same to you.”
I just watched her now. I didn’t even blink. To blink would have been to miss an instant of her gorgeous mouth; her pretty nose; her eyes.
“So can we just pretend it never happened?”
“If that’s what you want,” I heard myself saying.
“I think it’s best, don’t you?”
I’m not sure I said anything then. But she reached out and touched my arm, the lightest touch and the warmth of her and the kindness in that gesture would have broken my heart if it hadn’t already been lying in pieces on the floor.
I heard her talking again and forced myself to tune back in.
“Why don’t we do something tomorrow morning,” she said brightly. “Julius and Duncan aren’t exactly early birds so why don’t you, me, Patrick and Maya go somewhere together? We’ll meet you at your place. First thing.”
I felt a pressure behind my eyes, constant, tiring. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”
“Great.” She looked at me just a second longer. “We’re still friends aren’t we?”
I looked away from her now, from the beautiful glare of her eyes. “Of course. Friends.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow.” And she went back inside the room, the door opening for an instant, a glimpse of light and the sound of laughter within. The door closed and I was left in the gloom of the hallway. I heard steps on the stairs and Patrick reappeared at the end of the corridor.
I started to say something but he interrupted.
“I heard,” he said. “Friends.”
We walked downstairs. At the bottom we looked at each other silent, unblinking for almost a minute. Eventually he suggested the only word of comfort he could think of. “McDonalds?” and I nodded dazed and we went there and ate through our despair.
Chapter 12
We dressed the following morning lethargically, unenthusiastically after a fretful night’s sleep bearing disillusioned dreams. I was certain that Patrick had been walking around the room again in the middle of the night but still I didn’t say anything. Perhaps if I had asked him about it things would have been different. It would have all have been nipped in the bud. Or maybe the seed of whatever was growing inside him had been there too long already and my talking to him about it would have made no difference. Maybe I just want to believe that now. But it’s irrelevant in any case. I chose to ignore it and override my unease with other concerns: the thoughts of the disappointments behind us and the frustrations awaiting in the day ahead.
Dressed, this time back in our standard issue jeans and T-shirt, neither of us taking any particular care over our appearance that morning, we went downstairs at a quarter to ten expecting the girls to be even later, expecting Julius and Duncan to have changed their minds and to be there too, for the day to be wet and miserable...
But outside the front of the hotel the girls were waiting for us, alone, and the day was bright sunshine and blue sky. I looked at Sarah and sighed.
“I don’t want to go to another art gallery,” Maya was saying. “I’m sick of art galleries.”
“But this is the Accademia,” said Sarah soothingly. “It’s meant to be the most amazing gallery in Venice. Practically every painting’s a masterpiece.”
“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “I’m sick of masterpieces.”
“Well... What would you like to do?”
“I want to go on the boat.”
“The water bus? But we can do that anytime. And we’d take it to the Accademia anyway.”
“I want to go on the boat to one of those islands. Mirani or Biryani or whatever.” She giggled. It was an infectious giggle and Patrick and I couldn’t help but join in.
“Murano and Burano,” said Sarah glaring at her friend but finding it impossible not to smile as well. “They’re really touristy.”
“Duh-huh.” Maya spread her arms about her. “The whole of Venice is really touristy. Anyway I like being on the water.”
“I do too,” said Patrick. “I like the little side streets you see from the canals.”
Maya’s eyes lit up. “They’re brilliant aren’t they?”
“OK...” Sarah sighed and looked at Patrick and me. “What do you guys want to do?”
“Well,” I said. “Sounds like Patrick is into the boat trip as well.”
He nodded enthusiastically. It was nice to see him looking happy. And after all, Maya hadn’t said she wasn’t interested… “So why don’t Patrick and Maya do that and I’ll go with you to the Accademia.”
“You sure?”
I shrugged. Torture took many forms, I thought. This would merely be the most exquisite.
“OK,” said Sarah. “Well we can take the water bus together part of the way and then you guys go on. We’ll meet you back at our place at one for lunch.”
We parted company at the wooden bridge at the Accademia. Sarah and I got off at the jetty and watched for a moment as the water bus chugged away, Patrick and Maya waving madly from it.
“They seem happy,” said Sarah as we turned and walked into the square in front of the gallery. I looked across at her and she smiled. No awkwardness. Perfectly friendly. She was so much cooler than I was. She was able to behave as though nothing had happened between us. Maybe for her nothing had.
“I think Patrick quite likes her,” I said after a moment, to say something.
“I think he does,” she said wrinkling her nose happily.
“And does she like him?”
“Oh definitely.”
I was surprised at how categorical she was but pleased to have something to talk about. “What about Duncan? She seemed pretty keen on him?”
“Oh Maya likes everyone,” she said airily. “And everyone likes Maya. But she’s definitely keen on Patrick.” We had walked through the entrance of the Galleria dell’Accademia and found ourselves at the ticket counter. We paid our 5,000 Lire to the girl there. “It would be nice if they got together,” she continued wistfully. “She could be really good for him. He can be so intense sometimes. And sometimes just really quiet and you don’t know if it’s you, whether you’ve done something wrong or what.”
I frowned, knowing I should say something. But it felt like a betrayal talking about him even to his cousin. So all I said was, “You two seem quite close. Closer than I am to my cousins.”
“I suppose so.” We started walking up the broad double staircase to the first room of the gallery. “Even though he lives in London and we live in Leeds. But we’re both only children. So he’s more like a big brother I guess.” She smiled and then gasped as we walked into a large room whose walls were covered with early Venetian masters. The ceiling was high and adorned with carved cherubs and paintings of the prophets. But right in the centre of the room, the thing that caught the eye, was a cross made of silver and rock crystal.
“It’s a reliquary,” said Sarah reading the Italian description on its plinth. “Made in the fifteenth century. It would have conta
ined a lock of John the Baptist’s hair or a piece of Christ’s robe.”
“Like Polidoro’s cross.”
“Though that was older wasn’t it? And larger?” She walked round it and then peeled away to look at a painting by Paolo Veneziano.
I walked alongside her and started to relax. We milled round the paintings, drifting, stopping, admiring, exchanging comments every now and then. We flowed with the ever-increasing numbers of visitors into Room II which was devoted to eight large altar pieces, panels of exquisite beauty and power painted by Carpaccio and Giovanni Bellini and Cima.
“This is amazing,” she said standing before one of them. “The Crucifixion and Glorification of the Ten Thousand Martyrs of Mount Ararat. It’s based on the life of Saint Ursula. She was a Breton princess who agreed to marry an English prince provided he converted to Christianity and went with her on a pilgrimage accompanied by ten thousand virgins.” She twitched her nose. “The whole lot were massacred in Cologne on the way back.”
In Room V before the Tempest by Giorgione she said to me, “So what do your parents do?”.
“Dad’s a civil servant and Mum works in a library.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Sounds boring.”
“No, not boring. Comfortable. Warm.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
She made a face and then shrugged. “It just made me feel safe.”
Alongside a Tintoretto I asked her, “So how about your folks? What do they do?”
“I’ve only got a mum,” she explained. “My dad left when I was a baby. I’ve never even met him.”
“Oh right.” I felt embarrassed – for her, for me – and I wasn’t sure why. I peered at the rich painted velvets on a Madonna and I thought about it and eventually I said, “I bet your mum’s really nice though.”
“Why? Because she’s a single mum?” Sarah raised a combative eyebrow.
“No. Because I assume you take after her.”
Her cheeks turned suddenly pink and she said a hurried something about wanting to check out the paintings on the other wall.
We went through three side chambers before coming out suddenly into a larger room dominated by a huge canvas which filled almost the entire far wall.