LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  ‘Absolutely. I know how it must seem, but I’m not making this up.’ I fingered my mouth, still bruised from Lodovico’s advances. I felt exhausted and crushed by Auntie’s disbelief. ‘I’m sorry to have woken you up. Let’s go back to bed. I feel fine now.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said, taking my cup from me. ‘Try not to dwell on the past, Fern. You have your whole life ahead of you and you must live it fully.’

  I followed her up the stairs, my feet dragging.

  If only it could be as easy as that…

  Upstairs, I took my valerian tablets and slept dreamlessly. When I woke, the taste of Lodovico had gone. Bright sunshine lit the garden, illuminating the olive leaves and the small white flowers that would later become fruit. Auntie suggested I go for a walk after breakfast, so I set off down the road. The closer I got to the ruins of the Barco, the more I felt anxiety prickling my spine. I turned around and strode in the opposite direction, past the row of houses beyond Auntie’s, deciding to head for the centre of the village.

  The sun warmed my shoulders; I took off my denim jacket and bundled it into my rucksack next to my sketchpad. A watercolour sky, washed with blue, and, beyond the fields soared the Asolani hills, the towers, and the turrets of the town itself. Such light! My fingers itched to paint it.

  A street market was in full swing when I arrived at the main square. I sat for a while at a café and contemplated the hustle and bustle, so different yet at the same time so familiar. Brightly coloured vegetables piled high; cheeses of every shape and variety, their rich, greasy aromas tickling my nostrils; scaly fish displayed on crushed ice, mouths gaping and eyes staring blankly. No! Nausea swept over me. Focus on the now! Keep your mind in the present!

  My ears tuned into the cries of the vendors competing with the shouted conversations of the shoppers, haggling over every Lira. A young couple were holding hands and exchanging kisses at the next table, their backs to me, and a group of elderly men were playing cards at the table beyond. Life going on as usual. No one out of place.

  Auntie had to be right– it was physically impossible to go back and relive the past. There was no need for me to see a doctor and absolutely no reason for any strong medication. My herbal tablets were perfect; I’d slept like a log after I’d taken them last night. Soon this vacation would be over; I’d return to my work as an accounts’ manager at City Bank in London and get on with my life. It was time to move on. I’d never forget the fire and what had happened to Harry, it would mark me forever, but I’d cope with my angst by losing myself in my job and my art.

  I took some change from my purse and went to pay for my cappuccino. As I squeezed between my table and the next, the young woman who’d been exchanging kisses with the young man looked up. ‘Chiara,’ I said, recognising Luca’s sister. ‘Hello!’

  She introduced her boyfriend, Federico, who flashed a crooked white-toothed smile at me. Lodovico’s smile.

  My pulse leapt.

  Past and present had smashed into each other in a warped collision.

  All I could do was stand and stare, while every instinct screamed, Get the hell out of here!

  Chiara was gazing at Federico in adoration. The young man gave me a lazy smile, curling his thin lips in a way that was all too familiar.

  I clenched my fists and brought my trembling hands under control. This couldn’t be Lodovico, pursuing Cecilia down the centuries. Such things didn’t happen. He was just Chiara’s boyfriend who, on closer inspection, looked nothing like Cecilia’s antagonist. Much better-looking, in fact. Federico’s skin was lightly tanned whereas Lodovico’s had been pale. Chiara’s boyfriend’s sun-streaked brown hair was spiked up with hair-gel and the only thing he had in common with Lodovico was a thinness about the lips. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  The hairs on my arms tingled. That voice! The timbre of it was exactly the same. Don’t be ridiculous! The dream from last night is still with you, stirring up your imaginings. Yet when Federico’s eyes rested on me, I felt the sharp stab of hatred. This young man was dangerous, I was sure of it. No wonder Luca was concerned. Federico’s whole aura radiated a need to control other people, much like Lodovico had tried to control Cecilia. ‘Well, it was lovely to see you again, Chiara, and to meet you, Federico,’ I said quickly. ‘I should be off now, though.’

  Luca’s sister scarcely registered my leave-taking she was so enthralled to the young man, but Federico smirked at me and his eyes lingered on my body as if they were undressing me. The creep! I turned on my heel and made for the bar, where I settled my bill.

  Half an hour later, I arrived at the front gate of the house. It was still early, and Auntie would be tapping away at her typewriter. The vista of the hills lured me on, and I found myself walking in the direction of the Barco as if I was being reeled in by an unseen cord. I knew this place; it was in my soul. I sat on the same balustrade in the loggia where I’d sat before, only this time instead of that feeling of trepidation my heart was singing. The faded frescos on the far wall shimmered in the sunshine and I could feel Cecilia’s presence. Closing my eyes, I let myself drift...

  The swelling between Lodovico Gaspare’s legs disgusts me. At my touch, it moves like a snake. Does he want to stick it into me? I push him so hard this time that he falls back. I seize my chance, gather my skirts and run to the loggia. The far wall is covered with scaffolding, and there is Signor Zorzo, perched at the top, dipping his paintbrush into a pot.

  I can see the cartone stuck to wall on the left of him, a drawing of Queen Caterina on her destrier with the outline pricked out so it can be transferred to the wall in charcoal. I know how frescoes are created. My whole being cries out to learn more as the desire to paint surges through me. The artist clambers down the ladder and we make our reverences to each other. How I long to throw aside this politeness between us. Instead, I keep my gaze averted and say, pointing to the fresco, ‘How do you do that? Can you show me?’

  ‘You?’ He sounds surprised.

  ‘I draw, but I would like to learn the techniques of painting. There is no one here to teach me.’ I cross my arms in front of my chest. ‘If I had been born a boy, I would have been apprenticed to a master just as you were to the great Bellini.’

  ‘Oh, so you know all about me, do you?’ His voice is soft, and a smile crinkles his eyes.

  I stamp my foot. ‘Only that you are conceited, and arrogant, and laugh at me for wanting to be something I can never be.’

  ‘Ha! To be a true artist you need a burning in your soul. If you burn with the desire to paint, Lady Cecilia, you will do so whatever hindrances are put in your way.’

  ‘Please, teach me. I can be your pupil in secret.’

  He bends to gather up his paintbrushes, saying nothing. How dare he ignore me! ‘Let me show you my work,’ I plead.

  ‘Only if you will pose for me. I have longed to paint you ever since I first set eyes on you.’

  ‘When?’ I ask, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. Finally, someone will show me how to develop my skills.

  He peers between the columns of the loggia. ‘There’s time to make a start before the court wakes up. The light is good this afternoon. Follow me.’ He slings a bag over his shoulder with one hand, takes my hand with the other and leads me outside. I look around, checking for Lodovico Gaspare, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Honeysuckle scents the air and the call of a cuckoo echoes from the lime trees beyond the rose bower. The Queen has planned this garden for enjoyment and there are stone benches on the other side of the bushes, hidden from the sight of anyone who might be gazing from a window… the perfect place for us.

  Signor Zorzo pulls a wooden frame from his carrier and leans a small canvas against it. He picks up his brush and dips it into the pot of paint he has also taken from his bag. I long to have colours to work with; I’m so bored with black chalk. Will the painter be true to his word and transmit some of his knowledge to me?

  He grasps his brush and, with deft strokes, brings forth the
outline of my face. Within minutes, it seems, although it must have taken longer, he has finished. ‘I can complete it in my studio in Venice,’ he says.

  ‘Might I visit you there? I go with the Queen next week.’

  Signor Zorzo appears thoughtful for a moment. ‘Arrange for quarters overlooking the canal. I’ll fetch you at night in my boat. You’ll be my muse.’

  A bubble of happiness forms in my chest. I go to him and put my arms around his waist, caring not if I’m being forward. My gesture comes from the heart. Our lips meet, and I rejoice at the softness of his mouth, the sweetness of his scent. He lets out a moan and our tongues entwine. The feeling is delicious at first, then becomes more intense as my body starts to burn. He pulls away. ‘We must stop. The hour of the afternoon rest is over.’

  The strangest feeling comes over me. I’m being watched again by a shadowy figure. I want to hide from whoever it is who spies on me and bury my head in the artist’s rock-hard chest. Instead, he bows and tells me to wait for his call. He leaves me unaccountably bereft, heat billowing between my legs and disconcerted by a strange brightness that makes the world shimmer around me.

  I closed my eyes against the bright light and took in a deep, shuddering breath as I became Fern once more. I could still feel desire pulsing through me, fighting with my guilt. How could I betray Harry like that? I touched my lips, still moist from Zorzo’s kiss. How the hell could that be? I rested my hands on the balustrade of the loggia and rubbed my palms on the rough, lichen-encrusted stone. Crickets and sparrows chirped in the undergrowth and the breeze blew a tendril of hair into my mouth. I tucked it behind my ear.

  My entire body throbbed, and I thought not of Harry, but of Luca. Something about his mouth reminded me of the artist. Their height was the same. However, Luca was slim whereas Zorzo could only be described as a bear of a man. Despite their differences, there was a likeness between them, a familiarity I found disturbing.

  Tomorrow I was going to Venice with Luca, to see the painting. How amazing it would be if the girl in The Tempest turned out to be Cecilia. Did she have a life with Zorzo? Part of me wanted to find out, and the other part was completely terrified.

  Chapter 8

  Luca

  I glanced at Fern sprawled in the passenger seat. Soon after we’d set out from her aunt’s she’d fallen into a deep sleep. Must be exhausted, the poor girl. She was wearing her hippy garb again— a floaty embroidered white skirt, and a white lace blouse hanging sexily off her shoulders. She’d left her hair loose and, on her lap, she was clutching a cloth shoulder bag which wouldn’t have been out-of-place in an Indian bazaar. Jesus! She was certainly original. None of the women I’d dated in recent years would have been seen dead going out without having had their hair styled by a hairdresser or wearing the latest designer outfit.

  I smile to myself at Fern’s quirkiness, and, taking the ring road around Treviso, I thought about her visions. I’d gone to the library yesterday, and had looked up psychotic depression, discovering that it could lead to delusions and hallucinations. However, these were negative, self-critical, self-punishing and self-blaming episodes. What Fern had been experiencing was something totally different. Incredible as it seemed, she might well be slipping back into the past and seeing the world through Cecilia’s eyes.

  I gripped the steering wheel and focused on my driving; I would have liked a nap myself. Last night, I’d experienced the strangest dream. Something about a race against time. I’d lurched awake, panic surging through me as I’d tried to figure out where I’d been going in such a hurry, why I’d been going there, and what had caused such extreme anxiety. Then I’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night.

  The motorway from Treviso wasn’t busy and half an hour later I was pulling into the assigned spot in the multi-storey car park at the end of the causeway that led to Venice.

  Fern woke with a yawn. ‘Hope I didn’t snore . . .’

  ‘You slept like an angel,’ I said, jumping out to open the door. But she’d already got out by the time I reached her.

  She walked with me down the flight of steps to the ground floor, and we made our way to the water-taxi rank. After giving the driver instructions to take us to the Accademia, I sat next to her on the plush seat at the back of the gently rocking boat. A breeze was blowing her tangled hair back from her face and she was staring around, that “rabbit in the headlights” expression in her eyes again.

  ‘It’s so much busier than I remember,’ she said in an awe-struck tone.

  ‘I thought this was your first visit here?’

  She shook her head and I caught the conflict in her expression. ‘Another flash-back?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. Just a conviction that I know this place. Parts of it, I mean.’ She twisted her hands together. ‘God, I must sound crazy to you.’

  ‘Crazy? You?!’ I smiled.

  ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. Was.’ She shielded her eyes as we cruised up the Grand Canal. ‘I can see the decay now. Where the tide has eroded some of the buildings. Still amazing, though.’

  She gazed around in amazement as our water-taxi took a shortcut down the Rio della Croce. We turned right at Ca’ Foscari to arrive at the landing stage in front of the Accademia Gallery. I paid the boatman and handed Fern ashore, refusing her offer to help with the fare. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘This was my suggestion and my treat. And we can take a gondola ride later, if you like.’

  Delight lit her eyes. ‘If I like! That would be perfect.’ She bit at her lip. ‘Please let me treat you to lunch, though. I know how expensive water-taxis and gondolas are.’

  ‘Listen, Fern.’ I set my jaw. ‘Today you’re my guest. It’s the least I can do when it was me who proposed we come here. Next time, you can invite me… and we’ll do things differently, okay?’

  She nodded her agreement and strolled with me across the small piazza and up the marble steps to the museum. It was cool inside and echoing with the babble of foreign languages. Tourists. Unavoidable. I bought our entrance tickets and said, ‘Before we view The Tempest, let me show you something.’

  Within minutes we were standing in front of Gentile Bellini’s Procession of the True Cross. Fern stared at the painting, her face pale and rigid. ‘It’s so familiar,’ she whispered.

  I took her hand. ‘Come, have a look at this one.’ I led her to The Miracle of the Cross at the Bridge of San Lorenzo. ‘See the woman at the bottom left of the picture? Historians believe that she’s Queen Caterina Cornaro.’

  Fern eyed the figure dressed in black. ‘Yes, it’s her,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘Oh my God! I think that’s Fiammetta, Cecilia’s sister.’ She pointed at the first in a line of women to the left of the Queen. ‘I’d know her anywhere.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. I’d studied this painting when I’d taken a History of Art course at university. ‘See how richly frescoed the buildings were then.’

  ‘I know. And the figures in the painting seem to have been frozen forever in a moment of time,’ Fern released a long, slow breath. ‘Just like what’s happening to me, only the reverse.’

  ‘We need to find out why.’ I took her hand again. ‘Let’s go and meet Cecilia, your nemesis.’

  ‘Nemesis?’

  ‘Well, who else could she be? A ghost, maybe? Not a figment of your imagination, I realise that for sure now. Your reaction to the painting convinced me.’ And it had. Fern’s familiarity with the characters depicted by Bellini couldn’t have been faked. ‘Cecilia wants something from you, Fern. We need to find out what that is, so that she can be at rest.’

  ‘Do you think it could have something to do with Giorgione?’

  ‘Giorgione, Big Giorgio. Zorzone in Venetian dialect. Was Cecilia’s Zorzo a tall man?’

  ‘Huge.’

  ‘One of the most enigmatic painters in history. So little is known about his life. You’re amazingly lucky to have “met” him.’ We stopped in front of a painting approximately three feet square. ‘Here’s the Tempest,
supposedly his most important work,’ I announced.

  ‘Luca, I didn’t “meet” Giorgione,’ Fern said firmly, staring at the naked lady on the canvas, nursing a baby. ‘Cecilia met him. I do see a resemblance between her and this woman, and yes, her face is a little like mine.’

  ‘Her pose is unusual,’ I observed. ‘Normally a baby would be on the mother’s lap when suckling. I wonder why Giorgione has positioned the child at the side of the mother?’

  ‘The woman seems as if she’s recently given birth. Look at her flabby tummy! She’s gazing directly at the viewer.’ Fern leaned forward. ‘This must be one of the strangest paintings I’ve ever seen. Incredibly haunting, in a way, although I can’t say why.’

  ‘Apparently it was Lord Byron’s favourite for the fact that it’s so ambiguous,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘Viewers can make up their own interpretation of the symbolism.’

  ‘I’d like to buy a print of it. Do they sell them here?’ She pointed to the male figure in the picture. ‘He seems to have been dropped into the scene, not a part of it at all. And he looks a bit like Zorzo.’

  ‘Art historians have suggested he could be a soldier, a shepherd, or a gypsy,’ I said, remembering what I’d learnt on that History of Art course. ‘X-rays of the painting have revealed that in the place of the man, Giorgione originally painted another female nude.’

  ‘Wonder who she could have been?’ Fern peered at the painting. ‘The depiction of the landscape is stunning. And the gathering storm reminds me of the one we had the other night. See how the sky is lit! There’s a real feeling of foreboding. As if there’s about to be a terrible disaster.’ She shivered. ‘Is there a shop here where I can get a copy?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you there.’

  We descended to the entrance level and, after Fern had bought a print of the painting and a book about the artist, I said, ‘We can take stroll to the restaurant. It’s not far.’