Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  She nodded, but before I could take a step, she said, “How glad I am to have discovered you, Odilé.”

  The warmth of her smile was a balm on my irritation. I forgot everything but her. I forgot what we’d spoken of. I forgot the confession she’d wrought from me; I failed to see its meaning. I was glad only to be with her.

  Later, I realized how true were the things she’d said. I was blind. I had no conception of the world beyond my pleasure, and so I did not see how it tilted and bent. I did not see the door I was walking through, nor how it would change my life. I did not realize we weren’t talking of figurative demons at all.

  NICHOLAS

  It was mid afternoon by the time Giles and I left the Hannigans at the Danieli and returned to our own rooms off the Campo San Fantin, but there were still a few hours before the salon.

  I told Giles I had to run out for a bit, and he didn’t question me; he was too busy looking over his canvas, where he’d scratched in Sophie Hannigan’s form leaning over the balustrade. It was decent enough, though if Giles had any gift at all, it was for allegory. Something about overly muscled, winged gods and fantastical creatures called to what talent he had—perhaps it was simply that no one had ever seen such creatures except in books, and so he didn’t have to make them look real.

  I left him there making endless alterations, and went out the door and down the stairs. Our place was small; no palazzo, this, but just a merchant’s house, with a shop selling relics on the ground floor, owned by a Jew whose constantly circulating inventory of saint’s parts suggested a connection either to the occult or a cemetery. He preferred his home in the Ghetto, as did his wife, apparently, because he rented out the rest of the house. There was a German couple on the middle floor, and Giles and I had the upper, reached by two flights of stairs leading from a courtyard that was mostly a repository of junk, and which included a well with a constant layer of greenish scum that neither Giles nor I would drink from, and a tumble of old blacksmithing tools—don’t ask me why; I don’t know. I never saw anyone even look through them.

  The chief attraction of the place was a roof garden, which was the reason we’d taken the rooms to begin with, and which only Giles ever visited in his constant search for the perfect landscape—which apparently was an endless array of tiled roofs and the top of the Teatro La Fenice. Venice’s most famous and beloved theater was closed now until the start of the Carnivale season, though Carnivale itself was nearly extinct but for a few costume balls given by those wishing to keep the old decadence alive.

  I hurried out into the campo, and made my way to the Casa Dana Rosti. There, I drew back into the shadows of an upturned boat on the fondamenta of the adjacent palace and waited.

  I was lucky—it was only an hour before I heard the squeak of her door, swollen in the humidity, scraping against the stone floor above the water stairs. The gondolier stepped out, leaving the door open behind him. A man—red haired, young, with that anxious exuberance she always inspired, at least in the beginning—emerged, adjusting his suit coat as if he’d just thrown it on. He glanced behind him as he walked toward the waiting gondola; his yearning obvious.

  Behind him, I saw a flash of white, ephemeral as a ghost, and then she was there, her hair falling loose and heavy down her back, her gray eyes hooded. Venetian chain glinted at her wrists, coils and coils of fine gold, but other than that she wore only her chemise, and she was obviously naked beneath it. Her breasts jiggled as she embraced the red-haired man and then drew back, leaving him with a lingering kiss.

  I forced myself to remember Barcelona, the things I’d seen in that darkened room, the horror. I watched as she smiled at him, as he left her reluctantly, climbing into the gondola. I burned his features into my memory until I knew I would not mistake him when I saw him again. He settled onto the cushions; she lifted her hand in farewell as she stepped back into the shadows, closing the door, and the gondolier plied his oar, gliding away.

  I lurched from my hiding place, racing until I reached the traghetto station, just in time to see the glint of the sun on the man’s red hair as the gondola made its way down the Grand Canal. There were gondoliers loitering about as always, waiting for fares, and I hired one quickly, saying, “You see that one there? I want to know where it goes.”

  He only nodded, setting off almost before I was aboard, and we followed, into the Rio de Ca’ Corner, another turn, past San Anzolo. It came to a stop at the Campo San Maurizio, and the red-haired man got out. I disembarked quickly, hurrying to catch up.

  But in just those few moments, he had disappeared—not a difficulty in Venice. I ran to the various calli that led from the campo, searching each of them. He was either moving more quickly than I’d thought, or he had taken none of them. Frustrated and annoyed, I went back to the campo. I stood beside the ubiquitous wellhead, staring down at its black stone cap, and wondered how it was possible to lose someone I’d been nearly close enough to touch.

  He had to be somewhere around the Campo; he had disappeared too quickly for it to be otherwise. I sat on the stone steps of the wellhead, staring at the little church of San Maurizio. Tomorrow I would be better prepared; I would have a gondola waiting. I would be ready to follow him now that I knew for a certainty she’d found someone new.

  I glanced up at the sky. It had to be close to five, and I still had to wash and dress. Wearily, I stood, meaning to make my way back to the rooms I shared with Giles, which fortunately were not far away.

  And then I heard the organ music coming from the church, and I knew where the red-haired man had gone, and why she’d chosen him.

  Slowly, I made my way up the shallow, narrow steps and walked through the open doors into the nave. There he was, sitting at the organ, his hands moving over the keys, shoulders rising and falling, feet pumping with a seemingly boundless energy.

  I knew how that felt.

  I closed my eyes, letting his music wash over me for a moment, listening to the things that had obviously called to her. There was no one else in the church—he was only rehearsing—and so I waited for the piece to end before going to stand beside him. As he leafed through a sheaf of music, I said, “Your playing is very good. Where did you train?”

  He started as if he hadn’t realized I was there, though I’d been standing right beside him. I saw the distraction in his expression—something else I recognized. “Oh. Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. I learned in Dublin.”

  An Irishman. And as pretty as she liked them. Strong features to go with a strong accent. I smiled. “You’ve given me several good hours, listening to your music. Perhaps you’d allow me to buy you a drink in thanks.”

  He hesitated. “Thank you, but I really must—”

  “We have a friend in common, I think.”

  “We do?”

  “Odilé León,” I said smoothly.

  “Odilé,” he whispered, reverently.

  I said, “I could tell you a hundred stories of her.”

  I saw the leap of curiosity in his eyes, his fevered longing. “A drink, you said? Well, why not?”

  I got back to our rooms to find Giles waiting anxiously for me. “Hurry up, will you?” he said as I came through the door. “Did you forget the time? We told the Hannigans six.”

  After my conversation with San Maurizio’s organist, I was more than ready to think of something other than Odilé. It never took much to reinvigorate my desire for her, and talking about her for an hour had been more than enough. I hated that she was still so hard to resist, even after everything. Odilé made my desire for Sophie Hannigan seem a paltry, ordinary thing compared to what I’d experienced before.

  Or so I thought. But when Sophie Hannigan made her appearance in the lobby of the Danieli, followed closely by her brother, I did what I’d thought was impossible: I forgot Odilé.

  Gone was the tightly corsetted, respectable-looking woman who’d spent the day with us in the Gardens. Tonight, Sophie Hannigan seemed to more properly belong to the bohemians. She w
ore a draped, full gown of a bluish-green color with medieval sleeves, her hair loosely gathered, looking ready to fall at the slightest touch. She looked as if she’d stepped from a Rossetti painting—some Pre-Raphaelite Lilith come to life. Giles was struck dumb, and I was not much better.

  Joseph Hannigan wore the same dark blue coat he’d worn since I’d met him, but with it he wore a vest and brown trousers with a thin black stripe. He hadn’t bothered to oil his hair, though it was swept back elegantly from his broad forehead. “Do you think us presentable enough? We weren’t certain if tonight required evening wear.”

  The two of them were captivating; their strange alchemy hit me anew. Giles opened and closed his mouth as if his words had completely left him. I worked to gather myself.

  “You’ll fit in perfectly.” I motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

  We went out to the waiting gondola and settled ourselves, Hannigan and his sister on the center cushions, Giles and I perched awkwardly on the sides.

  “Tea began at five,” I told them as we started off. “But people will come and go all evening. It’s a very casual sort of thing.”

  Hannigan nodded. “Who will be there tonight, do you think?”

  I said, “Whistler probably. And the Curtises and their son—they’re expatriates. Out of Boston, I believe. Mr. Curtis especially can be a bit tiresome.”

  “Prepare yourself to not defend your country,” Giles put in. “He despises America. They both do.”

  “Why?” Miss Hannigan asked.

  Giles said, “Something about your long-over War. I stopped listening to him weeks ago. Don’t bring it up if you want to save your ears. And the rest of us from having to listen to it again.”

  “We’ll remember,” Hannigan said with a smile.

  I went on, “Possibly Robert Browning. They’re expecting him any day. And Frank Duveneck no doubt.” I looked at Hannigan. “They’ll want you to draw something in the guestbook. They like caricatures the best.”

  Hannigan’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Caricatures? Well, I can do that.”

  “What should I do?” Miss Hannigan asked.

  “As I said this afternoon, simply be engaging.”

  There wasn’t time for more conversation; we were there. Ca’ Alvisi was square and plain, not so adorned as many of the other great palazzos of Venice, with a single row of balconies across only the main floor—the piano nobile. Our gondolier pulled up to the blue and white pali and let us off. A servant waiting in the archway said, “Welcome to the Ca’ Alvisi,” as he helped Miss Hannigan on the slippery, water-splashed steps.

  He left us to make our own way through the darkened receiving court, with its paving stones and pillars and faint gaslight sputtering against pale walls and shadowing the corners, toward the stairs that led to the main floor, and the salon. Giles led the way while I followed behind the Hannigans. Miss Hannigan had her hand in the crook of her brother’s arm, and he leaned close to whisper something to her, an intimacy that felt odd, off-putting and alluring at the same time. As we entered the portego, the tinkling music and laughter and smoke-filled rooms of Mrs. Bronson’s salon met us full on.

  The long, well-lit portego, with its glowing terrazzo floors, ended at the main balcony, which was outfitted with soft cushions, and looked out directly upon the glowing white dome and statues and porticoes of Santa Maria della Salute. It was crowded, as always, and as we entered, conversations paused, every eye turned to look at the Hannigans. So Giles and I weren’t the only ones fascinated with them. I’ll admit I liked the attention. I swelled a bit as I led them past the smaller drawing rooms—one of which had been made into a permanent miniature theater for our many impromptu dramas or readings—to the sala where Katharine Bronson held court.

  It too had windowed doors that opened onto another narrow balcony, but even the air coming off the canal could not dissipate the cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke fogging the room, hovering near the exquisitely molded and painted ceilings and wisping around the dark velvet drapes.

  There was the clinking of cups against saucers, tea poured from a silver service, sherry from Murano glass decanters. Arthur Bronson, Katharine’s husband, stood talking to someone in the corner. I was surprised to see him; it was rumored he was ill, and he rarely made an appearance. Near the balcony, against a frescoed wall, was a settee upon which sat Katharine Bronson, resplendent in deep green silk, her brown hair artfully arranged above a kindly, animated face.

  She was speaking to a small woman in delicate blue and a bewhiskered man in an ancient brown frock coat—the Peabodys—but she was situated facing the door. Katharine was a flawless hostess, and she managed both to look up as we stepped inside, and to grasp the attention of the couple she was speaking to without offending, forming, in essence, a greeting committee as Giles and I brought the Hannigans over.

  “Mr. Dane and Mr. Martin!” she exclaimed, rising, holding out well-adorned hands, her interest in the twins sparkling as she took them in. “How good to see you both! And who is this you’ve brought?”

  After introducing them, I added, “Hannigan is the most talented artist I’ve seen in a good while.”

  “Is he?” She grasped Joseph Hannigan’s hands. She could hardly take her gaze from his face. “Well, I should dearly like to see. Where do you keep your studio, Mr. Hannigan?”

  “Just now, in the open air of the Campo della Carita,” he said with a smile. “Although Dane has shown me the beauties of the Riva, and I may move my studies there.”

  “Quite the wrong side, you know,” she laughed. “Though our dear Mr. Whistler and Mr. Duveneck will persist in renting there. The sunsets are sublime.”

  “So I’ve heard, though I’ve yet to see one,” Hannigan said. “But we’ve rented nowhere yet. My sister and I are staying at the Danieli until we can find other lodgings.”

  “You mean to stay a time, then?”

  “Until the spring, at least,” he told her.

  Katharine Bronson looked—finally—at me. “Well, Mr. Dane, I do hope you’ve given them some guidance. Surely we must be able to find something for them? Really, there is so much available, though one does have to watch the expense. They see ‘American,’ and somehow think we’ve all vaults of gold to spend.”

  “That’s quite the way of it,” Miss Hannigan agreed. “I did think I’d found a place, but it turned out not to suit after all.”

  How perfectly she did it—not a pause, nothing awkward, turning the conversation to what must surely follow—and the thing Katharine Bronson would be most keenly interested in.

  I saw Katharine put it all together—the rumors she’d no doubt heard, Sophie Hannigan’s name. She clasped the arm of the little Mrs. Peabody. “Oh my dear! You can’t possibly be the same Miss Hannigan who found poor Mr. Stafford?”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “Was it as bad as we heard?” Mrs. Peabody asked breathlessly. “It must have been dreadful. I’m quite certain I couldn’t have borne it.”

  “Did you know him well?” Miss Hannigan asked.

  Mrs. Bronson nodded. “He was a fixture here for a time. But then, recently, I’m afraid, he fell in love and fell away. We all missed him.”

  “The landlady said he hadn’t been eating,” Miss Hannigan told them. “She said he told her he could live on love. So romantic, don’t you think? And yet, so sad.”

  I was impressed with that too—the pretty story she made of it in only a few words. It reminded me fiercely of the Gardens and her tale of Mestre.

  Mrs. Bronson tsked. “Miss Hannigan, you must tell us everything. If it’s not too disturbing of course. And Mr. Dane, perhaps you could find our dear Whistler. I heard he arrived nearly ten minutes ago. I know he’d be delighted to meet Mr. Hannigan.”

  She took Miss Hannigan’s hand and drew her to the settee. Sophie Hannigan gave her brother a quick, assured glance.

  Hannigan turned to me. “Lead on.”

  I felt a bit smug as I took him out of the
drawing room and into another. Katharine had offered to help them, which meant she liked them both—and that I had gained more cachet. “Your sister’s well positioned to make a success. As will you be, if you can cultivate Whistler. If he takes a liking to you, you’ll be in with Duveneck and the rest of them.”

  “You’re very kind to take such an interest,” Hannigan said.

  “Well, if you make a success of it, I’ll be the one who discovered you,” I told him with a smile. “They won’t soon forget it.”

  “That matters to you?” Hannigan’s gaze was piercing; I felt he saw something in me I wasn’t certain I wanted him to see.

  “How can it not? Not all of us are lucky enough to be creative geniuses. Some of us must make our mark in different ways.”

  “But . . . your poetry—”

  “I haven’t written a word in years. My vision is gone, I’m sorry to say.”

  Hannigan looked puzzled. “How?”

  It was taken. Leeched away by a demon I used to love. Well, how could I tell him any of that?

  Hannigan watched me intently, as if my answer mattered greatly to him. It was flattering; it made me want to say something true. But all I had was, “It just left me.”

  “I would be lost,” he said simply, in a tone that said he understood my sorrow and my bitterness, and I felt known in a way I never had before, steeped in his regard as if we were compatriots, brothers in art. I had to remind myself that we’d met only two days ago.

  “Well, I doubt it will happen to you,” I said. “Your inspiration seems little inclined to leave you.”

  He raised a brow.

  “Your sister,” I explained.

  “Yes.” The word was quiet, reverent. It spoke of something that beckoned and repelled at the same time. “She might inspire you too, Dane, given the chance.”