The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  They laughed. He had a point. ‘All right, I agree that it would be rather risky for me to walk through the crowds on a night like this,’ she admitted meekly. ‘I will still insist that you only accompany me until I find a taxi, though, and then we’ll part company.’

  ‘Very well then,’ he shrugged, but his eyes held amusement. ‘You’re an exasperatingly stubborn young woman.’

  After gathering their cloaks, they went in search of their host to say goodbye and thank him for his hospitality. Venetia sensed that Umberto was slightly put out that they were leaving together; he gave them an acid look but refrained from comment.

  The chilly breeze with its tang of salt was invigorating after the smoky atmosphere of Palazzo Palermi. Venice tonight was a city of rapture. It was late, but the carnival was still in full swing. The crowds were surging through the security barriers to sport with each other in mock battles, playfully throwing flowers, and dancing in the streets. The poliziotti were good-humouredly trying to keep them back, but it was a gesture doomed to failure as the scrum continued to hurl itself across the streets.

  Like a diamond, this magnificent city, Queen of the Adriatic – dubbed La Serenissima – seemed to offer a thousand facets. There were stars in the sky and glitter everywhere else: the arcade in Piazza San Marco was brilliantly lit, the shops and rows of alcoves a shimmering crystal grotto, secular and ecclesiastical buildings transformed by lights into something still more glorious. But that was only the stage on which figures seemed to move. They were caricatures of life, on the verge of the unreal, amusing as well as sinister and disturbing. The music was loud and noisy, with blares of sound shooting out from every corner. Vivaldi poured forth through loudspeakers and pre-Lenten celebrants danced by the thousand through the floodlit piazze, their faces hidden by expressionless masks with slit eyeholes.

  Paolo was right. Everywhere Venetia looked was crowded with masked people singing, embracing without restraint, in a vast, sprawling commedia. Hidden behind their disguise, it was as though they were indeed free to act as they wished, uninhibited by custom or convention. She was grateful to have accepted Paolo’s invitation to accompany her, at least until she found a taxi. Legions of revellers stood roaring with enjoyment on the quayside of the Punta della Dogana and the Punta della Salute; and in a mass of highly decorated boats, some more spectators waited for the ladies’ regatta on the Grand Canal, an unusual and clearly welcome spectacle for many of the male Venetians leaning over the sides and whooping out lusty encouragements.

  Paolo walked briskly, holding Venetia’s arm protectively, subtly proprietorial, shielding her with his stalwart body against any possible chance contact with those revellers thronging the squares and the bridges. For just a moment she forgot her misgivings, thinking only that this man, who seemed so steady, so self-assured, was different from the usual men she had dated over the last ten years. An intriguing mixture of sophistication and macho maleness, she felt strongly attracted to him.

  They had been walking through the crowds for almost half an hour. Venetia had to face facts: there were no taxis for hire; everybody was celebrating.

  ‘Allora, signorina, how do you feel? Will you now accept a lift in my launch, or would you prefer us to spend the rest of the night wandering aimlessly in Venice?’

  They had reached a quay where a number of luxurious launches were moored. The smile he gave her as she met his piratical gaze lit up his face with a sudden boyishness, lifting from it the lines of bitterness that she had perceived earlier on the veranda.

  ‘To tell the truth, I feel rather irresponsible.’ She looked down a little sheepishly.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. ‘Non ti preoccupare, don’t worry, no harm done. My launch is here.’ He signalled towards an elegant boat in beautiful polished mahogany, with her name, La Serenissima, written in dark-red letters on the side. ‘It’ll be no trouble to drop you off at your apartment in Dorsoduro. As I’ve told you before, it’s on my way.’

  ‘Thank you, I really don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  ‘We say in Italian, “la necessità è la madre dell’invenzione”, necessity is the mother of invention.’

  ‘As we do in England, as well as “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”!’ replied Venetia, laughing nervously.

  He held out a hand to help her aboard and, as she prepared to step down into the launch, Venetia let go of the big black-and-white striped mooring pole. The boat rocked and she faltered, losing her balance. She would have been sent reeling down into the slimy water had not Paolo, with remarkable deftness, caught her, and she fell against his chest, the breath smashed from her breast.

  The hands on her upper arms were iron-hard; the length of his body so close to hers that she was unable to stop her own body’s response as once again a heat darted down inside her. Paolo murmured something into her hair that she did not grasp, and she looked up, what seemed an infinite distance, into blue irises so bright that they appeared almost like sapphires. Her mind emptied.

  For a long moment they stared at each other, oblivious of everything else. Paolo pulled Venetia a little tighter against him and her hand slipped down to his chest. She could feel the steady thump of his heart beneath her fingers and sensed the warmth of his skin radiating through his clothes. His muscular body was lean and hard, and the spicy fragrance of his aftershave tinged with tobacco went straight to her head. His face was so close now that she could see the deep creases at the side of his eyes and his mouth, and other faint lines, a little lighter, which stood out on his parchment-tanned skin. Up this close, he looked older, with a few stray threads of grey in his thick black hair. Despite the noise and the pandemonium surrounding them, they stood clasped as though alone in the world.

  Flames ran through Venetia, and suddenly she wanted quite desperately to move even nearer to him, for his arms to hold her snugly in his embrace, to feel his mouth close over hers, to… She shut her eyes as she felt her need intensifying – the painful yearning for his caresses… This was not only madness, it was dangerous; but it had been a long time since she had felt this stirring inside her, since she had been aroused by the heat of a man’s body, since an emotion had possessed her with such violence. She knew what this was and she hated it, but still could not help herself.

  ‘You’re tired; you can hardly stand up. Come inside and sit down, you’re shivering.’ Paolo’s voice came to her through the reluctant fog of her desire, as he guided her to one of the soft leather seats inside the cabin. He sat her down, brought her a thimble-size glass of grappa and settled himself beside her, after having poured one for himself. ‘Here, drink this, it will warm you.’

  ‘Grazie. Ancora una volta sei venuto in mio soccorso, once more you’ve come to my rescue,’ she said, a new elation in her voice as she took the glass from Paolo’s hand and tried to calm herself. She was thankful that he had been ignorant of the insanity she had been prey to for a few moments, and hoped he had not noticed the deeper colour that throbbed in her cheeks.

  The cabin was large with seats upholstered in Napa, a soft Italian leather. It was surrounded by windows adorned with royal blue curtains held back with cords. All the fittings were in plated chrome brass. Venetia noted that it was luxurious without being ostentatious and garish, unlike many of the launches. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised; Paolo did not seem to be a show-off.

  ‘This grappa is quite different to the one I’ve normally been served,’ she told him, as she took a sip of the warm amber liquid. ‘Isn’t grappa supposed to be crystal-clear with a distinctive herbal aroma? This is almost golden in colour, and spicy with…’ Venetia hesitated and took another sip, ‘… hints of liquorice and vanilla, is that right?’

  Paolo whistled with admiration. ‘You have a very sensitive palate, signorina. You’re right. This is a Reserve Grappa from a vineyard not far from my home in Tuscany. They only produce a tho
usand bottles a year, for the personal use of the family and local consumption. Do you like it, then?’

  ‘It’s got an interesting taste which I admit could become addictive, but I’m afraid it’s more potent than I’m used to.’

  Paolo flashed her a charming smile. ‘I see you’re feeling better. Your cheeks have regained some colour. It was a long walk in the cold.’ He downed his grappa in one go. ‘Would you like a little more?’

  Now that Venetia had actually accepted the invitation he had pressed on her to ride in his launch, he seemed oddly ill at ease, she thought. Was he perhaps embarrassed by their accidental collision earlier? Had she misread his apparent attentiveness as something more?

  ‘No, thank you – I think we can be on our way now,’ she said, her guard back up again. ‘I have taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘Non dirlo neanche per scherzo, don’t give it a thought.’ He poured himself another glass, which to Venetia’s surprise he drained with equal velocity. ‘Would you like to sit outside or stay in the warmth?’

  ‘I’m definitely an outdoor person, so I think I’ll sit alfresco.’

  ‘You said the other day that the way into your home is on the Canal in Dorsoduro. I know Dorsoduro well and there aren’t many buildings with their entrance on the waterfront.’

  ‘My apartment is in Palazzo Mendicoli, a couple of streets away from the church of San Nicolò Dei Mendicoli.’

  ‘Sì, sì, so bene dov’è il palazzo Mendicoli é, yes, I know well where that is. I spend a lot of time in Dorsoduro. It’s a place of artists, designers and writers, and is one of the most beautiful and charming of Venice’s sestieri,’ he said, his voice soft as he stood looking at her intently again, motioning for her to go up on deck ahead of him. For some inexplicable reason, she found herself blushing, and she hastily climbed the steps, keen to cool her flushed cheeks.

  They went back into the open air and Venetia sat on the U-shaped bench, upholstered in blue and white canvas, in the stern of the boat. Silently she watched Paolo’s hard, firmly corded figure move around the boat untying the ropes, preparing to exit the mooring basin. Her eyes slid down to his narrow hips as he stood at the helm, tall and relaxed, every contour of his sculped, muscled thighs outlined in his tight Harlequin costume. Once more she was struck by the leanness and power of his body, by his shoulders that were imposing without being heavy. Paolo had a build very similar to that of Judd’s, she noticed, and she found herself wondering how it would feel to make love with him.

  The waters were still alive with the laughter of masqueraders in gondolas, gliding to and fro, the ripples from their oars making dancing swirls of light as they went by. Still, Paolo was able to skilfully negotiate his launch through the narrow channel. As he came out into the Grand Canal he accelerated suddenly, bringing the beautiful craft to life. Lifting its nose out of the water, it surged forward with a roar.

  The moonlight glistened down on the lagoon that surrounded the city, so bright and clear in the velvety blue night, and music came floating over the sea from every corner. The heart of Venice was still throbbing with merriment. The revelry promised to go on until dawn, which was still some time away.

  There is magic in the air tonight, Venetia told herself as she watched the rows of stately marble palazzi pass by before her eyes, their almost Moorish façades bathed in floods of silver light. She had never found the scenery so enchanting, even though she had been taking this journey twice a day for the past three years. Her gaze fell again on the man at the wheel, his hands guiding the great bulk of teak and mahogany with controlled tension. Paolo stood legs apart to brace himself as they hurried along, creating white waves of foam on either side of the rocking motorboat. He had taken off his cap and his black hair, strewn with its occasional grey, appeared longer than she had at first thought, as it stirred about his face, ruffled by the breeze. His mouth in his well-defined, jagged profile looked severe and hard. He gave the impression of being totally self-sufficient, and yet he carried an aura of loneliness that intrigued her. Paolo was a mass of contradictions and Venetia was suddenly struck that this stranger, to whom she felt so curiously attracted, like Venice itself, might not be all he seemed. She shivered.

  Afraid that if she went on staring at him he might turn round and think that she was anxious to make conversation, Venetia concentrated on the scenery. The motorboat had gathered speed and moved swiftly on the waves with a loud swishing sound. The cold light wind blew sea spray against the young woman’s skin and tugged gentle fingers at her hair, lifting stray tendrils from her forehead.

  Soon the imposing Byzantine campanile and elegant fifteenth-century porch of the church of San Nicolò dei Mendicoli came into view. Venetia got up and came to stand next to Paolo. ‘There it is,’ she said, pointing at the dazzling building.

  The engine slowed and the craft nosed its way smoothly towards the Baroque doorway of Palazzo Mendicoli. Its ornate marble façade was lit on either side by elegant electric lamps. The boat stopped within an inch of the tall wooden posts that stood out of the water like giant bulrushes next to the steps of the palace, and Paolo turned off the motor.

  ‘I hope you didn’t get wet,’ he said with an impish smile. ‘When I’m at the wheel I tend to forget myself, and I’ve been told that I drive rather recklessly.’

  ‘Not at all, I enjoyed the drive as much as I enjoyed the evening. Thank you, you have been very kind.’

  Paolo’s blue irises gleamed with hidden laughter. Reaching out casually, he caught hold of her wrist and gently drew her towards him. ‘So you will have dinner with me tonight.’ The phrase was said as if a fait accompli, and there was an intensity beneath his playfulness that hit Venetia like a speeding train.

  Again, she was aware of that curious pull of the senses that had transfixed her earlier that night when she had fallen against Paolo, a physical magnetism she had thought herself immune to. Her instinct for self-preservation – as well as her irritation at his boldness – made her stiffen. ‘It’s usual to ask, not command. Anyhow, I’m busy.’

  His dark features assumed a wolfish grin. ‘Would it help if I got down on my knees?’

  Venetia felt unusually nettled. ‘No,’ she replied coolly, edging away from him.

  His mouth twitched with barely concealed amusement. ‘And so it will be tomorrow.’

  He was pressing her, and she was having none of it. ‘No, not today, not tomorrow, nor the day after,’ she retorted, allowing herself to be piqued.

  ‘So you are attached, you do have a boyfriend in your life, or maybe he is already your fidanzato,’ he chided.

  Now he was giving her every reason to get angry. How dare he be so personal? He seemed up until now far more restrained and collected. What had happened? The man must be drunk. Come to think of it, she had seen him all evening with a glass in his hand, and then of course there were those shots of grappa he’d downed as if drinking water. What if he suddenly decided to drive off with her? And though he gave no sign of the thoughts she ascribed to him, Venetia was quite willingly working herself up. She had the feeling that something was happening to her over which she had no control, and a shiver of apprehension slid down her spine.

  Her eyes sparked with anger. ‘That’s actually none of your business.’

  Her indignation seemed to sober Paolo up. He drew in his lower lip, catching it between his teeth, and visibly tensed. ‘I apologise, signorina, if I have appeared forward. I think I must have been carried away by the exuberance of the Carnival spirit. Please forgive me.’

  Extending her hand she forced herself to smile. ‘Addio, signore, and thank you again for all your kindness.’

  The planes of his face seemed to harden, the armour so exactly like her own slipping back into place. His voice was clipped. ‘So it will be addio for us rather than arrivederci.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Venetia whispered, turning away and heading over to
the platform. The boat rocked, and Paolo was immediately beside her, his ardent eyes mutely questioning, as if trying to read her mind while he helped her regain her balance and then on to the quay.

  Curiously enough, she was less eager to leave now, but she had burned her bridges and it was probably all for the best. As Venetia walked into the palazzo without turning, and heard the sound of the motorboat’s engine starting up again, she couldn’t resist a glance over her shoulder. She felt a moment’s regret as she saw La Serenissima and her captain move off in a cloud of white foam, but then she regained her senses. Love had already made a painful fool of her. I have no intention of going through that again, she repeated to herself as she took the lift up to the third floor.

  * * *

  Palazzo Mendicoli was situated in the western half of the Dorsoduro sestiere, the southern peninsula of Venice, on the curve of a small canal. It was a sixteenth-century, three-storey marble façade palace that had been restored in the early nineties and turned into flats, Venetia’s being on the top floor. As Dorsoduro was on higher ground than the rest of Venice, one side of the building had the fortune of overlooking the lagoon to the south, and the other faced north-east, with a view over the rest of Venice towards the Grand Canal. Most of the interior’s architecture, as well as the paintings and frescos in the rooms, was still intact. Only the part-end of the building, destroyed by fire over the three floors in the nineteenth century, had been totally restructured to create an elegant, old-fashioned lift.

  Venetia’s apartment was large, with high ceilings carved with lecherous little cherubs pursuing strange-looking winged animals, and plaster borders embellished within borders. It had been her godmother’s home for the five years that followed Giovanna’s widowhood, until her marriage to Ugo Lombardi. After this, Giovanna had moved to her new husband’s penthouse at the top of the Bella Vista building in the centre of Venice. It had been the site of an old decaying palazzo that Ugo had bought, on which he had erected a very modern block of luxury flats where the couple lived during the week. At weekends, they escaped to the Lido, the long sandbar south of Venice, where Ugo Lombardi had bought his bride the most fabulous old palace with beautiful views across the lagoon to the city’s medieval towers and ochre rooftops.