The girl was of medium height with a sexy, curvaceous figure that moved provocatively without losing its grace. Enormous, dark, bedroom eyes under thick lashes took up most of her oval face. She wore her loose, luscious curls of raven-black hair pinned half up, half down in a casual tangle, Bardot style. In her snugly tight fuchsia trouser suit, which on some might have seemed too loud, she was dazzling. As she handed her coat to the waiter she gratified him with a languorous come-hither smile that Venetia was sure must have made his day. Paolo helped his date to her seat before sitting himself down opposite her, facing Venetia.
The girl was now talking to him animatedly and laughing, her bejewelled hands gesticulating gracefully in that typical Italian way. Was Paolo listening? Was he amused? Venetia couldn’t tell; and although his eyes were hidden by the dark shades, she was sure that he had seen her. There was a stillness about him, a half-smile tugging at that full mouth, which if she didn’t know any better seemed just for her. She found it difficult to eat knowing that he might be watching her, but she forced herself to finish her ice-cream, paid the bill and left the restaurant.
Despite feeling a little miffed at Paolo’s apparent indifference, Venetia did not let the incident mar her afternoon. She had had no desire to engage in conversation with him, especially as he was accompanied, but she rather expected him to have at least acknowledged her presence, if only with a nod. Still, she was intrigued by the couple. Somehow, she wouldn’t have imagined Paolo with that type of woman; they appeared so ill-suited. He was reserved and sophisticated, while his exotic companion seemed earthy, from a different background, and so much younger than him.
Venetia was not in the habit of looking down on others, she had neither racial nor social prejudices, far from it; she had suffered too much from the arrogant snobbery of her dictatorial father. But her sensitive nature made her delve instinctively into the dark underbelly of human relationships to expose the sometimes discordant elements between couples. Perhaps it was the torment of her own abandonment by Judd that made her curious as to what made people tick.
So what was the story behind Paolo and this young woman so at odds with himself? Venetia flinched inwardly as another darker, more destructive emotion pierced her awareness; she didn’t want to think about Paolo alone with this girl and what they might be to each other. She was not going to let him get under her skin any more. Shrugging away thoughts of him, she walked quickly from the square, east towards the Castello district.
She was meeting Francesca at four o’clock. That left an hour and a half to kill, and so she went rummaging in one of the old Venetian palaces that had been turned into a vast antique-market-cum-workshop, where she often found ideas for the refurbishment projects in hand, and where she sometimes picked up objects de charme that had delighted her clients. Though she was totally against buying fake art, Venetia was unable to remain unmoved by the spectacle and scale of reproduction antiques taking place in what had become a warehouse of beautiful things. Twice she’d had the opportunity to work there when restoring larger pieces of mosaics, and she had been delighted by the rather mad-happy atmosphere at the factory, where furniture was made and pictures painted to the accompaniment of snatches from opera and cheerful old Venetian songs. Venetia loved the character of this city’s people. Their history of struggle for survival, incredibly building the greatest city in Europe from a mire of inhospitable mudflats, had bred a strong sense of community that bound them together in a charismatic mixture of warmth, fierce pride and joviality.
After sifting through various pieces in the workshop, she was not disappointed on this occasion either, and was pleased to find a beautiful glass-relief vase to send back to the office as inspiration for the Palermi project.
When four o’clock came, Venetia headed back to Piazza San Marco and met Francesca at their usual haunt, Fritelli. The caffetteria was teaming with Venetians, the way Venetia liked it because the rest of the year this beau monde retreated into their homes, taking refuge from the tourist stampede. Being surrounded by these elegant people, listening to their musical language, was essential to her; without it she felt she was missing out on a crucial element of life in Venice. To be in Venice without its citizens was to know the city’s stones but not its soul.
The Italians in this city were a happy lot and Francesca was a typical illustration of the spirit of her people. She was a vivacious, fun-loving redhead with bright-blue eyes and a turned-up freckled nose. A little younger than Venetia, every month she fell in and out of love. ‘Get out before it becomes sour,’ was her motto when asked about relationships, and consequently she had broken many hearts but had never experienced it herself first hand, even though she had once had a brief but disastrous marriage.
Venetia and Francesca had met at the Institute in Florence where they had become friends. Francesca’s devil-may-care attitude to the world, and men, was so very different to Venetia’s more serious and self-contained nature that the latter couldn’t help but be charmed by the young Italian woman, and welcomed her like a breath of fresh air into her life. After graduation they had stayed in touch and had even holidayed together. From then on, a strong bond of affection and friendship had developed between the two young women. When Venetia had taken on the restoration of Palazzo Palermi, she hadn’t much time for other projects and had suggested her godmother hire Francesca, who had just ended an affair with her boss and was looking for a job away from Florence.
The two young women spent an hour gossiping but mostly discussing the up-coming exhibition, while drinking espressos and savouring fritole veneziane, the authentic Venetian sweet temptation that was very much associated with the Carnival. Semel in anno licet insanire, ‘Once a year one is allowed to go crazy,’ went the saying – though Venetia and Francesca tried these sweet treats at different caffetterias every month, and always returned to Fritelli, where the wicked little doughnuts were filled with Zabaglione cream. At Fritelli these delicacies were supposedly made according to the original recipe from the eighth century, when they were considered the national cake of the Venetian state, hence the name of the coffee shop.
It was almost half-past five when Venetia and Francesca left the caffetteria. The square was very nearly empty. The sun was setting and an intense pink blush in an explosive sky was lighting up the Campanile, the Doge’s Palace, and the wonderful group of buildings surrounding the Piazza San Marco. They stood splendidly in that curious half-light, with the last rays of the day slanting in on their rounded sides, and making them cast huge brown shadows on each other. The Grand Canal had the dramatic, blinding brilliance of a purple mirror. Far over it, the golden orb seemed to set in a flood of vaporous colour which appeared to surge up from the land and become reflected in the glimmering pools created by the broken shadows of the buildings. Waves of burning light spread all over the western sky and the boats, the palazzi, and the water were dyed a deep rose by the glow.
It was as they came out of Fritelli that Venetia spotted Paolo. He was ambling across the square towards the canal fondamenta alone, the warm light of the dying sun blazing over him. He had changed into a black coat and white scarf. Aware of an unwelcome tightening of her stomach muscles, Venetia smothered a gasp as her heart turned over in her breast.
Something in her bemused reaction must have shown in her face because Francesca, quick as a flash, followed her friend’s gaze. ‘Venetia, what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
Venetia’s pulse was beating rather faster than normal. ‘Nothing, it was nothing,’ she muttered as she felt heat rushing to her face.
Francesca laughed and eyed her sharply. ‘You could have fooled me, and you’re blushing.’
She turned away and quickened her step. ‘I thought I saw someone I knew.’
‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Francesca, just let it go.’
Francesca’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘There weren’t many people
in the square. It couldn’t have been the old lady walking her dog, nor was it that couple kissing passionately on the bank. It was either the woman pushing a pram with the three children, or else it was that striking-looking man in the black coat.’
‘I’ve told you, let it go, Francesca, I’m not in the mood,’ Venetia snapped.
‘Va bene, va bene, ti lascio in pace, all right, all right, I’ll leave you alone, but I know you well enough to realise when something’s wrong.’
‘Nothing’s wrong, trust me.’
‘Well, if you feel like telling me about it you know where to find me.’
They walked silently for the remainder of the way. At the church of San Zaccaria above Piazza San Marco, where Francesca was to catch the express line and Venetia her waterbus, they parted company.
‘See you in the morning, then. We’ve got a heavy week in front of us. And don’t forget that we’re meeting Signor Paluzzi at nine o’clock sharp. That man’s so punctual. He should be bringing us some slides for the exhibition,’ Venetia reminded her friend.
‘Don’t worry, it’s all in hand, and I’ve ordered some special cakes we’ll offer him with coffee to keep him sweet,’ Francesca replied cheerfully, and kissed Venetia on both cheeks, still eyeing her with a wry smile as she waved goodbye.
Venetia was still shaken as she sat in the vaporetto looking out into the falling night. What was it about Paolo that affected her so much? There was something almost familiar that seemed to grip her every time she looked at him, as if she had known him forever. Nanny Horren used to talk about kindred souls that recognised each other at first glance; but that was what Venetia had thought when she first met Judd, and look how that had turned out. She now wished that she hadn’t rebuffed Paolo, even if it all meant nothing to him. But why was she wasting her time thinking of him? He was obviously attached. She needed to dispel this emotion that was taking hold of her before it set in too deeply.
* * *
The week before the opening of the exhibition had been nerve-wracking. Days had passed with alarming swiftness for Venetia. She was doing so much – and there was plenty still to be done – that she hardly had time to think about Paolo. Her days were spent darting backward and forward from Ca’Dario, overseeing every detail of the project. She checked lists, and supervised the packers to make sure every photograph and drawing was properly wrapped and labelled. Helped by Francesca and Fabrizio, she mapped out the layout of the exhibition, considering intriguing juxtapositions between the works as she tried to create an interesting dialogue between the art and the audience. ‘Your perfectionism never ceases to amaze me, Venetia,’ Fabrizio had said with a cheeky grin. ‘You’ve rearranged that presentation three times now… I think we can safely say that our clients will not be complaining of a lack of thought behind it!’
On the day itself, Venetia was strung to high tension. It was the first exhibition she had headed, organising it from start to finish, and many of the items on display were the result of her efforts. Bianchi e Lombardi were expanding their restoration department to encompass the whole of Italy, and an advertising campaign had been put together in the hope of attracting not only a powerful Italian clientele, but also institutions and visiting foreign movers and shakers. In view of this, important people had been invited to the opening night, among them the Mayor of Venice, plus la Contessa Rossi-Conteni, a philanthropist whose millions had saved many historic buildings, not only in Venice but the remainder of Italy; and the senior director of the UNESCO team who regularly visited the city. Though the pressure of all this could not fail to impress itself on her, nonetheless Venetia did not betray her nerves by any outward sign; she was controlled, as always.
Only as she was dressing that evening did she allow herself to think of Paolo. It was a fleeting thought, slightly wistful because now she knew – or at least thought – that he wasn’t single. She was surprised that this should leave her a little sad and longing but she was aware that seeing him, even thinking about him, troubled her.
Standing in front of her cheval mirror, Venetia studied herself with critical eyes. She wore a blush silk chiffon bustier-gown that showed off the curve of her shoulders and delicate collarbones. From the cleavage of the snug, draped bodice, the petal-thin fabric fell in a cascade of romantic folds to the floor. The internal corset, which consisted of an under-wired bra and boned waist, moulded her to perfection, ensuring a statuesque silhouette.
Venetia had washed her hair with a chamomile shampoo, which always gave her chestnut mane golden overtones. First she thought of letting it fall in long locks at the front and around the back, with thick bangs curled off to the sides; but then she decided to style it up, exposing her long neck. Brushing it back and off her forehead and sides, she pinned the top towards the centre of the back to keep her hair in place, and then she folded the rest of it beneath, up and over the pins, curving the hair under vertically and fastening it with hairpins. It looked soft and feminine and she secured it all with spray, considering the result carefully.
She chose her accessories with equal care, not wanting to overpower the dress. After going through her jewellery box, she finally chose a dainty pair of shoulder-grazing eighteen-carat gold and diamond zigzag earrings, and a matching lightning-bolt gold and diamond bracelet. Just before glancing into the mirror for the last time, she slipped on transparent pin heel sandals – ones she had bought in the eighties and which were still very fashionable – that maximised the floor-sweeping cut of her dress. She took a deep breath; she was ready to go.
Palazzo Dario stood majestically at the water’s edge. At its entrance at seven o’clock in the evening, the Grand Canal had become as turbulent as the English Channel, flowing with boats of all sorts going back and forth, dropping off guests. This fifteenth-century Renaissance jewel, built in the Venetian Gothic style, somehow seemed a little incongruous among the other nearby palaces – not very tall, rather narrow and tilted to the right, like a house of cards. With its white-veneered, asymmetrical façade decorated with circular rosettes in green granite and red porphyry, its Carpaccio chimney pots, and its unusual flower-shaped windows, Ca’Dario was nevertheless remarkably distinctive and stunningly beautiful.
The building, now sometimes used for art exhibitions, had been lit up by huge flames set in golden torches on either side of the front. The vivid colour of its centuries-old Istria stone and polychrome marble was mirrored in the opal, undulating ripples that lapped its landing.
The interior of the Palazzo was just as dazzling, ‘ezuberante’, as Fabrizio had described it to Venetia before she had seen it for herself. It was a mixture of Baroque and Renaissance styles. Its ceilings and cornices, ablaze with gold and a myriad of colours, incorporated fine carvings with rich stucco designs, and the frescos and murals had been carried out by the hand of masters. The profusion of plush soft furnishings in the vast rooms gave the place an overpowering feel of opulence.
Prestigious guests trooped en masse into the historic palace through a magnificent archway. Artists, curators, critics, journalists and a collection of VIPs mingled on marbled floors under enormous white Murano glass chandeliers. The great reception room with its beautiful arches and tall elegant columns came to life and was filled with noise.
The Bianchi e Lombardi displays were equally fabulous. Animated groups argued over the many exhibits positioned down the centre of the room and along its walls, where Venetia had created a series of curved screens telling the before-and-after story of each one of the firm’s projects undertaken during the last twelve years, in a combination of architect’s drawings and photographs of the buildings. Down the centre were tables carrying models of whole plazas, demonstrating for city planners how a series of renovated and restored buildings could look.
Venetia stood at the far end of the room, explaining to an eagerly attentive American banker and philanthropist the way in which the mosaics of the small palace pictured on the screen be
hind her had been moved.
‘The rising waters,’ she smiled, ‘or actually the sinking building I should say, meant the spectacular seventeenth-century floor was permanently under water. We had to seal the room and pump out the water before we could work on the rescue of the mosaic. Technically this part of the job was highly complex as the saturated walls and floor had become unstable.’
Other guests were joining her group as she pointed to the before-and-after photographs, showing how the endangered mosaic had been photographed in situ, then every piece numbered, lifted and repositioned safely and identically on a floor above.
‘You’ll see,’ she continued, finally relaxing and warming to her subject, ‘that the mosaic has been shifted and transposed back, but in a tray of inert metal, not cemented into the floor. You see a key part of our restoration approach is to ensure that the building’s story is visible. We want people to enjoy the restored building, and of course to feel the ambiance of age. But we also want future generations to understand what we’ve done, and why. We are not creating a modern pastiche, or pretending the renovated building is in its original form. We wish to deliver delight, but also honesty.’ She smiled at her small audience, who were now nodding and talking together earnestly in front of the screen of photographs.
At that moment, Venetia caught sight of her godmother, Giovanna, across the room and gestured politely that she was moving on. Giovanna swept up to her and drew her into a warm hug, kissing her cheek. ‘Well done, my dear. Everything looks wonderful!’
Giovanna Lombardi was a slender, upright woman of fifty-five or so, with fine features and blonde hair severely parted and drawn back into a neat roll. There were pearls at her throat and larger pearls in her small, close-set ears. She had delicate hands and feet, and there was an exquisite order in everything about her. Her clothes were trim and tailored, Venetian style, and perfectly cut, with that apparent simplicity which in reality is not simple at all and can only be achieved by spending a great deal of money.
The Echoes of Love Page 5