The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  Venetia looked away. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

  He made a wry gesture at himself. ‘I’ve never been slapped down so often in my life.’

  She met the brooding intensity of his eyes. He suddenly looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept for weeks. Her tender heart twisted in unwilling compassion. Was it compassion or perhaps something more potent? Conflicting emotions fluttered through her head. She was almost ready to accept his invitation, but only almost.

  ‘I really need to make some notes about these mosaics. Their condition is very much like a plaque I’m working on at the moment.’ Her voice softened. ‘So thanks again for the invitation, but maybe some other time.’

  Paolo looked down at her from his great height with a glimmer of impatience in his deep-blue irises, his lips tightening in an effort of self-control.

  ‘Very well, it’s your choice, of course. Though I cannot understand your obstinacy, please consider the subject closed. I will not importunate you again, signorina.’ Upon which he nodded politely, turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty basilica.

  There was a dreadful finality about his words. And as Venetia heard the door close and the silence return, she felt a cold hand clutch at her heart.

  She spent half an hour strolling around the building, trying to concentrate in vain, replaying again and again the conversation that had just taken place. As previously after rebuffing him, she was confused and depressed. Her mind clouded with remorse. How could she be so rude? There really was no harm in accepting his invitation to lunch. Why did he bring out such an acute reaction in her?

  Over the years, Venetia had been taken out for lunch and dinner several times; she’d had many dates, and had always welcomed a degree of male attention. She enjoyed flirting innocently, and from time to time had even allowed herself to be kissed but her emotions had never been involved; she had invariably been in control.

  Paolo was different. She felt threatened in his presence; not only threatened, but vulnerable. She could sense the ice that she had so carefully wrapped around her heart beginning to thaw. Years of self-control, and the foundations of the fortress she had erected about her were being shaken, putting her emotional and mental state in jeopardy. She needed to protect herself. Even though deep down she believed that the girl with Paolo at the restaurant could have been just a client or a friend, her presence that day had provided a convenient excuse for Venetia to keep him at bay. Now, the current crackling between them was providing a heat that could easily disintegrate her defences.

  Still, some part of her yearned to be held once again by a man, to feel her body come alive, as it had the night before on the dance floor in Paolo’s arms. Despite the fact that it was faithfully guarding her from love’s harm, being celibate naturally had its disadvantages. The need to be loved that had built up in her was occasionally so painful that she found the tension almost unbearable.

  Once more Judd’s image, which over time had blurred around the edges, grew sharp in her head as if she had seen him only yesterday. With him she had known love, passion and a total fusion of mind and body, and she missed him now almost as acutely as she had missed him all those years back. Judd was probably married with a brood of children by now. He could never be hers, but knowing that didn’t end the hopeless ache of longing within her. Shake yourself out of this glum state, girl, she remonstrated, or you’ll drive yourself mad. She glanced at her watch; it was already half-past one. Perhaps she’d find a bench overlooking the lagoon, she thought, or maybe sit on Attila’s throne to eat her sandwich. After lunch she would visit the church of Santa Fosca and then head home before dark.

  The sun was high when Venetia emerged into the courtyard. The old trees cast shadows upon the ground; the light was tinged with gold. Flanking the lawn, the pink church of Santa Fosca looked impressively lonely with its arcades of stilted arches and its slim, elegant columns of Greek marble with Byzantine-style capitals. Pigeons were circling the columns, perching on the fragile cornices, cooing to each other in their soft, enchanting voices. The ancient little town was her own; she could pause and admire its beauty and its spell to her heart’s content. Impossible to dwell upon a secret grief for long in a place like this, she told herself as she made for Attila’s throne.

  She settled herself on the white seat formed by a single piece of rough-hewn stone, which stood on the patch of grass opposite Santa Fosca. As she was taking out the panino of salami, mozzarella and rucola from her bag, a voice from behind startled her.

  ‘Una leggenda locale vuole che chi si siete su questa sedia si sposerà entro un anno, local legend has it that anyone sitting in this seat will be married within a year.’

  She turned sharply and glared, scarcely able to believe that he was still hanging about. ‘Do you make it a habit of creeping up on people?’

  Paolo’s dark features assumed a wolfish grin as he walked round to stand in front of her and folded his arms. ‘No, only stubborn beautiful young women who refuse to have lunch with me.’

  She looked back up at him, stirring half angrily.

  His mock-contrite expression sparkled with mischief. ‘What can I say? I simply felt it impossible to take no for an answer.’ Resting his elbow in the opposite hand, he touched his forefinger on his lips and gazed at her in contemplation. ‘What thoughts are hiding in those honey-dark eyes of yours? Their mystery is intriguing and makes me wonder what I would find if I penetrated their fiery gaze.’

  Venetia bristled, fidgeting uneasily on the stone seat. ‘Don’t flirt with me, signore, I promise you are wasting your time.’

  ‘It’s my time, and I don’t mind wasting it if I can just have your company for a while.’

  Her eyelids dropped to hide from him a sudden flame of anger. ‘If it’s an affair you are looking for, signore, then you’ve knocked at the wrong door. I do not indulge in that sort of sport.’

  Paolo’s brows rose at her vehemence. ‘How should I say it…? “Nothing is more curious and awkward than the relationship of two people who only know each other with their eyes… and who keep up the impression of disinterest either because of morals or because of a mental abnormality. Between them there is the hysteria of an unsatisfied, unnaturally suppressed need for communion…” Something like that. Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.’

  He had spoken in English, and shock momentarily cut off Venetia’s speech. The deep tonal quality of Paolo’s voice struck a haunting chord of recognition. For a split second she could have sworn it was Judd’s voice that had just uttered those words, even though Paolo had spoken with an Italian accent.

  ‘I didn’t realise that you spoke English,’ she breathed through a sudden constriction in her throat.

  Paolo shrugged. ‘I speak very little of many languages, cara.’

  Venetia made an effort to carry on her end of the conversation. ‘Anyhow, to come back to your quote, Thomas Mann may be right, but I’m not trying to be awkward here, or difficult, and I’m not playing games either. Even if we did know each other better, the only thing I could offer you is friendship.’

  His lips quirked in a half-smile. ‘In my experience, friendship is a very elastic word.’

  ‘Well, for me the word holds no ambiguity and is not flexible. As defined in the dictionary, it means a person whom one knows, likes and trusts.’

  ‘This is a very interesting conversation which we should continue over lunch. Your panino will be stale by now and I have reserved a table for two, on the off-chance that you would change your mind and agree to have lunch with me.’

  Venetia felt she was being sapped of the will to fight. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she sighed, as she replaced the unwrapped panino in her bag and stood up.

  ‘Never.’ There was a flash of fierceness in his tone belied by the suave smile he gave her as he gestured the way out across the courtyard.

  Trattoria Tonino was a
small restaurant on the main drag into Torcello, and opposite The Devil’s Bridge. There were no airs and graces about it to attract tourists, merely ten tables in two rows, a bar, and an open-plan kitchen where the three chefs were cooking and singing while flipping pans of risotto up into the air with a wooden ladle, just as if they were performing in a circus. It had cluster-shaped ceiling lamps and a few ceiling fans in use during the summer months. The white walls held shelves decorated with gondoliers’ trophies and all sorts of stuffed birds under glass bells.

  Paolo explained to Venetia that Tonino, the owner, came from a family of great gondoliers. He was the only one of four brothers not to have followed family tradition, preferring instead to open a restaurant, because, as he often boasted: ‘I like my food to be well cooked and you cannot get a decent meal in Venice today. Inoltre, io sono un cuoco eccellente, besides, I am an excellent cook.’

  To Venetia’s surprise the place was packed. Waiters were moving up and down the central aisle and there were far more people coming in than tables to hold them. She had forgotten her apprehension. Paolo’s easy manner and the way he seemed to fit in with this charming place were making her feel more relaxed that she had expected.

  Tonino, a rotund little man with a mass of black hair and a bushy moustache, greeted Paolo like a long-lost friend. ‘Il tavolo è in attesa di lei signore, your table is waiting for you, signore,’ he said with an affable business smile as he led the couple to a table next to the window, with a view of the fifteenth-century free-parapet Devil’s Bridge. Venetia smiled back at him; she could well imagine this proud man boasting about his cooking.

  Venetia let Paolo choose the menu since he seemed to know the place well. He ordered moeche soft-shell crab, followed by the traditional goh risotto, and a Pino Grigio that the trattoria offered in open carafes.

  ‘I love that bridge,’ she said, once they were seated. ‘I love its lack of parapets. It gives it such an elegant line.’

  ‘Il Ponticello del Diavolo. Do you know why it was named the Devil’s Bridge?’

  ‘Something to do with the Devil gathering souls, if I’m not mistaken. Although I don’t quite see the connection, but I’m sure there’s some kind of illogical superstition behind it.’

  ‘There’s a legend about the bridge.’

  Venetia laughed. ‘Of course there is! In Italy there’s a legend for everything. Do you know that one?’

  ‘Naturalmente. Like my compatriots, I’m very superstitious and a great believer in legends.’

  She looked at him and it struck her again how well he could pass for the Devil himself.

  ‘So, tell me, what’s the legend of Il Ponticello del Diavolo?’

  Paolo reached for the carafe and offered her some wine. When she nodded, he filled her glass, and she noticed he poured only water for himself. She couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows at this but he seemed not to notice.

  ‘During the occupation of Austria, a young Venetian girl fell in love with an Austrian soldier. Her family disapproved of this union and the young man was murdered. The girl was so desperate that she went to a magician who made a pact with the Devil to bring her soldier back to life, in exchange for the souls of seven children. The contract between the Venetian girl and the Devil was signed and their meeting place was the bridge of Torcello. When the sorcerer and the girl went to the meeting, they saw the Devil and the young man on the other side of the bridge. The girl crossed the bridge and both lovers fled. When the time for payment came, the sorcerer and the Devil arranged a new meeting at the bridge, but on the way to the rendezvous the magician died of natural causes before he got there. And from that day onwards, it is said that every night the Devil appears on the bridge waiting for the souls of those seven children.’

  ‘That’s a great story. At least the lovers got away – I approve of that.’ Venetia’s eyes clouded and she added, as though to herself, ‘There’s nothing worse than meddling parents.’

  Paolo cocked his head at her comment but said nothing, and asked: ‘Do you often come to Torcello?’

  ‘Not as often as I would like – I never come in the summer because I find it too crowded, and I think it takes away from the island’s charm.’

  ‘I also like coming here, but I haven’t been for a long time. It’s Fate I’m sure that brought us both here today.’

  There was more than a smile right now in that sensual mouth and gleaming white teeth, as starkly bright against his tanned skin as his now ultramarine eyes. She wished he didn’t look at her in that way. The breeze coming through the window tousled his dark hair so that one lock fell over his forehead, giving him a boyish look that went straight to Venetia’s heart.

  ‘I think I’ve already told you that I don’t believe in Fate,’ she said, raising her chin. ‘Fate is the superstitious mind’s way of misinterpreting coincidence.’ Though as she spoke, Venetia wasn’t sure how much she believed this.

  Paolo seemed to ponder for a second, his eyes riveted on Venetia’s face. ‘Have we met before?’ he enquired, barely audibly, the last syllable lifting to a questioning whisper.

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Have you never heard of the word maktoub?’

  Venetia shook her head.

  ‘It means written. Arabs say that from the day you are born, the name of your sweetheart is invisibly engraved on your forehead. Maybe that explains the flicker of recognition I felt the day we met,’ he murmured, not taking his eyes off her as he sipped his water.

  Venetia’s heart fluttered uncomfortably. She had also experienced that sort of déjà vu feeling when she was with Paolo, but she wasn’t going to admit it to him. ‘Fate is for those too weak to determine their own destiny,’ came her bold answer.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re very lucky if you have always been able to determine your destiny – but you’re still young and life is long.’ He touched the wooden table.

  In all her twenty-eight years, had she been able to determine her own destiny? The thought made Venetia feel slightly tremulous – but she must forget all that for now. Her lunch with Paolo was turning out to be rather interesting, even though she didn’t agree with his views.

  ‘Italians are all very superstitious, aren’t they?’

  ‘The Moors had a great impact on our country, including their beliefs. Even though there were no caliphates in Italy, there was plenty of Muslim influence, from the Islamic conquest of Sicily onwards. Have you read Omar Khayyám?’

  ‘No, I must admit that though I’ve heard of him, and of Khalil Gibran and Rumi, I’ve never read them. Apparently their literature is really beautiful.’

  ‘There is a particular verse of Omar Khayyám that I’ve always favoured.’

  They were interrupted by the waiter bringing the first dish, the deep-fried moeche crabs.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Venetia said, as she tucked into the crisp crustaceans.

  ‘These small soft-shell crabs are a Venetian speciality. They are found in the lagoon for only a few short weeks at the end of winter and early spring, and at the beginning of autumn, when the crabs are moulting their shells. We’re lucky that they’re already being served – it’s a little early in the year. They must have just come on to the market.’

  ‘I must remember this next time I go to a restaurant.’ She watched him lick his finger as he put a piece in his mouth, and then chew it slowly while looking at her. Her stomach clenched and she felt a blush warm her cheeks as her concentration wavered.

  ‘But you were saying?’

  ‘Yes, there’s particular verse of Omar Khayyám that I really like and in which I believe firmly:

  The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

  Moves on: not all thy Piety nor Wit

  Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

  Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.’

  ‘It is a rather dark
and sad concept, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe, but it makes a lot of sense to me. Man is not free, Venetia. Our lives are written for us. If what you say is right, and we can control our destinies, why is there so much misery in the world?’

  As lunch progressed, they spoke about philosophy, literature, religion and history, neither of them volunteering any personal information. It was as though by tacit accord they had decided to preserve their anonymity, a sort of mysterious halo, afraid to mar the image they thought each had of the other.

  Yet, reading between the lines, Venetia sensed a deep unhappiness in Paolo. His smiles were sometimes sad and wistful, and he was easily moved from gentle irony to almost an angry passion about life. From time to time his gaze slid over her through the fringe of his dark eyelashes, intimate as a kiss. Not for the first time, it gave Venetia the impression he was searching for her soul. It lent him an oddly vulnerable expression. Strangely enough, the way he did that reminded her of Judd.

  The way he spoke her name seemed like a caress that gave her goosebumps each time he uttered it. She loved the Italian lilt in his voice, and his was very pronounced. No need to wonder why she suddenly felt so light-headed, a peculiar languor coming over her, her throat hot and dry. It couldn’t be the wine; she never reacted to alcohol like this, and anyhow, she’d only had a glass of it; the second one Paolo had poured stood almost full in front of her. He was affecting her like a drug and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight it any longer.

  After they had finished their main dish, Venetia declined desert and just ordered a double espresso in the hope of sobering up from the strange torpor that had overcome her. Paolo ordered a caffè Americano, and then they were on their way. He had not smoked during the meal, and so when they were out in the open he lit a cigarette and they walked for a while along the canal.

  There was nothing save the sun, the breeze, the endless sky and the shimmering lagoons. They stood next to each other on the shore, admiring the Venetian fishing-boats being put out to sea. It was a most vibrant and beautiful sight. The colours of the sails were so rich and varied as they shifted and tacked in the changing light, distended against the breeze, the reds and oranges of their canvas in vivid relief against the grey of the lagoon. Crossing and re-crossing each other, they were like coloured shuttles on the leaden water-web.