Venetia glanced at the dark figure of Paolo at her side, and saw him watching her.
‘This is a beautiful spot,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t you think so?’
She found herself caught up in an intensely contemplative gaze. The dark-blue eyes were mesmerising, almost green in this light. He looked more like Lucifer than ever; a curious alien air about him, the tilt of his head, the sensually curved mouth, the deep cleft in his chin. He seemed to be towering over her, his body so near, and a strange excitement began to course through her. She felt lightheaded, filled with a wild chaos of emotions that made her heart beat hard and fast. Her throat tightened, and she dragged her gaze away.
And then she felt his hand on her shoulder, an imperative, possessive hand. Venetia looked up at Paolo again without speaking; in silence she obeyed the unspoken command, the fierce need in those lapis-blue eyes, and let him gather her to him. His arm was about her. She drew in a long breath and went limp against him, just as she had on the dance floor at the nightclub; but this was no dance, instead a desperate embrace. Paolo’s face was buried in her neck and she lost all sense of time and place. He held her close – so close it was as though some hidden, unseen power were trying to weld them forcibly from two separate entities into one indissoluble whole. His arms, like a band, strained her to his heart – she could feel it beating through his clothes. From moment to moment it seemed that so strong a clasp must begin to hurt. Yet it did not. Her heart was turning to water, her breath almost to a sigh; it was as if body and spirit were flowing away on a surging tide of… her mind hesitated, afraid to formulate the word… love.
Paolo never spoke, nor did she, but there was no need for speech. He never kissed her and neither did she feel the need for it. The desperate and tragic embrace said all there was to say. It was like something cut out from life, a suspension of time, a poignant, irresistible thing that swept them both up and, Venetia instinctively knew, was never to be acknowledged.
‘We should go,’ Paolo whispered as he released her. ‘It’ll soon be dusk. I’ll take you back.’
Venetia acquiesced silently as she gazed at the scene in front of them, imprinting it on her heart.
‘You like it?’ he asked softly.
She smiled. ‘How could I not? It’s heavenly.’
‘Heavenly…’ he repeated, almost imperceptibly. Something like doubt and anxiety passed across his expression, but it was gone in a flash and he smiled back at her. His voice, husky and soft, seemed to come from far away as he murmured: ‘Thank you, Venetia, thank you for a most heavenly day.’
The sun was a round red ball, making the far, encircling islands appear wild and dark.
Paolo and Venetia wandered slowly back, each with an arm around the other, still enveloped by the luminous aura of what had passed between them, and reached the launch in ten minutes. Scarcely a ripple stirred the sea. As she stepped into it, the boat swayed with a barely perceptible motion. Paolo disappeared into the cabin and came back immediately with a large blanket, which he draped around her shoulders. ‘There will be a strong wind on the way back, you mustn’t catch cold.’
‘Thanks.’ She lifted her head and smiled into his face. The expression of bitter pain she read in it snatched away her sense of peace and gripped her heart like claws of ice.
Paolo took the wheel, started the engine, and they set off homeward. The twilight faded into dusk; lights appeared, winking from the tiny lighthouses scattered all over the islands. Paolo was upright and motionless at the helm, silhouetted against the sky. The ache in Venetia’s heart deepened; the beauty of the night, the shadowy rocks, the twinkling lights, that tall, strong figure in whose arms she had stood for a short while that afternoon – it was like the climax to some fragrant romance told in a great poem. A shadow had passed over them and she did not understand why. She drew the blanket around her and looked up at the flock of flying birds in the sky, passing like those beautiful fleeting moments of happiness she had felt, as they disappeared into the night.
When they reached Palazzo Mendicoli, and before Venetia stepped out of the launch, Paolo drew her close again, but this time his arms were gentle. His hand caressed the glossy, soft hair that the breeze had disordered, and then with the lightest touch he traced the outline of her cheek with his finger. He kissed her forehead as he might have kissed a child.
‘Addio mio angelo,’ Paolo whispered, gazing into her face with sad, almost desperate eyes.
She lifted a questioning gaze at him and opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed two fingers to her lips and shook his head. Venetia felt as if a steel door had slammed inside her. The moon glided through the sky, shining her light on his blue, glittering irises and almost handsome face. She stared back at him for a brief moment with a proud, undefeated look and then went up the steps, ignoring the hand he held out to her.
* * *
Next day at the office Venetia was distracted, unable to concentrate on her work. She had not slept during the night and had lain staring into the dark, her body burning with a fever of desire, her brain awhirl with confusion.
She had spent a wonderful afternoon with Paolo – ‘heavenly’ as he had put it – and then he’d uttered those simple words, ‘Addio mio angelo.’
Venetia knew only too well the meaning of that abortive short sentence; its painful echo rang in her ears long after she had buried herself beneath the bedcovers. The message in his serious, sad eyes was unambiguous: however fond of one another we might be, we can only bring each other unhappiness. It had been a passionate interlude and he was ending it before it could go any further. There was only one reason for that which made any sense: Paolo was not free. Paolo was married. And even though the time they had spent together had been fleeting, the thought was almost unbearable and Venetia couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss. Just at the point where her defences had been tenderly breached, he had turned away and left her raw and exposed, needing him in a way that she dreaded.
In the morning, she had rushed over to Fritelli for her usual cappuccino and biscotti, and had stayed on a little longer in the hope of seeing him there. She had to know for sure; she would confront him, even if that meant sacrificing a little pride. But he didn’t appear and she finally had to leave to avoid being late at the office.
‘You look dreadful,’ Francesca told her as they sat in the trattoria where they usually went for lunch, close to the office. She broke off a piece of ciabatta with her expressive, elegant fingers and gestured with it before popping it into her mouth. ‘I told you to stay in bed yesterday, but there’s no reasoning with you when you have an idea in your head.’
Venetia sighed and gave her friend a sad smile. ‘Well, maybe I should have listened to you.’
Francesca’s brows knitted in a deep frown. ‘Oh dear, there’s something that’s gone really wrong that you aren’t telling me.’
Venetia’s face puckered as a lump formed in her throat. ‘I’m very tired, that’s all,’ she said in a strangulated voice, her eyes threatening to fill with tears.
‘Venetia, what have you been up to?’
‘I – I’ve been a fool,’ she stammered. ‘It’s Paolo. You know, the man we saw on the piazza with whom I danced the other night.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose you’re going to tell me about the gossip which I was just going to tell you.’
‘What gossip? What do you mean?’
‘Gossip I heard after you left the nightclub. Paolo Barone is well known in Venice. As Fabrizio put it, the tears that have been poured over him by some of the most beautiful women of this city could fill the lagoons from here to Burano. But tell me first what’s wrong with you. Let me guess, you didn’t go to Torcello and you saw him again.’
Venetia remained silent. She was feeling too raw to speak about it.
‘Talk to me, Venetia.’
Venetia forced a faint smile to her lips over her coff
ee cup. ‘I know what you’re going to tell me, Francesca, he’s married, isn’t he?’
‘No, no, I don’t think he’s married. The story goes that he’s in love with a woman whom he can’t marry because of his status in society. Some say she’s a young girl from the orphanage he sponsors; others allege she’s a fallen woman that he picked up from the slums. Anyhow, she’s apparently much younger than him and he keeps her tucked away at his home in Tuscany. People have very occasionally seen her accompanying him in Venice. Still, that doesn’t stop him from having affairs left, right and centre. His reputation as a womaniser is just as notorious as that of his best friend, the Count.’ Francesca leaned forward and tapped the table lightly with the side of her hand for emphasis. ‘So, Venetia, mia cara amica, whatever you have started with this man must stop immediately.’
Venetia expelled her breath on a sigh of relief. Suddenly a great weight had lifted from her heart. Paolo wasn’t married after all – he had some sort of mistress, probably the young girl she had seen him with at the restaurant. He might be dangerous, but in light of what she had just heard, nothing was impossible.
‘You mean he’s not married?’ She thought for a moment. ‘A notorious womaniser has never frightened me,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.
Francesca gave her a doubtful look. ‘Have you seen him again since the other night?’
‘Yes, we spent yesterday afternoon together at Torcello.’
‘At Torcello?’
‘Yes, he just happened to be there.’
Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t follow you any more. Why were you almost in tears all morning if you’re not bothered about what I’ve just told you?’
‘I thought he was married – the way he acted when we parted yesterday evening made me think that he was seriously attached.’
‘He might still be married to this young woman – I’m not sure. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.’
‘I’ve seen her, and though she’s very young and beautiful, the more I think about it, the more I realise they didn’t look like a married couple.’
Francesca shook her head and stared at her friend. ‘You’ve really lost me. How long have you known him?’
‘We’ve met only a few times… and yesterday…’ Venetia’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as she couldn’t stop herself from remembering the way Paolo had held her, ‘yesterday was, well… just heavenly.’
‘You’re mad.’ Francesca flung her hands up. ‘O, mio dio! I’ve just told you that he’s dangerous, and you’re all “yesterday was heavenly”! Per favore, I’m telling you, Venetia, both il Conte and this man sono marci, are rotten, they make a right pair. Ask Fabrizio, he seems to know plenty about him. He talked to me after you left the club. He was worried, seeing the way you were together on the dance floor.’
Venetia looked suitably horrified. ‘Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone, and especially not to Fabrizio!’
‘Of course I won’t, but don’t be foolish, cara. I have always encouraged you to go out, meet people and make a new life for yourself. Believe me, no one will be happier than I the day you fall in love with the right man and get married. But pursuing this Paolo Barone is pure foolishness, and it’s my duty as your friend to guard you from your own folly.’
‘Look, don’t get on your high horse, Francesca! The way we left it yesterday makes me think I’ll probably never see him again anyway.’
‘What happened yesterday?’
‘We had a perfectly lovely afternoon and then when he dropped me off he used the word addio instead of arrivederci… and the way he looked into my eyes...’ Venetia’s heart gave a painful squeeze at the memory.
Francesca scoffed. ‘Italian men – they love a little bit of drama. Theatrics are their speciality. Tell me about it, I had a real prima donna for a husband! Even though I’m Italian, I much prefer the phlegmatic behaviour of your English men. I bet you fifty thousand lire that you’ll hear from him in the next couple of weeks. But that’s not the point. You must not have a relationship with this man, Venetia. He’s dangerous.’
‘A man can never get out of a woman what she isn’t prepared to give,’ said Venetia, suddenly remembering what her mother used to say. She hoped it was true.
Francesca shook her head vigorously. ‘Parole vuote, empty words, my dear. I can see that you’re already infatuated with him and ready for a whirlwind romance. They never work, cara, as you well know. If you don’t nip this sentimente nascente in the bud, you will end up with a broken heart. I’ve never seen you so, come dire, turbare, troubled, upset.’
‘Thanks for your concern, Francesca. I do appreciate what you’re trying to say.’ Venetia sighed and sat back in her chair. ‘Rest assured, I’m certain that if I don’t go looking for him, I’ll never see Paolo again, and my pride will never let me chase after him.’
‘Va bene.’ Francesca gave her friend a sidelong look. ‘You’d be much better off giving Fabrizio a chance,’ she suggested quietly.
‘Come now, Francesca, we’ve discussed this umpteen times before, and you know my views on that.’
‘Sì, sì, I know your views, but it’s not too late to change them!’
‘Okay, subject closed.’ Venetia glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better get back to work. I was late this morning and I’d prefer not to be late again this afternoon.’
As they went back to the office, Venetia was lost in thought. A new flame burned inside her – she was floating on a cloud, alone with her relief and hope. Still, she knew that Francesca was right, she must be cautious. Italian men were shocking flirts. They said many things under the influence of alcohol or a romantic moment, which they may have meant at the time, but as soon as that instant passed, so too did the feelings and all the good intentions that went with them. Italian women expected a man to make love to them on all occasions; it was a custom of the country. It did no harm unless one was foolish enough to take it seriously.
She would certainly not go looking for Paolo, but if ‘Fate’, as he called it, put him back on her path, and if he wanted it enough to pursue her… she finally admitted it, she would welcome getting to know him better.
Since Judd, no man had set her mind and her senses in such turmoil. Paolo and Venetia had scarcely touched – a couple of times only, but she could not deny the flame that had smouldered between them, kept in check simply because she had been afraid of its heat, and because he seemed to want it that way too. And yet, whenever they ended up crossing paths, he would not let her go. Even now, at the thought of the way Paolo’s arms had held her possessively to his lean hardness, tightening his hold as he pressed himself against her, the warmth of his breath fanning her temple, Venetia felt weak at the knees, craving his lips and his touch.
But it was not only a physical attraction that drew her to him. From time to time when he thought no one was watching, she had read a hint of bitterness and anger in his features, as when driving his launch. Paolo, she believed, was a lonely and unhappy man. The melancholy in his eyes had struck her more than once and she felt an empathy with him that she had not experienced since Judd. Maybe it was true that he was in love with the young woman from the restaurant, and more fool him if he was holding off from marrying her just because of the ridiculous conventional rules enforced by the social circle he moved in. However, Venetia had a presentiment that the sadness in those blue eyes ran much deeper.
From then on, she tried to keep thoughts of Paolo at bay, stifling the voice that urged her to go looking for him, or at least attempt to find out more about him. She and Francesca didn’t talk about Paolo again. Instead she drowned herself in work, spending additional hours at her office in the evening and returning home too exhausted to think. She slept soundly at night, as if she had been drugged. She was almost in a state of trance, curiously at peace.
* * *
Several weeks had gone by. Venetia had
spent a particularly busy afternoon restoring a miniature mosaic on a small panel for a client. She loved working on such tessellae, which actually looked more like paintings. This particular tessella, dating back to 1282, was especially fine. It depicted a crucifix, with the Virgin Mary and Maria Magdalene kneeling at the base of the cross. The tessella was made of gold, lapis lazuli and other semi-precious stones set on to wax on a wooden panel. Venetia’s client was an antique dealer and she had promised to drop off her package at his shop in Calle del Paradiso, the most medieval-looking street in Venice, bordered with small old shops and dreary wine bars.
It was six o’clock in the evening and having delivered the mosaic to its owner, she was making her way to Ponte del Paradiso, which stood at the far end of the narrow street. During the day, Calle del Paradiso was quaint, full of amusing nooks and crannies; most of the time it was draped with washing all the way along, so that the light filtered through shirts, bed sheets and underclothing. But on a night like this, when the sun had gone down and evening shadows gathered, and the cramped alley was shrouded in silvery fog, Venetia found the place gloomy and almost sinister.
Although it was March, winter was ceding reluctantly to spring and the weather was still cold, damp and foggy. Clouds had hung like a grey pall over the city for most of the day, and now came a thin drizzle of rain that gave every sign of becoming heavier. The moisture made thin slime of the festering garbage strewn about the sinuous, dimly lit street. Some of the buildings’ walls in the semi-shadows seemed to be mouldering and lichen-grown, as if ready to fall to pieces. The streets of Venice in the mist breathed the sadness of faded beauty that waits for the dark veils of night, and the transforming magic of artificial light. As Venetia hurried down the cobbled pavement, she thought of the words Paolo had uttered on the veranda at the carnival ball, ‘a rude awakening for the unsuspecting tourist when daylight comes…’
The Echoes of Love Page 9