The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  ‘This is no Elysium,’ she murmured, peering through the gloom, ‘but more like a sinister, enchanted dwelling. I wonder who it belonged to.’

  ‘It looks as if it’s had many owners,’ Paolo mused as he handled one of the unsheathed weapons, fingering the sharpness of the old worn steel.

  Venetia slipped free of his clasp and preceded him through an arched door and into a charming small courtyard, where the sweet, strong, sensual scent of jasmine prevailed. The flowers were strewn on the ground like a white carpet. The arcade, its pillars with climbing wild clusters entwined over the pink marble, gave shade all around the little green space. Two dry fountains, in the form of lion heads, stood at each end. Venetia could just imagine them spouting water out of their gaping mouths. In the middle, pomegranate bushes lifted their creamy and scarlet blossoms to the full torridity of midday. A weight of heat, a brooding stillness, filled the place with a heavy peace.

  ‘I have a great vision for this part,’ Paolo told her as he moved towards one of the white marble columns in the shade of a horseshoe arch. He leaned against it, gazing dreamily out at the peaceful scene. Flicking his lighter, he lit a cigarette and then blew out the flame before inhaling deeply. ‘For me, this is the home of djinns and wizards: the enchanted pavilion of Scheherazade. Have you visited the Alhambra in Granada?’

  ‘Yes, many times – Granada is one of my favourite holiday destinations. I must have a bunch of this,’ she said as she went to pick some of the jasmine. ‘Jasmine and orange blossom were the two scents I loved best in Spain.’

  ‘Jasmine is an emblem of sorrow, cara. You had better choose orange blossom,’ he answered, smiling ruefully. ‘I have plenty growing in the garden at Miraggio. I’ll pick you some when we get back to the house.’

  ‘I never knew that jasmine was associated with grief.’

  ‘Yes, according to an Oriental legend.’

  Venetia burst out laughing. ‘Another one of your legends, Paolo! You’re incorrigible. How do you remember them all?’

  He shrugged and laughed as well, though a tinge of bitterness had crept into his eyes. ‘I read a lot – I guess I’m a storybook person.’

  ‘Tell me the legend.’

  He raked long fingers through his hair. ‘You really want me to tell you the legend? It’s rather sad.’

  ‘Of course! I love the way you always pull these tales out of a hat. Besides, I’ve always liked stories. I had a Scottish nanny who used to tell me the most incredible fairytales. She would call me her little princess and for a long time I really fancied myself as a fairytale princess – I suppose some of Nanny Horren’s romantic notions rubbed off on me.’

  He nodded his head. ‘Very well then. Once upon a time, there was a princess who was in love with the Sun, but failed to win his heart, so she committed suicide. From her ashes rose the Jasmine Tree – the type that you see here. And because her love had been unrequited and she could no longer stand the sight of the Sun, she only bloomed at night and shed all her flowers before the Sun rose. That’s why this special strain of jasmine is called Night Jasmine.’

  ‘Indeed, it’s a very sad story, but nevertheless very touching.’

  Paolo regarded Venetia steadily, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘That’s why I think the rarest, most vital moments are those lived at the highest pitch of being and are of greater worth than a drawn-out fulfillment of another kind.’ He paused briefly and then asked, ‘Do you think someone could commit suicide out of love?’

  His question took her by surprise. ‘How should I know?’ she tossed out on the spur of the moment, ‘I’ve never been there.’ She felt the little vein beat in her throat, which was always a telltale sign when she was uncomfortable.

  Paolo came towards Venetia and, seizing her chin gently in between his thumb and forefinger, tilted it up to meet his steady gaze. ‘Why do you lie to me, cara?’

  She swallowed a retort, and tried to keep calm. ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I can tell by this tiny blue vein that is beating much too quickly at the base of your throat, just there,’ he said, reaching down and stroking the pulsing nerve with the same finger, then slowly removing his hand.

  Venetia coloured and put her hand to her throat, trying to ignore the dangerous heat shooting down between her legs at his touch. She let out her breath, realising she had been holding it in. ‘You noticed it?’

  ‘I notice everything about you, cara.’

  His face was still so close and she looked at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Men are not usually aware of little details.’

  ‘I’m an unusual man – you must have realised that.’ Paolo’s face was serious, his eyes impenetrable, although perhaps there was a questioning in their depths.

  Words deserted Venetia for a few seconds as her gaze locked with his, finding it increasingly difficult to sustain their penetration. He seemed to be stripping away her shallow defences. The warmth of his touch was invading her, making her feel weak and vulnerable, her limbs turning to water. She felt a sudden fear – he was so adept at reading her – what if, looking into her eyes, he was able to see more than she was prepared to divulge? Already she had given him proof of her wantonness once today.

  ‘Why should I give you details about my life? You have hardly told me anything about yours,’ she retorted, pulling away from his grasp.

  Paolo’s mouth quirked up as if he was trying to suppress a smile. ‘Maybe that’s because I think that you already disapprove of me enough.’

  ‘It’s not my business to disapprove of important clients.’

  His amusement seemed to deepen. He looked mischievous. ‘Dio mio, che disastro, cara. Vedo che dovrò lavorare sodo per redimermi. My God, that sounds bad. I see that I’ll have to work harder to redeem myself.’

  Paolo’s lighthearted tone exasperated her. Surely he was mocking her? She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent little gesture. ‘We’d better have a look at the chapel,’ she said coolly, hoping to sound dignified and remote.

  He grinned and saluted her. ‘At your orders, Captain!’ His hand reached out in an attempt to take her arm, but Venetia avoided it. ‘No?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She was tempted to respond to the compelling sparkle of fun in his eyes, but instead she shrugged again without answering.

  ‘What’s wrong, Venetia? What have I done this time? Is there no way I can please you?’ His tone was still light, but there was a hint of annoyance there.

  Suddenly he looked tired and drawn, sadness clouding his deep-blue eyes, and Venetia fought the twinge of compassion that twisted her heart. She didn’t want to feel any sympathy for this man, whom she was finding increasingly irresistible. The emotional havoc he was creating was making her act like a spoilt and unbalanced teenager. She didn’t like how she sounded and she liked even less the way she felt. Still, she gave him a wan smile.

  ‘Sorry, I know I sound horribly ungracious,’ she said, a little unsteadily. ‘It must be the heat that’s making me fractious.’

  ‘You’re tired, cara, but you still want to go on?’

  ‘Yes, please, if we’re going to discuss the project on plans later, I need to at least have an idea of the work I’m going to be involved in.’

  Paolo winked at her. ‘It’s your English upbringing that speaks here – never give in to weakness, eh? What do they call it… Stiff?’

  ‘Stiff upper lip,’ she laughed, and the coldness she had been at pains to show him abruptly vanished.

  ‘So let’s go and discover this deteriorating jewel which you will turn into a fabulous treasure. I have not been to see it since the auction.’

  Through a somewhat ruined gate at the side of the villa, they entered a walled courtyard. It was a great neglected space, overgrown with lanky weeds, its irregular ground covered with stones and bushes. In front of them was the c
hapel, which, from close up now, looked much bigger than Venetia had thought. The entrance, locked by a tall and handsome carved door, needed extensive restoration; it had lost its original lustre and there were deep cracks in the wood. Venetia didn’t think it was restorable. Pity it had to be replaced – the workmanship was of a class that was difficult to find in this modern age, where machines had taken over man’s skilled work.

  Paolo produced a large wrought-iron key that was also very fine, and unlocked the door. ‘You’ll see that the chapel is still in quite good order in comparison with the rest of the place, probably because it has been kept locked all these years.’

  Indeed, the chapel was a jewel. It was almost intact except for the impressive mosaic murals that adorned its walls and the statues of saints placed on pedestals high above Paolo’s and Venetia’s heads, with painted and lavishly decorated robes that had faded with time.

  The sun that shone with broad, warm midday beams through the richly coloured windows tinged the marble colonnades with an effective glow, half illuminating them, drawing lines over the marble floor, and giving grotesque effects of light and shade, and mystery to corners full of soft tones and shifting colours.

  ‘It’s a rare treasure you’ve found here, Paolo. I’m surprised the Government put it to auction and didn’t turn it into some sort of monument open to the public.’

  ‘In my opinion, it’s too bitty and too untidy for it to be of interest as a historic site. Still, it’s the exact project I needed. My friend Umberto is the one who heard about it and tipped me off. He, of course, moves in the right circles and is very influential. He’s a great networker – I think he pulled a good many strings. I owe him.’

  Venetia felt the blood rise to her face. She was so angry she almost blurted out, he’s not your friend but a deceitful and treacherous bastard, but it was not her place to interfere in Paolo’s life. She was here on a job, she reminded herself, and that was all.

  ‘You look angry, cara.’ Paolo interrupted her thoughts. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

  Venetia placed her hand on his arm, and stared up at him in earnest. She had to say something; she couldn’t just leave it at that. ‘“A man is his own easiest dupe, for what he wishes to be true he generally believes to be true.” Not my words – Demosthenes.’

  ‘Why do you say that – you don’t like the Count?’

  ‘No.’

  Paolo glanced sideways at her. ‘Yet I know that he’s very taken with you!’

  ‘That really doesn’t make a difference,’ she retorted a little too quickly.

  ‘He’s been discourteous towards you?’

  Venetia flushed self-consciously. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about it.’

  Paolo laughed. ‘He can be very enterprising with women sometimes, and I have yet to meet a woman who complained about Umberto’s boldness.’

  ‘Well, to take your lead, let’s say that I’m an unusual woman.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ The blue eyes held mild amusement. ‘Still, I’m very pleased to hear that you haven’t succumbed to Umberto’s famous charm. On the whole, people – men and women – find him irresistible.’

  Bully for them, Venetia thought, but refrained from speaking her mind further.

  ‘One day you will open your heart to me, cara?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Chi lo sa, who knows!’ she said lightly, suddenly feeling frivolous. ‘And now that I’ve seen the chapel, you can take me to lunch – I’m starving.’

  ‘Excellent idea, carrissima. Andiamo!’ Paolo gave a cheerful smile, tucking his arm through hers. Deciding to go along with his mood, Venetia allowed him to do so.

  Chapter 8

  Paolo took Venetia to lunch at a small restaurant in a picturesque resort village called Baia Delle Onde Mormoranti, along the coast outside Porto Santo Stefano. Notched into the rocks, its curiously shaped houses leaning together stood at the head of a little creek filled with sailing and fishing boats, all of which blended perfectly together with the low rocks, the vineyards, olive groves and the pine trees on the headlands.

  La Mezza Luna was a tiny restaurant of whitewashed stone and red tiles set on the pale gold sandy beach, surrounded by palm trees and overlooking water that glittered in the sunshine like wet cobalt paint. A lean-to loggia adjoined the building, with a bamboo matting roof providing shade from the hot afternoon sun. Grape vines were trained from large earthenware pots up each corner post, their green tendrils reaching through the bamboo, and eight tables with green checked tablecloths and bamboo armchairs with round green cushions stood underneath.

  The friendly owner, who to Venetia looked as if he had stepped out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, greeted Paolo effusively. It was almost three o’clock and most of the customers had gone, but he assured them that there would be no problem conjuring up one of his specialities for the pretty signorina and for his friend, Paolo.

  ‘Just settle yourselves at a table and pronto, I will bring you some antipasti and a bottle of vino Ernestinato, our very special house wine, while you wait for your lunch.’

  They sat down at one of the little tables overlooking the bay, its deeply etched coves rimmed by sheer cliffs. Far off, lay the harbour of Porto Santo Stefano bathed in syrupy golden light with hundreds of sailboats dozing in their slips under the luminous blue Tuscan sky.

  Venetia wrinkled her nose slightly and smiled. ‘How do you dig out these quaint places?’ she asked Paolo once the restaurateur had disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

  Paolo grinned. ‘Simple – I like to eat well. Do you cook, Venetia?’ He made the question sound somehow intimate in a way she found confusing. Sitting to the side of her, rather than opposite, his nearness was disarming.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t have the opportunity to do much cooking nowadays. I live alone and I usually grab something to eat in town before going home in the evenings, or I go out for dinner with friends.’ She always filled her life with work and nearly said so, but now it felt uncomfortable to admit it.

  He gave her a quizzical look, as though he was going to ask a question, but the owner of La Mezza Luna was already coming back with a bottle of wine, a bottle of sparkling water, a loaf of ciabatta bread and a delicious-looking plate of what he announced to Venetia as Caponata a la Siciliana.

  ‘É completamente diversa da qualsiasi altra caponata servita in Italia, it is completely different from any other caponata served in Italy. It is the king of caponata, the original Sicilian recipe which was handed down from my great-grandmother.’

  ‘Mario is from Sicily – most of the dishes he serves here are Sicilian dishes that you won’t find in Northern Italy,’ Paolo explained.

  Venetia’s interest was piqued. ‘I’ve had caponata in Venice and in Florence. How does this one differ from the others?’

  ‘In addition to the aubergine, the capers, the olives, raisins, tomatoes, onions and pine nuts, my great-grandmother’s recipe includes octopus, shrimp and grated tuna roe,’ Mario answered, smiling proudly. ‘It is a more, come si dice… aristocratic version of the dish.’

  Venetia had great difficulty in keeping a straight face. ‘It really sounds very original.’

  Mario poured Venetia a glass of wine with a quick flourish. ‘And for you, Paolo, a glass of sparkling water, as usual?’

  Paolo flicked a glance at him. ‘Yes, yes, I’m driving.’

  As usual. Venetia noted the two words, and she had the sudden impression that Paolo seemed a little uneasy now. This must be one of his special rendezvous haunts. Who did he bring here – his Venetian girlfriends, Allegra? In her mind’s eye she saw the young woman as she had espied her the night before, clad in a bright-red satin nightdress. Painfully aware that she had no right to be jealous, she hadn’t the shadow of a doubt that the Italian beauty had been on her way to meet Paolo at the house. However unreasonable it seemed, the thought of h
im with another woman suddenly made her feel ill. Still, she mustn’t dwell on that now, she told herself. She should make the most of this beautiful afternoon.

  ‘I will go and prepare you the arancini. You will not get it in any other restaurant in the North.’ Mario placed the bottles neatly in the centre of the table. ‘The Italians consider arancini a street food, but it’s a national Sicilian emblem, veramente deliziosi! I promise that you will not be disappointed.’ And with that he swivelled on his heel and hurried back to the kitchen.

  ‘Mario comes from an old family of Sicilian fishermen.’ Paolo broke off a piece of ciabatta. ‘He spends eight months of the year down here, but goes back to Sicily for the winter. His daughter and her husband run a trattoria there, which is just as successful as La Mezza Luna and has the same name. You would never think that his daughter is Sicilian – she’s as blonde as he is dark, with pale blue eyes. She must have taken the colouring of her Norman ancestors.’

  Was Mario’s daughter another of Paolo’s conquests? Venetia’s heart squeezed unreasonably again. Don’t be ridiculous, she chastised herself: just because Paolo had remarked that the woman was blonde and blue-eyed didn’t mean that he had carried on an affair with her. And even if he has… since when do you stoop to such lowly emotions? Are you so insecure? She had no right to any personal interest in Paolo, she reminded herself.

  Paolo spread some caponata on a slice of ciabatta and offered it to Venetia. ‘Taste this and take a sip of Mario’s very special vino Ernestinato. According to Mario, his rosé would warm the heart of a statue.’

  ‘What am I supposed to glean from that remark?’ Venetia blurted out the question without thinking and was suddenly aware that she was being too touchy and that Paolo’s statement contained nothing personal. She wished she could eat her words but it was too late; she had just invited intimate comments, and Paolo didn’t disappoint.