Suddenly, a gorilla of a man appeared from the car park outside the nightclub. Venetia recognised him as Umberto’s burly bodyguard. He was rushing straight at Paolo, carrying a huge crowbar.
‘Paolo, careful! Behind you!’ Venetia shouted, totally beside herself with fear. I must call the police, she thought, panicking, wondering if she should run back into the nightclub to ask for help.
At Venetia’s cry Paolo turned, still fully on the alert, dodging quickly towards his attacker and, grasping the crowbar with both hands in a straddle-leg stance, he delivered a hard front kick to the heavy man’s stomach, winding him.
By this time Umberto had recovered from the jolt and was swinging a punch at Paolo, who rocked backwards. Then, leaning forward, he put out one foot and with his arm forced the unbalanced Count to trip over his leg and sprawl face down in the gravel.
The gorilla looked stunned and then launched himself at Paolo again, coming in with a quick, springing lunge, bunched fists at the ready. Again, Paolo was already in position, and seemed to barely move. Harnessing the bodyguard’s momentum, his instinct took over and he grasped a flailing fist and turned with one of the man’s arms over his shoulder. It looked as if he intended to throw the gorilla. Sure enough, Venetia heard the crack of bone as the heavy weight fell to the ground, where the man curled up, nursing his broken arm in agony.
Venetia blinked at the move, which was almost graceful and clearly instinctive for Paolo. He had defended himself with an agility and speed that was surprising in such a big man. His two attackers were sprawled on the ground whereas he had barely a scratch. She rushed towards him amid the distant sirens of police cars.
Paolo gazed at Venetia, his eyes empty, without emotion. ‘Go back to the hotel,’ he said calmly, gesturing her quickly away. ‘I’ll deal with this mess.’
Chapter 11
It was almost eight o’clock in the morning when Paolo headed back to the hotel, having given his statement at the police station. Some tourist onlookers had witnessed the fight and had been able to confirm that it was Umberto and his henchman who had assaulted him and landed the first blow. The Count and his gorilla bodyguard had been taken to hospital, Umberto with a bloody nose and a couple of loose teeth, and the muscleman with a broken arm.
Still, Paolo had been kept in a stuffy room without windows for over an hour, waiting. He’d smoked almost half a packet of cigarettes. He shuddered. For some reason, that small room had made him very uncomfortable, almost afraid – a sort of claustrophobia bordering on panic. Something new in the dark abyss of his mind stirred. Memories seemed to hover at the edge of it; they were almost palpable, as it is when one is groping for a word and it’s almost there, quivering on the tip of the tongue. But there was a block, as if his brain refused to move on, and he met with a void, the usual black hole that infested his universe. What had the Count called him: mutilato? Yes, his mind was mutilated… he was a man with most of his life missing, living in shadows that tormented him – now more than ever.
The policia had interrogated him as if he’d been a criminal. Nothing better to do, he thought bitterly. They said it was because the gorilla had pressed charges against him. ‘Routine check-up’ was their excuse, just to find out if he had a record. He was thankful that he’d sent Venetia back to the hotel. He didn’t want her mixed up in all this, although Umberto had done his best to implicate her – giving her name and her address in Venice as he didn’t know where she was staying. The police tried to extract her whereabouts from Paolo, but he insisted she had nothing to do with the incident.
He’d still be there, he supposed, if it hadn’t been for the middle-aged Italian couple and another man, an Englishman apparently, who had given their versions of the events which corresponded to his statement. It was a good thing he’d had his identity card with him, which clearly hadn’t been the case with Umberto. Paolo always carried around his identity papers; it was a habit he’d acquired since his amnesia. Just in case.
Umberto… Paolo had thought il Conte had been more than just a ‘partner in crime’ on nights out in Venice. He assumed he’d been a friend. Just another mirage, he thought bitterly, though he couldn’t blame the Count for being driven to such lengths for Venetia. She was a woman who could drive any man insane for love.
The glare of the morning was mellow, a sort of rich, golden light. Overhead, a flock of white doves wheeled and dipped in the magical radiance. Paolo walked along the narrow twisting street with the swift stride of nervous fatigue, lost in thought, still a little dazed. It was strange how the brain and the body functioned. His amnesia had obviously not affected his reflexes – the years of martial arts training hadn’t been lost after all. Paolo smiled ruefully. There was a moment during the fight with il Conte and his henchman when memories again began to push themselves forward. What was happening to him? He was aware of a new pain gathering and trembling at the surface, but it had no sharpness. It was more like a heavy ache, dragging not so much at his body as his inner self.
Paolo could not describe, even to himself, the tension he felt. There was a throbbing between his eyes. It was as if something were pushing upwards underneath his skull, a grumbling volcano about to erupt. He would never be right again… this was worse than he had ever felt. His anxiety increased to sudden gigantic proportions, pressing down on him like an overwhelming burden he would never be able to discard. And then, abruptly, tears were running down his cheeks, silent floods which he tried to swallow back but they wouldn’t stop, blinding him as he half staggered up the hill.
Shocked and ashamed at his loss of control, he dragged an arm across his face. Why was he crying? He hadn’t shed a single tear since he had woken up all those years ago with an unpleasant taste in his mouth, the suggestion of a headache, and a dreamy sense of having been asleep for a long, long time. Gradually, his eyes had taken stock of the hospital room with its antiseptic white walls and then he’d discovered with a scrambling horror that they reflected the white, blank sheet that was his past life, and that even his name eluded him. Paolo’s thoughts raced to and fro in confusion. Was this sudden incontrollable flood of emotion caused by frustration or merely a reaction to something that ran much deeper; something he’d forgotten, that had been buried in the dark well of memories?
His forehead was pulsing. Too much had happened in the past few weeks and he hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours… perhaps that was now taking its toll. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, which he then drew through his hair; he couldn’t go back to the hotel, to Venetia, while he was in this state. Whatever the reason for this sudden outpour, he had to pull himself together. The thought of Venetia soothed him. He paused by a low stony wall to calm himself, turning his attention to the sea.
Paolo lit a cigarette and stood with one foot on the stones, gazing up at the scintillating reach of the Tyrrhenian. It was a brisk and stimulating scene under the wide sky: the ocean surrounded by a tumble of rocks which rose to a height of two hundred feet or so, with huge gulls circling above it and perched in the high outcrop. Those fat ugly birds looked to him like the genii of the island and their loud cries sounded like ironic laughter. Paolo smiled to himself as he wondered what Venetia would say if he told her of his fanciful musings. No doubt, she would ask for a story. There ought to be a legend about those wretched feathered creatures that plagued the area. Well, his wild imagination, he supposed, always seeking out the stories behind things, compensated for a lack of memories.
A dozen or more small white steamers were tied up on the flat shore, their various destinations scrawled on blackboards attached to high posts dug into the sand. Fishing boats were also there and huge baskets of fish were being carried ashore. Out at sea, sailing craft tacked to and fro; everything sparkled, and was whipped about in the bracing sea breeze. Paolo took one last look, deeply breathed in the briny air and set off up the hill again to the hotel.
He discarded his cigarette, st
ubbing it out it under his shoe and pulled out his phone to call Venetia. As he lifted his head, he saw the dark-haired figure of a young woman flit across the road ahead of him. She glanced back and caught sight of him, then bolted down a side street. There was no mistaking her. Paolo shoved his phone back into his pocket and broke into a run. She darted into a blind alley and when she realised that she was trapped, spun around to face her pursuer, her back pressed against a large wooden door.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Allegra?’ Paolo shouted as he strode towards her. The young woman gripped her shawl tightly against her breast and stared up at him, panic flaring in her eyes.
‘She’s not right for you, Paolo,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What are you talking about? How did you get here?’ he snapped.
Allegra pulled herself up straighter and her expression became more defiant.
‘Who do you think told il Conte where to find you?’ she sneered. ‘I went through your desk and found your airline tickets. Umberto Palermi was very grateful for the information. Very grateful indeed.’ Her eyes flashed mockingly.
‘What do you mean?
‘Do you think that just because you don’t want me, other men don’t either?’
‘What have you done, Allegra?’ His voice was a low growl.
She threw her head back and laughed bitterly. ‘What I have I done? I’ve done nothing except take what I needed from that preening cafone. Uno sciocco ed il suo denaro son presto separati, a fool and his money are soon parted. His eyes were falling out of his head when he first saw me with you in Venice. All men are the same – weak and stupid! I knew what he wanted and it was easy to give it to him. In return, he reimbursed me very handsomely for my “services”. And he bought me nice things, of course. It was also convenient that he could keep an eye on you for me with your little jaunts to Venice.’
‘You would sell yourself to Umberto Palermi for money?’ Paolo ran his hand through his hair. ‘So it wasn’t just idle gossip – the men you’ve been seen with.’ He shook his head. ‘Allegra…’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Paolo. I don’t want your pity,’ she spat. ‘You never gave me what I needed, so I found it elsewhere.’
‘I gave you the love of a father.’
‘I don’t need a father! You betrayed me… with that English puttana.’ Allegra flung out her hand in contempt. ‘I decided I wasn’t going to leave it to il Conte to confront you, so I took the car he gave me and came here alone. I followed you from the airport. I saw you and her…’ Her face contorted with rage. ‘It was disgusting, how could you?’
‘You followed us? You spied on Venetia and me?’ A terrible realisation was dawning.
‘It should have been me you were making love to, not that whore,’ she hissed.
Paolo’s face was ashen. ‘It was you who sabotaged the brakes, wasn’t it?’ But Allegra wasn’t listening.
‘I’d never seen you like that. So… happy,’ she looked at him with a mixture of despair and fury in her eyes. ‘Why couldn’t you have just left things the way they were? I would have cared for you, Paolo, for the rest of our lives.’ Her hand went up to his face, trembling, but he jerked his head away.
‘I’ve told you before, I’m in love with Venetia. There is nothing between you and me – never has been!’
‘Don’t you see? I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let you be with her,’ she said, her voice rising hysterically.
‘And so you wanted to kill us both?’ His eyes were incredulous.
‘I love you, Paolo. We were meant to be together. If I can’t have you then no one will. And certainly not that puttana!’ She had a wild look about her now that made Paolo step back from her, gaping in angry disbelief.
‘This isn’t love.’ Pity had given way to cold animosity now, which flashed across his face. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re deranged… I cared about you, Allegra. I trusted you. But I must have failed you somehow to make you this damaged. I should have you placed behind bars, if not a prison, then a madhouse!’
‘You have no proof.’ She smiled menacingly.
‘No, I have no proof.’ He turned on her. ‘You can keep the house in Porto Ercole but I never want to set eyes on you again. If I do, or if your path ever crosses Venetia’s, if you even set foot in the same city, then it’s all gone, and I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you understand?’ His voice was a cold snarl.
Allegra started to say something but paused. She narrowed her eyes, which were now empty and blacker than he’d ever seen them. The girl knew she was beaten. Edging past him, she stumbled and ran. He watched her disappear round the corner and only then did he realise that his fists had been clenched.
Suddenly he felt a crushing weariness and for a moment he leant back against the wall. He knew that Venetia would be concerned as she hadn’t heard from him since he’d told her to leave the beach and his phone had been turned off in the police station. What was he going to say to her? His voice would probably give away that something was wrong. He paused, then decided a brief text message to tell her he was all right and would be with her soon would be best; it gave him the chance to gather himself again. Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he lit a cigarette and left the alley, making his way up the road towards the hotel.
Venetia was waiting for him on the veranda, still fully dressed, when he came into the suite. In the limpid early morning light, her face was pinched and bleak – a pixie’s face, with purple shadows under her tired eyes. As he stepped into the room, she rushed towards him, her hands outstretched.
‘I’ve been worried sick,’ she breathed as he gathered her close and kissed her.
It was hardly the kiss of a lover; at this moment he felt no stir of passion, only flooding tenderness, and a strange, sweet, unendurable pain that needed at all costs to be assuaged. Nor was her response any more passionate; she gave herself to his arms as if within them laid her refuge and her home. It was what Paolo liked about Venetia: she seemed always to be attuned to his moods and to act accordingly.
‘What happened? Did you have to go to the police station?’
He couldn’t tell her about Allegra, not now. That could wait for another time. Now he just wanted to hold her. He sighed. ‘Yes – it was a little frustrating because of the endless paperwork those bureaucrats love to shuffle around, but there was no doubt that Umberto had started the quarrel. Luckily, there had been some witnesses to the fight and they confirmed my side of the story.’
‘I can’t believe the venom of that dreadful man you call your friend!’
‘He is a man passionately in love, cara.’ He paused a moment, and frowned as if his mind was crowding with dark thoughts. But then his features softened, and he leaned forward and brushed her softly parted lips with his own. ‘Men kill for love sometimes, you know?’
Venetia calmed at his touch, but shook her head. ‘Umberto is a brute, despite his angelic good looks. You’re different – you don’t have that killer instinct. You wouldn’t hurt anyone,’ she said forcefully.
So much faith in him… it caught at his heartstrings. Paolo gave her a rueful smile. ‘Wouldn’t I?’ He couldn’t bear to lose her now. He pressed her a little closer.
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Venetia looked up at him and chuckled, ‘although I was very impressed by your fighting techniques – I didn’t know you were a Jujitsu expert.’
Paolo half smiled. He laid one hand on Venetia’s shoulder, and placing the other beneath her chin, tilted up her face. ‘Ah, but I’m an expert at many things, signorina – didn’t you know that?’
He kept the tone light, but his heart was heavy. For one endless moment he gazed down into the depths of her golden eyes with their quizzical intensity. There was still so much she didn’t know about him, so much he didn’t know about himself… Would their love survive in the loomin
g shadow of such uncertainties? Still, a life without Venetia meant a hunger unappeased, a thirst unquenched. Anything was better than that.
‘You were agile as a panther out there – it was quite something. Where did you learn to fight like that?’
Her question came to him through the haze of his thoughts.
‘Lessons, cara,’ he was quick to answer. ‘Martial arts are a very useful way to stay fit. Besides, with the amount of crime on the streets nowadays, it’s essential to know how to defend oneself.’ He raised a dark brow. ‘You yourself had a bad experience, Venetia, not so long ago.’
‘I know. And there again, you defended me with quite masterly expertise.’ She beamed at him and then thought for a moment. ‘You’re right – I should learn Jujitsu, Karate or maybe Tae Kwan-do. Will you give me lessons?’
Paolo felt the stir in his body as his imagination instantly conjured up an image of Venetia belted in a white robe, the two of them entangled on the floor… and all the other wonderful things that he could teach her which had nothing to do with martial arts, though he didn’t think she had much to learn. He gazed at her with a wicked glint in his eyes.
‘I’ll give you lessons in anything you like, cara. But first we must vacate the room, it is already nine o’clock and we must get ready to leave after breakfast for Cagliari and our villa,’ he said as he nipped her chin with his thumb and forefinger and gently uncoiled her arms, which had wound themselves about his neck.
She shot Paolo a pretend sulky look and playfully pushed him back.
‘You can use the bathroom first. In the meantime, I’ll call Zia Giovanna to tell her that you’ve asked me to marry you – she’ll be delighted.’
* * *
As Paolo disappeared into the bathroom, Venetia went to the sitting room to ring Giovanna. There was no answer at the house, or from her mobile which, unusually, went straight to voicemail. Venetia looked at her watch: it was a quarter past nine. Giovanna didn’t usually go to the office on Tuesdays. She kept that day for her personal work because at weekends she was busy, either with entertaining or going out with her husband, Ugo. She was always served breakfast in bed, where she read the papers, and seldom came down before late afternoon. And in any case, Celestina the housekeeper should have been there as it was not market day.
The Echoes of Love Page 34