by David Hewson
“She plays those notes, Laura, and thinks they’re mine. It’s the music she wants, or the mind behind it. Not me.”
The sound ended downstairs, then was replaced by a slower song. They made small, random movements around the floor.
“I don’t believe that for one moment. Though you deserve as much. I warned you all about this deception and got bawled out by Scacchi for my pains.”
“He was thinking of you, Laura,” Daniel answered, treading carefully. “I believe you’re the dearest thing to him, dearer even than Paul.”
Her eyes darkened. “If that’s so, why has he kept secrets from me? No. I must not complain. Tomorrow, he says, we will speak frankly.”
“Good...” He decided to change the subject, boldly and abruptly. “How old are you? If I may ask.”
Her eyes sparked, out of surprise, not anger. “I’m not yet thirty, and shall remain so for many a year.”
“Oh.”
She waited, until it was plain that he would go no further. “Daniel. When a man asks that question of a woman, it’s customary he makes some comment in return, not stay as silent as the grave.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-four.”
“Liar!”
“No. I mean it. Sometimes you don’t, anyway. At other times . . .”
“What? Forty? Fifty? The measure of your compliment is diminishing by the second!”
“I didn’t mean it to. I think, in all honesty, Laura, that you’re a chameleon. You take the shape that suits you, be it maid or cook, elder sister or . . .” He checked himself. “I would never put you at forty, not even when you’re determined to be your dowdiest. Thirty-five at the most.”
She held her delicate nose in the air, as if sniffing something bad. “I have never, Daniel Forster, danced before with a man who has called me dowdy. Least of all one who comes caked in lagoon mud with the stink of bisato crudo upon his breath.”
The urge to kiss her was growing wildly at the back of his imagination. Somewhere deep in his head, he could picture them already, as if he could separate his mind from his body and become a camera on the wall, next to the small picture of the Virgin and Child hung above the microwave. Downstairs, the music stopped. Daniel and Laura came to a halt, still clinging loosely to each other.
“But to return to my former point,” he continued briskly. “Amy’s determined. If she doesn’t have me, she’ll have someone.”
“Ah. I understand. This is Venice as the ‘city of romance’? A wonderful cliché. The Americans fall for it all the time. ’Ave a nice lay!”
They laughed, and he believed that she held him just a little more tightly.
“It’s obligatory to fall in love when one visits Venice,” Laura continued. “You foreigners have believed as much ever since you invented that thing called the ‘Grand Tour.’ ”
“I know,” he replied absently, lost in deliberation.
“Ah. I see. You’re pensive. You’re thinking: Who’s this woman servant to speak of such things? What would the likes of her know of the ‘Grand Tour’?”
Daniel felt as if he were standing on the edge of some tall cliff, staring down at the perfect blue ocean, wondering whether to leap. He moved his hand from her shoulder, slowly, gently pushed back the chestnut hair from her neck and touched the soft, warm flesh there. She froze. The room seemed so full of silence he could hear both their hearts beating.
“No,” he replied. “I was thinking that at the heart of all clichés there must lie some truth; otherwise, they wouldn’t be clichés at all. That one may fall in love here. And that I have.”
Laura’s head fell forward until she stared, silently, at his chest. He moved his fingers slowly to her cheek and ran the side of his thumb upwards, to the corner of her hidden eye. A tiny drop of moisture met him there. As if embarrassed by its presence, his hand moved on and found her hair, which slipped between his fingers like silk.
“Daniel.” Her voice was low and without emotion. He wished he could see more of her face. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t invite you here for this reason. Nothing was further from my thoughts.”
“I know,” he said, and, as tenderly as he knew how, kissed the curve of her cheek, tasted the single salt tear there, heard the slow intake of her breath.
“I’m happy alone,” she announced with some finality.
“As was I.”
He danced his fingers lightly across her cheek, amazed by the softness of her skin. Laura’s face came up to look into his. There was something akin to fear in her eyes.
“This can’t possibly be right.”
“I agree. Probably not.”
She smiled at him, and he was overwhelmed by her beauty. “What has come over you, Daniel?”
“Determination,” he replied. “And wasn’t it you who said I was here with a purpose? To save you.”
“I have no need of being saved! I . . .”
He bent down, and, with the precise, steady motion of a clockwork mechanism, their mouths met. His hands fell around her back, felt the taut, perfect curves of her hips. She touched his waist, reached down, slowly withdrew his grubby shirt from under his belt, and placed her palm on the warmth of his pale body.
They paused to look at each other, keenly aware that there was time for turning back. Her mouth was half-open; her eyes never left his.
Daniel reached forward and unfastened the top button of her white nylon housecoat, then methodically worked on those below. The front fell open. She shrugged the clothing off her shoulders and stood there, the perfect bleached underwear making a strange contrast with her flawless, tanned skin.
“It’s been a long time, Daniel,” she said. “I’m frightened.”
“We’ve been waiting for each other, Laura. Can’t you feel as much?”
She said nothing. He persisted. “You do believe that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” She moved her palm upon his chest, feeling the beating of his heart. “The other night I had a dream. I was back on the boat, outside Ca’ Dario.”
“And?”
“When I looked up at that window, Daniel. I saw that man again and it was you. In agony. With your hands covered in blood. Screaming.”
“Then we both dream of each other, Laura.”
The corners of her mouth turned upwards. There was a hint of yearning in her face. She picked at the shoulder of his shirt, removing a small clump of grass and mud.
“I would like to remember this night, Daniel Forster,” she announced primly. “But not for your smell. To the bathroom, dear. This instant.”
He obeyed, feeling no need to hurry. When he returned, she was in the bedroom, beneath the flowery quilt. The room was illuminated by the single lamp. He slipped naked into the bed and was immediately in her arms.
“I’m not an . . . expert,” he whispered.
“And you think, because I am older, I am?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”
She rolled above him, holding his face in her hands. “Remember me, Daniel,” she said.
“Of course! I . . .”
She placed her fingers over his mouth and reached down with her free hand, moving with a certain intent which would in any case have silenced him. Delicately she poised herself over him, searching for the correct arrangement of their bodies, then lowered herself slowly. The metal springs of the cheap double bed began to sound to their mutual rhythm. Words disappeared from their heads, replaced by a more elemental conversation conducted with feverish hands and probing tongues. And after endless turns and changes, he heard the rising tone of her voice, felt himself forced to join in. In this sweet, damp delight, they lay together for an age, locked together like a single creature. Then the ardour returned and the night seemed to consist of nothing except two bodies, one pale, one darker, searching for, and finding, some nameless heaven.
He did not recall removing himself from her arms. Some inner drive told him this must not happen. That he must sleep with
her tight within his grasp, because to do otherwise would be to invite her to step outside his world and enter another where he could not follow. But it was difficult, that night, for Daniel Forster to distinguish between reality and dream. It was as if two worlds had mingled in their coupling and, with the same feverish determination, mated so perfectly that he could not detect the seam.
Then he jolted wide-awake in the clammy bed and found himself alone, head ringing with the memory of a terrible sound. The little alarm clock beneath the bedside lamp read 3:15. The noise returned, and with a growing sense of panic, Daniel recognised it. Somewhere below, Laura was screaming in utter terror.
He dashed for the sofa, dragged on his jeans, and raced downstairs, mind going black with fear.
She was in the second-floor bedroom which Scacchi and Paul shared, wearing her white housecoat again. It was covered with blood, the crimson stains running the length of the front. Her face was bloodied, too, and in her hand she held a long kitchen knife dark with gore.
Paul lay on his side on the floor. His hands were wrapped around his stomach, which was rent by a large, gaping wound. His eyes were wide-open, glassy. Scacchi sat in a chair in the corner of the room, clutching his chest, staring into nothingness.
Daniel looked at her and said, “Laura. Give me the knife. Please.”
She no longer recognised him. He watched, his mind blank with horror, as she slumped to the floor, clutching the weapon to her chest as if she would kill any man who might try to take it from her.
Outside, a distant siren wailed. Daniel stared at the weeping figure on the floor and felt his world fall apart.
37
A concert to remember
IT WAS A FINE AFTERNOON. A FAINT WIND BLEW FROM the northeast across an empty lagoon, and so the air upon the promenade was as sweet as any Venetian might expect of a summer day. Whoever took the proceeds of the gate—Delapole, in the main, I gather—must have been delighted indeed. Every one of La Pietà’s four hundred seats was sold. The tall double doors to the church had been thrown open to entertain those who could not find, or afford, a ticket. The orchestra sat far back behind its shutters, and the airy interior swallowed up most of the sound they made. Still, this was about more than music. The prospect of a new master in the city seemed appropriate to the local mood. The Republic’s fortunes may be on the wane, as Rousseau once warned us. Beneath this manifest grandeur, it is not hard to see the presentiments of decay, like marks on the face of a beauty just passing her prime. The city cries out for genius and hopes the mysterious composer will provide it.
We were late, and that because of the most extraordinary argument between Leo and Delapole. The Englishman, with Gobbo in tow, arrived at Ca’ Scacchi just before noon, smiling at first, making pleasant enquiries about the arrangements Leo and Vivaldi had made for the afternoon. My uncle answered politely, if with little grace. He has, I think, difficulty in maintaining good relations with those who sponsor him. While he desires their money, he hates them for making him so dependent upon their favours. This is a circle Leo may never be able to square, I think, as he knows full well himself, and that makes him madder still.
So, when Delapole asked for copies of the various musical parts, Leo took pleasure in being able to smile for the first time during this interview and shake his head firmly. “No, sir. That I cannot do.”
“Why not?” asked Delapole. “It’s my money that paid for it.”
“Of course,” Leo agreed. “And most grateful we are for that, though I think you will more than recoup your investment from the admissions. But this music is not mine to give. It belongs to its creator, who entrusted its care to me. Until I have some instructions from him, it shall remain in my custody, not hawked around the streets like penny gossip sheets.”
Delapole’s face, normally the picture of English restraint, flushed bright red with fury. “This is ridiculous, man. I am the fellow’s patron. I deserve a little for that, surely.”
“If he so decides,” Leo replied with a wry smile. “It is quite out of my hands.”
“Then what will happen to the musicians’ parts once the concert is over?” Delapole demanded. “You will surely let me have one of them.”
“To be burnt, sir,” Leo announced in triumph. “Every last one, and the plates too. As a publisher of repute...”
Gobbo coughed very purposefully at this point, and I admit I had trouble keeping a straight face. It was clear that Leo was being intentionally annoying while also creating further work for himself in the future, when the music would have to be copied, set, and printed once again.
“. . . it is my duty to protect the rights of those who choose me as their conduit to the public at large. Should our maestro so decide, I will print this music by the million and hand it out to beggars on the street. But until I have instructions...”
“I have scarcely heard such nonsense, Scacchi. If you burn these parts, then what remains of the work?”
“Why, the original, sir. Nothing more, since I doubt a genius who chooses to keep himself anonymous has sent his manuscript out for copying himself.”
“And where is that now, precisely?”
Oh, how Leo loved this. “In my safekeeping, of course. Where none may find it.”
Delapole picked up his walking stick, a fine wooden one with an ivory head, and banged it on the table in our modest office. I rather think he would have liked to hammer it on Leo’s skull and frankly couldn’t blame him. Delapole is a generous man—as Rebecca already knows. It would cost nothing, and break no great rule, to let him have some paper for his scrapbook. “You play games with me, Scacchi, as if I am some London popinjay. You mistake me greatly.”
Leo opened his arms wide and extended his palms as if to say But what else may I do? “Come,” he urged us. “We will be late for this momentous occasion, Mr. Delapole. Let us bask in this unmerited glory and see what news ensues. This work is no succès d’estime, I assure you. It will please the cognoscenti and the masses too. Once that becomes apparent, our mysterious musician will surely want the world to know his name, and pay you due homage when he does.”
“Harrumph.”
The English make that noise sometimes. Most puzzling. Delapole’s temper was receding. I suspect he felt more hurt than offended. The rich do not like being gulled. Leo would do well to watch his step.
So we walked to Delapole’s gondola and edged our way through the fleet of vessels on the canal, past St. Mark’s, then on to dock at the jetty outside La Pietà. Venice was in a festive mood. A little stage troupe had set up a makeshift platform some way down from the church steps and upon it played the usual cast of brightly coloured characters: Scaramouche and Pantaloon, Punchinello and Harlequin. Harmless, ribald fun for the masses who milled around the waterfront. Here was a seller of sweetmeats, here a fortune-teller. Boats of all kinds thronged the lagoon, fighting for somewhere to disgorge ever more souls onto the seething pavement. Young and old, rich and poor, crooked and honest, comely and hideous, Venice was on show for the world to see, in all its colours: the vermilion of fine silk dresses, the coarse grey weave of a sailor’s jerkin, black and white in the Harlequin’s blouse, a pigment like the yellow gold of the sun in the tresses of the gaudy street women working their trade beneath the Doge’s long, thin nose.
I confess I smiled at this. To think that Rebecca had prompted such commotion. If only they knew... Then Leo pushed his way through the throng, crying, “Ladies, gentlemen! The Englishman Delapole, who favours us with the means to hear this wonder, would kindly have you let him pass and reach his seat.”
That put up a hearty murmuring in the masses. “Aye, these English aren’t so bad.” “A gentleman, no doubt, to grace us with this debut here when he might so easily have thought of his countrymen’s ears.” “Three cheers for Delapole, I say! Hurrah for our English benefactor!”
This last, of course, came from Gobbo himself, fetching up the rear. Soon the hurly-burly was full of applause and commendations.
Delapole’s pale, handsome face rose above it all, beaming with pride. Hands were thrust through the pack to pat him on the shoulder, hats waved, carnations flew through the air. Then he waved a handkerchief at them, muttering the words we’ve come to expect of the English, “Jolly good! Too kind! Oh, really, too kind!”
Leo was right. All it took was a little adulation, and his resentment was gone. We pushed through the doors and found ourselves in the nave, where the audience was already seated, every head turned to mark our arrival. The players no longer sat behind screens. They were on the low marble platform in front of the altar, the very picture of a small chamber orchestra, dressed uniformly in black, arranged in a gentle arc. They sat meekly, looking very young. Rebecca was in their centre, the focus of everyone’s gaze. My heart leapt inside my chest. We make ourselves conspicuous; we court disaster. This game now lurches beyond our control.
Vivaldi was in front of the players, naturally, baton in hand, turned to the audience, his grey face quite expressionless.
“See,” Leo whispered to us. “So great is this work that Vivaldi himself feels jealous. He puts the players on show in order that their beauty might distract us from the notes.”
Delapole waved to the pews at the front which had been reserved for us. “Enough talking, sir,” he said in a loud voice so that all might hear. “Let us take our seats so that Venice may judge whether we waste her time or not.”
A low swell of applause ran through the audience as we walked forward. I sat at the end of the pew, next to Gobbo, and tried not to look at Rebecca. She seemed entirely absorbed by the event and I think failed to notice me at all. Perhaps this was deliberate. This was not the Rebecca I knew. Her hair had been brushed so that it might appear as straight as possible, then tied back behind her head. There was a patch of rouge on each cheek. She looked, for all the world, like any mute, obedient player from a provincial orchestra. I puzzled for a moment, then understood. She would never have taken this risk had she known Vivaldi would parade the orchestra to the world with her as its point of focus, as the soloist. She had come expecting to play behind shutters, then, when forced to perform so publicly, made this effort to disguise herself to avoid the awkward questions that might follow her detection. Yet there was not a scintilla of nervousness in her demeanour.