'Coffee?'
She nodded.
'Julius…' Summoning up her nerve, she laid her hand on his where it rested on the table. 'I've never been given such beautiful things in my life. I… Thank you.'
'Please, it's nothing. I'm glad you like them. They…' he paused, letting his eyes rest for a moment on her neck encircled by his necklace, on her lips, then back to her eyes. 'They suit you very well.'
She smiled at the dryness of the compliment, her eyes dancing.
'And they fit,' she said teasingly. 'As you can see. They fit extremely well.' She lowered her eyes demurely. 'Everything.'
She saw his lips curve into a smile; he shrugged.
'How did you manage that?' She looked at him challengingly. 'I'm sure most men have no idea at all about sizes, and…'
'Well now.' He leaned towards her, his eyes mocking her with that lazy, effortless sensuality that so perturbed her. 'I have an excellent memory. And in the shop I went into there was an assistant of about your height…' he lowered his eyes very deliberately to her small high breasts, her tiny waist. 'And about your build. Rather an attractive girl, I thought.'
'Oh, really?' She looked at him in mock sternness, and he laughed.
'Well, no, truthfully. She was something of a dragon and at least sixty. But when I explained the situation, she was very understanding, very helpful. I described you—' He paused. 'In considerable detail. Et voilà!'
The amusement in his cool grey eyes gave her courage. Quickly, impulsively, she leaned across and kissed his cheek very lightly. She expected him to stiffen, to recoil, but he did not. For a second the expression in his eyes clouded, darkened, then whatever it was she saw there, which might have been distaste, but which looked more like an odd, pained doubt, was gone. He smiled, the waiter brought the coffee, and when Julius next spoke his voice was brisk, businesslike.
'Now, I have to do some work, alas, while we're here. There arc some people I shall have to see, next week. But not for long, and anyway we have two days without any interruptions. So, I'm at your command. What should you like to see? Art galleries? Churches? The market? The Lido? I don't recommend the Lido.'
Luisa laughed happily; a thought came to her.
'I think I should like to begin by just walking around, just looking—at the canals, the houses. Just exploring, and then—well, I should like to go to the Accademia. There's a painting there that someone once said I should look at.'
He raised his eyebrows, but asked no further questions. Her answer seemed anyway to please him.
'All right, agreed. We'll walk, and just see where our footsteps lead us. Then we can take the vaporetto across to the Accademia. Then we could have lunch…'
While they sat in the square, sipping their coffee, the sun began at last to pierce the thin layers of morning mist, bathing the great wide space before them in a light of extraordinary clarity. Delighted, Luisa looked around her. There were few people in the square, for it was too early in the season for many tourists. The famous, and, she thought, distinctly overfed pigeons wheeled and then settled in great shifting clouds of rose and grey. The cafes were still setting up for the day; across the piazza men in long white aprons were setting out little chairs, spreading table cloths. Opposite them were the two tall columns of St Mark and St Theodore, the golden lion of St Mark's glittering in the sun. Across the white marble chequerboarding of the paving a priest walked, his long black robes fluttering in the light breeze that blew across the piazzetta from the sea. Luisa let her eyes linger on the cathedral itself, that extraordinary, ebullient, eccentric building, with its fat Eastern domes, its soaring pinnacles. Julius's eyes followed her gaze and he smiled.
'Do you like it? I do—some people hate it. It's not pure enough, not classical enough for them. Mark Twain said it was squat—"like a vast and warty bug taking a meditative walk"…'
Luisa laughed.
'But it's nothing like that! It's so beautiful. Look at those arches on the roof—they're so delicate. They look like the crests of waves.'
Julius stood up.
'Come on, then, let's go and explore. We can go up on the roof of St Mark's if you like. The view is… well, you'll see.'
He took her hand, and led her across the wide sunlit space, and into the great echoing cavernous interior of the church. In the dim light Luisa stared around her, at the mosaics, the tall pillars of rose marble and porphyry. It glimmered with a strange, dark opulence, the colours of earth and gold and rubies and the air was thick with the smoke of incense and candles. Its magnificence, its size, their footsteps echoing on the ornate patterned floors, daunted her a little; the air was cold. Instinctively, looking down the great central nave, she reached for Julius's hand, finding reassurance in its quick warm touch. He led her up, up a maze of catwalks, stairways and passages, up and up, until suddenly, bending their heads through a low doorway, they came out on the parapets around the roof. Luisa caught her breath. After the darkness of the interior, the light was dazzling. On all sides the city spread and soared away from them, lapped and patterned by azure water; the stones of the city were gold, the roofs a deep terracotta; the light glanced, darted, danced on a million shapes and reflections. It was intoxicating, as if the whole world lay at their feet.
They stood there, side by side, their hands clasped, staring round them in silence. And as she looked Luisa felt start up in her heart that strange music of joy and certainty she had heard in the tiny church where they had married; it flooded through her again, with a wild obstinate certainty, and she turned to Julius impulsively, words rising to her lips. But he was watching her closely, she saw, with that odd shadowed gaze of his, and the words died on her lips. Without speaking they turned eventually, and made their way back through the darkness of the stairs, out through the nave to the piazza.
Then they walked—for hours, it seemed to Luisa, though she felt tireless. Julius was the best, the most considerate of guides. As they passed he pointed out some of the more famous of the buildings, told her something of their history. But he did not circumscribe her; when, delighted, she spied a little courtyard to one side, hung with washing, filled with old crumbling pots of ivy and geraniums, he let her explore. When she darted off down the small side canals, impulsively crossing and re-crossing the tiny bridges, peering through old, decaying iron gates at deserted boathouses, the abandoned rooms of a decaying palazzo, he let her go. Amused, withdrawn, but never impatient, he followed behind her, watching as she darted from sunlight to shadow, pleased, apparently, by the delight which she could not hide from her face.
Towards noon they crossed the Grand Canal in the vaporetto to the Accademia gallery, and passed, almost alone, through its long cool galleries. In the second room they came to the Bellini Madonna of which Luke had once spoken. Luisa knew it at once, among all the others. She stood still staring at it for a long while. The Virgin stood, looking down at the plump Child she held in her arms; on her face was an expression of concern, but of total tranquillity. Julius stood beside her.
'I think I see why this picture,' he said.
Luisa turned to him, her cheeks colouring.
'It was Luke,' she said quickly. 'He said I should look at this picture. I… all women should, perhaps.'
'Perhaps.' He turned, his face obscured from her, and after that seemed to withdraw back into himself, so that Luisa felt a return of her earlier nervousness. She followed him through the gallery, but he seemed to hardly look at the paintings. Except once.
In the fifth room he stopped, paused, then turned back again and studied for a long while one of the paintings she knew was most famous in the gallery. It was late fifteenth century, by Giorgione, the Tempesta. Silently Luisa looked at it. Luke had spoken to her of it once, she remembered, of its power, of its elusive mysterious qualities. 'Now there's a painting,' he had said, with some satisfaction, 'that has kept the art scholars arguing for centuries.'
It was smaller than Luisa had expected. A strange haunting landscape domina
ted by a fierce sky, livid with the threat of storm. Beneath a tree, in the foreground, was a man and a woman. The woman, one breast bared, was suckling a baby. All the figures were poised, threatened by the elements, and the connection between the man and the woman, their presence on the same canvas was obscure. They were near, yet disconnected. Luisa looked away quickly, feeling distress. The painting unnerved her, for some reason she could not explain. It reminded her of something she did not want to remember, and she was glad when they left the gallery and stepped out again into the clear light.
Whatever Julius had felt earlier, his mood now seemed to lift. Taking her by the elbow, he led her quickly, almost gaily through tiny side streets. They came out on to the Zattere, and walked along to its tip, where the two main canals of Venice divided. From there, in the shadow of the great Salute church, they could look back across the water to St Mark's and their hotel, and the other way across to the less populated shores of the Giudecca. Julius led them to a small sunlit square, lapped by water at its edge, and they sat down under a tall plane tree outside a small restaurant.
Their arrival seemed to cause a stir. A few of the other tables were occupied, and the Italians at them stared as Luisa and Julius sat down. She heard a murmur of conversation; one of the women there took out a camera and—when she thought Luisa was not looking—took their photograph. Luisa leaned across to Julius, who seemed oblivious to all this.
'That woman over there just took a picture of us.'
'Oh?' Julius turned round sharply.
The woman saw him turn, made a gesture with her hands, and said something in Italian that Luisa could not follow. Julius relaxed.
'What did she say?'
'Nothing much…' He picked up the menu and studied it intently.
'But why did she take the picture?'
The woman, plump, aged about sixty, was now smiling and nodding in their direction.
Julius met her eyes with an expression of veiled amusement.
'She thought we looked very happy. And that you looked… decorative.'
Instinctively Luisa felt he was not telling her the truth, but he looked so unconcerned there seemed no point in pursuing the matter. Instead she leaned back in her chair, letting the sunlight wash over her face, and sighed. Peace and contentment rose up in her. Lazily she watched Julius as he consulted with the waiter, his hands moving quickly in the warm air as he gestured and explained, his voice so unlike his English voice, filled with a different softness, a liquidity, a gaiety, as he spoke Italian. The waiter seemed to know him; he was honoured by their presence, Luisa caught that. Then something Julius said made the man laugh; he looked across to Luisa with a glance of dark admiration, and brought them wine, bread, two tall glasses of Campari, their edges rimmed with sugar, the scarlet liquid glinting in the sun like ruby.
'You're very well known, in Venice,' she said teasingly.
Julius smiled. 'Not at all,' he said quickly. 'It's just that my work often brings me here.'
Luisa stretched. 'Isn't it lovely?' she said, feeling the sun on her arms. 'It's like spring. And it was so cold in England…'
'It is spring—or very nearly. The weather now will be changeable. By April it will start to get hot…'
'April is the cruellest month…' she quoted at him lazily.
He laughed. 'Not in Italy.'
The waiter brought them food, delicious food—a salad of fresh crayfish, lightly roasted veal with rosemary; mounds of freshly made pasta smelling of butter and herbs. The wine was sharp, light; it warmed her like the sun. They ate and talked contentedly; Luisa felt all the tension of the gallery subside.
'Have you worked for Luke long?' Julius spoke suddenly, out of a long companionable silence, and she looked up to see those cool grey eyes watching her, as always, intently. Did he ever let go, or relax? she wondered. Probably not. She smiled.
'For five years. Your house is so close—it's surprising we never met.' She spoke without thinking, and a glint of amusement came into his eyes.
'Very surprising. But then I'm often away.' He paused. 'We have a lot to catch up on, I suppose.'
Luisa felt her shyness return. 'I haven't much to tell,' she-said awkwardly.
'I'm sure you have.' He leaned forward intently. 'Ten years. Where were you, Luisa, what happened to you, in those years?'
She kept her voice light.
'Very little. After my mother died…' She paused, then went on. That was the last time she had seen him, before this new re-meeting, and the knowledge of that fact lay for an instant between them both, unstated. 'After that—we lived with Aunt Con for some years. My father went to Morocco for a while, then Italy again. We didn't see him very often.' She shrugged. 'I don't know. I left school. I did a secretarial course. Then—well, Aunt Con died, and she left me a little money. So I bought the flat in London—Claudia came with me. I went to work for Luke at the gallery. That's all.'
'You never thought of marrying?'
'No.' She spoke quietly and looked away.
There was a pause as if he were calculating something; he leaned back, sipping his wine thoughtfully.
'And my father's firm handled your investments, I think—the money your aunt left you?'
She nodded. 'Your father was always very generous, very kind. To Claudia and me.' Her voice faltered, for she knew they were on dangerous ground, but he seemed not to notice. Nervously she raised her eyes to his face.
'I was so sorry about your father. Is he… recovering?'
'He won't live long.' Julius spoke flatly, without emotion, but his mouth tightened. 'It's angina. The doctors have given him about six months.'
'Oh, Julius!' Instinctively she touched his arm in sympathy. 'I'm so sorry.'
Julius shrugged. 'It's better that way. Since my mother died—well, he didn't really want to go on living, I think. They were reconciled, you know, later.'
Luisa felt the blood start to her cheeks.
'Yes,' she said softly, 'I did know that. I heard. Aunt Con told me.'
'Such a waste. Such a stupid bloody waste!' He spoke suddenly with great bitterness, and she saw darkness and pain flare in his eyes.
'Were they very happy?' She hesitated, frightened that at any moment she might go too far, ask him something that released all the anger and bitterness he felt.
'Were who happy?' He looked at her abstractedly, as if not following her thoughts.
'Your parents. Were they, Julius? Before…'
'Before he met your mother, you mean?' The cold grey eyes met hers directly. He paused, then looked away, his eyes travelling across the water. He sighed, and the sharpness in his tone left it. 'I always thought so. But I was a boy, hardly in a position to understand these things. Unless something is wrong first, inside a marriage, I don't think adultery can happen. So…' He shrugged, and turned back to face her, his gaze dark, speculative. 'Besides, your mother was an unpredictable force, wasn't she? She attracted heartbreak. That was what made her so irresistible, I suppose, that quality of danger she had. The promise of so much, and just the smallest hint of destruction. And of course she was so beautiful. Beauty like that is always dangerous. My father was the gentlest of men. I don't think he had a chance.'
Luisa looked at him silently, feeling shame burn within her. She knew she ought to defend her mother; once, perhaps, she would have done so. But what was the point? She lowered her eyes. Everything Julius said was true.
'Your father survived it all, of course, admirably so.' His voice cut across her thoughts like a whip. 'But then he was always an incurable egotist. He could survive, because nothing really affected him.'
'Please, Julius—don't! I can't bear it.'
His eyes met hers, as she turned to him pleadingly, and his expression softened, momentarily.
'It's just odd, that's all.' He looked at her dispassionately, coolly, as if assessing her. 'How two such people could produce you.'
She felt her lip tremble; suddenly everything seemed to have gone very quiet, and a
great silence echoed in her ears. Out of it, she heard herself say, flatly, without great hope,
'I'm nothing like either of them, Julius.'
The dark eyes burned into hers. Then he reached across, and lightly ran his hand up under her thick hair, so its touch caressed the soft skin at the nape of her neck. Involuntarily she felt a dart of pleasure, of desire, move through her; her lips parted. He smiled.
'Aren't you, Luisa?' he said lightly. 'I wonder.'
After that, the sun still shone, but to Luisa all warmth had gone from it. She felt something cold and black, a despair and a hopelessness, settle in her heart. Indignant words in her own defence rose up in her mind, but she pushed them down. She knew what he thought of her; pride would not let her argue. Silently she stood up. Julius paid the bill and without consulting her strode off across the square, back in the direction of the main island. Without speaking they crossed the canal on the vaporetto, passed back along through St Mark's Square, and on towards their hotel. By the time they reached the cool shuttered foyer Luisa's nerves felt at breaking point. Tension screamed inside her, tautening her nerves and her muscles. She felt if she didn't speak soon, if she didn't try and explain, justify herself, then she would go mad. It was unbearable that he should treat her in this way; that one moment she should feel so happy, so close to him, and the next… Why had he married her, why? Why couldn't he leave her alone? Why did he have to go on tormenting her?
They went up in the lift. As they stepped into it, he brushed against her, and again she felt the sharp tug, the pull of a desire she could not explain, which seemed to defy all reason. Julius seemed to feel it too. As the lift mounted, he stood very close to her; the still languid air seemed tense with the feelings unspoken between them. She could feel his breath, soft against her skin; his powerful body, not quite touching her, seemed to pulse words, feelings, beyond language. Looking up, compelled, into his eyes she saw them darken, and she knew, in that instant, that no matter what he said, no matter how much he denied it, he wanted her, and wanted her violently. The doors of the lift opened. He reached out and caught her by the arm, drawing her quickly after him.
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