'How did the Principessa know we were here?' she asked, as he bought their tickets, and they walked up the narrow gangway to the ferry boat.
'Oh, I don't know,' he said vaguely. 'Through the work I have here, perhaps. Word gets round.' He took her arm. 'Watch your step, the gangway's slippery.' On the boat, he changed the subject somewhat abruptly, pointing out to the yacht that circled the bay, remarking on its beauty. But there was nothing odd in that, she thought, relaxing against his side. Why shouldn't people find out where they were? And the yacht was beautiful.
Even as they watched, the sails of the boat fluttered, filled again, then hung suddenly limp. Its pace slowed, its wake now hardly rippling the water. The breeze had gone, she realised, and the sun beat down on them now with a sudden heat. As the ferryboat gathered speed, its engines churning, and they cut out across the lagoon, Luisa looked back. The little yacht was quite still now, becalmed on the wide flat water.
By the time they reached Torcello it was noon; the island was almost deserted, quiet, shimmering in the light, as if it were waiting for them. When they stepped off the boat and on to the tiny landing-stage, it appeared deserted; there was just one fisherman, dressed in black, mending his nets at the end of the quay. From inside one of the old peeling houses, shuttered against the sun, Luisa heard a child call to its mother—a sharp piercing cry of momentary distress, then silence. The heat was heavy, slumbrous; the land flat, fenced with vines, cut by a single canal.
'This was a great city once.' Julius stood still, dark in the brilliant light, looking around him. 'It's older than Venice, you know. The cathedral is seventh century.' He turned and smiled. 'As Venice grew and prospered, Torcello declined. Now there's almost nothing left.'
In silence they walked along the canal, took a white dusty path through the fields, until they came to the cathedral. There was no one there. Inside it was cool, shadowy. It was like going under the sea, Luisa thought, looking around her in the stillness. The walls and the thick pillars were a pale grey-green marble, as if washed for centuries by water; the light was glaucous. At the head of the apse the walls curved like a shell; they were decorated with a tall mosaic, the Virgin and Child, the Apostles, their figures indistinct, faded. With difficulty Luisa read the inscription underneath. 'I am God,' it read, 'and the flesh of the Mother and the image of the Father; not slow to punish a fault, but at hand to aid those who waver.' She turned away, shivering slightly in the shadows. Julius was at the other end of the church, he had his back to her. It was beautiful, she thought, but sad, a little grim. She was glad when they went out again into the sunlight.
There was a restaurant near the cathedral; it was very famous, Julius said. Now there were perhaps two or three other people there, and the waiters lolled, yawning in the heat of the sun. They sat outside, under a vine pergola, looking across the fields, talking little. Luisa let her hand lie on the smooth white cloth before them and after a while Julius covered it lightly with his own. When their eyes met, words seemed superfluous. Knowledge of each other, of the night that had passed, lay between them, unspoken, but linking them. From deep within her, as the sun warmed her skin, Luisa felt the beginnings, the flutterings of desire. As if he felt it too, Julius's hand tightened over hers. At once the need grew sharper; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, and want for him shot like pain between her thighs. The blood rose in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes.
Julius spoke softly.
'Had you bargained for this happening, Luisa?'
She looked up again, knowing at once what he meant, and the cool grey eyes met hers gravely. She could not lie.
'I think…' She paused, steadying her voice. 'I think I always knew—that it might.'
'So did I—I think.'
They looked at each other for a moment, oblivious to the world, to the other diners, the waiters. Luisa's heart gave a lurch of pain. I love him so much, she thought silently, and the desire to speak what she felt was consuming. But at that moment Julius glanced away, letting his eyes travel over the fields to the far horizon, his face closed and impenetrable. The words died on her lips. What was between them suddenly seemed to her so fragile, so delicate, that she must put no weight on it. If she told him the truth he would recoil from it; it was better to leave it be. He looked back at her, and for a moment a want so palpable, so intense, pulsed in the air between them that Luisa felt everyone in the room must sense it. She was glad, then, that she had not spoken.
'I came here once before.' He was looking at her intently. 'About five years ago. I was alone. I had lunch here—at that table.' He gestured across the room. 'I sat and looked at the fields. It was a day like this—very hot.' He lowered his eyes; his voice was very deliberate. 'I thought about you, Luisa.'
She drew in her breath sharply, but said nothing. His eyes lifted, remained intent on her face, watching her, lazily, with a half-mocking expression.
'But then there was nothing strange in that. I thought of you constantly, these last ten years.'
'Charitably, or with ill-will?' She forced herself to keep her voice light. His eyes darkened.
'I hated you sometimes, if that's what you mean.'
Pain shot through her again, and she looked away.
'You never tried to contact me, in all those years?' It was a question, she realised, but also an accusation. She met his eyes reluctantly, hopelessly, thinking of the letters she had written and torn up, the number of times she had, sitting alone, reached for the telephone, and then replaced the receiver.
'No,' she said softly. His mouth tightened.
'Did you think of Scotland? Ever?' He leaned towards her, his voice low, but urgent. 'Luisa, don't look away. Answer me, damn you!'
'I did,' she said quickly, brokenly. 'You must know I did.'
She felt her eyes begin to swim with tears, but his face hardened.
'You thought of Kit, I suppose.'
'Of Kit?' She stared at him uncomprehendingly. 'Julius, I didn't. Why should I have done?'
'Well, obviously it was not as I'd supposed.' His voice was so cold she felt the blood drain from her face.
She stared at him. Why did he have this obsession with Kit? Why bring him up now—when they were so happy?
'I… I don't understand…'
'You understand perfectly well,' he cut her off sharply. 'Or are you suffering from some convenient amnesia? Don't play games with me, Luisa. You know what happened.'
There was a silence. Memories fractured, jangled in her mind; pain started up behind her eyes. Suddenly the heat felt oppressive, airless; she drew in her breath with difficulty; the room, his face, blurred for an instant. She passed her hand across her eyes. Kit. If only he had not mentioned Kit.
'Julius, please.' Her voice sounded strange to her, odd, slackly pitched, uncontrolled. Their eyes met, and she shrank from what she saw there, a blackness in which hatred and want were mixed. 'I don't want to think of… of all that. Please.' She paused, forcing her voice to sound calmer. 'If I think of Scotland, I think of you…'
His grip on her hand tightened momentarily. Then abruptly he stood up.
'We're going back.'
He paid the bill quickly, then holding her arm like a vice, he half pulled her back the way they had come. Luisa stumbled to keep up with him, but he never once slackened his pace, or helped her, though her breath was tight in her chest, and the stones of the road cut her feet through her thin shoes. The ferryboat was just leaving—it waited for them. On deck they stood, tense, under the canvas awning that flapped above their heads, his hand crushing hers against the rail of the boat.
'Please, Julius,' she said, trying to free herself. 'Please! Don't hold me like this. Let go of me.'
'I will not!' He turned to her, his eyes blazing dark in his face. 'God damn it, Luisa, if you won't talk then I'll reach you some other way!'
When they reached the harbour the sun was still high in the sky; the heat that hung over the square was now sulphurous. On the horizon cloud
s had begun to form, and the wide sky was streaked with a threatening liverish light.
'There will be a storm,' the ferryman said, as he lowered the gangway, and he spat into the thick metallic water.
'Walk faster, damn you!'
Julius half dragged her across the quay, through the foyer, up the stairs. In the room he paused only to lock the door. Then he pushed her roughly on to the bed. He stood looking down at her for a moment, towering over her, loosening the belt of his trousers with impatient hands, his eyes glittering at her through the shadows of the room. Luisa shrank back from him, but even so she could feel it, starting to arc through her body, this fierce demanding pull, sharpened by fear, given edge by it. Then Julius moved, swiftly, and she felt his full weight on her, pushing her back, his fingers grasping her long hair. She felt her fingers claw at him instinctively, heard him give an exclamation of pain and anger as she drew blood on his skin. He brought his thigh up between hers, roughly parting her legs, his hands grappling hers so she could not scratch at him again. He did not bother to remove her clothes, or his; she heard the silk of her underwear tear; he swore impatiently.
'Like this, then, damn you, Luisa!' he muttered, his voice rough against her skin. His mouth came down on hers, crushing her lips, drawing blood, and suddenly she felt her body arch up under him, with a harsh sharp cry. She fought him, and fought off the pleasure, but he was too strong for her. He took her, like an animal, forcing himself into her body, wrenching up her skirts with an urgency of lust so forceful she could only cling to him, until, with a shuddering groan like pain, it was over, quickly over, and he was spent.
Then, abruptly, he withdrew, rolled off her, and lay beside her in silence, staring up at the ceiling, refusing even to turn to her. Quietly, silently, Luisa watched him, without recoil. She felt, to her own surprise, no revulsion, no hatred, but only a profound tenderness, which stirred and moved in the depths of her heart. She lay there a long while, her head resting on her arm, watching him, letting her eyes rest on the hard planes of his face, the muscles of his neck, taut with tension. Then, suddenly, he moved, turning to her, his eyes searching her face, his racked with a kind of self-hatred.
'Luisa,' he said at last, his voice low, intense, 'that has never happened before. I've never treated… anyone… like that before. Forgive me.'
She smiled at him gently.
'There's nothing to forgive. You were angry. If you wanted me…' She broke off.
'I want you all the time, damn you!' He gave a low groan. Their eyes met again. There was a pause, then she saw the corners of his lips lift in a slow smile. 'What have you done to me?' he said, more gently, his voice teasing her. 'What kind of siren spell have you cast, that I no sooner have you than I want you again?'
As he spoke he took her hand, and drew it down against his body; as if to prove the truth of his words, she felt it move, begin to harden again under the touch of her fingers. A sigh shook them both.
'I want you too, Julius.' She forced herself to meet his eyes as she spoke.
'Do you?' His face was suddenly grave. 'And yet I never feel as if I possess you, even when…' he lowered his mouth against her ear, speaking words she had never heard on a man's lips before, words that sent desire pulsing through her blood.
'Even then,' he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. 'When you're under me, when you cry out, when I feel you…' He broke off. 'Something eludes me, even then. Not your body, but your mind. I never know what you're thinking, what you're feeling. It's driving me insane. Luisa—why did you marry me?'
It was so hard, then, not to tell him. She paused, then smiled at him teasingly.
'We made a bargain,' she said gently.
'We haven't kept it.'
'No, we haven't.'
'But then we couldn't have kept it, you and I. Could we, Luisa?'
'We might have done.'
'Liar.' He kissed her lips, drawing them sweetly to his, clasping her gently in his arms, until she felt herself sinking again, drugged with his kisses. Her eyes were half-closed; their bodies slowly, languorously, wrapped themselves together, limb against limb, in a slow ecstasy of touching. The room was dark now, little light came through the shutters. Neither knew, nor cared, whether it was day or night. The world, the room, seemed to have shrunk to this bed, to their bodies entwined the one with the other. Julius undressed her, slowly caressing her body as he did so, lifting her breasts and cupping them to his lips; gently she helped him with his clothes, so that they could lie once again, their skin warm, moist, naked against one another. Her blood felt like honey in her veins; it beat with a languor that he could quicken with the smallest of touches. There is only this world, she said to herself, no other.
When, afterwards, they slept, she dreamed of Scotland; of an eternal afternoon, of sun, of heather.
They woke in the early evening, and went out. It was the hour of the ambulente, when the shops re-opened, when the squares filled with people, and lights shone out through the darkening sky. The air was still heavy with the threat of storm; it felt damp and humid against their skin. They sat in the piazza at Florian's and sipped long ice-cold drinks, listening to the café bands. They were playing Strauss waltzes. Then Julius took her to a shop; he was going to buy her a dress, he said, for the party. When she protested, he would not listen to her.
'The Principessa has very grand parties,' he said, laughing, drawing her inside the tiny shop, filled with exquisite silks and velvets. 'It's a Venetian party; you should have a Venetian dress.'
Among all the new dresses, the shop had a few antique Fortuny velvets, made of a cloth so fine, so delicate, it felt like the brush of a wing against the skin. Luisa touched them gently; the assistant, smiling at Julius, showed her how one was cut, lifting the skirt to one side so it spun out, a full circle, then letting it fall, so the million tiny, almost invisible pleats composed it again into a narrow column.
'They try to make the Fortuny velvet in Venice now,' she said to Luisa. She shrugged. 'They make the cloth on the old hand looms—it is almost right. The dyes—they are good, not as good as these perhaps, but good. But they cannot cut like this. This art—they have lost it.'
One of the dresses was black, a deep soft black like the midnight sky.
'It is tiny, this one,' the assistant said, showing them the narrow waist, the soft narrow bodice. 'But the signora, I think, could…'
'Do you like it, Luisa?'
'Of course. It's beautiful. But, Julius…'
'Try it on. If it fits, if you like it, we'll buy it.'
It fitted. Back in their hotel room she tried it on again.
'Look, Julius!' she cried with a childish delight. She spun round and the skirt, soft, clinging to her narrow thighs, spun out like a halo. 'Did you ever see anything more beautiful?'
'No,' he said drily, and caught her to him. 'You know why this dress?'
'No.' She shook her head.
'Because it reminds me of the one you wore when you first came to my house. Do you remember?'
'Yes, I do.' She met his eyes teasingly. 'And I remember what you said. That I was acting, in my black dress. That I was trying to appear…'
'Chaste?' He smiled. 'But I was right, wasn't I, Luisa? Oh, you cast your eyes down; you looked so pale, so delicate. But I wasn't deceived.' He stepped back, letting his eyes run over her body, to her flushed cheeks, her tumbled hair. 'The French…' He paused. 'As usual the French have a term for it. Le diable au corps—the devil in the flesh. You have that, a little, Luisa.'
She met his eyes frankly, surprised to see in them for a moment a shadowing, a kind of consternation.
'Then you have too,' she said challengingly.
'I do?' he looked at her with mock surprise. 'Hardly at all. The most restrained, the most celibate of men…'
'But you said…' She broke off. Out of nowhere the ugly memory came, not just of what he once had said to her, but of what she had seen, of the woman leaving his house, of that swift, casual intimate embra
ce.
'I said a lot of things.' He seemed to sense her change of mood, and took her hand lightly. 'Some day, soon, we'll talk about them. But not now. Now we're going to the Principessa's party.
He smiled, his voice so carefree that his gaiety infected her, and she shook away all feelings of sadness.
'Come on.' He took her hand. 'You're about to have a true Venetian experience—crossing to the Giudecca at night, in a gondola. And not one of those ones the tourists hire, so they can be overcharged for a short tour of the Grand Canal and a bad impression of Mario Lanza. The Principessa is sending her own across. Come on, Luisa. I want Venice to see my wife!'
The gondolier was waiting, as Julius had said. He wore the Guardi livery of gold and black; his face was shadowed by his hat, and he never once spoke as, silently, expertly, he propelled them out from the piazzetta to the dark shores of the Giudecca. Luisa trailed her hand in the water, but it was ice cold, slightly greasy to the touch, and she withdrew it quickly. She leaned back on the deep cushions, and Julius put his arm around her. The air was still close, and as they rounded the point under the shadow of the Salute church, they saw the moon just rising. It was half full, stained yellow, its edges blurred with thick cloud.
'There'll be a storm, I think. The ferryman was right,' Julius said.
Luisa pressed herself against him, grateful for the warmth of his body.
'I don't much like this ferryman,' she said lightly, smiling up at him, and Julius laughed, glancing at the dark figure at the prow of the gondola.
'I don't either. Altogether too like Charon for my taste. But wait—you'll see the lights from the palazzo soon…'
They heard music first. The gondola glided between banks, down a narrow dark side canal, and then suddenly came to a landing stage. It was strung with paper lanterns, that rustled and glittered. Beyond them, Luisa could just make out the looming dark walls of a great house. The air was heavy with the scent of some flowers she could not recognise and as she and Julius made their way up the narrow path, she could hear the scratch of shrubs, creepers, against stone walls. A breeze was beginning to blow up. When they reached the house, it gusted suddenly, catching at the skirt of her dress and at her hair, like hands darting out of the air at her.
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