“You’re tired out, love.” He reached across her and pressed the bell. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
AT THE Da Rimini, breakfast began at seven thirty. There was no note for Julia at the desk, no message. Idiotic that she and Tarn Menzies had made no arrangement for a morning summons. And nothing she could do about it now. She ate rolls, drank surprisingly good coffee, and was back in her room putting Sir Charles’ map into her shoulder bag when the buzzer by her bed sounded. Lifting the house telephone, she hoped for a moment that it might be possible to take an outside call up here, but it was merely the girl at the desk summoning her to the telephone in the lobby. Her heart beat hard as she hurried across the bridge and downstairs. Would this be her summons? But it was Tarn Menzies’ voice, asking eagerly if she felt like lunching. “No.” It was difficult not to sound too regretful. “I’m busy today. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” Once again she had the comfortable feeling that he meant it.
It gave her the courage to start the long day of apparently aimless sightseeing, and she needed it. She had decided, the night before, to do two stops at a time on the vaporetto, then go back and study the other side. However tempted, she would skip nothing. The map Sir Charles had given her was undoubtedly the best possible one, but still might not be entirely accurate. The only way to be sure of a clear view from the boat was to stand by the rail that slid aside to let people elbow their way on and off. Inevitably, when the stop was on her side, Julia found herself in the thick of a pushing, shoving, surprisingly tolerant crowd. But it was exhausting work. She began by going up to St. Mark’s, because it was the obvious thing for a tourist to do, in case that mattered, and also because beyond St. Mark’s the map showed a broad causeway all the way to the tip of the island. No chance, surely, of the picture’s having been taken there.
The map showed a garden between the two stops on either side of St. Mark’s itself, but one look told her this was not the one she wanted. It was public, set back behind a causeway thronged with souvenir sellers, newspaper kiosks, tourists, and fat, unpleasant pigeons. She went on to the second stop, Santa Zaccaria, sparing a wry glance for St. Mark’s itself. “Like the Brighton Pavilion,” Sir Charles had said. “Only with less excuse.”
Just to be doubly sure, she walked back along the front from Santa Zaccaria, pausing first to buy an International Herald Tribune and then, as everyone else did, on the humpbacked bridge with its view of the Bridge of Sighs. But the idea of the prison to which this led sent a shudder through her. She had almost convinced herself that the bars in Dominic’s picture were nothing more sinister than a garden balustrade. But how could she be sure? Last night’s horrible mixture of memory and nightmare had left her more than ever haunted by the fear that the letters about Dominic were somehow connected with that terrible time back at La Rivière. But why should they be? Nobody there so much as knew of Dominic’s existence, and, even if they had by some strange chance found out, what was he to them, bastard child of a divorced wife? The young lawyer Sir Charles had sent to see her in hospital had been ruthlessly clear about this. It had been one of the accumulated blows that had finally pushed her over the edge of reason and made her let the child (her Dominic) go for adoption. So—no reason in the world to connect what was happening to her now with the Rivers, or with La Rivière. Only, illogically, the feeling of hatred that had come over so clearly in last night’s dream memories would connect itself in her mind with the sadistic behaviour of her unknown tormentors now. All imagination, of course; that imagination about which Breckon had so often teased her.
Why had he never answered her letters? She would not let herself think about it. He was very likely right: a clean break was best. She tucked the Herald Tribune into her bag and joined the queue for the Linea Two boat going down the canal towards the station. This time her two stops took her to Santa Maria Zobenigo, which, she saw, was where one got off for the Fenice Theatre. Extraordinary to be here in Venice, guidebook and map in hand, and yet only casually aware of all the wealth of history and interest that surrounded her. Just the same, with warm sun shining down and tourist crowds around her, she did feel herself, from time to time, somehow cheered and fortified by a glimpse of pastel-coloured courtyard; heraldic poles outside a pink palazzo; a garden with benevolent lions on its pillars…But the garden did not have the right kind of railings.
From Santa Maria she made herself go back to her own stop at the Salute, though she was almost certain she had missed nothing on the south side of the canal. She was right. Getting off at the Salute to buy her new ticket, she was thinking angrily about the wasted time, when she saw a familiar figure. Tarn Menzies was sitting comfortably on a bit of wall, sketchbook in hand, gazing up at the solid grey bulk of Santa Maria della Salute. Should she speak to him? The only other people who had got off her boat had already gone purposefully up the steps of the church. No one could be following her. And the boat she wanted was not yet in sight. Yielding to temptation, she strolled across the paved terrace so as to cross his line of vision.
“Hi, there!” He joined her at once, sketchbook in hand. “I’ve had a weather eye out for you. Obvious place to start. Right?” A quick glance had reassured him, as it had her, that they could not be overheard. “Any joy this morning?”
“Not so far. But I’ve only just started. It’s going to take days.” As she spoke, she glanced at his sketch and wished she knew more about modern art.
“For God’s sake don’t look! It’s nothing but a dog’s breakfast yet.” He put a defensive hand across the paper. “My mind’s not been on the job. Couldn’t help thinking about you. What you say: that it will take too long. Mind you, it may all be right as rain. They may get in touch. But…”
“They may not. They may just be torturing me. But why?”
“You really haven’t a moral?”
“Idea? No. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Funny: I dreamt about La Rivière last night. I haven’t done that for ages. Someone there hated me all right. But what harm am I to them now?”
“I haven’t a clue. Look! There’s your boat. Tell you what. If nothing shows today, I’ll come play too tomorrow. I’ll take one bank, you take the other.” He grinned at her. “Not sociable, but efficient. I’ll give the art another whirl today; tomorrow I’m all yours. See you here? OK? And now you’d better make tracks.”
She just got her ticket in time to push her way on board the boat that was headed towards the station. Back to Santa Maria Zobenigo, watching the north side this time, and admiring a handsome view of palazzos turned into luxury hotels. A terrace where, in the summer, one would sit out and eat. But no garden—no railings. This venture was doomed. Could someone really hate her enough to do this to her, simply for spite?
The boat was unusually empty as it pulled away from Santa Maria Zobenigo and she glanced casually across to the Salute bank of the Grand Canal, thinking that she must be about level with the Da Rimini. Then she stiffened and began quickly pushing her way across to the other side. They were passing a garden with railings. Too late, by the time she had got across, to see more than that, but she would get out at the next stop just the same and go back.
The vaporetto hooted angrily at a wandering gondola, shot under the long bridge of the Academia, and drew in to land. As she got off, Julia was aware of a familiar face beside her in the pushing crowd. No, two faces, smiling at her uncertainly, the Miss Browns from the train. “Lovely morning,” said one of them, recognition established.
“We saw you up at the Salute,” chimed in the other. “Marvellous, isn’t it? You should have gone in.”
“Not on the first day,” said Julia quickly. “The first day I just look.”
“You’re not going to the Academia?” This, Julia thought, was the elder of the two, sounding shocked.
“No, bother it. I’ve just realised I left my dark glasses behind. That’s why I got off. I’ve got to go back to my hotel and get them, or I’ll
work up a hell of a headache in all this sun.”
“Too bad,” said the younger Miss Brown.
“We thrive on it.” Her sister was patronising. “Oh, well, see you around.” They turned, guidebooks at the ready, and plunged off, fiat-footed, towards the Academia. Julia turned back to the landing stage. Disconcerting that the Miss Browns should have seen her at the Salute, without her being aware of them. But, of course, they must have been already on the vaporetto she had caught. Ridiculous to let herself imagine that they were following her. And yet, she would keep an eye out for them just the same.
This time she got a firm hand on the rails at the right-hand side of the boat and stood there, watching eagerly for the garden. There it was, some distance away, since the canal was wide here and the boat was headed back across it to San Maria Zobenigo. Railings, evergreen trees, a hint of green that might be grass or some of the ground-covering plants she had noticed here and there in glimpses of courtyard gardens. Behind this garden, a surprisingly low, long building, which must be fairly modern. She had Dominic’s picture tucked in her guidebook. Yes, it could be…A drop of sweat fell onto the picture. Her hand was shaking. Could she really have found Dominic’s home…Prison? Had this been what they intended when they sent her to the Da Rimini?
The boat had stopped, but on the wrong side of the canal. She would go on to the Salute and then walk back as near the water as possible and see if she could identify the building from the rear. She looked back, as the boat pulled away again, to try and place it as nearly as possible. Two canals below the Salute? Yes, that was right, and then a little farther on, towards the Academia bridge. It should, surely, be possible to find, even among the confusing labyrinth of canal and alley.
Alighting at the Salute stop, she had a quick eager glance towards where Tarn Menzies had been sketching, but there was no sign of him, and her heart sank. It would have been good to have his company, just in case she was really on to something. But he must have finished his first sketch and gone on, doubtless to St. Mark’s. It was good of him, she thought, to have started with the Salute for her sake. She could hardly expect him to spend the whole day waiting around in case she came back.
Anyway, even if she did decide that this was the place where Dominic was being—well—kept, she meant to do nothing at once. Sir Charles had urged her to go about the actual confrontation with the greatest care. After all, as he had kept reminding her, she had absolutely no reason to suppose that Dominic was not the adored child of admirable adoptive parents. And yet, a creeping up her spine would keep suggesting that not only she herself, but Dominic was in danger. All imagination, no doubt. All parts of the horrible, overwhelming guilt she felt about Dominic.
She found she was hurrying, sweating a little in mid-morning sunshine. Making herself slow down to the usual tourist amble, she noticed a couple she had seen before, up near St. Mark’s. They were unmistakable enough, the young man immensely tall and thin, in orange corduroys, the girl, a head shorter, in a huge red hat and one of those long white nightdresses that made the young all look like failed Ophelias. It seemed a lifetime since she had worn clothes like that. Sir Charles had taken one look at her scarlet shift that first day at the office, and written a blank cheque. “Go and disguise yourself,” he had ordered. In a sense, she had been in disguise ever since. Odd to think that in her scarlet shift, or one of the long, flounced skirts Sir Charles had also banned, she would never have attracted Breckon’s attention. She looked down at her impeccable dark madras skirt and shirt. Had she, somehow, missed being young?
Ahead of her, the couple had stopped to stand on a humpbacked bridge, arms linked, and gaze down a small canal towards the lagoon and the further island of Giudecca. Passing them, Julia heard the girl’s voice, plaintive: “But, Peter, I don’t feel like pictures. Can’t we do something outdoors, while it’s so fine? You know it won’t last.” A trace of something in her accent nagged at Julia.
“But it’s the Academy I came to see.” His voice was straight BBC, but low, so that Julia, down the steps from the bridge, could hear no more. Surely, she thought, plunging into a darkly shadowed alley, this was an odd route to take from St. Mark’s to the Academy. But then, for a tourist, the whole point of Venice was that one could wander, freely, with time no object and traffic no threat.
She was hurrying again. Slow down. Relax. Keep a cool head. She would need it if this was the right house. Here was the second canal. She crossed it and stood for a moment at a choice of two paths, one straight ahead and one leading along beside the canal, towards the southern side of the island. Obviously, she must go straight ahead, thus keeping as close to the Grand Canal as possible. Behind her as she started forward again, she heard the young couple pause to debate the same point. They must walk quite fast between stops.
This, she thought, was rather an elegant alley. She had already noticed how hard it was to tell, from their walled outsides, what the houses were like, but here there were high, handsome gates, a dolphin knocker, an ornate light over a doorway, and, ahead, the sight of trees over a wall, where, apparently, the alley ended. Could this be her garden, running, perhaps, behind that long, low house, as well as on the canal side?
There was no one in sight. Behind her, she could hear the young couple’s footsteps coming steadily along. He had metal studs in his shoes, she flip-flopped along in rubber sandals. The alley suddenly felt dark, cold and far too solitary. A cul-de-sac, and the enemy closing in behind? Absurd. But she was hurrying again as she reached the closed gate in the wall and saw that, in fact, the alley turned sharp left along it. And, on the gate, a notice. This, it appeared, was the Peggy Guggenheim Museum of Modern art. And it was closed for the winter.
“Damnation,” said the young man’s deep voice. They had caught up and were reading the notice over her shoulder.
“It opens this afternoon.”
Julia had placed the girl’s accent now. No wonder she had felt that moment of illogical fright. Overlaid by years of absence, there was still more than a hint of the deep, melodious drawl of the southern United States. It took her straight back to La Rivière and all that nightmare. On an impulse, she turned to look up at the tall young man. “Have you been here before?”
“To Venice?”
“No, to the Peggy Guggenheim.”
“Yes, to both. I’m just setting about educating this barbarian here.” His tone and casual arm round her shoulders made it friendly.
“Does it have a garden running down to the river?”
“Yes.” If the question surprised him, he did not show it.
“Open to the public?”
“Of course. When the rest of it is. You’d better come back this afternoon. It’s worth a visit.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I will.” And now, back to the Academia stop. It was wildly improbable that Dominic was living in a public art gallery. She would certainly not stop searching because of an outside chance like this. She started along the fork of the alley and, inevitably, the young couple came too. It gave her a chance to probe a little further. Was there, after all, something a little too pat about this encounter? “You’re from the States?” she asked the girl.
“Because I’m a barbarian?”
“Because of your accent, nut,” said the young man.
“Sue,” said the girl automatically, as if she had done so many times before. And then, with a sudden, composed politeness, to Julia. “Yes, I’m from Savannah, Georgia,” she added helpfully. “Only I grew up in Scotland. This is my first time in Italy. It’s—out of this world. And am I ever lucky to have found Pete here to show me round. What he doesn’t know’s not worth knowing.”
“Even if I do drag you off to the Academy?” He was tired of the conversation now, and as they emerged into a small square he put a firm hand on the back of her brown neck. “Come on, honey chile, or they’ll close that gallery. Be seeing you.” He dismissed Julia with the casual courtesy of the young.
“Good-bye.” She felt
a thousand years old as she paused to look in a bakery window, savour the sweet smell of fresh bread, and laugh at herself for imagining them anything but a young couple immersed in Venice, and in each other. But she would come back to the Peggy Guggenheim in the afternoon. There might be a private bit of garden…And, right now, she must find herself some lunch. The tensions of the morning had left her suddenly famished, and she was glad to remember an unpretentious café by the Academia Bridge. It was already quite full, but she found herself a small table by the window overlooking the canal, and ordered pizza and a glass of red wine. She was tired, too, realising, now she had sat down, that she had been on her feet all morning. Restful to have to walk no further than to the Peggy Guggenheim after lunch.
“Hullo!” She looked up to see the Miss Browns standing hopefully over her. “Do you mind if we join you?” The older of the two suited the action to the word. “This place is packed. And it’s going to rain.”
“Oh, no!” This had not occurred to Julia as a hazard.
“Oh, yes.” The younger Miss Brown pulled off her tweed jacket and settled it on the back of her chair. “And in Venice, when it rains, indeed it raineth.”
“In that case,” Julia was on her feet, glad, somehow, of the excuse to get away. “I’d better hurry home and get my mac.”
“And an umbrella, if I know Venice,” said the elder Miss Brown.
Huge drops of rain were splashing down as Julia turned into the now familiar alley with Da Rimini’s sign at the corner. In the lobby, afternoon silence reigned. There was nothing in her pigeonhole. The torture would go on for ever. She would never find Dominic. He was probably not in Venice at all. Up in her room, she threw herself on her bed, cried helplessly, and slept.
Chapter Four
“KEEP AWAY from La Rivière.” Dr. McCartland stood close to her high, hospital bed and spoke low and earnestly. “Get young Breckon away, too. They’re not good for him. Or for each other. Inbreeding…Years of it. But he should be clear enough. His mother was a Scot, like me. A great girl. She died when he was born.”
One Way to Venice Page 5