The Venetian Venture

by Suzette A. Hill

  Initially it was a fairly agreeable evening with Hewson bouncily expansive, Hope-Landers his amiable self, Felix a little muted (nursing disapproval of the painter’s boisterousness?), Cedric relaxed, and Edward, in between bouts of disdain and affectation, relatively civil. Yet beneath the general amity Rosy detected a festering tension between the young man and the American. Now and again she had seen the exchange of covert looks and caught the tone of mutual scorn. (A long-held irrational distaste? Or were there deeper hostilities? It hardly mattered.) As for herself, after the disappointment of the book her spirits were not at their best but she enjoyed things well enough and found Guy Hope-Landers’ presence on her right an engaging antidote to Edward’s somewhat puerile and increasingly bibulous conversation on her left. At one point, draping a confiding arm around her shoulders and nodding towards Bill Hewson, he had whispered slyly: ‘Don’t trust that one, my dear, he’d cut your throat given half a chance … and he’s a lousy painter too!’ This had been followed by a splutter of mirth but Rosy had not been amused. She disliked being addressed as ‘my dear’ by one several years younger than herself and in any case had found the comments in poor taste.

  But despite such moments the meal itself had been good with copious antipasti, delicious saffron risotto, and sizzling mussels with clam sauce. Hewson had ensured that the Bardolino was more than plentiful, and Rosy couldn’t help noticing that both his own and Edward’s glasses were continuously replenished; so frequently in fact that by the coffee stage both men were clearly somewhat the worse for wear: the younger shrill and garrulous, the older truculent. It was, Rosy felt, time to leave.

  Indeed that was exactly what Guy Hope-Landers was preparing to do. Thrusting a sheaf of lire under Hewson’s plate he stood up, and bidding them all good night explained he had promised to call on Lucia when she returned from the Fenice.

  ‘Oh and you can tell my big sister to go hang!’ yelled Edward suddenly.

  Hope-Landers waved his napkin in salute. ‘Will do, old chap,’ and he strolled off into the night.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Edward, ‘do I want him for a brother-in-law?’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘Er, is that likely?’ Rosy ventured.

  The young man snorted. ‘God knows, you never know with Lucia, tight-fisted bitch!’

  It was Cedric who broke the further silence. Clearing his throat he said pleasantly, ‘Oh come now, I daresay she’s a teddy bear really.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ was the caustic reply, ‘and miserly with it!’ He leapt up, and with face transformed from fury to merriment thumped the table with both fists; and addressing Hewson shouted, ‘Remember, Rembrandt, I’ve got your number! Come on old man, catch me if you can!’ The next moment, chair overturned and wine glasses smashed to the floor, he had shot out of the terrace and was seen racing along the fondamenta leapfrogging over the capstans.

  They stared after him stunned and embarrassed. And then hastily heaping more lire on the table departed with as much dignity as possible, the cheers and boos from other diners ringing in their ears.

  ‘Do you think he’s mad?’ Felix whispered to Rosy.

  ‘As a coot,’ she muttered.

  ‘Well one thing is definite,’ Cedric remarked, ‘we can’t go to that restaurant again!’

  The American said nothing. Too drunk? Too shocked? Or merely peeved at being addressed as ‘old man’?

  The mist swirling around the quay had thickened and it was damp underfoot. Rosy’s pensione was some way off and it was agreed that the quickest route for her might be by vaporetto, and Hewson said he knew a shortcut to the landing stage. This involved turning off the quay into a couple of narrow passages, traversing a small campo and then snaking along a side canal from where they could join the Canal Grande and the vaporetto stop. Emerging from one of the alleyways they were confronted by a small bridge. The mist made it difficult to see, but straddling its balustrade there appeared to be a figure flailing its arms. They caught the strains of a song. The words were in English – ‘My old man’s a dustman’ could just be heard echoing across the water.

  ‘Oh God, it’s him,’ groaned Hewson.

  Whether the figure had seen them was not clear but it certainly seemed to wave, and at the next moment Edward Jones emitted a loud whoop and nosedived into the canal.

  ‘Where does he think he is,’ protested Cedric, ‘Magdalen Bridge? Really this is too much!’

  ‘Presumably he can swim,’ Felix said.

  ‘He can’t,’ Rosy exclaimed, ‘he told me when we were at supper. And look, he’s in trouble!’ They hastened to the canal’s edge and watched horrified as the diver splashed around in eddying circles, his arms frantically churning the water. He sank beneath the surface, the waves subsided and for a few seconds there was an eerie quiet. Then with a violent eruption the surface broke and a head emerged and the threshing started again, and for a sickening moment Rosy thought she heard a faint wail. Yet, whether by effort or luck, the floundering form seemed to be gradually moving nearer the bank.

  ‘Will he reach us?’ she cried.

  ‘Not sure … Oh Lord he’s gone under again,’ muttered Felix. ‘But it can’t be all that deep, he may just make it. Surely there’s a lifebelt somewhere, but in this damned fog one can’t—’

  At that moment there was a loud splash and another body hit the water: Hewson’s. He struck out strongly towards the drowning man. The dark and the fog made it difficult to get a clear view. They heard a shout followed by much splashing and thrashing. It seemed to last an age. And then at last through the murk they could see the rescuer back-paddling slowly towards the bank, one arm firmly gripping Edward’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank God,’ Rosy breathed. ‘Is he all right?’

  Cedric and Felix knelt down to haul the swimmer and his burden up on to the towpath.

  ‘Sorry,’ Hewson gasped, ‘he kept going under, I just couldn’t hold on – kept slipping away. Afraid he’s a goner, poor little sod.’

  The immediate aftermath was of course dreadful. Police and press descended, the latter working so quickly as to be able to feature a brief report the following day lamenting the tragic death of the young Englishman and proclaiming Hewson to be ‘il pittore coraggioso’, adding that Venice was proud to have him in its midst. As witnesses Cedric, Felix and Rosy were asked for immediate statements on the spot and required to remain in the city until further notice pending further enquiries into the cause of death – which in any case everyone knew to be drowning by misadventure. Lucia was notified and Hope-Landers, roused from his quarters, looked bleak.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Naturally like everyone Rosy was appalled. It had all been so sudden, so horribly raw and shocking. Watching those desperate struggles had been agony, and the raising and dashing of hopes unbearable. She closed her eyes recalling the fateful words Afraid he’s a goner, poor little sod and seeing Hewson’s futile attempt at revival as the victim lay sprawled on the quayside. Staring aghast at the beached body all had surely known such efforts were useless.

  For a moment anger replaced Rosy’s pain. Foolish boy! Why the hell had he dived in like that knowing he couldn’t swim? She gave a mirthless smile. The answer was obvious: that’s what you did when you were young, drunk and a show-off. It was the sort of theatrical bravado typical of a showman like Edward. Too damned pleased with himself … like Icarus, probably thought he was inviolate. Or divine.

  She wondered about the sister. It must be awful for her – although from what Felix had said the woman wasn’t the softest of characters. His tone had been waspish, but then it often was. Besides, not being soft didn’t make you heartless. Yes, she must be going through hell. Rosy hoped that no one would be so tactless as to mention her brother’s angry jibe at the supper table. Not likely really unless the comments had been overheard by nearby diners; his voice had been loud enough! And what about Bill Hewson – how was he taking it? It had been such a heroic failure. Poor chap, it must be intolerable.


  Wrapped in such thoughts Rosy sat alone in the patio of the Casa Witherington, studying the rusting creeper and listening to the whistling notes of plaintive robins. In England autumn would be well under way; here in Venice its path was only just begun. She sipped her coffee (a solicitous offering from Miss Witherington) and wondered whether it was really worth continuing her quest for the Horace. Somehow after the tragedy it all seemed rather irrelevant …

  Her thoughts and the calm of the patio were disturbed by the sudden jangling of the bell. Rosy jumped and stared at the door in the wall. Should she answer it or leave it to Miss Witherington? Better the latter, she was only a guest. She waited, expecting to hear capering footsteps. None was forthcoming. The bell jangled again. No response. Diffidently Rosy got up and went to open the door. She just hoped that whoever it was wasn’t Italian; her vocabulary wasn’t up to it, least of all that morning.

  She was confronted by the figure of Bill Hewson, minus his usual cap and looking haggard.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘good to see you. I hoped you might be here.’ He smiled wanly.

  She welcomed him in, offered a seat at the wicker table and asked if she could get him some coffee. ‘I am sure our hostess could rise to that. I’ve just had some myself, although tea seems to be the preferred beverage here even at this time of day.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no Rosy. I just er—well I just wanted a bit of company. Somebody to rub along with for a bit … it’s all been kind of a shock. That poor kid … I did my best you know.’

  ‘You most certainly did,’ she said warmly. ‘A ghastly experience. And then all that awful business with the police afterwards and so on, you must be worn out!’

  ‘Yeah … yeah pretty well.’ He drummed his fingers on the table and sighed. ‘I guess it’s silly really, but yes it’s knocked me back a bit.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Age I expect. They say you get less resilient. In the war, even though I was in my forties, I could deal with this sort of thing – losing colleagues, seeing them go under. It was tough, but it was part of the job; you got sort of hardened.’ He paused. ‘No not hardened but distracted: there was so much else pressing in on you, there wasn’t time for shock least of all for grief.’

  Rosy cast her mind back to her time in Dover as a searchlight operator and knew something of what he meant. ‘I think I understand,’ she said quietly.

  He seemed not to have heard for he continued: ‘But this is different. It’s peacetime – we’re in Venice, the most magical city in the world, and this crazy thing has to happen! I just couldn’t pull my weight, I’m too old.’ He looked stricken.

  ‘You are not old and there was nothing more you could have done,’ she said. ‘It’s simply one of those senseless things; they happen all the time. He was young, wild and utterly absurd; the rescue was tried and didn’t work. Such failures are hell, but it wasn’t your fault. Kindly bear that in mind!’ She stared at him fiercely.

  He regarded her with solemn eyes and then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Say, you can be quite forceful Miss Rosy Gilchrist. My hunch was right: I knew I’d feel better after being in your company for a while. You’re quite a gal!’

  ‘I am not quite a gal,’ Rosy retorted tartly, ‘I am merely voicing common sense. Now what I suggest is that you accompany me to the Mercerie. I want to choose some pearls, and then we can have a light lunch at that café in the Campo San Zulian. Its spaghetti al funghi looks most enticing.’

  ‘Yes ma’am!’ He stood up and saluted.

  As they left and strolled along the Zattere Rosy congratulated herself. Confronting the bright day after the grimness of the previous night was a good thing. Definitely good for her, and she liked to think for her companion too. Who was it had said, ‘In the sunshine, even death is sunny’? D. H. Lawrence she suspected. Given the circumstances rather an exaggeration perhaps, but the sun certainly helped.

  Combing the little shops of the Mercerie also helped. Unlike many men Hewson was a patient escort in the shopping ritual and seemed to take a genuine pleasure in the process of selection and rejection. With a pang she thought of her fiancé killed in the war: Johnnie, valiantly trying to conceal his boredom under a weary grin while she had oohed and aahed over shoes and gloves. Oh God, if only she could ditch Hewson’s interest for Johnnie’s boredom again! There came the stab of the old familiar pain. Funny the way it would strike at the most unexpected moments – often the most banal or humdrum. A decade had passed since the airman’s death and yet the hurt still lurked, slyly poised biding its time. Weeks, months would go by – and then, whoosh, out of the blue the arrow would strike and she would reel with the spasm … Just as now, strolling among people and choosing cultured pearls in sunlight. (No, she thought wryly, Lawrence had been wrong there: Johnnie’s death was surely the exception, however strongly the sun shone.)

  For a few seconds her vocal cords contracted. And then turning to Hewson she exclaimed gaily, ‘Oh I’m tired of all this jewellery, the pearls can wait. I’m starving! Do let’s go and eat. The café’s over there and if we’re quick we can bag a table in the window.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he laughed, ‘but remember lunch is on me.’ He took her arm and they crossed the square.

  At first all went well: the menu was keenly perused, drinks ordered and approving comments made about the attractiveness of the café and its cheerful service. He insisted that she visit his studio ‘to view my daubings and the pathetic chaos we artists toil in’, and they fixed a time later in the week when he was holding an afternoon of ‘open house’.

  The sun continued to shine and despite Rosy’s wave of pain over Johnnie’s memory she started to relax and enjoy herself. Hewson too seemed at ease and talked interestingly about the pleasures and trials of painting, the new techniques he was experimenting with and the challenges of life as an ex-patriot. Venice, he declared, was the most exciting mistress in the world but like all such ladies capricious and wilful. ‘You can’t take anything for granted here, neither the weather nor the citizens: nothing and nobody are quite what they seem. I tell you Rosy, the carnival mask says it all; it couldn’t be a better emblem for the city. Beauty and delusion, that’s Venice for you! She sure is just like a tantalising mistress: loveliness, contrivance and treachery!’ He threw back his head and laughed uproariously splashing more wine into their glasses, and, she was irritated to note, over her piece of bread.

  On the whole she found his views on art rather more absorbing than those on Venice. The latter were platitudes and the bit about treacherous mistresses heavy-handed. However, given the recent debacle it was good to see (though perhaps not hear) him laugh. So she deliberately tried to keep things light, avoiding any reference to the drowned man or the details of the police formalities. Thus she told him of her work in London, the autocratic oddities of Dr Stanley and her hopes of visiting America one day. ‘I have a relative in New York – well, not a relative exactly, more of an in-law – he was married to my aunt once. He’s keen that I go over sometime. I really ought to. It would be fun to travel “across the pond” – isn’t that what you say?’

  ‘Yeah that’s what we say. New York’s okay but you’d do better in Boston. Now that is a city with style – real style, Rosy!’

  ‘More style than Venice?’ she asked teasingly.

  He didn’t answer at first and she noted how his expression had changed, becoming suddenly thoughtful, sombre even. ‘Hmm. More real I would say. Less fickle. Less …’ He paused, searching for the right term. ‘Less damn fake.’ The word was snapped out, all levity gone. His hand had gripped the table with sudden force, his fingers scrunching the cloth. The mouth hardened and a vein twitched at his temple.

  The anger was obvious and Rosy was startled. The change had been so swift, the intensity almost violent. Silence seemed the best response and she turned hastily to the menu and pretended to examine the list of desserts. When she looked up again he was gazing listlessly out of the window. For some strange reason she thought of a young s
ubaltern she had known in the war, Roddy Roper. God, she could hear his voice now, so earnestly confidential. ‘When in doubt, sweetie, always ply them with drink. Works every time!’

  Rosy leant forward. ‘I say,’ she said brightly, ‘there’s quite a bit left, almost a glass each. Seems a pity to waste it. Here.’ She picked up the carafe and began to fill his glass.

  Bill Hewson turned to her and grinned. ‘Say, you’re quite a little toper aren’t you Miss Gilchrist!’

  Rosy shrugged. ‘I do my best,’ she murmured.

  As they left the café and walked back across the square, Hewson to his studio and she to resume her pearl-fishing, she noticed a man lolling against an archway smoking a cigarette. Hardly an unusual sight and yet the figure seemed vaguely familiar. She was puzzled. Why should she think she knew him? The man looked up, stared at her for a few moments and then turned away. No, she didn’t know him but she had seen him before all right – in another square; one lit by the moon not the sun. Pacelli’s companion.

  Had he recognised her? Quite possibly. His look, though not lingering, had been direct and searching; and was it her imagination or had those rather narrow eyes flashed the merest sign of acknowledgement? … She felt ruffled and was anxious to move away and rejoin the cheerful bustle of the Mercerie. Using the pearls as her excuse she said a hasty goodbye to Hewson, and promising to see him again moved off in the direction of the crowds.

  Why she looked back she had no idea, but when she did it was to see the man detach himself from the archway and walk briskly up to the painter and tap him on the shoulder. The latter swung round, but evidently recognising the other relaxed. They stood for some time engrossed in close conversation, and then still talking moved gradually out of sight.

  Rosy gazed after them. ‘How odd!’ she muttered to herself. And for some reason both the pearls and the afternoon began to lose their lustre. She felt tired; and to her surprise found herself relishing the prospect of a cup of Miss Witherington’s fiendishly weak tea.