She picked up the coldness in his tone, turned and stared at him. ‘Don’t say such things, even as a joke, Nico.’
His blows on the stone in front of him were light, quick, carefully controlled; he knew precisely what he was doing, what effect his chisel would have, where to strike, with what force, and what would happen in consequence. Sculpting was a science as much as an art: you had to understand stone to work with it, and he had chisels and hammers of every size and shape, lined up with great precision on a table behind him. As far as his tools were concerned, he had a passion for order.
A shape was emerging from the block: where once there had been simply a featureless square of stone you could now see a long, thin nose, angled cheekbones, hollowed eye sockets.
He stood back and pushed up his goggles to get a clearer view of what he had just done, blinking at the reflection of blue water rippling along the walls in dancing patterns of light. The sky outside was turning almost purple in the heat.
‘It wasn’t a joke, Mamma,’ he said, absently. ‘All human beings are capable of anything. That doesn’t mean we’ll do what we’re capable of, merely that the potential exists inside us.’
A long silence followed. Then his mother said, ‘That girl, the actress, her hair … did you notice? The same colour as his mother’s.’
‘Titian red. Of course I noticed. Gina had wonderful hair – I’ve never forgotten it, like fire in sunshine. The girl’s bone structure is similar, too.’
Standing back, his head on one side, he ran a hand tenderly over the face he was carving, watching the way the strange light from the water flickered over it, making it look as if the mouth moved in a smile. He had read somewhere that Phidias, the Greek sculptor, had been able to carve stone so that it looked alive, real flesh that you could swear would move under your fingers. God, to be able to get that effect! ‘Strange, what happens inside our heads, isn’t it?’ he thought aloud.
‘What are you talking about now?’ His mother watched him, frowning, her olive skin pale.
‘I think we should invite Sebastian here while he’s in Venice.’
‘No!’ The word came in a high sound, like the shriek of one of the gulls outside in the sky.
He pulled down the goggles over his eyes and lifted his chisel and hammer again. ‘Of course we must. Don’t be silly, Mamma. Will you ring his hotel? While you’re at it, invite that girl, too.’
‘I won’t have either of them under my roof!’
‘Your roof, Mamma? My roof, you mean. I want them both here, especially that girl. I want her here especially.’
‘Nico, please … don’t …’ Her hands twisted together and she watched him with a fixed, anxious gaze.
‘Don’t keep arguing. Go and ring Sebastian now. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?’
Laura spent ten minutes unpacking, hanging up her clothes, filling drawers, but only after she had sat Jancy, the doll she had had all her life and was never parted from, on the end of the bed. She had been given her for Christmas when she was four and Jancy had sat at the end of her bed ever since. Eighteen inches high, soft-bodied, with a smooth, pink porcelain face, delicately modelled little hands and feet in the same material, curly blonde hair and blue eyes that shut if you laid her down and snapped open again when you sat her up, Jancy had always worn the same knee-length pleated blue dress, with pearl buttons from her waist up to a rounded collar. Now and then Laura took her clothes off and washed them, the dress, the white slip, the lacy panties and the white shoes.
Melanie always teased her about Jancy. ‘Aren’t you too old to be carrying a doll around with you everywhere? I’ve heard of people who still keep their teddy bears – but a doll, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Call her my mascot. She’s company for me when I’m alone in a strange hotel room.’
‘Get a man!’
‘Jancy’s far less trouble.’
‘That depends on the man. You choose the wrong ones.’
‘So do you!’
Melanie couldn’t argue with that and, anyway, Laura didn’t care what she thought. Wherever she went in the world Jancy went, too, a constant reminder of her home, her family, a silent reassurance that she was still the same person. When your life changed as much as Laura’s had over the past few years you needed that. There were so many temptations placed in your way that you had to build your own protective shell against the world’s attack, and Jancy was part of hers.
It would have been easy to take drugs instead – they were always around: a joint of cannabis between sessions, cocaine cut on compact mirrors, at some parties, with tiny coloured straws to sniff it through, a dozen different pills if you were tiring and the photographer wanted to go on for another hour. Easy to let drugs take the strain of that life, but Laura never had.
She had had a lot to prove to the world, to her family, herself – she saw too many other girls going down the drain and it wasn’t going to happen to her. So she clung to Jancy and photographs of her parents, her sister, her home, to keep her sane and above the dark waters of oblivion into which others sank.
At four o’clock that afternoon, she and Melanie took the hotel launch over to Venice, watching the well-known fabulous skyline appear through the heat haze, the lace-like white fretted stone of the Doge’s palace, the spire-topped pink marble Campanile, the crumbling, pastel-painted façades of houses and hotels along the canal. Melanie began a travelogue in Laura’s ear, a guidebook open in her hand.
‘That must be the part of Venice called the Dorsoduro …’
‘The what?’
‘It means backbone, it says here. Venice’s backbone, I suppose. Most of Venice is built up on wooden stilts but the Dorsoduro had a solid subsoil, it says. Anyway, that’s where the Grand Canal begins. And that’s the Dogana di Mare, the old customs house. The figure on top is Fortune standing on top of a golden ball and—’
‘Mel, stop it, will you? If I wanted to read a guidebook I’d buy one.’
‘How are you to know where you are if you don’t have a guidebook? Look, that must be Santa Maria della Salute, that big church. It was built to celebrate the ending of some plague or other, and when ships came home from sea that was the first thing they saw, the dome of the Salute.’
Against the blue sky the dove-grey dome was massive, yet seemed to float, insubstantial as a dream, above a huge baroque church, ornamented with white stone statues, pediments and little cupolas. Beyond it, incongruously, Laura saw a dredger sucking sludge out of the canal. A speedboat whizzed past, making the hotel launch rock dangerously as it nosed into the landing-stage at San Marco.
Melanie swore furiously, brushing water spots off her aubergine linen pants and matching shirt. ‘Look at that! I didn’t bring many clothes with me. This outfit will have to be cleaned before I can wear it again!’
Laura considered the barely visible stain. ‘Never mind, Mel, you can get it done at the hotel, and you know you’re going to spend all your time buying new clothes here.’
Melanie eyed her pale green cotton skirt and T-shirt with disfavour. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to buy some good gear. That is hardly chic, darling.’
Laura’s eyes were invisible behind her dark glasses. ‘I want to be anonymous, not chic. I don’t want anyone recognising me.’
‘Nobody will in that tat, honey.’ A wistful look came into Melanie’s eyes. ‘I’ve had more calls from the press about you this afternoon than I’ve had for months – but all they want to talk about is Sebastian Ferrese and the way his wife died. It kills me to turn down all that PR but, just for once, it really wouldn’t be good exposure. I don’t want you tagged as the girl Ferrese killed his wife for.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. I am not talking to anyone about Sebastian.’
Melanie bit her finger thoughtfully. ‘Although, mind you, that’s a great shout-line – the girl he killed his wife for. A good PR firm could do something with that.’
‘No, Mel! Don’t even think about it.’
> ‘I was only kidding!’
Laura wasn’t so sure.
A moment later, Laura and Melanie were sucked into the enormous swirling crowds moving around the great square among the flocks of pigeons and stalls selling souvenirs. Laura did not know which way to look – there was too much to see.
‘Napoleon said St Mark’s Square was the drawing room of Europe,’ Melarie read out, her guidebook held in front of her as she walked.
‘Who?’
‘Napoleon.’
‘Who was he?’
Melanie did a double-take, realised she was being teased and snapped, ‘Oh, very funny!’
Laura grinned at her. ‘Well, stop reading me this stuff. I’m going to look at the basilica. Coming?’
‘I’ve seen it, and the Doge’s palace, when I was here on honeymoon.’
‘How many years ago was that?’
‘Never you mind!’
‘And if you were on honeymoon I don’t suppose you took too much notice of anything you saw, knowing you.’
Melanie gave a delighted, sensual smile. ‘It was a great honeymoon – we had terrific sex in between eating three marvellous meals every day. That was pretty much all we did – fuck and eat. It was when we got back home that the rot set in. Turned out that was all he was good for – sex and food. But I’m not here to do any sightseeing – I want to shop until I drop this afternoon. I’ll see you back here in half an hour, okay?’
Laura joined the throng of tourists slowly filtering into the Basilica San Marco and walked slowly around, staring up at the mosaic of Christ in Glory decorating the central dome. The whole enormous building was darkly mysterious, the ceiling and floors gilded, covered in elaborate mosaics.
Staring into the face of Christ in a Byzantine icon, Laura was shocked to find herself thinking of Sebastian – but; then, didn’t most things remind her of him? She found herself thinking of him at the strangest times in the strangest places.
Yet this was different. There was a distinct resemblance to him in Christ’s dark eyes, the bone structure of jaw and cheeks, the angle of the head, the curling dark hair – and it was not simply a physical likeness. The longer she gazed, the more she realised that there was something in the soul behind those dark eyes that spoke to her of Sebastian, a remoteness, a spirituality, another dimension that was god-like, and yet a gentleness and tenderness that was warmly human. It bewildered her that, at one and the same time, she could admit the possibility that Sebastian might have killed his wife and yet still see him in the body and soul of Christ.
To a believer that would be pure blasphemy, she thought. If she spoke her thoughts aloud people would think she was crazy, and they wouldn’t be far wrong. There was, after all, madness in love; every poet said so. She knew so little about Sebastian – she couldn’t even be sure that it had not been him who had sent her that scary little note.
Oh, stop it! she told herself. Stop thinking about him. Down that road lay true madness; total unreality. She wrenched herself away from the image of Christ and hurried on behind an American tour group, listening in to their guide’s comments. It made everything she saw more interesting to know exactly what she was looking at, and the Italian-American guide spoke fluently, an expert, obviously, on everything Venetian. Laura became so interested that she paid the necessary sum to view the greatest treasure of San Marco, the Pala d’Oro, a heavily jewelled tenth-century altarpiece.
Half an hour later, Melanie found her still in the basilica so absorbed that she was half dazed with beauty. Grabbing her arm, Melanie hissed, ‘What are you doing? I caught sight of you back there but they wouldn’t let me join you unless I paid the entrance fee for this part of the cathedral, and I could see that if I yelled to you they’d throw me out. The guy on duty had that look on his face, a sort of just-you-try-it-buster expression, so you owe me, Laura. I’ll put that fee on your next bill, and you’d better not query it!’
‘Sorry, Mel, but you should have waited until I came out.’
‘I have been, for ages, sitting in the square drinking a frullato di arancia.’ She paused, watching Laura, who sighed.
‘Okay, I’ll buy it – what’s that?’
Melanie grinned. ‘Delicious, I can tell you! A mixture of chilled milk and orange juice. You must try it – I’ve never tasted anything like it! Come on! Haven’t you seen enough of this gloomy old place?’
‘You could stay in here for days and not see enough.’
‘Not me, I couldn’t. I’m not a great one for churches.’ But Melanie stared incredulously at the magnificent Pala d’Oro. ‘Is that real gold, do you think?’
‘Absolutely, it’s made up of two hundred and fifty panels of gold foil and precious stones.’
‘You’re kidding! Are they real? Do you think those are emeralds or just green glass?’
‘Emeralds, and the red ones are real rubies.’
Melanie frowned suspiciously. ‘How do you know that? I thought you didn’t believe in reading guidebooks.’
‘I listened in on a tour group.’
‘I might have known you’d cheated.’ Melanie held up one hand and considered her plump fingers, on which several rings gleamed. ‘Imagine one of those big rubies in a ring! A heavy gold setting, of course – it would look ridiculous in anything else.’
Laura giggled. ‘Come on. We’d better go before you try and grab one!’
As they walked out Laura looked at the large wicker basket her friend was carrying. ‘What have you bought?’
‘Some ravishing red Venetian glass, made at Murano. Do you know, they were making glass in the thirteenth century?’
‘I hope they packed it well. You don’t want it getting broken en route. I wouldn’t fancy its chances bumping along the conveyor belts at Heathrow.’
‘I’ll carry it myself.’ Melanie looked at her watch. ‘Look, I don’t want to hang around St Mark’s Square all afternoon. I’m going to explore more shops.’
‘What else do you want to get?’
‘Some prosciutto, some squid-flavoured pasta – and you can get little bottles of pear and lime liqueur here that are supposed to be terrific.’
‘You could buy all of that in Harrods,’ Laura said.
Melanie gave her a furious look, her lower lip stuck out like a petulant baby’s. ‘It wouldn’t be the same. And it would cost more. Imported food always does. Anyway, I like to buy stuff in the country of origin, it makes it special. When you eat it you can remember your holiday.’
As they emerged from the basilica Laura blinked in the fierce light of the sun. The enormous square was still crowded with tourists although it was now late afternoon. She put her dark glasses back on just in case there was a reporter or cameraman around. The sun poured down relentlessly, making her head ache after the cool shadows of the basilica.
‘Coming with me?’ asked Melanie. ‘Shouldn’t you buy presents for your parents, Angela and Hamish and the brats?’
‘I can do that tomorrow morning, early, when it isn’t so hot. Right now, I’m dying to sit down. I’ll find somewhere nice and quiet in the shade. You can meet me again at that café under the arcade – it’s bound to be cool. We don’t want to sit outside in the sun, even if the tables do have umbrellas. And I think it’s more atmospheric. I love those cloudy old mirrors on the walls.’ Laura gazed across the square into Florian’s, her eyes dreamy. ‘You can’t see yourself in them, but they seem to reflect other faces from long ago, strange shapes that keep changing, eyes that watch you. D’you know what I mean?’
‘No, you’re just crazy,’ Melanie said with the impatience of the practical for dreamers. ‘Now, don’t get lost! Remember, anyone will show you the way back here, okay? And keep your eye on your watch. Five o’clock, okay? If you don’t show I’m going back to the hotel without you.’
They parted and Laura tried to get a table at Florian’s, but none was free. She wandered off into a quiet, shady square nearby, bought some postcards, then sat down at a street café under an awn
ing, ordered iced tea and settled down to write to her family. She would go back to St Mark’s at five o’clock.
Sebastian had come over to the city, too, but he had taken a vaporetto, which moved more slowly and stopped frequently, giving him a chance to reorientate himself in the city he found instantly familiar, even though nearly thirty years had passed since he had last seen it. Of course, he had been reminded of it over the years, on film and in books. The image of Venice was universal, a dream all men dreamt.
When he set out he had had no plans. As he stopped at the hotel desk to hand in the key of his suite, Valerie Hyde came up behind him. ‘Going out? Want any company?’
He turned sharply to look at her. ‘Oh, hi. Actually, I meant to leave you a message. Will you do some research for me? My mother died here and I’ve always meant to check up on the details. Can you go through the back files of the local paper for me?’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘I’ve written her name and the date on here. If you can get them, I’d like photocopies of any news items covering the story, or the inquest.’
Valerie glanced at the handwritten note. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Just the facts. She drowned. I want to know how or why and if anyone else was involved.’
She looked up and stared at him with narrowed eyes. ‘It isn’t always wise to dig up the past.’
‘Just do it, Val,’ he said curtly. ‘See you later.’
On impulse he disembarked from the vaporetto in the Castello district, on the paved quayside called the Riva degli Schiavoni, at the landing-stage for the church of San Zaccaria Pièta. He did not want to get involved with the hordes of tourists that filled the further end of the Riva degli Schiavoni where it met St Mark’s Square.
He had played with the idea of visiting Ca’ d’Angeli that afternoon, but once he got off the boat his courage failed. He was afraid of what he would find, dreading that a child’s memory would prove false, that the great golden palace of his dreams would be just another crumbling old house without any of the heartstopping beauty he remembered.
The Castello district was a less visited area of the city, although there were always tourists drifting about on the quayside, and stalls selling souvenirs and maps. As a child Sebastian had known this part of the city well. He walked now in a sort of trance, hardly knowing what he was doing, but along a route he had followed before, in another life, moving slowly through a narrow arch, along a shadowy alley, into a square in front of a great Renaissance church.
Deep and Silent Waters Page 5