Deep and Silent Waters

by Charlotte Lamb

  Hugging her back, Vittoria laughed shyly. ‘Hallo, Livia.’

  Olivia stood back to look at her clothes, making a rueful face. ‘Oh, what a good little girl you still are! You look just the way you did at school! Where did you get that hat? Never mind, while you’re here I’ll take you shopping for new clothes. My friends will laugh if they see you dressed like that!’

  Vittoria reddened, all too aware of the three men listening.

  ‘She looks charming, that colour suits her. I wish you would stop wearing pants, Olivia, not to mention all that makeup!’ Domenico said quickly, taking Vittoria’s hand and kissing the back of it. ‘I remember meeting you, at my house one day during the war – but, like my wicked sister, you’ve grown up since then. I don’t think I would have recognised you if I hadn’t known who you were.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to Ca’ d’Angeli,’ she managed to say, her throat dry with excitement. He was even better-looking close to. The last time they had met he had been a boy – now he was a man, so much taller than she was. She loved his clothes, the way he smiled, that wonderful golden skin. ‘How does it feel to be back in Italy?’

  ‘Stupendo! It’s great.’

  ‘Did you like America?’

  ‘America?’ he repeated. ‘Molto simpdtico! I loved it! It has such energy, such terrific music – and the art! Amazing! You must go there too. You’ll love it, everyone does.’

  ‘Not quite everyone,’ a cool, smooth voice murmured, and she reluctantly moved her eyes to Canfield.

  ‘Ciao, Toria,’ he said, taking one of the hands she was deliberately holding down at her sides.

  He lifted it to his mouth and she felt the brush of his flesh with distaste.

  She was not pleased to see him again, but she couldn’t say so in front of the others so she didn’t answer, just forced a polite smile and inclined her head. His shrewd, cynical eyes read her expression but he went on smiling, unsurprised, faintly amused, as if he had expected that reaction from her. She had never hidden her dislike and resentment.

  ‘You’ve become a young woman,’ he said. ‘And there’s a faint look of your mother … the eyes, perhaps? The cheekbones?’

  ‘My mother always said I took after my father,’ she told him coldly. ‘Maybe, if it had lived, the baby she died giving birth to might have looked like her.’

  She saw him flinch. Ah! So he wasn’t as impervious as he wanted to seem. ‘It was buried with her,’ she added, watching him remorselessly, hoping to see more evidence of her blows landing, but Carlo, his eyes bulging, interrupted.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Canfield! What are you doing in Venice?’

  Vittoria could see the relief with which the Englishman turned to face him. ‘Writing a book on Venetian art. Hallo, Carlo. You’re looking fit and well, I’m happy to see.’ He held out his hand, and Carlo took it, the habit of good manners too engrained for him to refuse.

  ‘Is that how you earn your living, Canfield? I remember you wrote before the war. Do you earn enough to live on or do you still teach?’

  ‘I no longer need to teach. My books on Italy are doing very well and I can live on the money they bring in. How’s the factory doing? I’ve seen your products everywhere so I know you’re still in business.’

  As Carlo answered, his manner warming a little because Canfield had touched on the subject closest to his heart, Olivia slipped an arm round Vittoria’s waist.

  ‘Come on, let’s walk down to the landing-stage – our boat is waiting. The porter has taken your luggage down there already. We’re going to have such fun, Toria. There’s a beach party over at the Lido tonight, and tomorrow an American friend of ours is having a dance for his birthday. His family are meat-packers from Chicago.’

  ‘Are what?’ Vittoria queried, bemused by the phrase.

  Olivia giggled. ‘That’s what he calls it. They put beef in cans and sell it all over America. They’re rolling in money, Toria, and Greg is gorgeous, blond and blue-eyed. Wait till you see him! He’s spoilt but, then, he’s an only son and he’ll inherit the business. He gets everything he wants – his sister is always complaining about it, and I don’t blame her, but he’s such a charmer. His parents adore him. They just gave him his own motor-boat for his birthday and he zips up and down the canal, waving to me. The Murphys live in a palazzo round the bend from us, in the Grand Canal. They rent it, of course. It belongs to the Lazaro family, but they can’t afford to live in it.’

  ‘Who runs the business in America while the Murphys are over here?’

  ‘Oh, they put in a manager and Mr Murphy goes home every so often to check on things, but Mrs Murphy and Greg and Bernadette stay here.’

  ‘Bernadette is the sister?’

  Olivia nodded. ‘They’re Catholics, of course – Irish descent.’

  ‘Catholics? That’s nice.’ Vittoria had been wondering how the d’Angeli family would react to Olivia marrying outside the Church.

  Olivia grinned knowingly. ‘Isn’t it? No need to worry about that!’

  They both chuckled. Domenico caught up with them. ‘What are you two whispering about?’

  ‘You,’ his sister told him.

  ‘What else?’ His dark eyes wandered over the crowded steps where students in jeans and T-shirts, tourists in shorts, sat nursing their rucksacks and consulting creased maps of Venice. ‘Venice is full of Americans again,’ he told Vittoria, keeping step with her, riveting the eyes of some of the students with his long-legged, lithe body. He had a physical grace that was mesmerising, especially combined with the unintended arrogance of his self-assurance, the birthright of centuries of d’Angeli ancestors who had been lords and rulers in this city.

  ‘How long have you known Signor Canfield?’ asked Vittoria, aware of the man behind her, talking to Carlo. The sound of his voice made her head beat with rage. He had killed her mother. She wanted to scream it at him. Murderer.

  ‘I met him in the States while I was over there. He was lecturing at the same university. When he said he was writing a book on Venetian art I invited him to stay with us.’ Domenico smiled down at her.

  Vittoria’s heart turned over sickeningly. He was so beautiful.

  ‘Charming, isn’t he?’ Domenico murmured. ‘He told me he had known your family well. Wasn’t he your brothers’ tutor before the war?’

  Vittoria swallowed, her throat clenched. He would be sleeping under the same roof. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He said there were about half a dozen boys.’

  ‘He exaggerates, as usual. There were four. Carlo is the only one who survived the war.’

  He was watching her intently, and saw that she was trembling. Putting his arm round her shoulders to steady her, Domenico said gently, ‘I’m sorry, three brothers gone … That’s hard to bear, you must miss them badly.’

  She let herself lean on him, feeling his warmth seep into her. He smelt of lemons and musk and cigarette smoke; she loved the fragrance of his skin. He was kind … or maybe he really liked her? It felt as if he did. She loved the way he smiled at her, those dark eyes full of light and warmth. She was so happy she was quite light-headed.

  This was going to be a wonderful holiday.

  Except for having Canfield under the same roof.

  Domenico insisted that Carlo must stay, too, for the two days he meant to be in Venice, and they seemed to become instant friends. Domenico took him around the city, showed him the Accademia, San Marco, Santa Maria della Salute. They did a boat trip around the canals, went out to the lagoon islands, to Murano to buy dark red glass, to Torcello to see the Byzantine cathedral. Carlo bought lace and linen to take back to Rachele before they went on to San Michele, the cypress-enclosed cemetery island with the white walls.

  When they visited Aunt Maria for afternoon tea Domenico came with them. The old woman was pink with pleasure. She had never before entertained one of Venice’s aristocrats in her own home. As they left two hours later she whispered to Vittoria, ‘Come again, alone, I can’t wa
it to hear all about the palazzo.’

  Every evening the men went out – to Harry’s Bar, or one or the other of Domenico’s favourite drinking spots where he introduced Carlo to his friends, smooth Italians, bluff Englishmen, rich Americans who spent their days moving from the first aperitif of the morning to the last brandy of the night, with many stops in between. There were women, too; tough American journalists, elegant English girls, sultry Italians with red, red mouths and hot eyes.

  After his two days were up Carlo stayed on. Vittoria had no idea what he did all day but if she saw him come back he often smelt of strong perfume and was almost always drunk.

  She was having a wonderful time, too. Olivia had insisted on taking her shopping, talked her into buying clothes Vittoria would never quite have dared buy without Olivia’s persuasion.

  Tight-waisted dresses, in pastel colours, poplin shirts in lavender or green, pretty high-heeled shoes or flat black-leather ones. Olivia chose carefully for her to give her more height, make her look slimmer.

  Rachele kept ringing up asking when Carlo was coming home. At last one morning she wired that she was coming to Venice to get him.

  Carlo grimaced. ‘Well, that’s the end of my holiday. It was too good to last, but never mind, I’ve had the best time of my life. I’ll go up and pack and catch the next train to Milan.’

  Just before he left for the station he said, ‘Enjoy the rest of your time here. Domenico’s a great fellow, I like him. We’ve had some long chats, talked it all out, I approve.’ He patted her shoulder clumsily. ‘I’ve told him I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Delighted about what?’ Shy, excited, uncertain, half hoping yet afraid to let herself believe it, she looked up into his face and Carlo grinned at her.

  ‘Oh, you know! I’m pleased, Toria. It’s just what I want for you.’

  Questions rushed to her tongue but he didn’t wait for her to ask them. Looking at his watch he groaned.

  ‘I must go. If I miss that train, Rachele will be waiting for me with a rolling pin!’ He kissed her cheek and was gone, swinging along between his crutches at his usual fast pace. She ran out to the landing-stage in time to see the d’Angeli boat chugging away. Carlo waved to her, then he was gone.

  Vittoria stayed on another month. In summer Venice was a place of heady pleasures; glorious open-air parties, dances, picnics on the Lido beaches.

  As the heat of August passed into the first, cooler days of September, Domenico took Vittoria out into the familiar, elegant gardens of Ca’d’Angeli and, standing in the shade of a great, ancient yew tree, said, ‘Vittoria, I have spoken to your brother and he has given me permission to ask you to marry me. Will you be my wife?’

  She was so overcome she couldn’t answer for a moment. Domenico had kissed her a few times, gently, once when they walked home together after a dance, once here in the garden after dinner, but he had not spoken of love.

  He looked down into her face searchingly, then smiled. ‘I promise, I will always take care of you, Toria, you can trust me, I won’t ever let you down.’

  He took her face between his palms and bent to kiss her, slowly, softly, with a new intimacy, parting her lips, turning her bones to jelly and making her so happy she was almost faint. He did love her. He must love her. He hadn’t actually said he did. But why else had he asked her to marry him?

  ‘Will you marry me, Toria?’

  This time she managed to whisper, ‘Yes.’

  When they went back into Ca’ d’Angeli Olivia was waiting, eyes wide and excited. When she saw their faces she gave a whoop.

  ‘She said yes?’ Flinging her arms around Vittoria she hugged her like a boa constrictor. ‘I’m so happy. Now you’ll be my sister. When is the wedding? I must be a bridesmaid! Will you have it soon?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t,’ Domenico said quietly. ‘Carlo wants us to wait until you are in your last year at university, Toria. He feels you should finish your degree course and then train as an accountant. One day you will inherit your family company and it is important that you are prepared for that.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t want to wait so long, I want to get married right away.’

  ‘Of course she does! It’s not natural, getting engaged and then waiting a whole year!’

  ‘Carlo won’t hear of you giving up your degree course,’ Dominico told Vittoria.

  ‘But I can go back to college after we’re married.’

  ‘The university faculty frowns on married women taking degrees, and if we were married it would be very hard for you to concentrate on your studies – and hard for me, too, to let you go away for months at a time.’

  He smiled at her, his mysterious dark eyes glowing. ‘No, we must wait, Toria. It will be hard, for both of us, but we have our whole lives in front of us. There is plenty of time.’

  She returned to Milan a week later to get ready for her first term at university. Carlo was delighted with her engagement.

  ‘Do we have to wait, Carlo? If we got married at once I could go to America with Domenico and start university in California.’

  Her brother looked surprised. ‘I suggested that to Domenico, but he felt it would be too much of a distraction for you both. If you got pregnant you would never finish your degree. I told him you must get some qualifications. If you’re going to run the firm you have to know what you’re doing. You could get a manager, but how could you be sure you could trust him? It was a relief to me that Domenico agreed with me and was ready to wait.’

  She ached with frustration, poured all her passion out on paper every day. Domenico wrote less frequently. His were not long letters: like Olivia he was a poor correspondent, but he filled his pages with tiny pen and ink drawings of things he had seen during the day, some funny, some fascinating, some sad. He had an eye for the strange, the weird, the pathetic and Vittoria read and re-read those letters every day. They made her feel close to him, although he was back in the States where he was joined by his sister.

  Suddenly Olivia wrote to announce that she was getting married. Vittoria was sick with envy but at least the news meant that Domenico was coming back to Italy for a few weeks. In the spring of 1952 Olivia married her American, Greg, with a long and magnificent nuptial mass. Vittoria was her bridesmaid. The wedding breakfast was held at Ca’d’Angeli and many of their schoolfriends were invited. The only one who did not come was Gina, who was working abroad.

  Curious, Vittoria asked, ‘What job is she doing?’

  ‘She’s on a year’s scholarship, at an art school in the States.’

  ‘Really? I thought she would go into her family business. Did Domenico help her get the scholarship?’

  ‘He wrote her a reference, I think. Oh, I’m going to miss you. But I’ll come back to be your matron-of-honour. And you must write to me! You know me, I hate writing letters, but I’ll drop you a postcard every week, I promise.’

  She and her husband were going to live in Chicago. The Murphy family had given up the palazzo they had been renting and had returned home. Greg was working in the family firm, learning the business he would one day inherit.

  Domenico was sailing back to the States on the same boat as his sister and her husband so Vittoria saw little of him during that spring holiday and when she did he seemed distant and cold. She tried to talk to him about how she felt, to say what was burning inside her, that she loved him and needed him now, not in a year, that she wanted him to make love to her, but he always changed the subject before she got the words out, as if he guessed what she was going to say and was determined she shouldn’t.

  Then he was gone and she was back in Milan, working hard but intensely depressed. Did he regret having proposed? Didn’t he want to marry her? Did he love her?

  In her next letter she asked him to name the day. Shouldn’t they be planning the wedding? Rachele kept reminding her that there were masses of things to do: they had to book the church, plan the wedding breakfast, make lists of guests, send out invitations. But first they needed
to know the date. It would take months to set everything up here in Milan.

  ‘I’ll let you know soon,’ he wrote back. ‘I promise. I can’t be certain yet when I shall get back from here.’ He filled up the rest of the page with drawings of a beach – girls in bikinis, men with huge chests, children digging in sand. Funny, lively, charming.

  Vittoria didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  That winter Carlo and Rachele were driving home from the opera when their car skidded on ice and crashed. Rachele was killed outright. Carlo had head injuries and a broken shoulder.

  Domenico flew home the day before Rachele’s funeral and held Vittoria while she sobbed into his shirt. She was relieved he had come, inexpressibly glad to see him, yet she had, too, a strong sense of foreboding. Her instincts kept telling her that something was wrong, but she didn’t know what it was.

  ‘How’s Carlo?’ he asked, lightly kissing her hair.

  ‘They won’t tell me. They keep saying it’s too soon to know if he’ll ever be the same. He just lies there, his head all bandaged, so white and still. He’s out of the coma but he doesn’t react when you speak to him. He just lies there, hour after hour, not moving.’

  ‘I’ll come to the hospital tomorrow, see for myself. It sounds like shock to me. You’d expect it, wouldn’t you? He knows Rachele is dead, does he?’

  ‘I told him. He just lay there as if he was deaf, staring at the wall.’

  ‘I expect he already knew. Didn’t you say she was killed in the crash? He must have realised she was dead.’

  ‘Do you think he blames himself? But it wasn’t his fault. The crash was an accident. There was ice on the road. Rachele couldn’t control the car when it went into a skid.’

  ‘Poor Carlo. He’s had very little luck.’

  When they went to the hospital, after the funeral, Carlo was limp, white, silent, but there were glistening tracks down his face where he had cried.

  As Domenico drove her home he said, ‘He knew. That the funeral was today. He may not react but he’s conscious of what is going on around him. The specialist told me he’s not too confident about the prognosis. Carlo doesn’t have any real future, long term.’