A Venetian Affair

by Catherine George

  ‘Positively the lap of luxury,’ she agreed solemnly.

  When they went back inside she was suddenly swept by a weariness that almost knocked her off her feet. Piero looked at her with shrewd, kindly eyes.

  ‘You’re almost out of it, aren’t you? You sleep on that sofa, and I’ll have this one.’

  He struck a theatrical attitude.

  ‘Fair lady, do not fear to share a room with me. Be assured that I shall not molest you in your sleep. Or even out of it. That fire died years ago, and even in its better days it was never more than a modest flame.’

  Julia could not help smiling at his droll manner.

  ‘I wasn’t afraid,’ she assured him.

  ‘No, I suppose certain things about me are fairly obvious,’ said the gaunt scarecrow before her.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant you’ve been kind and I know I can trust you.’

  He gave a sigh.

  ‘How I wish you were wrong!’ he said mournfully. ‘There are cushions over there, and here are some blankets. Sleep tight.’

  She thanked him, curled up on the sofa in a blanket and was asleep in seconds. Piero was about to settle down for the night when a footstep outside alerted him, and a moment later a man entered, making him smile with pleasure.

  ‘Vincenzo,’ he said softly. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  The newcomer, who was in his late thirties with a lean, harsh face, asked, ‘Why are we whispering?’

  Piero pointed to the sofa, and Vincenzo nodded in understanding.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘She answers to Julia, and she’s English. She’s one of us.’

  Vincenzo nodded, accepting the implication of ‘us’, and began to unpack two brown paper bags that he’d brought with him.

  ‘A few leftovers from the restaurant,’ he explained, bringing out some rolls, a carton of milk, and some slices of meat.

  ‘Doesn’t your boss mind you taking these?’ Piero asked, claiming them with glee.

  ‘Perks of the job. Besides, I can handle the boss.’

  ‘That’s very brave of you,’ Piero said with a knowing wink. ‘They say he’s a terrible man.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Has anyone bothered you here?’

  ‘Nobody ever does, although the owner is an even more terrible man. But if he tried to throw us out I expect you’d handle him too.’

  Vincenzo grinned. ‘I’d do my best.’

  This was a game they played. Vincenzo was actually il Conte di Montese, the owner of the palazzo where they were standing, and also of the restaurant where he worked. Piero knew this. Vincenzo knew that he knew it, and Piero knew that Vincenzo knew he knew. But it suited them both for it to remain unspoken between them.

  On the sofa Julia stirred and muttered. Vincenzo moved a little closer and sat down, watching her.

  ‘How did you find her?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Curled up in a corner of an alley, which is odd because she says she flew here.’

  ‘She took so much trouble to come to Venice, only to collapse in the street?’ Vincenzo mused. ‘What the devil is driving her?’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll tell me the reason later,’ Piero said. ‘But not if I ask.’

  Vincenzo nodded, understanding the code by which Piero and those like him lived. He was used to dropping into his empty home to find various squatters sheltering there.

  He knew that a sensible man would have driven them out, but, despite his grim aspect, he lacked the heart. He looked in occasionally to keep an eye on the place, but he’d found that Piero was better than any caretaker, and the building was safe with him. Now his visits were as much to check on the old man’s welfare as for any other reason.

  Julia stirred again, settling into a position where more of her face was visible.

  Moving quietly, Vincenzo dropped to his knees beside her and studied her. He supposed he shouldn’t be doing that while she was unknowing and defenceless, but something about her drew him so that he could not turn away.

  Her face spoke of mysteries and denied them in the same moment. She wasn’t a girl, he thought, probably somewhere in her thirties, marked by grief and with a withdrawn look so intense that it was there even in sleep.

  Her mouth was wide, generous, designed to be mobile and expressive. He had known women with lips like that. They laughed easily, talked well, and kissed urgently with warm, sweet breath.

  But this woman looked as if she seldom smiled, except as a polite mask. And she had forgotten how to kiss. She had forgotten love and pleasure and happiness. This was a face from which tenderness had been driven by sheer force. Its owner was capable of anything.

  But it hadn’t always been true. She had started life differently. Traces of vulnerability were still there, although perhaps not for long. Something had brought her to the point where life would harden her quickly.

  Then a strange feeling came over him, as though the very air had moved, and the ground beneath him had trembled. He blinked, shaking his head, and the feeling vanished. Quickly he moved away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Piero asked, handing him a cup of coffee.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that for a moment I felt I’d seen her before. But where—?’ He sighed. ‘I must be imagining it.’

  He drank his coffee and turned to go. At the door he stopped and handed Piero some money.

  ‘Look after her,’ he said quietly.

  When Vincenzo had gone Piero wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the other sofa. After a while he slept.

  Doors clanged again and again. It was a dreadful, hollow sound, and it soon became agonising.

  She flung herself against one of those iron doors, pounding and shrieking that she should not be here. But there was no response, no help. Only stony, cold indifference.

  There were bars at the windows. She pulled herself up to them, looking through at the world from which she was shut out.

  She could see a wedding. It did not seem strange to find such a scene in this dreary place, for she knew instinctively that they were connected.

  There was the groom, young and handsome, smiling on his day of triumph. Was there something about his smile that wasn’t quite right, as though he was far from being the man his bride thought?

  She knew nothing of that. The poor little fool thought he loved her. She was young, innocent, and stupid.

  Here she came, glowing with love triumphant. Julia gripped the bars in horror as that naïve girl threw back her veil, revealing the face beneath—

  Her own face.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t marry him, for pity’s sake don’t marry him.’

  The last words were a scream, and suddenly she was sitting up, tortured into wakefulness, tears streaming down her face, and Piero kneeling beside her, his arms about her, trying vainly to offer comfort for a wrong that could never be put right.

  For breakfast next morning Piero laid on a feast.

  ‘Where did these come from?’ Julia asked, looking at the rolls stuffed with meat.

  ‘From my friend from the restaurant who dropped in last night, the one I told you about.’

  ‘He sounds like a really good friend. Is he one of us?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘You know—stranded.’

  ‘Well, he’s got a roof over his head, but you might call him stranded in other ways. He’s lost everyone he ever loved.’

  Over breakfast she produced some money. ‘It’s only a little but it might help. You’ll know where the bargains are.’

  ‘Splendid. We’ll go out together.’

  She wrapped up thickly and followed him out into the day. He led her through a labyrinth of tiny calles, until her head was swimming. How could anyone find their way around this place?

  Suddenly they were in the open, and the Rialto Bridge reared up over them, straight ahead. She’d been here the night before and gone to frozen sleep at one end, where the shore railings curved to
wards the water.

  She’d come to this place searching for someone…

  Now she looked around, but all the faces seemed to converge, making her giddy. And perhaps he had never been here after all.

  Venice was bustling with life. Barges made their way through the canals, stopping to seize the bags of rubbish that had been dumped by the water’s edge. More barges, filled with supplies, arrived at the open air market at the base of the Rialto.

  Piero stocked up with fiendish efficiency, buying more produce with less money than she would have thought possible.

  ‘That’s a good morning’s work,’ he said. ‘Now we—you’re shivering. I guess you took a chill from those stones last night. Let’s get you into the warm.’

  She tried to smile but she was feeling worse by the minute, and was glad to turn back.

  When they reached home Piero tended her like a mother, building up the stove and making her some hot coffee.

  ‘You’ve got a nasty cold there,’ he said when she started to cough.

  ‘Yes,’ she snuffled miserably.

  ‘I’ve got to go out for a while. Stay close to the stove while I’m gone.’

  He left quickly, and she was alone in the rapidly darkening building. There was something blessed in the silence.

  She went to the window overlooking the Grand Canal. Just outside was a tiny garden, bordered by tall wrought iron railings, right next to the water.

  By craning her neck she could make out the Rialto Bridge, and the bank lined with outdoor tables on the far side of the canal. The cafés were filled with people, determined not to be put off by the time of year.

  She wandered back to the stove and sat on the floor, beside it, dozing on and off.

  Then something made her eyes open sharply. The last of the light had gone, and she could hear footsteps in the corridor. It didn’t sound like Piero, but somebody younger.

  The sound drew close and halted. Then the door handle turned. It was enough to make her leap up and hurry into the shadows where the intruder could not see her. Inwardly she was screaming, Go away! Leave me alone!

  She stood still, her heart thumping wildly, as the door opened and a man came in. He set the bag he was carrying on the floor, and looked around as though expecting to see somebody.

  She told herself not to be foolish. This was probably Piero’s friend. But still she couldn’t make herself move. Nobody was a friend to her.

  The man came into a shaft of light from a large window. It was soft, almost gloomy light, but she could make out that he was tall, with a rangy build and a lean face that suggested a man in his thirties.

  Suddenly he grew alert, as though realising that he was not alone. ‘Who is it?’ he called, looking around.

  She tried to force herself to speak, but a frozen hand seemed to be grasping her throat.

  ‘I know you’re somewhere,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to hide from me.’

  Then he moved quickly, pulling back one of the long curtains that hung beside the window, revealing her, pressed against the wall, eyes wide with dread and hostility.

  ‘Dio Mio!’ he exclaimed. ‘A ghost.’

  He put out his hand and would have laid it on her shoulder, but she flinched away.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said hoarsely in English.

  His hand fell at once.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, also in English. ‘Don’t be afraid of me. Why are you hiding?’

  ‘I’m—not—hiding,’ she said with an effort, knowing she sounded crazy. ‘I just—didn’t know who you were.’

  ‘My name is Vincenzo, a friend of Piero’s. I was here last night but you were asleep.’

  ‘He told me about you,’ she said jerkily, ‘but I wasn’t sure—’

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’

  He was talking gently, soothing her as he would have done a wild animal, and gradually she felt her irrational fear subside.

  ‘I heard you coming,’ she said, ‘and—’ A fit of coughing drowned the rest.

  ‘Come into the warm,’ Vincenzo said, beckoning her to the stove.

  When she still hesitated he took hold of her hands. His own hands were warm and powerful, and they drew her forward irresistibly.

  He eased her down onto the sofa, but instead of releasing her he slid his hands up her arms and grasped her, not roughly but with a strength that felt like protection.

  ‘Piero says your name is Julia.’

  She hesitated for a split second. ‘Yes, that’s right. Julia.’

  ‘Why are you trembling?’ he asked. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  Something in those words broke her control and she shuddered violently.

  ‘It is that bad,’ she said, in a hoarse voice. ‘Everything is that bad. It always will be. It’s like a maze. I keep thinking that there must be a way out, but there isn’t. Not after all this time. It’s too late, I know it’s too late, and if I had any sense I’d go away and forget, but I can’t forget.’

  ‘Julia.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Julia.’

  She didn’t hear him. She was beyond anything he could say or do to reach her. Words poured out of her unstoppably, while tears slid down her face.

  ‘You can’t get rid of ghosts,’ she wept, ‘just by telling them to go, because they’re everywhere, before you and behind you and most of all inside you.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he murmured grimly, but she rushed on, unheeding.

  ‘I have to do it. I can’t stop and I won’t, and I can’t help who gets hurt, don’t you see that?’

  ‘I’m afraid the person who gets hurt will be you,’ he said.

  For answer she grasped him back, digging her fingers into him painfully.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Nobody can hurt me any more. When you’ve reached your limit, you’re safe, so I don’t have to worry, and there’s nothing to stop me doing what I have to.’

  Abruptly she released him and buried her face in her hands as the feverish energy that had briefly sustained her drained away, leaving her weak and shaking.

  For a moment Vincenzo was nonplussed. Then he put his arms right around her and held her in a tight clasp. He didn’t try to speak, knowing that there was nothing to say, but his grip was rough and fierce, silently telling her she was not alone.

  After a long time he felt her relax, although even that had a strained quality, as though she had forced it to happen.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said in a muffled voice.

  He relaxed his grip and drew back slightly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted fiercely. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’

  ‘I just want to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone’s help!’

  Instantly he got to his feet and stepped back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain. I know how it is.’

  She looked up at him, and in the dim light he had an impression of a pale face, surrounded by long fair hair, like one of the other-worldly creatures that populated the pictures that had once filled this palace. He had grown up with the ghostly faces, accepting them as a normal part of his world. It startled him to meet one in reality.

  ‘It’s like that for you too?’ she asked.

  After a moment’s pause he said, ‘For everyone in one way or another. Some less—some more.’

  He said the last words hoping she would tell him about herself, but he could see her defences being hastily reassembled. The moment was already slipping away, and when he heard the sound of Piero approaching he knew it had gone.

  Chapter Two

  PIERO pushed open the door, his face brightening when he saw the visitor.

  ‘Ciao,’ Vincenzo said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  ‘Ciao,’ Piero said, looking around. ‘Ah, you two have met.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I gave the signorina a fright.’


  ‘Why so formal? This isn’t a signorina. It’s Julia.’

  ‘Or are you perhaps a signora?’ Vincenzo queried. ‘You understand, a signora is—?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I speak Italian,’ she said edgily. ‘A signora is a married woman. I’m a signorina.’

  She wasn’t sure why she insisted on parading her knowledge of Italian at that moment, unless it was pride. Vincenzo’s understanding had made her defensive.

  ‘So you speak my language,’ Vincenzo said. ‘I congratulate you. So often the English won’t trouble to learn other languages. Do you speak it well?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t used it for a while. I’m out of practice. I can brush up on it here.’

  ‘Not as easily as you think. In Venice we speak Venetian.’

  After that he dived into the bags he’d brought, seeming to forget her, which was a relief. She took the chance to wander away to the window and stand with her back to them, watching the canal, but not seeing it.

  Instead she saw Vincenzo in her mind’s eye, trying to understand the darkness she sensed, in his looks and in the man himself. Everything about him was dark, from his black hair to his deep brown eyes. Even his wide mouth, with its tendency to quirk wryly, suggested that he was not really amused. Or, if so, that the humour was bleak and fit only for the gallows.

  A man whose inner world was as grim and haunted as her own.

  But still she tried to thrust him from her mind. He was dangerous because he saw too much, tricking her into blurting out thoughts that had been rioting in her head, but which she’d kept rigidly repressed.

  I have to do it—I can’t help who gets hurt.

  Say nothing. Never let them suspect what you’re planning. Smile, hate, and protect your secrets.

  That was how she had lived.

  And in one moment he had triggered an avalanche, luring her into a dangerous admission.

  Nobody can hurt me any more—so there’s nothing to stop me doing what I have to.

  She looked around, and saw to her relief that Vincenzo had gone. She hadn’t heard him leave.

  Piero was beaming at her, waving a bread roll in invitation.

  ‘We feast like kings,’ he announced grandiloquently. ‘Sit down and let me serve you the Choice of the Day. Trust me, I was once the head chef at the Paris Ritz.’