A Venetian Affair

by Catherine George

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘Can I?’ she asked before she could stop herself.

  He grimaced. ‘I suppose you’re bound to think that way.’

  ‘How do I know what to think?’

  He rose. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk any more. We both have a lot riding on this, and we can’t afford to quarrel.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’m totally in your hands,’ she said angrily. It was the kind of thing she’d resolved not to say, but she couldn’t help herself. The strains of the day, the helpless sense of being so near and yet so far, filled her with tension that found relief in bitterness.

  ‘I wish I could persuade you that you’re safe in my hands,’ he said.

  ‘But you have my daughter and I don’t,’ she cried. ‘How am I supposed to get past that?’

  ‘Supposed to forgive that, you mean. Perhaps you never will. We’ll talk another time.’

  ‘When do I see her?’

  ‘You have my address. All you have to do is turn up and bulldoze your way in.’

  ‘You know I won’t do that.’

  ‘Right, because you’re a good mother. That’s what’s holding you back. Not me.’

  ‘And it’ll always hold me back, won’t it? It’s what you’re counting on.’

  ‘Don’t say any more, Julia. Don’t say things that will make the future harder.’

  She turned on him. ‘Harder? How much harder than this can it get? Can’t you understand what’s happened? The last time I saw my child she clung to me and cried, ‘‘Mummy, no!’’ Today she—didn’t even—recognise—me.’

  The words came out in jerks. She was trembling violently, unable to prevent the sobs coming. They rose up in her, bursting out as gasping screams.

  ‘Julia!’ He came to her but she fended him off.

  ‘No—no—keep away—I’m all right.’

  ‘But you’re not. At least let me help you.’

  ‘How can you help me—when we’re enemies?’ she choked. ‘That’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, we’re not enemies. Perhaps we’re on different sides, but you and I could never be enemies.’

  ‘That’s just words,’ she flashed at him. ‘If we’re not enemies now, we will be in the end. Don’t you know that?’

  By his face she could tell that he did know it, however hard he might try to deny it.

  ‘No,’ he said, trying to sound convinced. ‘There’s too much between us.’

  ‘There’s nothing between us that matters,’ she flashed. ‘Nothing—nothing—’

  She couldn’t finish. The sobs were rising again, threatening to suffocate her. Vincenzo abandoned argument and did what he should have done at first, putting his arms around her and holding her tightly.

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ he murmured. ‘Talking doesn’t help.’ He sighed, resting his cheek against her hair. ‘I don’t really know what does help, but it isn’t words.’

  She couldn’t answer. Waves of grief overwhelmed her. It was as if all the tears she had shed over the last few years were still there to be shed again.

  From somewhere she heard him murmuring her name, and felt his head resting against hers. He was right. Words were useless. The only comfort lay in shared warmth, and it was only to be found in him.

  ‘All these years,’ she wept, ‘thinking of her every day, longing for her, loving her, but not knowing what she looked like any more, dreaming of when I’d find her again, what we’d say to each other—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he whispered.

  ‘What did I think was going to happen? Deluding myself—she was bound to have a new life—but I wouldn’t let myself see it—’

  ‘Julia—Julia—’

  ‘She doesn’t want me.’

  ‘It’s too soon to say that.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Don’t you see I’ve been fooling myself all this time? I’m a stranger to her. She doesn’t want me and she never will.’

  She wept without restraint. She had come to the end of the journey and the ending was bitter and hopeless. He tried desperately to soothe her, turning her face up to him and kissing it repeatedly. Her wretchedness tore at him and for a moment he would have done anything in the world to make things right for her.

  Anything but the one thing she wanted.

  He’d seen her face like this once before, the night she’d walked in her sleep and he’d promised to help her. How far away it seemed now.

  He kissed her tears, then her lips, gently at first, then fiercely as though trying to call her back from some distant region.

  ‘You said there was nothing between us,’ he said huskily. ‘But you’re wrong. There’s this—and this—’

  For a moment she almost yielded. The feeling was so sweet and welcome. But now the distress that fuelled her whole life had extended to him, and she would not weaken.

  ‘Yes,’ she said wistfully. ‘But it’s not enough. Please, Vincenzo—’

  He sighed and released her.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not enough. I’d better be going.’

  She wanted to say something to keep him there. She wanted him to go.

  She longed to think of the right thing to say, but the words wouldn’t come to her, and he was equally silent.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said at last.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He left, closing the door quietly behind him. Julia could only stand, in violent despair, watching that closed door, wishing she could dash her head against it.

  That night her dreams were haunted by a child screaming for the mother she was about to lose. She could feel the arms about her neck, desperately clinging on as she was torn away.

  ‘No, Mummy, no!’

  She awoke to find herself sitting up, staring into the darkness, clinging onto the wall as though to stop herself from falling.

  After that she didn’t dare go back to sleep. She got up and spent the rest of the night walking the silent calles.

  She wondered what she would say to Vincenzo, but when she went to work there was no sign of him. Someone said he’d called to say he wouldn’t be in today.

  She made a decision.

  ‘I’m due for a day off,’ she told the head waiter, ‘and I’d like to take it now. I’m sorry about the short notice—’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re not too busy,’ he said kindly.

  She stormed out into the street and began to run in the direction of the Grand Canal. It was an unfamiliar route, but by now she was becoming a Venetian, and managed not to get lost more than once. When she reached the water she boarded a traghetto, one of the two-man gondola ferries that crossed the Grand Canal. Like the others she made the journey standing upright, huddling her jacket around her against the icy wind, and the snow that was falling again.

  By studying a map she managed to identify the address Vincenzo had given her in the Fondamenta Soranzo. As she reached the shore she was already working out the rest of the way: down this calle, across that little bridge.

  Suppose they weren’t there? Suppose his disappearance meant that he’d taken her away? Wherever they had gone, she would find them.

  There was the doorway, opposite her on the other side of a small canal. In another moment—

  You’re a good mother. That’s what’s holding you back. Not me.

  The words seemed to leap out at her from the clear air. Only last night she’d said she would not ‘bulldoze’ her way in. And now she was doing it.

  She watched the house for any sign of movement. Slowly, she began to retreat into the shadows until she turned the corner. Then she ran back the way she’d come and almost jumped into the returning traghetto.

  On the other side she jumped out again and headed straight for the nearest art shop. There she spent money in a fury, buying colours, pencils, brushes and pigments. She finished off with a large, canvas artist’s bag, stuffed everything into it, and headed for the Palazzo di Montese.

  As she came near she crossed her fingers, hoping
that she could still get in. There was the little back door. She put her shoulder to it, giving it a push and a shake. It opened.

  ‘Trust you to know how to do it,’ she whispered to the unseen friend she still remembered.

  Once inside she carefully closed the door and hurried on upstairs. In the upper corridor she stopped and looked up at the ceiling, where there were some frescoes that had taken her attention before. Now that the light was good she could see how really fine they were; also that they needed her attention.

  ‘I should have done this before,’ she muttered.

  Unlike most of the ceilings in the palazzo, this one wasn’t too high, and now she knew where to find a stepladder. She put it in place and shinned up, but was still not close enough.

  A tall, empty bookshelf stood nearby. From the top of the stepladder she managed to scramble onto it. Lying on her back, she had just the view she wanted. The old, familiar excitement began to grow in her as she saw what time had done to the fresco, and knew what she could do to make it right.

  So absorbed was she that she failed to hear the faint sounds coming from below. It was Vincenzo’s voice that alerted her.

  ‘Careful where you step. Take my hand.’

  And then a child’s voice, ‘It’s awfully big, Uncle Vincenzo. Did you and Mamma really used to live here?’

  ‘We did once, when we were children. Did she ever tell you about it?’

  ‘She did sometimes. She promised to bring me here, but Papà heard her and got angry. Why was that?’

  ‘I don’t know, cara. He had his own way of seeing things. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Oh, but you promised. I’ve been looking forward to it.’

  ‘But it’s a gloomy place, for you.’

  ‘It wasn’t always gloomy, though, was it?’

  ‘No, my darling. Once it was full of lights and laughter. But that was a long time ago.’

  Julia lay on top of the bookcase, unable not to eavesdrop, her heart beating fast at the sound of her daughter’s voice. But Vincenzo’s voice also caught her attention. There was no harshness in it now. It was gentle and tender as he spoke to the child.

  They must just be on the stairs below, and she could hear him very clearly, talking about the old days in this place. Sometimes the little girl laughed, and then he laughed with her. They were delightful together. Julia lay there, high up, listening, torn between sadness and aching delight.

  But she couldn’t stay here, waiting to be discovered. Slowly she began to inch to the edge of the bookcase, from where she could get to the stepladder.

  Nearly there—nearly there—one hand on the ladder—a few more inches—

  But the ladder moved as she touched it. Grasping frantically, she somehow lurched back against the bookcase, and the next moment the whole lot came crashing down to the floor, with her underneath.

  For a moment she lay still, trapped beneath everything, more winded than hurt.

  She heard Vincenzo call, ‘Rosa, come back here—’ and the next moment the child came flying around the corner.

  ‘Uncle Vincenzo, come quickly.’

  He appeared a moment later, frowning at the sight, then exclaiming violently as he recognised her.

  ‘It’s the lady from yesterday,’ Rosa cried.

  ‘Julia, what the devil? Julia!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she gasped. ‘If you could just get this stuff off me—’

  Instantly the child reached out tiny hands to the bookcase.

  ‘Get back,’ Vincenzo told her sharply. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

  When he was sure she was clear he removed the stepladder, then lifted the bookcase and swung it right away.

  ‘Don’t try to get up,’ he ordered Julia as she began to move.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said decidedly. ‘No bones broken.’

  ‘Your forehead’s bleeding,’ Rosa said.

  She touched it and found the trickle of blood. Then Vincenzo’s arms went about her and he was helping her to her feet.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Yes, of course I—hey.’

  He’d lifted her and was carrying her to the room that had been the count’s bedroom. Rosa ran ahead and opened the door so that he could go through and lay her on the great bed. He pulled off his jacket and put it under her head as a pillow. Then he sat beside her, glaring.

  ‘If you aren’t the most—what the devil were you doing?’

  ‘Looking at your frescoes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s about time somebody did. It’s my job.’

  ‘You have to do it here and now?’ he demanded, astounded and exasperated in equal measure. ‘No—wait—that can come later. You need a doctor.’

  ‘I just had a little fall and a few bruises. But I could do with something to drink.’

  ‘I’ll get you some water from the pump. Rosa, stay with her. Don’t let her get up.’

  He left the room, and at once the child came to the bed, as though standing guard.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Julia said. ‘I’m not going to run away.’

  ‘Good, because Uncle Vincenzo says you mustn’t.’

  ‘Do people always do what Uncle Vincenzo says?’

  Rosa considered this seriously. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She shook her head solemnly. Julia wondered if she was imagining a gleam of mischief in the childish eyes. She would have liked to believe it was there.

  ‘You’re the lady I met yesterday, aren’t you?’

  Julia nodded.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m an art restorer.’

  ‘Is that the same as an artist?’

  ‘No, I was never much good as an artist, so I look after other people’s pictures, and repair them.’

  ‘Are you doing that for Uncle Vincenzo?’

  ‘The truth is that I had no right to be here. I’m just nosy, I’m afraid.’

  This admission seemed to strike a response in the child.

  ‘Oh, yes, like when you’re looking at a book of pictures and you’ve just got to keep turning over more and more pages.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Julia said. ‘The pictures are so beautiful that you can’t get enough.’

  ‘And you wish ever so much that you could make pictures like them,’ Rosa said wistfully. ‘But you just can’t.’

  Julia looked up quickly to see Vincenzo standing in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him come in, and wondered how long he’d been there.

  Rosa was full of eagerness.

  ‘Uncle, this lady understands about pictures and wanting to look at them even though it’s time to go to bed.’

  Vincenzo grinned. ‘We have constant battles about bedtime in our house.’

  He brought a glass of water to the bed and offered it to Julia, who was hauling herself up painfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ she gasped, fumbling for the glass.

  But it was Rosa who secured it, climbing onto the bed and directing Vincenzo to hold Julia up. He slipped his arms beneath her shoulders while the little girl held the glass to her lips.

  ‘Can I have your hankie, please, Uncle?’

  He handed over a clean handkerchief, and Rosa used it to dab at the blood on Julia’s forehead. Her little face was concentrated, as though this were the most important job in the world. Her hands were gentle.

  ‘There,’ she said solemnly at last. ‘That will do until the doctor sees it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Julia said as Vincenzo laid her back on the jacket. She smiled at Rosa. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘I’m going to be a nurse when I grow up,’ the child told her. ‘Or I may be an art restorer. If I can read all the books in time. But it’s hard because Gemma keeps telling me to put the light out and go to sleep.’

  ‘I used to get into trouble for that too. My mother couldn’t understand that, to me, an art book was as good as a thriller.’

  Rosa nodded again, this time vigorous
ly. ‘What did you do?’ she asked.

  Julia leaned nearer, like a conspirator, and whispered, ‘I got smaller books and hid them under the bedclothes.’

  She winked. Rosa gave a little gasp, which almost turned into a giggle. Almost.

  ‘Now can I ask what you’re doing here?’ Vincenzo said. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me, instead of coming here alone and climbing about in that dangerous way?’

  ‘I did it on impulse. I thought it would give me something to think about other than—well, things I didn’t want to think about.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rosa grow suddenly still. It was an alert stillness, as though someone had blown a trumpet, and she was waiting.

  ‘I expect you have a lot of things that you don’t want to think about,’ Julia said carefully.

  Rosa nodded.

  ‘But you can’t stop,’ she said.

  ‘I know. The more you don’t want to think of them, the more you keep thinking of them, until it’s like a great big stone crushing you. And you can’t get out from under it.’

  This time Rosa didn’t nod, but a light came into her eyes, and she continued to watch Julia intently.

  ‘I think I should get you back to your flat,’ Vincenzo said. ‘Then I’m sending for the doctor, and I want no argument. Nor are you coming in to work at the restaurant. You’ll rest until Epiphany is over.’

  ‘Then she can spend Epiphany with us,’ Rosa breathed. ‘Uncle Vincenzo, please say she can.’

  Julia drew in her breath, waiting for Vincenzo to find some excuse.

  ‘Will you feel well enough for that?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I know I will.’

  ‘You’ll come?’ Rosa exclaimed. ‘And stay with us all day?’

  Julia glanced at Vincenzo. He was very pale, but he spoke steadily.

  ‘Of course you will stay all day. So now you must rest properly, to make quite certain that nothing prevents you being our guest.’

  ‘My guest,’ Rosa said proudly.

  Chapter Nine

  IT SNOWED the night before Epiphany, but by the morning it had stopped, the sun was out, and Venice lay under a shining white blanket.

  Vincenzo came to collect Julia and exclaimed, ‘Mio Dio, what are you carrying?’