by R P Nathan
“Are you OK?” sobbed Sarah.
“I’m so sorry,” he said; was saying.
“But are you injured? Did you hurt your leg when you fell?”
“No I’m fine—”
“Then come on!” I shouted. We ran diagonally back across the Campo, ignoring the curious looks from the tourists and just missing a group of Carabinieri arriving at the square as we turned into a side street.
“I thought the treasure was in the urn,” Patrick said as we ran.
“They opened the urn in the ‘60s!” Sarah screamed at him. “I told you that!”
“I know that now.” His voice was meek, confused. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Stop!” I yelled at them. More Carabinieri had appeared at the end of the street, their black uniforms menacing. “Back the way we came.”
We turned and started back along the street but managed to find an alley to duck into halfway down. From there we zigged and zagged, following some of the streets Sarah and I had taken that morning.
After a while we slowed to a walk as it seemed less conspicuous. We blended amongst the thronging tourists but we were nervous all the while. In the distance was the constant siren from a police launch cruising the canal. And as we got close to the hotel there were suddenly shouts again and we realised we must have been spotted.
We sprinted across the Campo San Geremia and into the foyer of our hotel. An elderly lady mopping the floor gave us a curious look but we ignored her and dashed up the stairs. Along the corridor and into the room slamming the door shut behind us.
“Shit!” I gasped and flopped onto my bed my chest heaving, breath burning inside me. “Shit.”
Sarah collapsed on the floor in noisy exhaustion. Patrick just stood there, his face contorted. “This is all my fault,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah gasped between gulps of air. “It’s not important.”
“I don’t even know properly what happened. One minute I was arguing with Julius—”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Sarah again, her voice more composed. She stood up and went and put a hand on his shoulder. “Honestly. Tell him, John.”
With difficulty I swung my legs round and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s right,” I panted. “No worries.”
Sarah looked at me gratefully and I felt my heart rate lurch back up to one hundred and fifty.
Patrick was looking distraught and close to tears. Sarah reached her arms round him.
I got up and went to the balcony and cast a swift glance down before hurrying back inside. “They’re coming into the square,” I groaned.
There was the sound of running in the corridor and I felt myself freeze. A heart stopping bang on the door and then Julius and Duncan burst in. I slumped onto the bed again in relief.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” said Julius glaring at Patrick. “There are cops everywhere.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Do you understand what you’ve done? Have you any idea how many police are out there? The whole of Venice is crawling with them.”
“Oh God.” Patrick held his head in his hands.
“You can’t fuck with their stuff, man,” said Duncan. “Not in Italy. They’ll send the Mafia after you to cut your dick off.”
“I doubt that,” said Julius his voice cooler now, though he was flushed, his eyes wide. “But you do need to get out of here. The police are in the square and are starting to work round the buildings. It’s only a matter of time before they catch you.”
“What happened in the church?” I asked.
“We got in their way,” said Julius shrugging and then gave the barest flicker of a smile. “We behaved like clumsy American tourists. Duncan was particularly good at it.”
“Fucking A. I was the meister.”
“Maya is still there. She proved a great distraction for the Carabinieri. They all wanted to take her statement. But anyway you've got to get going before the police start searching the place.”
“But if they’re in the square it’s already too late,” said Patrick desperately. “I should just hand myself in—”
“No way,” I said grimly. “We can still make it.”
“He’s right,” said Julius. “You’ve still got time: just. Look, pack what you need into your rucksacks. So you’ll be able to run if you have to. We’ll take the rest of your stuff back to our place.” He looked at Duncan.
“Yeah no worries. Just do it quickly or we’re all going to wake up with horses’ heads in our beds.”
“Will you shut up,” said Julius but it eased the tension and even Patrick forced a smile. We threw a few essentials into the bottom of our rucksacks shrugged them on and then the two of us stood there.
“I’m really sorry,” said Patrick again looking close to tears.
“It’s OK,” said Sarah who was in tears and gave him one last hug. He straightened up.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Julius. He put out a hand and Patrick shook it and Duncan clapped him on the back.
“Thanks guys,” I said awkwardly looking over at Julius and Duncan. They nodded back at me. “Look after yourself,” said Duncan.
“You too.”
“You guys have got to go,” said Julius his brow creased up.
“Where shall we meet up again?”
“I think England would probably be best.”
We all looked at each other for a moment.
“Oh this is fucking crazy,” groaned Duncan.
“It’s all we’ve got. Get out of here. Now.”
I glanced over at Sarah. She put her arms around me. “Look after him,” she whispered to me.
“I will.”
“And look after yourself too.” She kissed me on the cheek and just for a split second we were left looking at each other. Just the briefest of instants. The sweetest moment. “I’ll call you,” she said.
And then we were gone, Patrick and I, clattering down the stairs. One flight, two flights, half slipping on the wooden steps in our haste, blood pounding again, still not properly recovered from before, God I was unfit, my lungs burning—
I stopped suddenly and Patrick thumped into me. I hissed at him to be quiet. One flight to go, just on the turn of the staircase so that we could see down into the foyer. The old lady was still mopping but Signor Tron was down there as well now and there was another man with him. Tall and dressed in charcoal grey.
“Is he a policeman?” Patrick whispered urgently.
“I don’t know. He looks kind of familiar…”
“What do we do?”
The question hung there, sibilant in my ear. What do we do? What do we do?
They were standing by the counter and looked up for a moment but did not see us. Tron said something in Italian to which the other reacted angrily. He banged his hand flat and hard onto the counter and yelled something back at him. Tron tried to hush him looking anxiously over at the cleaning lady but the other would not be silenced.
“Then at least let us speak in English, Loredan, so she will not understand,” Tron pleaded.
“Count Loredan!” he thundered. “Do not forget your place.”
Tron puffed out his chest. “I am also of noble stock, remember. My forefathers too ruled Venice.”
“And now you run a hotel.”
Tron shrugged the insult away and put on a placating voice. “Count Loredan, the Capo has spoken. I must obey his orders. We are not to interfere.”
“But we must interfere. We must get that book back.”
“If the Capo decided to sell it—”
“It was not his to sell! That old fool Galbaio does not understand its worth. It is of value to all Venice, Tron.”
Tron seemed to waver but he said, almost reluctantly, “I cannot disobey my orders. He is Capo.”
“Of course. But then contact Galbaio and tell him to come here. And we will discuss it. But in the meantime that
book must not leave Venice.”
Tron looked at him and sighed. “Very well.” But then he started as he caught sight of movement out in the square. “The police are approaching! Count Loredan you should never have come here. Your activities have not been wise. Someone will end up getting hurt—”
“You will get hurt if I don’t get me that book, Tron.”
“Do not threaten me.” Tron’s face hardened. “I said I will get the book. But not for you; for Venice. Now go. You will endanger us all if the police take you.”
“I will return tonight,” said Loredan and he crossed the hall and slipped outside.
The old woman eyed them, shrugged, and carried on mopping.
“What do we do now?” Patrick whispered in my ear. I half turned to look at him and saw in his eyes he was as scared as I was. How long had we sat there? No more than a minute. Yet we were almost out of time.
“Come on!” I jumped up and ran as hard as I could down the stairs and I could hear and feel Patrick thumping behind me. Signor Tron shouted after us to come back but we ignored him. Yet when we got to the dirty smoked glass doors of the hotel we saw a pair of burly Carabinieri running towards us. We were too late.
“This way!” Tron was beckoning to us, pointing at a doorway to the right of the counter. “You can hide here.”
Patrick and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us trusted him but the police were almost upon us. We had no choice.
We let him bundle us around the desk and through the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said forcing a smile as he closed the door on us. “I need to talk to you when the police are gone.”
And then we were left alone, the room plunged suddenly into darkness. Immediately we heard shouting in the foyer and the tramping of boots. “Polizia! Polizia! Dov’è Loredan?” I clenched my eyes shut trying not think of what was happening; of what would happen if Tron gave us away; of what would happen if he didn’t.
“Look!”
I glanced over to where Patrick was pointing. A vertical crack of light on the other side of the room. A door, but when we tried it was locked against us.
“It must lead directly outside,” I whispered. “Out the back. We could get round to the railway station—”
“But it’s locked,” Patrick hissed. “We can’t just break it.”
“So do you want to just sit here till the police find us? Or till Tron’s friend comes back?”
I could hear his breathing and just make out his face, close to me, pale. He blinked, only once, and then threw himself against the door. I joined him on the second and on the third the door splintered open and we burst into a tiny courtyard. We stumbled, blinded by the sudden daylight.
Behind us the clamour of voices grew louder. We picked ourselves up, and exchanged a glance; but for an instant only. Then we pushed through the gate at the back of the courtyard and ran blinking into the sunlit street beyond.
Part Two
Suns of Home
Chapter 15
Summer 2002, London
Julius
As usual the Northern Line was execrable on the way home and having taken an hour – mostly stopped in tunnels, part of the time with the lights failed, and all of the time next to a man who had surely not washed for a year – having taken an hour to reach Camden Town from Charing Cross it was decided that our train had gone far enough and would turn around again. It was a fifteen minute wait for the next tube and only a little longer on foot to my place in Primrose Hill. So I got out and walked, glad to be back in the fresh air if the odours of Camden High Street can ever be described as such.
I was late that evening anyway having had to give a group of financiers a private lecture. Their bank was sponsoring my new exhibition and I resented them for it. What did they care about the Florentine Renaissance or Masaccio or Masolino? They wanted nothing save their dilute form of capitalism of which they felt themselves to be the masters but for which they were but small cogs, their lives eaten by the endless pursuit of the deal.
Pitiful.
Though I confess there had been one blonde with a sportily efficient allure who had at least provided fair eye candy.
It was nine o’clock when I opened the front door to the Georgian terrace house where I lived. I sifted through the letters that had been left in the hall, extracted those bearing my name, then skipped up the three flights to my flat. I went inside without switching on the lights, placed the letters on the mantelpiece and walked to my bedroom. Undressed, then out into my living room again and put on some Bach strings. The only light in the room was the green LED phosphorescence from the CD display. I padded to the bathroom and into the shower, the partita still audible to me. I turned on the water and allowed the tiredness and the filth of the Tube to be washed from me.
The door to my flat opened and closed. There was a shouted greeting and a lamp flicked on in the living room, the light spreading like a puddle into the bathroom.
“Madeleine,” I called to her, switching the water off. “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge.” I stepped out onto the mat and reached for a towel.
Madeleine appeared silhouetted in the light from the living room. She leaned against the door frame as she poured herself a glass of the white burgundy. She was slim but heavy breasted and was well presented as always: her sleek chestnut hair and her mini wrap-around dress and her high boots. “What is it with you?” she said, her voice deep and rich and cool. “If you will insist on living in a shoebox must you keep the door open while you shower? Your flat’s like a sauna.”
I ignored her familiar complaint and continued to towel. She appraised me, sipping on her wine, inspecting my nakedness. “And are you able to see any better in the dark now? Or are you just saving on your electricity?”
I dropped the towel, water still dripping from me and advanced towards her. She backed into the living room, into the light.
“Now, now,” she said. “Be careful of the wine.”
Her arms lifted to either side of her as she retreated, moving back until her calves touched the black leather sofa. I took glass and bottle from her, placing them on the floor. Then stood to full height again. In her boots she was four inches taller than me so I put a bare foot between her feet and kicked them apart so that her mouth dropped to my level and then I leant forward and kissed her hard so that it took her by surprise and she gasped.
“You bastard,” she said putting her arms around my shoulders and digging her nails in and I pushed her back so that we fell together onto the sofa. I pulled open the poppers on her dress to reveal her long and creamy body and pushed myself against her and into her so hard that we bucked and heaved with desire and pleasure. Her nails tore my back and I devoured her breasts and as we climaxed together she screamed in pleasure so that her cries rang round the flat, “Julius! Julius!”
◆◆◆
Madeleine was dressing again, smoothing the chocolate cotton of her dress down over her and refastening her poppers. “Julius, you really must learn not to rip my clothes off.” She stood up straight flattening the material down onto her thighs, inspecting a tiny tear on her hip. “I’m quite happy to remove them for you most of the time.”
“Obliging aren’t you,” I said.
She slapped me playfully. “Let’s go. I’m ravenous.”
I put on a pair of linen trousers and an open necked shirt. It was a warm night so I didn’t bother with a jacket. I picked up my post again from the mantelpiece and followed Madeleine down the stairs.
Outside she pulled out her car keys and bleeped her Mercedes. We got in together, her glamorously long legs flowing into the car after her, swinging deliciously into position with a lifetime’s practice.
“So how was your day?” she asked coolly putting the SLK into drive and moving off.
“It was fine. Though lengthened considerably by having to give a lecture to those banking idiots.” I started to flick through my post. A couple of bills. A note telling me how desirable an area my flat was in and
how, should I wish to sell it, E.g. and Etc. Estate agents would be happy to act on my behalf.
“You see,” I said waving the paper at her. “I told you Primrose Hill was the place to be.”
“Darling,” she said coolly. “I don’t doubt that Primrose Hill is a little oasis but the rest of North London is hardly beautiful is it? You should live out West. It’s so much more civilised. At least I can get a cleaning lady there.”
“I had a cleaning lady.”
“But then she left. To go to Chiswick or Fulham or Kensington—”
“Well I don’t think I need one in any case.”
“Trust me darling, you need one. Your dirty plates are building up again. You should definitely keep looking.”
“Good ones are hard to find. In any case I’m not moving. Having bought my flat six years ago I feel quite happy to stay put and bask in my foresight.”
“I’m not convinced you physically can bask in a flat your size. At least get a bigger place.”
“I can’t afford a bigger place.”
“Well then move in to mine: it’s large enough for both of us.” Her voice was suddenly flustered and I felt her watching me. But I chose to ignore both her and her comment and instead opened my fourth letter.
“Oh God,” I said pulling out the printed sheet with a coat of arms at the top. “They’re inviting us back to a garden party at College.” I tossed it onto the dashboard in disgust.
“Is that bad?” she said looking at the road again. “I haven’t been to a proper garden party for ages.”
“They’re not proper. Awful food. Worse wine.”
“Oh come on, let’s go. It’ll be fun. I like Cambridge. And you can catch up with your friends.”
“Maddie you like Cambridge because you didn’t go there. And I don’t have any friends from Cambridge. Apart from Patrick. And he’s from school anyway.”
