LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  After crossing the Rialto Bridge, we made our way through a labyrinth of small streets heading to the heart of the city, passing designer shops selling everything a tourist with money could wish for. The closer we got to St Mark’s, the more my nerves jangled.

  Keep focused! You’ll be all right.

  Of course, I’d seen pictures of the square, but the real thing took my breath. The Basilica’s columns and domes shone in the afternoon sunlight, in radiant mounds and pleats, in golden extensions and undulating surfaces.

  ‘It’s amazing.’ I stared at the familiar clock tower on the left. All the other buildings around the piazza were newer than in Cecilia’s time, as was the bell tower (although it was in the same place and the loggia at its base jogged my memory). The Doge’s Palace appeared to have changed little, even though I’d read in Auntie’s book on Venice that it had suffered from a fire in the late 16th century. So many fires!

  Luca led me up the steps to the arched portals of the church and in we went. A queue of people in front was making slow progress but I didn’t mind. Light leapt and twirled from myriad minute surfaces of refracted gilt. The aroma of incense and candlewax filled my nostrils. A millennium of worship in this place. And Cecilia came here and saw what I’m seeing now.

  Above me and at every angle, strange gleaming mosaic figures danced in a cloth of gold: lions, lambs, flowers, thorns, eagles, serpents, dragons, doves. It was an incredible sight, both terrifying and soothing. Emotion welled up, and I squeezed Luca’s hand. No need for words.

  When our visit was over, we stumbled out into the sunshine. The square heaved with tourists, cameras clicking and pigeons swooping to peck at the corn held out to them. ‘Let’s have a drink before heading home,’ Luca suggested.

  We sat at an outdoor table. Florian’s. A friend at work had warned me about the prices here. Luca was being far too alpha about not letting me pay for anything, but I knew what to do.

  A waiter was hovering. ‘Due calici di Prosecco,’ Luca ordered.

  I stared at the clock-tower and squirmed in my seat.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he turned and asked me. ‘No flash-backs?’

  ‘No. Just a deep conviction that I’ve been here before.’

  ‘I was wondering about something.’ He shuffled his chair closer. ‘Have you considered that you might be possessing Cecilia?’

  The weirdness of the notion had me gaping at him. ‘What do you mean? Cecilia lived almost five hundred years ago. I’m still alive.’

  ‘I’ve been reading up about it. There’s a theory that past, present and future are all happening simultaneously but in parallel dimensions. Perhaps there’s been a blip in the space-time continuum,’ he added, eyeing the musicians tuning up on a podium. ‘And if that’s the case, who came first: you or Cecilia? You tell me she seems to be aware of you occasionally.’

  I frowned. ‘I’ve seen Back to the Future too, you know. It’s just fiction.’

  ‘No. The theory actually originated with Einstein’s concept of space-time.’

  ‘What about your theory she was trying to tell me something, get me to do something for her so she could rest in peace?’

  Luca shrugged. ‘Whatever it is, I just hope you’ll be all right. I must admit I was worried about you earlier on. You were in what I can only describe as a trance.’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ I said determinedly. ‘I doubt Cecilia wants to harm me. I’m still not sure about your parallel dimension idea, though. Seems a bit farfetched...’

  ‘And being possessed by a woman who died half a millennium ago isn’t?’ He laughed.

  ‘Touché!’ I smiled and sipped the rest of my Prosecco, gazing around and absorbing the magnificence of St Mark’s Square. Then I said, ‘Just need to use the facilities. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Va bene. Okay…’ He stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair.

  I stood and went inside. On my way past the bar, I asked for the bill and settled up. I’d need a second mortgage to pay for it when my credit card statement arrived, but I’d made my point. I just hoped Luca would take it in the right spirit.

  Back at the table, I said, ‘Hope you don’t mind. I’ve paid for our drinks. It’s the least I can do.’

  He chuckled, getting to his feet. ‘Not at all. The gondola ride is on me, though. I insist.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ I fell into step beside him. We strolled hand-in-hand toward the lagoon and again recognition rolled through me as I stared in wonderment at the island on the other side of the basin. A church campanile, like an enormous pencil, pointed skywards as if about to write a message. ‘I know I sound like a cliché. But I’m overwhelmed, Luca, it’s all so beautiful.’

  He lifted my wrist to his mouth and brushed his lips to my pulse. ‘This is my favourite city,’ he said proudly.

  My heart fluttered, but I resolutely ignored it. Just the Venice effect, I told myself. This place is incredibly romantic.

  The afternoon sky had started to fade to a smoky blue and the sun was casting a wash of gold over the buildings. Gondolas rode the waves, tethered along the waterfront before us. Luca approached one of them and negotiated with the gondolier. I stepped onto the boat and sat next to him on a plush red seat in the centre.

  ‘This part used to be covered up in the past, I think.’

  ‘To preserve the modesty of young women like Cecilia. She’s quite a rebel, by the way,’ he smirked. ‘Sneaking out to see her painter at night. She would have been kept indoors in those days, as only courtesans could walk about freely. I wonder if Cecilia managed her meeting with him?’

  ‘Well, I’m not about to find out,’ I said with determination. ‘It’s not every day you get to see the Grand Canal by gondola. I’m going to make the most of every minute.’

  Cecilia and her artist could wait.

  Of course, I wanted to find out if my nemesis had learned to paint.

  All in good time, though.

  I reached for my camera. For now, I’d focus on enjoying this amazing experience and bask in the incredible beauty of Venice.

  Chapter 10

  Luca

  With a groan, I scrutinised the pile of paperwork on my desk—estimates to send out and quotes to get in. Routine stuff, which I could easily handle on autopilot, but it had mounted up. I was in the office this evening, working overtime. I thought about Fern and our gondola ride yesterday, remembering her smiling softly, taking everything in and clicking away with her camera. When we’d passed under the Rialto Bridge, she’d grabbed hold of my arm and I’d held resolutely onto her to keep her in the present.

  Jealousy rolled through me as I imagined her spending time with the painter. Not her, but Cecilia. Even so… I shook my head and picked up another sheaf of papers. God, it was hard to concentrate. Fern’s visions and where they appeared to be leading were at the forefront of my mind.

  After work, I drove home to my apartment, then sat on the terrace with a glass of chilled Chardonnay, gazing at the view of the mountains. Would Fern be up for a drive through the hills and dinner at a trattoria tomorrow evening? There’s only one way to find out. I went to the phone, rifled through my address book, and dialled Susan’s number.

  Fern answered and said she’d be delighted, thanking me again for the visit to Venice yesterday. I felt ridiculously happy she’d agreed to see me, then remembered I should ask if everything was all right.

  ‘Fine. Cecilia has left me in peace,’ she said reassuringly.

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ I said, relieved. ‘What have you been doing today?’

  ‘Auntie and I went to the market in Bassano. I bought myself a new pair of sandals.’ I heard the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘We had the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. The town is gorgeous. I’d love to go back there soon and paint a watercolour…’

  ‘I worry about you driving on your own… What if you have a flash-back?’

  ‘Unlikely in a car. I’ve realised it only seems to happen w
hen I’m in a place associated with Cecilia. I’m planning a visit to Murano the day after tomorrow.’ Her excitement came down the phone line. ‘That’s where my so-called nemesis’ story will continue, I think. I’ve decided to go with the flow, as they say. I really want to find out what happened to her and solve the mystery of why she’s singled me out.’

  ‘Will you be okay on your own?’ My gut clenched with concern. There was no way I could take another day off work to look after her.

  ‘Auntie will come with me. Not that she’ll be much help; she’s convinced Cecilia is a figment of my imagination. She loves Venetian glass, though, and would like to buy some in Murano for her collection. I’ll take my sketchpad and sit by a canal while she goes shopping.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’d warn Fern to be careful when I saw her tomorrow. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven, then.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I hung up and ran my fingers through my hair. How the hell was I going to keep my relationship with Fern on a friendly footing? I’d never been “just friends” with a woman in my life. That said, I’d never managed to commit myself fully to any of them either. Fern was different, however. She called to something buried deep within me. Something unquantifiable, but fundamental.

  The following evening, I pulled up outside Susan’s house and rang the bell. Fern answered the door. I was stunned by her unique beauty; she was wearing a light green gypsy blouse that brought out the emerald in her eyes. I was pleased she hadn’t embraced the power-dressing of most women I knew, and that she’d ditched the ubiquitous shoulder-pads gracing even everyday outfits.

  She waved to her aunt and, after pecking me on the cheek in a disappointingly friendly fashion, settled herself in my Alfa. I took the road behind Asolo on route to the village of Monfumo, where I’d booked a table in the small restaurant overlooking the square. We sat on the balcony, the sinking sun casting a rosy glow over the surrounding hills. Peach and pear orchards hugged their crests, and farmhouses nestled in the dips between them, half barn and half living accommodation topped by terracotta roof tiles. The night air was warm, almost too warm, and perspiration beaded my upper lip. I wiped it away with my napkin.

  ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you,’ I said after we’d ordered a plate of prosciutto with melon and a half a carafe of the house red.

  ‘Oh?’ Her eyes met mine.

  ‘Last night I had an argument with my sister,’ I said. ‘I can’t get anywhere with her, and I don’t think I’m ever likely to. She’ll have to come to the realisation Federico is wrong for her on her own. Mother is going out of her mind with worry, however. She thinks you’re a good role model and would be really grateful if you’d try and befriend Chiara.’

  ‘Your mother did say something along those lines before.’ Fern picked up a bread roll and broke off a piece. ‘I forgot to tell you I met your sister and her boyfriend in Altivole the other day. Didn’t like him much.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘He reminds me of someone I once knew. Not a nice person.’ She paused. ‘I’ll do my best. What’s your sister interested in?’

  ‘Her horses and Federico, of course, not to mention her political ideas. Oh, and after a lot of persuasion on my part, they’ve agreed to take part in the re-enactment of Caterina Cornaro’s court at the end of the month.’ A sudden idea occurred to me and I said, ‘Maybe you wouldn’t mind joining in with our dance group? You should have no difficulty with the steps…’

  Fern smiled. ‘That’s if I still remember them. How often do you rehearse?’

  ‘Once a week for now. As we get closer to the re-enactment we’ll meet more often. The next rehearsal is in three days’ time.’

  ‘Good. Auntie and I have decided to treat ourselves to the opera tomorrow, at the Fenice Theatre. We’ll stay the night in Venice then come home after breakfast.’

  ‘That will be fun,’ I said, envious. ‘Which opera?’

  ‘The Capulets and the Montagues. I know it’s not based on Romeo and Juliet, but on an earlier work that many believe inspired Shakespeare to write his play.’

  ‘If you were staying in the Veneto longer, we could go to the arena in Verona. Opera there is an incredible experience…’

  Our waiter had arrived to serve the main course— lasagne with wild boar ragù. Fern and I lifted our forks and started to eat, chatting about the different attractions of Italy until our plates were empty.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve had my quota of caffeine for the day, but you go ahead. Oh, and no argument, Luca. I insist on going Dutch tonight.’

  I decided not to contradict her. To her way of thinking, our being “just friends” meant this wasn’t a date, much as I’d have preferred otherwise.

  ‘How about a nightcap at the Caffè Centrale?’ I suggested, not ready yet for the evening to end.

  Half an hour later, in Asolo, I ordered a grappa for myself and Fern requested a limoncello. We were sitting at a table on the outside terrace facing the fountain, with the Queen’s castle dominating the skyline in the background.

  ‘Can you tell me about your family?’ I leaned back in my chair and fixed her in my gaze. ‘There might be something in your background that links you to Cecilia.’

  Fern chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘I can’t think of anything that could be relevant.’

  Curiosity had me saying, ‘You haven’t told me about your parents.’

  ‘They used to have a landscape gardening business.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘They sold it and retired last year. They spend their time pottering about their own garden near Chepstow or playing bridge.’

  ‘No siblings?’

  She shook her head. ‘I always wanted a brother or a sister, but Mum had a hysterectomy after having me because of complications giving birth.’

  Our drinks arrived, and we clinked glasses.

  ‘Are both your parents English?’ I asked after taking a sip.

  ‘Welsh,’ she said firmly. ‘We prefer to be called British.’

  ‘Right,’ I cocked a smile. ‘I was just trying to find out if you had any family connections that would have made Cecilia chose you…’

  Fern’s eyes narrowed. ‘She was a lady of Venice and I’m just an ordinary girl from Wales. The only thing that links us, as far as I’m aware, is our love of painting.’

  I was about to broach the subject of her being careful in Venice when a familiar voice echoed behind me. My heart sank. What the hell was Francesca doing here?

  My glamorous blonde ex-girlfriend sashayed up to our table, shoulder pads forward, and gave me a frosty look. ‘Buonasera, Luca. Come stai?’

  ‘Bene, grazie.’ I introduced her to Fern, who met Francesca’s frozen glare with a wide smile.

  Francesca draped her arm around the suave-looking silver-haired man she paraded before us like a trophy. ‘Il mio fidanzato, Gabriele,’ she said, emphasising the fact that he was her fiancé. They declined my offer of a drink, saying they had to get back to Treviso, and, arm in arm, practically waltzed off the terrace in the direction of the parking lot.

  ‘Who was she?’ Fern asked, her brow creasing.

  ‘My ex,’ I said, not wanting to elaborate. I glanced at my Rolex. ‘It’s getting late. I’d better take you home.’

  I left some change on the table to settle our bill, then held my hand out to Fern. She slipped her small palm into mine, and just the feel of her soft skin soothed the irritation Francesca had stirred up within me.

  Driving toward Altivole, I kept Fern’s face in the periphery of my vision. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful but compared with Francesca’s fake glamour and that of the other women I’d dated in the past, her naturalness was far more alluring.

  I pulled up in front of her aunt’s house and she leaned toward me. ‘Good night, Luca,’ she brushed both my cheeks with her warm lips.

  ‘Be careful in Venice,’ I warned. ‘Make sure you are always somewhere safe in case you have another episode.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ sh
e said with a wave of her hand.

  I watched her until she was safely through the front door.

  In the middle of the night, I woke suddenly, sweaty sheets tangled around my legs. I disentangled myself and switched on my bedside light.

  Flipping three am.

  I’ll never get back to sleep now.

  The air was too hot for comfort, but that wasn’t what had woken me.

  What the hell was it? There’d been no noises that I could discern. The street below was silent, and I couldn’t even hear the owl that sometimes hooted in the tree beneath my window.

  I shut my eyes and tried to drop off.

  A sinking sensation invaded my mind, and then a voice. Now I knew what had woken me. I’d had that damn recurring dream.

  Too late!

  Too late!

  Too late!

  Chapter 11

  ‘The island of Murano used to be a succession of vegetable fields, vineyards and gardens,’ Auntie read from her guidebook.

  I was only half-focusing on her words, distracted by the sight of Venice across the lagoon. Hundreds of church spires, and the domes of St Mark’s gleaming in the sunshine. I took my camera from my bag and framed a couple of shots.

  The ferry had started to make its way down Murano’s main waterway. Pale pink, cream and terracotta-coloured buildings lined the canal banks, where tourists thronged like ants at a picnic table.

  Auntie, sitting next to me on the top deck, tucked a strand of her frizzy grey hair under an enormous sunhat and continued reading, ‘Murano’s reputation as a centre for glassmaking was born when the Venetian Republic, fearing fire and destruction to the city’s mostly wood buildings, ordered the demolition of all the foundries within the city in 1291.’ She nudged me. ‘Are you listening?’

  My heart had thudded at the words “fire and destruction”.