LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  Too soon, it’s over. He shudders and withdraws from me, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and covering his manhood. ‘You know how babes are made?’ he says. ‘I can’t spill my seed inside you or we shall have a child. The next time we make love, you will know the pleasure I’ve experienced. Just give me some moments to regain my strength.’

  He gets up from the bed and goes to the sideboard where there’s a flagon of wine. We drink and nibble biscotti, then wash, then take our time over lovemaking. I had no idea that a man could make a woman writhe the way I’m doing. Have I no shame? I’m lying naked with my legs apart and my lover’s hand is doing such things to me that my whole body is trembling.

  On the brink of that joy, like the one I felt the other night, about to reach the end of a blissful journey that has built and built, Zorzo stops what he has been doing. ‘I want to be inside you when you climax. It will be stronger for you.’

  And he is right. Pleasuring myself can’t be compared with what is happening now. He thrusts into me and I arch against him. Arching and rubbing myself against him until a spark inside me grows into a flame of such exquisiteness that I’m completely lost to it.

  I stare into his eyes, and he gazes deep into mine, stroking the side of my face and whispering his love. Tired, I feel myself drowsing; before I know it I have fallen asleep and into the strangest dream.

  I shuddered awake— my PJs hot against my skin.

  Who am I?

  Where am I?

  What the hell just happened?

  I swung my legs out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. I switched on the light and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  Christ, my skin was still flushed from that orgasm.

  The most earth-shatteringly amazing orgasm.

  My nipples had formed stiff peaks and my insides were quivering with after-shocks.

  I took in a deep breath.

  Jesus, Fern. You’ve been deflowered for the second time in your life. And by a sixteenth century Italian artist…

  After splashing my face with cold water, I climbed back into bed and curled in on myself.

  The guilt had returned. It rolled through me, tinging my light with darkness.

  I turned my head.

  Oh, my God!

  There, on the bedside table.

  Caught in a beam of moonlight.

  The piece of burnt wood.

  A voice whispered, ‘Lorenza…’

  And I screamed.

  Chapter 12

  Luca

  Her aunt had dropped Fern off at the Caffè Centrale, about half an hour before the rehearsal. She approached in one of her floaty hippy skirts and a cotton blouse, looking so damn beautiful I wanted to put my arms around her and kiss her bow-shaped lips. But I didn’t. Instead, I pulled out a chair for her and asked what she’d like to drink.

  ‘Just a glass of sparkling water, please,’ she smiled. ‘I need to keep my head clear for the dancing.’

  I signalled the young waiter and ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino with two glasses.

  ‘How did your visit to Venice go?’ I asked.

  She spoke about her trip to Murano, the opera, and her dream of Cecilia’s visit to Zorzo. When she mentioned that the artist and his muse had been intimate, she flushed bright red. ‘I’ll spare you the details,’ she said. Then she told me that she’d woken her aunt by screaming at the sight of the piece of burnt wood and upon hearing the ghostly whisper.

  Holy shit! I fought to keep my mouth from falling open. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Well, of course the wood disappeared. Auntie thinks I’ve completely lost my mind again and wants me to see a doctor.’ Fern shook her head. ‘I told her categorically that I wouldn’t. Such a shock, though, to see it there in Venice. I thought the fire was associated with the Barco, but now I don’t know what to think…’

  I let out a breath. ‘Parts of Venice were always going up in flames in the Middle Ages. Most of the houses and bridges were made of wood in those days.’

  ‘I know that’s why they moved the glassblowing furnaces out to Murano.’ She stared across the tables toward the fountain in the centre of the square. ‘Shame we can’t find out more about Giorgione’s life. For instance, if he married. That book I bought at the Accademia was mostly about his paintings.’

  ‘There aren’t any records of a marriage, as far as I know. Just rumours of him being a lover of women.’

  Fern frowned. ‘Oh.’

  Was that a jealous “oh”? The green-eyed monster was nibbling at me too. Crazy to feel jealous of a long-dead rival. Rival? The notion was totally insane.

  I glanced up and spotted my sister and Federico pushing their way between the tables.

  Chiara lowered herself, a sulky expression on her face. ‘I’m not in the mood for this. Renaissance dancing isn’t really my thing.’

  I quirked a brow. ‘How will you know until you’ve tried it?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be quite amusing,’ Federico said. He’d sat next to Fern and was staring at her in a way that made my blood boil. ‘Have we got time for a coffee?’ he asked.

  I signalled the waiter and ordered espressos for Federico and my sister. An awkward silence ensued. Chiara was staring at her feet. Her boyfriend was eying Fern as if she were a piece of cake he’d like to devour, and Fern was looking as if she wished the ground would swallow her up.

  ‘Let me get these,’ she said, reaching for her purse when Federico and Chiara had finished their coffees. Before I could say anything, she’d headed toward the bar.

  ‘So, you let the lady pay,’ Federico smirked.

  I folded my arms. ‘The lady insists. Times are changing.’

  He let out a laugh. ‘Quite right. Your sister pays for both of us when we go out. After all, she has more cash than I do.’

  ‘Money that my mother has given her,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Hey! Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here,’ Chiara’s voice shrilled. ‘That is between Mum and me, Luca. Just butt out!’

  I was about to tell her I only had her best interests at heart, but Fern had come up to the table with a smile on her lovely face. ‘I’m looking forward to the dancing,’ she said brightly. And it was as if oil had been poured over stormy waters. The atmosphere changed and both Federico and Chiara smiled back at her.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it too,’ Federico said in a smarmy tone.

  I bunched my fists, only barely restraining myself from punching the living daylights out of him.

  A noisy group of people had congregated in the sunken area below the inner castle walls. The Mayor of Asolo, a tall young man with dark hair and bushy eyebrows, was speaking into a megaphone, barking out instructions about who should go where and do what. I held Fern’s hand. She in turn held Federico’s and he held Chiara’s. Her hand was then taken by the Mayor as we joined in the circle of dancers.

  The steps weren’t difficult. One, two, three in one direction, a turn on the heel and one, two, three the opposite way. Let go hands, face out of the circle, and join hands again. Six steps, let go, and swivel to face inwards again. Lift upheld hands and come together in the centre, then move back out to full circle. Into the middle, and once there, drop hands, twirl around, make a wider circle. Steps to the right, steps to the left, more twirls. Smaller circle with right hand held inwards, to form something like the spokes of a wheel. Turn and do the same with left hand. And so on and so forth.

  The moves appeared to come easily to Fern; she seemed as if she could have done the dance in her sleep. I also knew what I was doing, having been part of the re-enactment before, but Federico and Chiara were struggling, getting the sequence of steps wrong and bumping into people. Federico whispered something into Chiara’s ear, and they left the circle, which performed much better without them.

  When Fern and I had rehearsed the dance twice, we found Chiara and Federico sitting at the bar on the terrace. ‘Beers all round?’ I suggested.

  ‘Co
unt us out,’ Chiara said, groaning. ‘We’re off. This is not our scene.’ She glanced at Fern. ‘Remember you promised to come for a ride with me?’

  I gave Fern what I hoped was an encouraging look. She responded with a nod. ‘When, Chiara?’

  ‘How about tomorrow afternoon? Say four o’clock? You’ll enjoy it, I promise.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Fern said. ‘I’ll be there. Thanks.’

  I watched my sister and her boyfriend slide between the tables, their arms around each other. Then I shot a glance at Fern. ‘Are you up for a bit of espionage?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We need to be quick or we’ll lose them,’ I said, taking her hand. ‘Those beers will have to wait.’

  I led Fern down the road to the parking lot. ‘Federico’s old Lancia is unmistakable for its colour. Bright green.’ I pointed. ‘Thankfully they’re too absorbed in each other to notice us, and we’ll have to keep well behind them or there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘Where do you think they’re going?’

  ‘God knows, but you can bet your bottom dollar it won’t be somewhere they should be.’

  The bright green Lancia left Asolo, taking the road past the hospital. I made sure there were at least two cars between us. At the T-junction, Federico turned right, then right again toward the hills. I kept my distance and, when the Lancia stopped at a sleepy hamlet up ahead, I pulled in at the side of the road. Cristo! Federico and Chiara had jumped out of their car and were daubing paint on a sign at the side of the road.

  I whispered to Fern, ‘This could be the start of a slippery slope for my sister.’

  I felt a touch on my arm. Fern’s face was a picture of sympathy and my heart melted. Literally melted. I wanted so desperately to take her in my arms. How to get through to her? Jesus! Her fiancé had died two years ago. Hadn’t enough time had gone by for her to have recovered from his death?

  With an inner sigh, I switched on the engine. Chiara and Federico had already taken off.

  I pulled up by the road sign, which should have read, “Paderno”. My sister and her boyfriend had daubed out the letter “o”.

  ‘Venetian dialect,’ I said to Fern by way of explanation. ‘We leave the vowels off the endings of most Italian words. But we also have our own words for things. For instance, the word for “money” is denaro in Italian, but schèi in Venetian.’

  ‘Wow! I knew about dialect, but never imagined the words could be so different,’ she said in evident amazement.

  ‘Most people don’t realise that Venetian is an extremely old language.’ I informed her. ‘In fact, Cecilia, like the majority of people in the Republic, would have spoken Venetian.’

  ‘She did,’ Fern nodded. ‘I can understand and speak it when I’m in the past. But if you asked me to translate anything for you now, I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  ‘Our dialect has more history than the national language. It’s closer to French and Spanish than to Italian.’

  ‘Something has just occurred to me, Luca. As Cecilia, I’ve experienced a time when Tuscan was adopted as the language of literature. I suppose because of writers like Petrarch and Dante. And Cecilia met Pietro Bembo in Caterina Cornaro’s court. I understand he used Tuscan in his writing. Were there any Venetian writers?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Many. Goldoni followed the Commedia dell’arte tradition of having the common folk speak in Venetian. He’s ranked among the top Italian theatrical authors of all time, and his plays are still performed today. They’re really funny.’ I paused. ‘You’ve heard of Casanova?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, he translated the Illiad into Venetian. So, we have a proud tradition of literature.’

  ‘Can you explain the rationale behind what Chiara and Federico are doing?’

  ‘A significant number of people in the Veneto want to break free of the rest of Italy and form a separate state.’

  She angled her head toward me. ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Pride, I suppose. You know we were a republic for over a thousand years? And a leading world power in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know why the republic came to an end.’

  ‘It happened in the late eighteenth century. After a long decline, Napoleon divided the Veneto up between the French and the Austrians. Finally, after Italian unification, we were annexed to Italy.’ I exhaled slowly.

  ‘Now we’re one of the wealthiest regions, thanks to the economic boom of the last decade. And everyone here hates paying taxes to fund the massive bureaucracy in Rome. Much of the money is channelled into the South of Italy. Supposedly for development, but generally swallowed up in corruption.’

  ‘Do you believe the Veneto will ever become independent again?’ she inquired thoughtfully.

  I shook my head. ‘Not in the foreseeable future. Perhaps, one day, as part of an integrated Europe.’

  ‘A little like Scotland and Wales in the UK, then, I suppose. It’s strange how we humans like to belong to our own tribe. We haven’t changed that much since we came out of our caves and populated the planet.’

  ‘In evolutionary terms, we haven’t been out of the caves for that long,’ I chuckled. ‘Thousands of years compared with millions as cavemen.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. So, Chiara and Federico are simply behaving like their ancestors.’ Fern laughed.

  ‘I wish it were that simple.’

  She touched my arm again, and my heartrate accelerated. ‘Try not to worry too much about Chiara,’ she said. ‘Your sister is young and idealistic.’

  ‘If it were just Chiara, I’d agree with you,’ I groaned. ‘Federico is part of the equation, and there’s something about him that makes my flesh crawl.’

  A frown creased Fern’s brow. ‘I can sense a darkness in him too. Does Chiara have any other friends? Someone you trust who can talk to her. I know I said I’d try, but wouldn’t someone closer to her have more success?’

  ‘We’ve gone down that route, believe me. My sister has a strong personality, and her friends have all failed to talk sense into her. They’re at university and concentrating on their studies, like she should be.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ll do my best,’ Fern said, leaning back in her seat.

  I restarted the car and drove toward Altivole with the window open. The night air was redolent with the scent of the honeysuckle growing along the hedges by the side of the road. Worry pinched at me and I wished I could shake off the feeling of foreboding that had settled in my chest.

  I stopped the car outside Susan Finch’s house. Fern leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I turned my head slightly, and her second kiss, aimed at my other cheek, caught me on the side of the mouth.

  Blushing, she murmured, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ I said.

  Her eyes locked with mine and then we were kissing properly. Her lips were so soft, her mouth so inviting. My hands buried themselves in her luxuriant curls. She let out a soft moan and pulled away. ‘Good-night, Luca,’ she said, her voice throaty.

  ‘Buonanotte, Fern. A domani. See you tomorrow.’

  Driving home to Asolo, I took a hand from the steering wheel and punched the air. ‘Yes!’ I was finally getting somewhere with her.

  I hoped…

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, I was having breakfast with Auntie as usual. ‘What are your plans for today?’ she asked, pouring tea into my mug.

  ‘I’ll do some painting this morning, then I’m going riding with Luca’s sister this afternoon.’ I told her.

  ‘That’s nice, love,’ she patted my hand. ‘I remember you used to ride a lot when you were a teenager.’

  ‘Chiara said it’s like being on a bicycle. Something you don’t forget. Let’s hope she’s right.’

  I rubbed my tired eyes. Last night, I’d scarcely slept for thinking about Luca. I touched my lips, remembering the kiss. Remembered how Luca’s mouth had opened over mine
and how I’d felt myself dissolve into him. Problem was, though, was that when I’d kissed him back, I’d felt Cecilia in my head— and it was as if I’d been kissing Zorzo.

  Am I going mad? Can I only let myself fall for a man who’s been dead for five hundred years?

  I shook myself. Maybe I should take Auntie’s advice and see a doctor? This whole situation was becoming weird beyond belief.

  I went up to my bedroom and stared at the print of The Tempest, which I’d taped to the back of the door. The girl in the painting seemed to be staring right at me. There was a resemblance to Cecilia, and consequently to me. Her blonde hair was held back in a headdress, so it was hard to tell if it was like my own. The girl was voluptuously plump, unlike Cecilia, who, so far in the story, had shown herself to be of average build like me. The Tempest was a highly sensual work of art, though, and I absolutely loved it.

  I flipped open the book I’d bought on Giorgione and stared at his self-portrait. So weird to find myself here in the twentieth century gazing at a picture of my sixteenth century lover.

  No! Not your lover. Cecilia’s.

  After taking a shower, I spent the rest of the morning working on my painting of the palazzo I’d sketched in Murano. It was shaping up nicely. I’d had the photos I’d taken in Venice developed at a shop in Altivole, and I’d pinned them to a board in the corner of Auntie’s kitchen, where I’d improvised my “studio”. I was using acrylics, which worked well with the hard-edged flat image of the building I was depicting.

  As I worked, and moved from highlighting the windows and balconies, I began to focus on the trees and sky, remembering Zorzo’s ability to bring movement to the scene through sfumato. I wanted to show the arrival of the night, so I started blurring and softening the sharp outlines by gradually feathering the tones into each other, creating the smoke-like haziness I’d learned from him. That Cecilia had learned from him. Then, why not? A stormy sky.

  I shivered with excitement.