by Evie Blake
Valentina shakes her head. ‘Oh, it can’t be her, Theo. She never left Italy her whole life, apart from when they got on the plane to the States . . . and never came home. Really tragic.’
Valentina wonders how losing her parents in such a dramatic way affected her mother. Tina Rosselli rarely mentions them, and never talks about their deaths.
‘But it says her name on the credits at the beginning of the film,’ Theo insists. ‘And, Valentina, when I watched it . . . Well, I know it’s in black and white and very old, but I could still see a family resemblance. I think it really could be your grandmother.’
‘It just seems like too much of a coincidence: first, the two of us meeting like that yesterday, and then this film. It’s as if we are connected . . .’ Valentina ventures.
‘Maybe fate is conspiring to bring us together?’
Hope begins to bud again within her heart at his words.
‘Do you really think so?’
Theo laughs, and she can’t help but feel a little crushed by his reaction.
‘I don’t believe in fate, Valentina.’ He leans back in his chair and surveys her. ‘It’s not so strange about the dance film. There were hardly any modern ballets filmed at that time in London. Anita has an extensive collection of old dance movies, so, if your grandmother was a dancer and was filmed in nineteen forty-eight, it is highly likely Anita would have it in her collection.’
Valentina slips the DVD into her bag, looking away from him. She feels exposed and unsure of herself in his presence.
‘Thank you for this,’ she says. ‘For ringing me up and giving it to me.’ The formality of their conversation sounds strange to her. ‘I’ll check it out; maybe you’re right; although I find it odd that my mother never told me her own mother was a dancer.’
‘I’m glad I could give it to you in person,’ Theo says, his voice softer, kinder now.
Neither of them speaks for a moment. Their teacups are empty and yet Valentina doesn’t want to say goodbye – not yet.
‘So what are you doing in London?’ she asks him. ‘Are you still chasing lost art?’
She remembers Theo’s revelation to her in Venice of the promise he had made to his Dutch grandfather to fulfill the dying man’s lifelong quest. With unerring dedication Theo had attempted to track down all the valuable paintings that his grandfather, en employee of Albert Goldstein’s gallery in Amsterdam, had lost to the Nazis during World War Two, and return them to their rightful owners.
Theo shakes his head; a strand of dark hair falls across his forehead and she struggles not to lean forward and brush it away.
‘I’m nearly done with all of that,’ he explains. ‘Well, just one more picture to return and that’s it, thank God; Glen is driving me mad. Remember him? The rather nasty art thief you came across in Venice.’
‘I don’t think I could ever forget him,’ she says, thinking of Theo’s sinister rival.
‘I’m sorry he frightened you, Valentina,’ Theo says, softly.
‘You should be careful of him.’ Every time Valentina thinks of that awful man, Glen, she feels sick. There was something about him that terrified her. And she is not a woman who is easily scared.
‘He’s no real threat, just very irritating,’ Theo replies confidently. ‘Soon enough I’ll be out of his hair and he can get on with persuading little old ladies and men to part with massive sums of money in return for bringing back their art from the stolen Nazi hoard.’
‘So, what’s the last painting you have to return?’
‘Actually, it’s in your genre: an erotic drawing by the French artist, André Masson. It’s in a private collection here in London.’
‘And I suppose Glen is after the same picture?’
It is easier for Valentina to talk to Theo about the missing pictures. They are on neutral territory, one that doesn’t involve their emotions.
‘Yes, of course he is. It originally belonged to an Italian Jew, Guilio Borghetti. He managed to survive the war, although he is dead now. It is his son who is looking for it, and Glen, of course, has promised he will return it to him for the princely sum of 450,000 euros. Not as much as the Metsu, but still a large amount of money for such a small drawing.’
‘And it is definitely one of the pictures that were part of Albert Goldstein’s collection? Could you not just let Glen get it back and leave it be?’
‘Absolutely, it is one of those pictures. And you know I made a promise to return every single one of them,’ Theo says with determination.
‘I know,’ she nods, impetuously reaching out for his hand. She clasps it in hers for a moment, feeling the warmth of him pass into her body, right up to her heart.
‘The Masson is such an obscure work and has changed hands so many times that it has taken me years to track it down. Borghetti left the drawing with poor old Albert Goldstein for safe keeping and, subsequently, with my grandfather, in Amsterdam, when Goldstein fled the Nazis during the war. Well, of course, you know what happened next. My grandfather was persuaded to part with all that art by the Hermann Göring Division.’
‘So where is it now?’ Valentina asks. ‘Maybe we can join forces and I can help you get it back.’
Theo looks surprised by her offer. ‘I would have liked that, really . . .’ He hesitates, looks uncomfortable. ‘But I can’t involve you now. I’ve already got my plan in action and I’m sort of close to getting it back. It’s a rather delicate matter.’
‘Right . . . Sure . . .’ Valentina looks down at the table, moving her hand away from his, unable to conceal her disappointment. For a second, she had forgotten their circumstances. They are not together anymore. Theo has a new girlfriend. She has to stop thinking about him.
She traces the outline of her cup with her finger, still not looking up. ‘So, how long have you and Anita been together?’ she asks.
‘It’s not what you think, Valentina,’ Theo says.
She looks up at him questioningly. ‘Well, what is it then?’ she asks, softly.
‘I really wish I could explain.’ He hesitates. ‘Can I just ask you to trust me?’
‘What do you mean? Trust you about what?’
‘At the moment, Anita and I are seeing each other. Yes, that is true, but . . .’ He stops speaking, as if he can’t find the right words.
‘But what?’ she eggs him on.
‘Well, the way things ended with us, I’m not sure what to think about you anymore, Valentina.’
Valentina thinks back to last autumn in Venice, and her devastation after Theo left. ‘Why did you run away in Venice?’ she suddenly confronts him. ‘You were gone, just like that . . . You didn’t give me a chance . . .’
Theo puts his head on one side and looks at her. ‘I really tried, Valentina; you know that . . . I couldn’t take any more.’
She looks into his eyes and she is sure she can see a hint of his love for her within their blue seas. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.
Theo leans forward and puts his hand over hers. He squeezes it. And, in that simple gesture, she feels his love for her.
‘Theo,’ Valentina says, looking directly into his eyes, holding his gaze and fighting the terror that rages inside her heart. She can say this. She must. ‘Theo, is there any chance that we might get back together again?’
The words are out. It is as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She wants to laugh out loud and cry with relief. She watches for Theo’s reaction.
‘Valentina, you know that I can’t go back to the way things were.’
‘I know, I know,’ she nods. ‘It would be different, I promise . . .’
Theo sighs and puts his head in his hands. ‘God; talk about bad timing,’ he mutters.
She can’t understand it. Why is he so reluctant to admit how he feels now, when he has always been so open with her? She is sure her instincts aren’t fooling her. She can feel the natural synergy between them – how right it is to be together. Only a few more words, a few more steps and they c
ould be back together again. And yet, what Theo says to her next is not what she wants to hear.
‘Valentina, I really can’t break up with Anita . . . Not right now.’
‘Theo,’ she beseeches, realising how corny she sounds, how her mother would mock her, but she doesn’t care because she knows that if she lets Theo leave this café now, without him really knowing how much he means to her, she will fall apart. ‘I need you,’ she says. ‘In my life, I need your non-judgemental presence. You are my sanctuary.’
‘Why is it always about you?’ Theo snaps.
His words hurt. She sits back, stung. The old Valentina would have walked out, pride in tact.
‘I’m sorry, Valentina; that was too harsh. I didn’t mean it,’ Theo says, looking more hassled than she has ever seen him. ‘I know this is confusing, but you have to trust me. I can’t break up with Anita at the moment.’
‘Do you love her?’
Anita is everything Valentina isn’t: girly, demonstrative, overtly sexy. She is not afraid to call herself Theo’s girlfriend.
‘Valentina!’ Theo exclaims in frustration. ‘That is not the issue,’ he continues. ‘I need to know, I have always needed to know if you trust me, if you love me.’
His words confuse her. If he needs to know these things, then why is he going out with Anita?
‘It’s hard for me to say those words . . . but I can show you how I feel,’ she says. For the first time, Valentina feels tearful. She looks away, determined not to cry. She cannot let him see her cry.
Theo’s hand is on her shoulder, and it sends a volt through her body. ‘Please, just wait, Valentina.’
‘I can’t –’ her voice cracks – ‘bear to see you with her.’
She stands up suddenly, pulling her bag on to her shoulder. Theo stands up as well. They are only inches away from each other. She wants to fling herself into his arms, beg him to take her back, and yet, of course, she will do no such thing. He has made it clear. She has to prove herself to him and, until she does, he will not break up with Anita.
They wind their way through the café and into the gallery. They walk through corridor after corridor, not speaking, not holding hands, until they are standing in front of a watercolour painting by William Blake called Pity. She looks at the painting and the image before her pierces her heart. A woman is lying on the ground, her head flung back, as if she is dying. Above her, a beautiful young man rides a grey horse in the sky; in his hands, he is lifting a newborn baby. It is her baby. Valentina is not sure what the artist means by this picture, but it cuts her, makes her feel that what she and Theo have been through in the past may never be healed.
She is about to walk away, but Theo grabs her arm and pulls her towards him. He hugs her tightly and she inhales deeply. Oh, the sweet torture of being held in his arms!
‘I do love you, Valentina,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘But do you love me?’
She steps back, looking up at him. Oh, she wants him so badly. She is struggling to say those three precious words. She wants him; she needs him. He is the only person in the world who understands the depths of her loss.
‘Valentina?’ Theo asks her again.
‘I . . . I . . .’ she stutters.
He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. ‘It’s OK,’ he says, interrupting her. ‘I know this is all a bit overwhelming . . . to see each other again, and you must be confused about Anita. Let’s just leave it for the moment.’
But could they not go somewhere right now? Valentina wishes. She could prove her love for him in some anonymous bed in a hotel room, like she used to do. She knows she can do that. She is sure she will blow his mind. And yet, she says nothing. She realises her fear of commitment is still as fresh and raw as she left it back in Venice all those months ago when he walked out on her.
Theo begins to walk away, towards the entrance of the Tate. She is frozen to the spot, shocked by her inability to win him back. This meeting did not go as she had secretly hoped. No emotional reunion; no racing to a hotel and making delirious love. She wants him so badly. Just sitting across that tiny café table from him was turning her on. She is vibrating with need. She has to calm down.
She takes a deep breath. She won’t follow him. He is not willing to break up with Anita until she shows him her love. For now, she has to let him go.
She wanders through the rooms of the gallery. She feels the DVD in her bag, banging against her leg as she walks. She doesn’t know much about her grandmother. Her mother had described Maria Rosselli as shy and reclusive – a complete contradiction to her extrovert daughter. She had been a devoted mother and wife. Yet now it seems that there was a secret side to her grandmother. Could this really be footage of her dancing a new ballet? Something revolutionary and different, as Theo had said? She is intrigued to discover this new version of her ancestor.
Walking without thought or direction, Valentina finds herself looking at one of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite paintings, Lilith by Rosetti. Something about Lady Lilith reminds her of Anita: her deep gold tresses, her milky skin, full breasts and sculpted features; her dark eyebrows and rose-red lips. Yet, most of all, it is the look in her eyes as she gazes at herself in the mirror: a knowledge of her power and beauty as a woman, and a certain detachment. Valentina saw that expression on the burlesque dancer’s face as she danced for her and Kirsti Shaw yesterday. She can understand why Anita is so irresistible to both men and women. It is clear that Theo is not willing to let her go, not yet. Somehow, Valentina has to show him how much she loves him. Words are obviously not enough now. She bites back her disappointment at not winning him over today and tries to have faith in her intuition, for she feels, deep down, that she will get Theo back. She just has to work out how.
The weeks pass, yet, no matter how many times she lingers on the second floor landing, Maria never bumps into Felix. They must keep different hours. She rises early for class every morning and isn’t home until half past five or six. It could be that he leaves the house after her and, by the time he comes home, she is in bed, wiped out from her day at dance school. She spends most of her time at weekends with Jacqueline. On a Saturday, they are up and out early, taking it in turns to stand in the tripe queue at the butchers, or trying to get hold of some other staples such as bread or tea. On Sundays they go to Mass at Westminster Cathedral, the majestic basilica still baring the scars of bomb damage. Within its walls, Maria struggles to pray. She asks God to help her put from her mind the dark Frenchman who saved her from being raped, and that He guide her back to being the girl she was before she met him – a girl dedicated to dance.
It is Jacqueline who inadvertently explains why Maria hasn’t seen Felix. They are preparing dinner one evening and Jacqueline is struggling to open a tin of spam with her tin opener.
‘Merde; it is useless – blunt,’ she says. ‘Be a good girl and run down to Guido and ask him if you can borrow his tin opener.’
Rather than call on the Italian, Maria sees her chance to knock on Felix’s door. ‘And what if he isn’t in? Should I go to Monsieur Leduc’s door?’
‘Oh, no,’ Jacqueline says, filling a saucepan with water, her back to Maria. ‘He is away making one of his films in France. Besides, he is a bad-tempered so-and-so; I wouldn’t want to ask him for anything!’
Maria ignores Jacqueline’s description of Felix. She knows how good he is. Instead, she feels a thrill of excitement. Her dream man is a film director! She can hardly think of a more glamorous profession.
‘He makes films?’
‘Well, yes, but I think they are not very popular. I have never seen one. Guido told me they are quite strange. “Surrealist,” he said.’
‘What is Monsieur Leduc like? Surely he is not so bad tempered all the time?’ Maria sidles up to Jacqueline, desperate to know more about her mysterious knight in shining armour, yet not wanting Jacqueline to know why.
‘Have you not met him yet?’ Jacqueline glances at her, before turning her attention back to scrubbing th
e potatoes.
‘No. He’s French, yes?’
‘From Paris, I believe, although he lived in Lyon during the occupation, but I don’t really speak with him.’ Jacqueline pauses, chewing her lips. ‘Even if he were in, I wouldn’t want to ask to borrow anything from him.’
‘But you are both French; surely you have so much in common?’
‘Not really, my dear. I think that our French heritage has caused both of us considerable suffering. It is not something we want to share together.’ She begins to chop up the potatoes, tossing them into the saucepan beside her. ‘Although I dare say his experience of the war was very different from mine. But really I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be reminded of the past.’
She slams the lid on the pot vehemently and Maria is worried that she has made Jacqueline angry. But the next moment her mentor is smiling at her, giving her a little good-humoured wink. ‘I don’t think a pretty young girl like you should be bothering with thinking about someone like him. Now, run along and get the tin opener from your much-more-suitable admirer.’
Maria is always reluctant to call on Guido. She finds her compatriot irritating. He has taken to coming, uninvited, for dinner several times a week, each time bearing gifts for Jacqueline, such as a treasured jar of strawberry jam or a freshly baked loaf of bread, to sweeten her up. For the entire duration of the meal, he stares, moon-faced, at Maria, hardly a word passing his lips. It embarrasses her, especially now that Jacqueline has noticed and delights in teasing her. After he has sloped off back to his room, Jacqueline tells her that she is Guido’s goddess and she should put the poor boy out of his misery and go out dancing with him. But Maria is adamant that she is too busy with her studies and needs her rest. She hasn’t been out since that last time with Joan.
Jacqueline nods with approval, patting her on the shoulder and praising her. ‘Your mother would be proud of you,’ she often says.
When Maria thinks of her mother and Pina, she feels sick, she misses them so much. She tries her best not to think of them, or of Venice. How much she misses the water! She has walked down by the river in London – all along the banks of the Thames, from bomb-ravaged Westminster to the steps of the majestic Saint Paul’s. But it is not the same as walking alongside the jade canals of Venice. She stares at the brown surge of the Thames, preferring to look away from the gaping holes in the city, although she can see that London is fervent with its rebuilding work, especially with the Olympics being held here this year. But her favourite place to walk is Battersea Park, where there is now an open-air exhibition of sculpture. It is not too far from Jacqueline’s house. She likes to circle the little pond, looking at the ducks splattering in the water – they seem so comic to Maria – or else, if she’s feeling more studious, she will contemplate one of the impressive sculptures.
