The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story

by Megan Chance

  I heard a door open and softly close below me, and glanced down to see Madame Basilio emerge from the piano nobile. She looked at the courtyard, her expression tightening, and then she glanced at me. It surprised me when she came up the stairs to stand beside me, so much so that I could not answer her “Good morning” with anything more than a nod.

  “Look at them there,” she said quietly. “The whole world thinks them perfect, but one needs a priest and the other only God can help.”

  I only stared at her—what could one say to that?

  “Has he spoken of what he saw?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  She had not turned to look at me, but remained staring at Nero and Samuel. “Yesterday. Did he tell you what he saw?”

  Giulia must have told her what had happened. For what seemed the hundredth time, I silently cursed the housekeeper. “No.”

  “He saw her.” She looked at me slowly, with a burning gaze that froze. “My daughter.”

  “He’s very impressionable now. Nero’s told him about the tragedies in your family and—”

  “Her spirit moved the chair. She threw her handkerchiefs all over the floor.”

  “You cannot truly believe that,” I said.

  “He sang her favorite song. He spoke to her.”

  “Nursery rhymes, Giulia said. Nonsense. Babbling.”

  Madame Basilio’s gaze was pitying; I realized then that Giulia had, in fact, lied to me about what he’d said. Which should not have been a surprise, given that I’d suspected it. But it made me feel beaten and manipulated, even more ineffectual.

  “Then what? What did he say?” I asked.

  “You should be careful, mademoiselle. She will not stop until we understand the truth.”

  I was too exhausted and undone to be kind or patient. “Yes, yes, you’ve said that before. She is God’s messenger. She is the truth and the light and the way—”

  “You should be careful,” Madame Basilio said again.

  “Of what?”

  She motioned toward the courtyard. “Nerone can be very appealing. My daughter found him irresistible.”

  I was surprised at what she’d perceived. And discomfited. It was a moment before I managed, “She was lucky, then. Not all women are delighted with an arranged betrothal.”

  Down below, Samuel laughed, a deep, rich sound. Nero answered with a flurry of talk, his hands moving, extravagant gestures, so perfectly foreign. I knew no one in America so animated and alive. He seemed to glow with energy and joy.

  “I did not favor the match,” Madame Basilio said.

  I was surprised at that—not only that she had not approved, but that she was telling me this at all.

  “His father was prone to melancholia,” she went on. “His mother I did not like at all. A foolish woman, easily corrupted.”

  Nero had told me his aunt would try to impugn him. I should not be surprised. “Your nephew seems unlike either of them,” I noted. I could not help thinking that perhaps it had been Laura who inherited the melancholia, given how she’d ended her life. It seemed too cruel to say it, even to a woman I didn’t like.

  She turned on me so suddenly I jumped. “You understand nothing. Believe me when I tell you that Nerone is not for you.”

  “You have misjudged me. I’m interested only in my patient.”

  It was clear that she did not believe me. Her stare was measuring; I saw a debate within it. “If you will not heed my warning, I can do nothing more. But you should leave my nephew alone.”

  Nero’s laughter rose as if to punctuate her remark. She turned from me and went down the stairs, back inside, letting the door close hard behind her. The sound clapped in the air, bouncing against stone. In the courtyard, the two men looked up.

  “Elena!” Samuel called, smiling. “Come and join us!”

  I should have been warmed by how well he looked, how glad he seemed to see me, but I was too shaken by Madame Basilio’s words, and I saw too the way the smile died on Nero’s face when he saw me. My longing pinched. It was all I could do to call down, “I don’t think so. But you should not stay out too long. It’s cold.”

  “Warmer here than inside,” Samuel said, bracing his hands behind him, lifting his face to the sun.

  Nero looked away and said nothing. No plea to change my mind, no disarming smile to make me rethink ruin.

  I rushed back into the house I’d been in such a hurry to leave only a short time before. How cold it was inside. I felt frozen to my very center. All this talk of ghosts. “She will not stop until we understand the truth.” “Nerone is not for you. You should leave my nephew alone.”

  I took a deep breath, pressing my fingers to my forehead to stop my thoughts, shaking away the frigid air and its accompanying hopelessness. Madame Basilio’s warnings had got beneath my skin; Nero’s indifference made them prick. That was all it was. If there was any ghost at all in the Basilio, it was the wretchedness that infused the very walls. Probably it was what had led Laura Basilio to kill herself. Such sorrow. Such despair. Hadn’t Nero said it?

  I would not give in to it. And as for Nero . . .

  I would not embarrass myself further. There was still a chance I could leave here with my dignity intact, and that was what I resolved to do.

  Chapter 20

  It was an easier promise to make than to keep. I was in my bedroom, mending a tear I’d just discovered in my nightgown, when I heard them come in. The two of them together, stomping and making all manner of noise as if they meant to alert the whole city to their arrival. I bent more closely to my sewing, concentrating on making perfectly tiny stitches in a tight row. I would stay here. I would ignore them completely.

  But I hadn’t closed the door, and a shadow crossed the opening, and when I looked up, there was Samuel, his eyes clear and a smile curving his wide mouth.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I bent again to the gown. “Mending. I should think that evident.”

  “I feel rested today. Better than I’ve felt in weeks.”

  “Good.”

  “Nero said you gave me morphine.”

  “You needed to be sedated.”

  “It worked. I didn’t even dream.” His voice rang with wonder, which changed quickly to fear and trepidation with his next words. “But . . . Nero couldn’t tell me what I need to ask forgiveness for.”

  “Nothing. You didn’t hurt me. Nor did you insult me.”

  “Elena, look at me.”

  Obediently, I raised my gaze.

  “I . . . don’t remember much. Only that I saw the angel again. I thought it was a dream. She was singing, and then . . . she was angry, which means, I suppose, that I was. What did I do?”

  I didn’t know how to explain it. I only said, though I didn’t believe it, “I think you had a seizure. A small one. A petit mal.”

  A look of such relief came over his face that I wished I hadn’t said it. I understood why he felt it. The incident could be explained away. It wasn’t madness.

  But it also wasn’t the truth.

  “Did I frighten you?” he asked.

  “You always frighten me, Samuel,” I said bluntly, then wished I hadn’t been so honest when he flinched. “I wanted to send you home last night. Nero convinced me otherwise. I hope I don’t come to regret it. Where is he? I heard him come in with you.”

  “In the sala,” he said. “Waiting for you.”

  My pulse jumped. “Waiting for me?”

  “We were hoping you would come with us to the Rialto.”

  I looked at him in alarm. “You’re in no shape to be walking about.”

  “I don’t intend to walk. We’ll take a gondola. There’s a café there Nero knows of. He says there will be street performers.”

  “A café? Coffee? All that stimulation? No, Samuel, I’m
sorry, but I must forbid it.”

  An exasperated sigh. He gave me a cajoling look from beneath his lashes—very pretty. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see the market.”

  “What if you have another seizure?”

  “I can’t breathe here, Elena. I need to get out, just for the day. When I was sitting in the courtyard with the sun on my face, I felt myself again. Please. I want to hold on to that feeling for just a bit longer. Please.”

  It was all said so sincerely, and I saw the fear in him and knew he told me the truth, and I could not deny that I too wanted to be away from the sad gloom of the palazzo. I longed to see more of Venice. Why not?

  I put the sewing aside. “Very well.”

  His face lit. “Excellent. Meet us at the water stairs.”

  He disappeared from the door. I hesitated, for the moment thinking better of it, but then I let my worries go, or as much as I could, at any rate. I kept the knife, the bottle of morphine, and the needle and syringe in my pocket, and grabbed the leather strap for good measure. Then I put on my cloak and hat and gloves and went to the water stairs to meet them.

  The door was open; for once the receiving court did not seem dim and bloody, and I noticed for the first time that the red marble was veined not just with black and white, but with gold that glittered in the sunlight. It was easy to see now how elegant it all might have been once.

  Nero waited on the walk. He smiled at me as if he could not help himself, and I smiled back, pulling up the hood of my cape against the cold, tucking back a stray curl, and the strangest expression crossed his face. His smile died, and his eyes darkened, gleaming with something I didn’t understand. He masked it quickly, glancing away, saying, “Come aboard.”

  I told myself not to be disappointed, to think nothing of it. The door to the cabin was open; Zuan took my hand to help me into the boat, and then tucked me inside. Samuel was already there, sinking into the black leather cushions—worn and creased white in places—and I sat beside him, noting with dismay that there was no place for Nero to sit but on the side seats. He ducked inside, taking the one next to Samuel. The cabin door closed, and the gondola swayed into motion.

  The cabin was dimly lit with a single oil lamp, casting us all in sickly brown shadows. Samuel relaxed against the cushions, but I could feel Nero’s tension. He sat hunched, arms braced on his knees, jiggling his leg as if he could not keep still. Now and then I thought I felt him looking at me, but when I glanced over, his gaze was always averted.

  “Have you been to the Rialto before?” I asked Samuel, forcibly brightening my voice, keeping to my resolution not to let Nero Basilio affect me.

  “Not for a long time,” Samuel said. “I think I was last here five years ago, and then only for a few days.”

  “It won’t be different,” Nero said. “Everything is always the same. Nothing in Venice ever changes.”

  “Some people might find that comforting,” I ventured.

  “The city has lost her will to live,” he said, still not looking at me, lightly contemptuous. He glanced out the open levers of the window just over his shoulder. “Those with money and a name revel in past glories. The rest are too poor to leave. Venice belongs to the tourists now. The artists, especially. They want it to stay as it is so they can continue to paint their pretty scenes of dereliction and melancholy and pay the girls a centime or two to pose and then hopefully bed them later. Venice loves to oblige. Centuries of power and riches, reduced to a stage set for poets to moon over.”

  The bitterness that came into his voice was intriguing; I had known that he despised the city and that he longed to be away, relieved of obligations he had no wish to carry. But now I heard something else too, a regret for things lost, a lingering pride in an ancient history, sorrow over Venice’s abasement.

  “Careful, my friend,” Samuel said. “You sound as if you care.”

  Nero laughed shortly. “It was just an observation. I’m no nostalgic, mourning a life I’ve never known.”

  “You can see her past glories in her bones,” Samuel noted. “There’s an elegance here still. The city might yet find her way.”

  “Long after we’re both dead,” Nero said.

  “How your optimism cheers me.”

  This time, Nero’s laugh held amusement. “Forgive me.”

  “You were perfectly well earlier today.”

  “I saw something that reminded me of . . . a past sorrow.”

  “Well, forget it, will you? We’re here to enjoy ourselves. I don’t want to cry over anything today.” Samuel turned to me. “Look out the window, Elena, and see the city as we pass. It’s truly beautiful enough to make you forget Nero’s dreariness.”

  “Oh, I think he protests too much. I can hear in his voice how much he loves it here.”

  Nero’s gaze came to me, quick and fleeting, but long enough to show his surprise that I’d understood him. I felt a warm satisfaction, and then I reminded myself that I wasn’t supposed to be feeling anything.

  Obediently, I did as Samuel directed. I watched the city roll by, swaying with the motion of the gondola so the buildings themselves looked set upon waves, soft pink and white and ochre that seemed to have risen fully formed from the canal, still stained with the algae of their submersion. The light dazzled off the buildings and water, casting the city in brilliantine.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Samuel from beside me. “The view never gets old.”

  Beautiful was not quite the word. Magic was the word. Unreal would have been another. I had been nervous when I’d arrived in Venice, and the cloudy day had not set it off to advantage, but now the city cast its spell, much as it had the day Nero had taken me to the cupola.

  The scenery changed; we were in the Grand Canal now, and it grew busy, the waters wide and choppy and blue, filled with watercraft: gondolas, small steamers, barges and fishing boats, along with some very large gondolas holding several people standing—the traghetto, I remembered. I watched, enthralled, barely listening to Samuel and Nero’s intermittent comments—directed at each other—as we traveled.

  Then we were there, the Rialto with its broad, arched bridge, the profusion of boats of all kinds. Our gondola slowed, and then stopped altogether, and Zuan was opening the door to sunshine touched by water vapor, a brumous, luscious light that made everything look richer and more lovely, and made me realize how stuffy the cabin had been and how badly the oil lamp smoked. Zuan took my hand, pulling me out. I stumbled, blinking, and then stared at the profusion of people and stalls, noise and smells. Impossible to take it all in at once, to pull anything apart, to measure. The Rialto hit me as a wealth of noise and color, all at once, as if fireworks had gone off unexpectedly right before my eyes.

  Samuel laughed as he came up behind me. “It’s something, isn’t it?” He grabbed my arm as the gondola rocked in the gently splashing waves. Then Nero came out, and steadied Samuel with a hand. Nero nodded toward the market. “Ghosts walk every calle in Venice,” he said. “But here it’s so crowded it’s hard to feel them.”

  Samuel smiled and said, “Lead the way.”

  It was nothing but chaos, a cacophony of shouting and talk, fishwives hawking their wares and the crab soup man cajoling us to come and taste and the fruit and vegetable sellers calling over each other. We wove our way through women with baskets and men carrying kegs and heavy bags over their shoulders, boatmen unloading and loading wine and beer, barrels of flour, bulging sacks, haunches of pork, and baskets full of wriggling fish.

  The aromas from dozens of cookhouses and stalls mingled in a confused, delicious mess—sausages and onions, garlic and polenta, fritters and crab. A pretty brunette, red-cheeked from the heat of the grill, turning sections of eel as she flirted with everyone who passed, glanced our way. I saw her immediate interest—two attractive men—and she sent Nero a coquettish glance, a smile that he returned, and my h
eart squeezed.

  It was the only bad moment. The yellow and white awnings reflected the misty light; the bright purples and greens and blues of bolted cloth seemed to glow, as did the pyramids of pumpkins and squashes, pears and cabbages. It was six days until Christmas, and everywhere were the jars of fruited mustard and mandorlato that Nero told us were traditional gifts. In one shop window, brightly colored glass gleamed, in another lengths and coils of serpentine gold chain. We passed men and boys lingering in shadows, and girls with beseeching eyes, men sleeping on heaps of garbage as if the whole world wasn’t shouting around them. Nero and I were on either side of Samuel, who had started to limp, but we had to go slow enough with the crowds that he was doing well with only Nero for support. Nero warned in a low voice, close. “Watch out for pickpockets. They’re everywhere.”

  But even with such a warning, and the reminder that all was not as perfect as it seemed, I felt restored, the energy of the market pulsing in the tumult of peddlers and street performers and men and women laughing and bartering, and the lonely shadows of the Basilio seemed very far away.

  The café Nero had spoken of was near the end of the market. When we reached it, I wondered why he’d brought us. There seemed to be nothing to recommend it. The tables and chairs outside were shaded by an awning; only two people had dared to sit there, a couple who sat shivering over their coffees as they watched a desultory juggler, who exclaimed in a pained manner every time he dropped his pins as if he had surprised himself, obviously making excuses in a flurry of Venetian while the couple nodded in sympathy, their gazes vaguely curious as they watched us go to the door.