Lady of Asolo

by Siobhan Daiko

  Signor Zorzo pulls a wooden frame from his carrier and leans a small canvas against it. He picks up his brush and dips it into the pot of paint he has also taken from his bag. I long to have colours to work with; I’m so fed up with black chalk. Will the painter be true to his word and transmit some of his knowledge to me?

  He grasps his brush and, with deft strokes, brings forth the outline of my face. Within minutes, it seems, although it must have taken longer, he has finished. ‘I can complete it in my studio in Venice,’ he says.

  ‘Might I visit you there? I go with my lady next week.’

  Signor Zorzo appears thoughtful for a moment. ‘Arrange for quarters overlooking the canal. I’ll fetch you at night in my boat. You’ll be my muse.’

  A bubble of happiness forms in my chest. I go to him and put my arms around his waist, caring not if I’m being forward. My gesture comes from the heart. Our lips meet, and I rejoice at the softness of his mouth, the sweetness of his scent. He lets out a moan and our tongues entwine. The feeling is delicious at first, then becomes more intense as my body starts to burn. He pulls away. ‘We must stop. For the hour of siesta is over.’

  Fern took in a deep, shuddering breath. She could feel desire pulsing through her, fighting with her guilt. How could she betray Harry like that? She touched her lips, still moist from the artist’s kiss. What the heck? She rested her hands on the balustrade and rubbed her palms on the rough, lichen-encrusted stone. Crickets and sparrows chirped in the undergrowth and the breeze blew a tendril of hair into her mouth. She tucked it behind her ear.

  Her body throbbed and she thought not of Harry, but of Luca. Something about his mouth reminded her of Zorzo, but he was different in every other way. Their height was the same, granted, except Luca was thin and the artist could only be described as a bear of a man. In spite of their differences, there was a likeness there somewhere, a familiarity she found unsettling. Tomorrow she was going to Venice with him, to see the painting. How amazing it would be if the girl in The Tempest turned out to be Cecilia.

  8

  Luca glanced at Fern in the passenger seat. Soon after they’d set out from her aunt’s she’d dropped off into a deep sleep. Must be exhausted, the poor girl. She was wearing her hippy-garb again: a floaty, embroidered, multicoloured skirt in various shades of purple, and a white lace blouse hanging sexily off her left shoulder. She’d tied her hair back with a mauve headscarf and, on her lap, she was clutching a cloth shoulder bag which wouldn’t have been out-of-place in an Indian bazaar. Caspita! She was certainly original. None of the women he’d dated in recent years would have been seen dead out and about without having had their hair styled by a hairdresser, or being dressed in the latest designer outfit.

  And what about Fern’s visions? He’d looked up psychotic depression, just to be sure, and had discovered that it could lead to delusions and hallucinations. However, these were negative, self-critical, self-punishing and self-blaming episodes. What Fern had been experiencing was something totally different. Incredible as it seemed, she was almost certainly slipping back into the past and seeing the world through this Cecilia’s eyes.

  He gripped the steering wheel; he wouldn’t mind a nap himself. Last night, he’d had the strangest dream. Something about a race against time. He’d woken with a start, panic surging through him as he’d tried to figure out where he’d been going in such a hurry, why he’d been going there, and why the extreme anxiety. He’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night.

  Half an hour later, Luca pulled into the assigned spot in the multi-storey car park at the end of the causeway that led to Venice.

  Fern yawned and stretched. ‘Hope I didn’t snore . . .’

  ‘You slept like an angel,’ he said, jumping out to open the door. But Fern had already got out by the time he reached her.

  ‘No need for that,’ she laughed.

  She walked with him down the flight of steps to the ground floor, and they made their way to the water-taxi rank. After giving the driver instructions to take them to the Accademia, Luca settled himself next to her on the plush seat at the back of the gently rocking boat. A breeze was blowing her tangled hair back from her face and she was staring about her, that “rabbit in the headlights” expression in her eyes again.

  ‘It’s so much busier than I remember.’

  ‘I thought this was your first visit here.’ He caught her startled look. ‘Another flash-back?’

  ‘Not really. Just a conviction that I know this place. Parts of it, I mean. Gosh, I must sound crazy to you.’

  ‘Crazy? You?’ He smiled.

  ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. Was.’ She shielded her eyes. ‘I can see the decay now. Where the tide has eroded some of the buildings. Still enchanting, though.’

  Their water-taxi left the Grand Canal, and took a shortcut down the Rio della Croce. They turned right at Ca’ Foscari to arrive at the landing stage in front of the Accademia. Luca paid the boatman and handed Fern ashore, refusing her offer to help with the fare. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘This was my suggestion and my treat. And we can take a gondola ride later, if you like.’

  Delight lit her eyes. ‘If I like! That would be absolutely wonderful. You must let me treat you to lunch, though. I know how expensive water-taxis and gondolas are.’

  ‘Listen, Fern. Today you’re my guest. It’s the least I can do when it was me who proposed we came here. Next time, you can invite me and we’ll do things differently, okay?’

  Fern nodded her agreement, and followed him across the small piazza and up the marble steps to the museum. It was cool inside, and echoing with the babble of foreign tongues. Tourists. Unavoidable. He bought their entrance tickets and said, ‘Before we view The Tempest, let me show you this.’

  Within minutes they were standing in front of Gentile Bellini’s Procession of the True Cross. Fern stared at the painting, her face pale and rigid. ‘It’s so familiar.’

  He took her hand. ‘Come, have a look at this one.’ He led her to The Miracle of the Cross at the Bridge of San Lorenzo. ‘See the woman at the bottom left of the picture? Historians believe that’s Queen Caterina Cornaro.’

  Fern eyed the figure dressed in black. ‘Yes, it’s her,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘Oh my God! I think that’s Fiammetta, Cecilia’s sister.’ She pointed at the first in a line of women to the left of the Queen. ‘I’d know her anywhere.’

  ‘Astonishing,’ Luca said. He’d studied this painting when he’d taken a History of Art course at university. ‘See how richly frescoed the buildings were then.’

  ‘I know. And the figures in the painting seem to have been frozen forever in a moment of time. Just like what’s happening to me, only the reverse.’

  ‘We need to find out why.’ He took her hand again. ‘Let’s go and meet Cecilia, your nemesis.’

  ‘Nemesis?’

  ‘Well, who else could she be? A ghost, maybe? Not a figment of your imagination, I realise that for sure now. Your reaction to the painting convinced me.’ And it had. Fern’s familiarity with the characters depicted by Bellini couldn’t have been faked. ‘Cecilia wants something of you, Fern. We need to find out what that something is, so that she can be at rest.’

  ‘Do you think it could have something to do with Giorgione?’

  ‘Giorgione, Big Giorgio. Zorzone in Venetian dialect. Was Cecilia’s Zorzo a tall man?’

  ‘Huge.’

  ‘One of the most enigmatic painters in history. So little is known about his life. You’re amazingly lucky to have “met” him.’ Luca stopped in front of a painting approximately three feet square. ‘Here’s The Tempest, supposedly his most important work.’

  ‘Luca, I didn’t “meet” Giorgione,’ Fern said, staring at the naked lady suckling a baby. ‘Cecilia met him. I do see a resemblance between her and this woman, and yes, her face is a bit like mine.’

  ‘Her pose is unusual, don’t you think? Normally a baby would be on the mother’s lap when feeding. I wonder why Giorgion
e has positioned the child at the side of the mother?’

  ‘The woman seems as if she’s recently given birth. Look at her flabby tummy! She’s gazing directly at the viewer. This must be one of the strangest paintings I’ve ever seen. Incredibly haunting, in a way, although I can’t say why.’

  ‘Apparently it was Lord Byron’s favourite for the fact that it’s so ambiguous. Viewers can make up their own interpretation of the symbolism.’

  ‘I’d like to buy a print of it. Do they sell them here?’ Fern pointed to the male figure in the picture. ‘He seems to have been dropped into the scene, not a part of it at all. And he looks a bit like Zorzo.’

  ‘Art historians have suggested he could be a soldier, a shepherd, or a gypsy. X-rays of the painting have revealed that in the place of the man, Giorgione originally painted another female nude.’

  ‘Wonder who she could have been?’ Fern leaned in for a closer inspection. ‘The depiction of the landscape is stunning. And the gathering storm reminds me of the one we had the other night. Look at how the sky is lit! There’s a real feeling of foreboding. As if there’s about to be a terrible disaster.’ She shivered.

  After visiting the museum’s shop, where Fern bought a print of the painting and a book about the artist, Luca said, ‘We can take stroll to the restaurant. It’s not far.’

  They left the tourist trail behind, to wander through the hidden calli and across the small bridges spanning a network of tiny canals. Fern gazed around as if captivated. She took her Minolta camera from her bag, and framed pictures of the strings of washing hanging from the windows above. They came across a couple of boys, kicking a football in a deserted square. Then they crossed to a darkened alleyway, so narrow they could almost reach out and touch both walls with their outstretched hands. They emerged into the sunshine of a campo, where umbrella-shaded tables cried out for them to rest and have an aperitivo. Luca signalled the waiter and ordered Bellinis.

  ‘Excuse my ignorance,’ Fern said. ‘But what are Bellinis?’

  ‘Prosecco mixed with peach juice. Invented by Giuseppe Cipriani, the founder of Harry’s Bar. I’ll take you there the next time we visit Venice.’

  ‘Oh, is that anything to do with the Cipriani Hotel in Asolo?’ Fern asked, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘The Cipriani family used to manage it during the late sixties and early seventies. Now it belongs to an international chain.’

  ‘Luca, there’s something I have to tell you.’ Fern met his gaze. ‘I really like being with you. I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Remember I told you I’d been in the King’s Cross fire?’ Fern stuttered out a breath, then breathed in deeply and stuttered out another. ‘My fiancé . . . Harry, he . . . he died in it.’

  Luca reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Fern. How tragic!’

  ‘I’m not ready for another relationship. I apologise if I’ve led you on. You’ve been so kind to me,’ she said in a quiet voice.

  Ha, Luca. She’s knocked you back before you’ve even kissed her. Serves you right for all those girls you’ve kissed and ditched in the past. Well, to be honest, more than kissed . . .

  ‘Can we be friends?’ Fern asked hesitantly.

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he lied. Their drinks had arrived and he lifted his in a toast. ‘To our friendship.’ He clinked his glass with hers. ‘Can you tell me what happened? To Harry, I mean . . .’

  ‘We’d arranged to meet in the ticket office and go for dinner nearby. I blame myself as I’d made him wait.’ She paused, and glanced away. ‘If I’d caught an earlier train, we’d both have been out of there before the station went up in flames. But I’d worked late, even though the account I was setting up could have waited until the following morning. Wanted to impress my boss. So selfish of me . . .’

  ‘You weren’t to know. It’s lucky you weren’t on the concourse with your fiancé.’

  ‘I almost was,’ she said, her mouth forming a straight line. ‘I think I told you before, I was half-way up the escalator. Well . . . suddenly.’ Fern shuddered. ‘Suddenly the steps were on fire, and I looked up and the ceiling was in flames too. Bits of debris were crashing down . . . So the only thing I could do was run back to the platform.’

  ‘It must have been terrifying.’ He touched her hand. Her trembling fingers wrapped themselves around his.

  ‘The tunnel was filled with dense smoke. I could hardly see. People ran up and down, hammering on the closed doors of the trains as they crept past.’ Fern shut her eyes, visibly shaken. ‘Finally, one of the trains stopped and I jumped on.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I turned on the TV as soon as I got home and saw all the black body bags lined up outside the station. I’ve been in therapy ever since. That’s when I started painting. Have to admit, it’s been my salvation.’

  What to say? ‘Ah! Good, good. You clearly needed something to focus your mind.’

  ‘When I smelt burnt wood in my aunt’s house and heard that voice calling to me, it brought it all back. Remember me telling you that your mother thinks Cecilia might have died in the fire that destroyed the Barco?’ He nodded. ‘The burnt wood I keep smelling could be a vestige of the past, and I’m convinced that’s what happened to her.’

  ‘You never know,’ he said, trying to inject certainty into his voice. ‘It might not have.’

  ‘Thing is, I’m terrified of fire.’

  He squeezed her fingers. ‘Don’t forget that happened nearly five hundred years ago. You’re perfectly safe.’

  9

  Fern sat back in her chair. Luca’s reassurance had almost calmed her fears, except she hadn’t told him everything. There was something she’d never told anyone – not even her therapist. It festered inside her, poisoning her life. She’d never, ever, be rid of it, and, one day, she’d be called to account for it. Not today, though, hopefully. Today she was in Venice, and there was something about this place that sang to her heart and soul. She drained her glass and said to Luca, ‘At least let me pay for these drinks.’

  He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll settle up. Then we can go for some lunch.’

  She watched him saunter towards the entrance of the café, his long legs covering the distance in easy strides. He was so different to Harry, who’d been blond, of medium height and stocky. She was attracted to Luca, of course she was, and she’d had to swallow the lump in her throat when he’d readily agreed to be “just friends”. Lump of what? Not yearning, surely? Clearly, he wasn’t attracted to her at all, and that was fine, wasn’t it?

  She remembered the instant attraction between herself and Harry. She’d met him when she’d set up an investment account for him after his uncle had died and left him two hundred thousand pounds. Harry had been cautious about money and insisted she find a safe home for his inheritance. She’d done that for him, and then he’d invited her out to a posh restaurant. They’d barely eaten a thing, so intense had been the sexual pull between them. Back at his place, supposedly for a night-cap, they’d hardly stepped through the front door before they were at it. And it had been like that for most of the three years she’d known him. That is until . . .

  Damn! That buzzing sensation was back in her head. She gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles became white. Paint was flaking off and had caught under her fingernail. This is what’s real. Hold onto it! Turning her gaze towards the far side of the square, she let out a gasp. There, in the corner, shaded by the campanile, was Zorzo’s studio. Her eyes lost focus and the world around her disappeared.

  I manage to get myself assigned to a small room on the ground floor of the Queen’s palazzo. Practically a store cupboard, except it’s perfect for my purposes. Dorotea is surprised that I don’t want to share quarters with her upstairs on the piano nobile, and regards me with suspicion. I hope she won’t guess my motives.

  My lady’s Venetian home is on the Grand Canal
in the San Cassiano district. I’ve been here before, of course, only now there’s more purpose to my existence than the last time I visited the city. The painter has said that he’ll come for me in his boat this night. I find myself shivering with anticipation.

  The evening meal seems interminable, even though the court is tired from the journey. Such a palaver! So many courses! I’m too excited to eat. Finally, we retire and I wait. And I wait. And I wait. If he doesn’t come, I fear I’ll collapse with disappointment.

  There’s a rattle of pebbles on the window and I jump up from my mattress. He’s below me, his small craft bobbing on the emerald-green water. ‘Come, Cecilia,’ he says.

  I grab my cape and mask, and then tiptoe through the magazzino. The painter has nudged his skiff against the landing stage and I step aboard. He stands at the stern with a set of oars in his hands while I perch at the prow, my identity hidden by the white Bauta with square jaw and no mouth, worn by Venetians at all times of the year when outdoors. If I’m seen, no one will know me.

  Signor Zorzo rows us past the Campo della Pescaria, and then under the wooden Rialto bridge. Venice is magical tonight, its pearly palaces shining under a full moon, its chimney pots reaching for the stars. Excitement fizzes within me. I know I shouldn’t be out alone with this man, except I can’t help myself. I’m like a bee to his flower; he makes me feel important. I’ll pose for him and, in return, he’ll teach me to paint. I trust his promise; there’s no reason for me to suspect otherwise.

  ‘We’ve arrived,’ he says, tying up by some steps. In one bound, he’s ashore holding out his hand. My own is like a child’s compared with his. The warmth of his touch surprises me, and I let out a small gasp. ‘Do not fear,’ he says, misinterpreting my exclamation. ‘I shall treat you with the utmost respect.’