I feel the heat in my cheeks and glance away from him. If only he knew how much I long for him to crush me against his strong chest, and to feel his lips on mine once again. ’Tis better I keep to my resolve, and remain a maid until my wedding day. Much better! My maidenhead will be checked by doctors before I go to my bridal bed, as is the custom. You are a fool, Cecilia! Who will want to marry you? You have no wealth. My shoulders sag.
The painter’s studio is at street level. Windows give onto a campo, dark shadows outlined by the moonlight. He has set up tallow candles around the room, and holds a taper to them from the fire he has kept burning in the grate. ‘Pray sit here.’ He indicates a stool. ‘I’ll paint you first. Then I’ll give you some instruction on the use of colour.’
The chair has been positioned on a small platform so that my eyes are level with the painter’s. I remove my mask and cape, which he takes and hangs on a hook by the door. ‘Loosen the stays on your sleeves. I’d like your shoulders bare. And remove the net from your hair. ’Tis too beautiful to hide.’
My fingers tangle in my ribbons as they tremble at my wantonness. If my lady could see me now she’d banish me from her court. Yet I can’t resist wishing to please this man, who looks at me with admiration and, at the same time, honours my virgin flesh. What they say about him being a womaniser cannot be true. Or perhaps he doesn’t consider me woman enough?
I steal a sideways glance at him. He has rested a canvas on a wooden contraption, which, I’ve found out, is called an easel and was invented by the artist himself. He holds a twin-headed stick in his hand and is sketching in the highlights and lowlights of my portrait.
‘Stay still, dolcezza,’ he admonishes. ‘You’re fidgeting.’ He has called me sweetness, but not in a lover’s voice. ’Tis the tone an uncle would use with a niece. The painter must think me such a child, even if he can’t be more than ten years my senior.
Keeping my gaze on the far wall, I let my mind wander. What would Dorotea do to show this man that she’s ripe for plucking? No, Cecilia! You mustn’t think like that! You need to keep your purity.
The artist picks up a palette, the wood curving in such a way that it seems as if some beast has bitten a chunk out of it. He clips on his swag of brushes and his pot, with what I presume is a mixture of linseed oil and turpentine. I’m envious as I study him, wishing I had his abilities.
At length he has finished. ‘Are you thirsty, dolcezza? Would you like some wine?’
Nodding my agreement, I get up from the stool and wander over to the easel. He hands me a goblet and I stare at the canvas. Not only has he caught my physical characteristics, he seems to have caught my spirit as well: the flash of defiance in my eyes, the stubbornness of my chin. I’ll never be as great an artist as this man. ‘My art is nothing compared with yours,’ I say.
‘Let me be the judge of that, dolcezza. Did you bring anything to show me?’
‘No. I rushed out when I heard you call and left my work behind.’ I decide there and then not to let him see what I’ve accomplished thus far. Better to learn from him first.
‘Come, let me show you my paints and explain the language of colour.’
He leads me to the far wall, where there’s a grindstone and glass jars containing vivid powders. ‘These are liquefied with oil, drop by drop.’ He picks up his brushes and caresses them lovingly as if they were women’s tresses.
‘What are the brushes made of?’ I ask, although I know the answer already.
‘Horsehairs wrapped with waxed string onto sticks, or small clumps of squirrel fur forced into bird quills which are then inserted into narrow wooden batons.’
‘How interesting,’ I say, with a flutter of my eyelashes, and I take another sip of wine.
‘The brushes are graded according to the size of the bird that suffered to provide them: crow, duck, small swan, large swan . . . ’
I put my hand to my mouth. ‘They aren’t alive, surely, when they’re de-feathered?’
The artist laughs and indicates his collection of colours, showing me the most precious ultramarine blue, ground from lapis lazuli, and cerulean, as transparent and luminous as the lagoon. Cobalt needs the addition of lead white to maintain intensity, whereas indigo, dark blue-black like the night sky, should be used for background work. He goes through all his other tints, talking of them as if they were old friends. My head is spinning by the time he has finished.
‘Come, dolcezza,’ he says. ‘I must get you back to my lady’s palazzo. Can you feign sickness tomorrow? I shall come for you in the morning. We can make a start on your lessons.’
I realise that if I do nothing, he will not kiss me, and I have been thinking of nothing else for hours. So I plant myself in front of him and place my hands on his chest. I raise my head and, finally, his lips meet mine and he kisses me so deeply I’m dissolving. My body becomes liquid in his embrace; the feeling is wonderful.
Finally, Zorzo pulls back and gazes into my eyes. ‘Dolcezza, you have my heart.’
What does he mean? I want to ask, but he grabs my cape from the hook by the door and wraps it around my body. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘The hour is late.’
Back in San Cassiano, I collapse on my bed, my whole body throbbing. Eventually, I drop off to sleep, with the memory of his kisses in my thoughts. Some hours later, although it seems like only moments, Dorotea is shaking me. ‘Wake up, Cecilia!’
I groan and open my eyes. Then I clutch my belly. ‘I have my monthly pains,’ I lie. ‘Can you manage without me?’
‘We shall have to, won’t we?’ Dorotea huffs.
A smile bubbles up from within me. I gulp it back down again and make an effort to look indisposed. ‘I shall be better momentarily,’ I say. ‘Must be the journey here that has upset my humours.’
‘My lady has just told me we go to her villa on Murano tomorrow. She has invited the Marques of Mantova for a pranzo.’ Dorotea shakes a finger. ‘You had better be well enough by then.’
I peer up at her from my pillow, only something strange is happening. The edges to Dorotea’s body are blurring and she starts to fade. I can feel someone shaking me.
Shake, shake, shake. She wished whoever was doing that would stop. It was most rude of them.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Zorzo?’ She reached for his hand, and found hers enveloped in a bear paw. What was Zorzo doing in her room?
‘It’s Luca,’ the voice said. ‘You’ve had one of your episodes.’
‘Who?’ His tone was familiar, yet her mind struggled to place the name. She opened her eyes, then closed them again, blocking out the sight of a stranger with hair cut shorter than she’d ever seen anyone wear and strange, dark eyeglasses. She pulled her hand back.
‘Luca,’ the man repeated.
Recall whooshed into her mind, whirling around like surf on a beach before retreating and leaving her giddy.
‘Luca . . .’ She ran trembling hands up and down her arms. Of course. She’d come to Venice with Luca. They’d gone to the Accademia and she’d seen Giorgione’s painting. She recalled staring at the naked lady, and seeing Cecilia staring back, whom Luca called her nemesis. Recalled the bolt of familiarity as she’d contemplated the two other paintings by Bellini. Recalled the cocktail she’d drunk had been named after him. Recalled staring at this square and seeing Zorzo’s studio, the place where love had flowed through her veins for the first time. Not your veins, Fern. Cecilia’s. Your love was Harry, wasn’t it? The blood rushed from her head and she swayed. She wanted to be back with the painter; her soul ached for him.
‘Here, take a sip of water,’ Luca said, grabbing the bottle and glass from the next table and ignoring the startled expressions of its occupants.
‘I’ll be fine. It always feels like this when I come to. Just give me a minute.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said, sipping from the glass and swallowing her distress. ‘I think you should apologise to those people, don’t you?’
‘Mannaggia!’ Luca clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Scusi,’ he said to the startled elderly couple. He handed the half-empty bottle back and ordered another one for them. After paying for it, he held out his hand to Fern. ‘Some lunch will make you feel better.’
She kept her hand in his. After all, they were walking alongside canals and crossing bridges, and, if she had another of her funny turns, she didn’t want to fall into the water. Within a short time, they’d arrived at the Trattoria alla Madonna.
They ate a delicious meal of fish risotto, followed by grilled sea bass and green salad served with chilled Pinot Grigio. Fern told Luca about what he’d called her “episode”. He listened, nodding but keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘I’ll show you San Marco,’ he said when they’d finished eating. ‘It’s well worth a visit.’
After crossing the Rialto Bridge, they made their way through a labyrinth of small streets towards the heart of the city, passing designer shops selling everything a tourist with money could wish for. Fern’s nerves jangled. Keep focused! You’ll be all right.
Of course she’d seen pictures of the square, but the real thing made her breath catch. 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.’ She stared at the clock tower on the left. Familiar, but the other buildings around the piazza were new, as was the bell tower (although it was in the same place and the loggia at its base jogged her memory). The Doge’s Palace appeared to have changed little, even though she’d read in Aunt Susan’s book on Venice that it had suffered from a fire in the late 16th century. So many fires!
Luca led her up the steps to the arched portals of the basilica and in they went. A queue of people in front was making slow progress. Didn’t matter, though; they could take all the time they liked. Light leapt and twirled from myriad minute surfaces of refracted gilt. The aroma of incense and candlewax filled Fern’s nostrils. A millennium of worship in this place. And Cecilia came here and saw what I’m seeing now.
Above her and at every angle, extraordinary 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 at the same time. Emotion welled up, and she squeezed Luca’s hand. No need for words.
They stumbled out into the sunshine. The piazza 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 said.
They sat at an outdoor table. Florian’s. A friend at work had warned her about the prices here. Luca was being far too macho and alpha male about not letting her pay for anything, but she knew what to do this time.
A waiter was hovering. ‘Due bicchieri di Prosecco,’ Luca ordered. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked Fern. ‘No flash-backs?’
‘No. Just a deep conviction that I’ve been here before.’
‘I was wondering about something. Have you considered that you might be possessing Cecilia?’
The weirdness of the notion had her gaping at him. ‘What on earth do you mean? Cecilia lived nearly 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, eying 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.’
Fern 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 have to admit I was scared for you earlier on. You were in what I can only describe as a trance.’
‘Please don’t worry. I don’t think 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?’
‘Touché!’ She sipped the rest of her Prosecco, gazing around and absorbing the magnificence of St Mark’s Square. Then she said, ‘Just need to pop to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Va bene,’ he said, stretching out his legs.
On her way past the bar, she asked for the bill and settled up. She’d need a second mortgage to pay for it when her credit card statement arrived, but she’d made her point. She just hoped Luca would take it in the spirit with which she’d intended.
Back at the table, she said, ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve paid for our drinks. It’s the least I can do.’
Luca laughed. ‘Not at all. The gondola is on me, though. I insist.’
‘That would be lovely.’ She fell into step beside him. They strolled hand-in-hand towards the lagoon and again recognition rolled through her as she stared in wonderment at the island on the other side of the basin. A 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, it’s all so beautiful.’
Gondolas rode the waves, tethered along the waterfront. Luca approached one of them and negotiated with the gondolier. Fern stepped onto the boat and sat next to Luca on a plush red seat in the centre. ‘This part used to be covered in the past, I think.’
‘Quite right. To preserve the modesty of young women like Cecilia. She’s quite a rebel, by the way. 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 the painter?’
‘Well, I’m not about to find out,’ Fern said, injecting a note of determination into her voice. ‘It’s not every day you get to see the Grand Canal by gondola. I’m going to make the most of every minute.’
The afternoon sky had started to fade to a smoky blue and the sun was casting a wash of gold over the buildings. Cecilia and her artist could bide their time. Of course, Fern wanted to find out if her nemesis had learned to paint. It could wait, though. For now, she’d enjoy this glorious experience and revel in the beauty of Venice. She reached for her camera.
10
Luca was working overtime. He scrutinised the pile of paperwork on his desk: estimates to send out and quotes to get in. Routine stuff, which he could handle on autopilot, but it had mounted up. He thought about Fern and their gondola trip yesterday, remembering her smiling softly, taking everything in and clicking away with her camera. When they’d passed under the Rialto Bridge, she’d grabbed hold of his arm and he’d held her hand firmly.
A frisson of discomfort now as he imagined her spending time with the painter. Pazzesco! He shook his head and picked up another sheaf of papers.
After work, he drove back to his flat. He sat on the terrace with a glass of chilled Chardonnay, and gazed at the view of the mountains, with Monte Grappa in the centre looking like a gigantic camel’s hump. 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. He went to the phone, rifled through his address book, and dialled Susan’s number. Fern answered and said she’d be delighted, thanking him again for the visit to Venice yesterday.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine. Cecilia has left me in peace.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear. What have you been up to today?’
‘Aunt Susan and I went to the market in Bassano. Bought myself a new pair of sandals. We had the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. The town is charming, isn’t it? I’d love to go back there and do 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 when I’m in a place associated with Cecilia. Talking of which, I’m planning a visit to Murano the day after tomorrow. That’s where her 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 on your own?’ His gut clenched with concern. There was no way he could take another day off work.
‘Aunt Susan 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 get some from Murano for her collection. I’ll take my sketchpad and sit by a canal while she goes shopping.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow evening, then.’
He hung up and ran his fingers through his hair. How the hell was he going to keep his relationship with Fern on a friendly footing? He’d never been “just friends” with a girl in the past, and had never managed to commit himself to any one of them either. Fern was different, however, and it wasn’t just because she was English. Mannaggia la miseria!
***
The following evening, he pulled up outside Susan’s house and rang the bell. Fern answered the door. She was wearing a light green cotton gypsy blouse that brought out the emerald in her eyes. He was glad she hadn’t embraced the power-dressing of most women he knew, and that she’d done away with the ubiquitous shoulder-pads gracing even everyday outfits. How anyone could think those things attractive was beyond him.
Fern waved to her aunt and settled herself in the Alfa. He took the road behind Asolo towards the village of Monfumo, where he’d booked a table in the small restaurant overlooking the square. They 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 Luca’s upper lip. He wiped it with his napkin.
Lady of Asolo Page 8
