by Clare Curzon
He sucked in his cheeks, breathed ‘Sorry, Stepmama,’ in Maddie’s direction and tossed his head so that the wayward lock of hair fell further over his eyes.
‘That’s a good boy,’ she said, forgiving him readily.
Claudia was another matter. Her tirade reached Jake from a couple of yards away. It wasn’t all on account of his actions, he guessed. Plenty else had upset the old scorpion and he was a convenient receptacle for her spleen. Which she was no slouch at.
‘OK then?’ he said brightly as she paused at last for breath. ‘Well, I’ll send a cheque along to cover what I used. Cheerio then,’ and he hung up.
With the purring phone still in her hand, Claudia crouched, shaking with anger, on the second stair up to the loft. From the sitting-room poured out Miranda’s scales. Diminished sevenths. She’d been at them for over half an hour without cease.
Claudia stood up and brushed invisible creases from her skirt. She drew several deep breaths until she was again in control. Then she twisted the doorknob and went in to confront the girl. The music went on. She might have known it: Miranda was entranced. Claudia leaned forward and shook her by the shoulder. Her hands fell into her lap and she looked startled awake.
‘That bike of Jacob’s,’ her mother said coldly, ‘what is its licence number?’
Almost automatically Miranda reeled it off.
‘I thought so,’ her mother said with satisfaction. ‘This time he has really gone too far.’
Miranda waited with bowed head until Claudia had left. Time now to turn to the Bach Preludes and Fugues. She left the sheet music on the floor where it had spilled. She didn’t need it. She raised her hands and stared ahead, starting with the first one in C.
14
The temperature on Lido was again hovering over 38 degrees at breakfast. Giulia floated into the kitchen barely covered in a chiffon negligee and languidly waving a fan of finely woven palm strips. It was shaped like an Ace of Spades, with an insistently Venetian motif of black-edged eyeholes to double its use as a mask.
‘Today,’ she announced, ‘will be a stinker.’ She emphasized the slangy word with some pride. ‘So what do you young people intend to do? Venice will be teeming with tourists, all sweaty and dripping gelati. I should not recommend it.’
Yesterday Franco had suggested a gondola trip up the Grand Canal. They would cross the lagoon by their own motor launch moored below her window, and this for Jess had been the most attractive part of the arrangement. Her ambivalent position here as guest-prisoner needed clarification. It was time she took over and made her bid for freedom.
Whether it ran counter to Charles Stone’s plans for her barely mattered now. The game had been played his way long enough. She intended to introduce her own rules. Too bad if it momentarily peeved him. He’d said he admired her independence. Let him now live by his words. She looked forward to seeing his face as she walked in on him unannounced.
Her hopes were centred on the motorboat. However well Charles knew her, these people here couldn’t have guessed at her longtime love of the internal combustion engine. Father had once claimed she was born with an adjustable spanner, not a silver spoon, in her mouth. Let her once take a trip with one of the boys at the controls and she would pick up on any of the boat’s special eccentricities. Later she’d choose her moment, once she’d a plan for getting out of Italy.
Her new appearance made her current passport useless. Even if she passed through Immigration by nonchalantly waving its EC cover, it could still leave a trail to her which one of the boys might pick up on. Getting other false papers was out of the question. She’d need to give some thought to going stateless.
The Italian newspapers which she’d found in the house didn’t make much sense to her, but the television news was easier. Last night there had been a heated discussion about the stream of illegal immigrants landing along the eastern and southern coastlines. The boats bringing them from Albania didn’t have to return empty. Surely she could bribe some needy skipper to take her along?
Once she went missing the search for her would logically start at Marco Polo airport or on the westbound roads out of Mestre on the mainland. It would take some time before it occurred that she might head east, away from the direction of home.
‘You promised,’ she reminded Franco, ‘that you’d lend me your camera and today we’d do the tourist thing. Crowds don’t bother me. It’s all part of Venice in June.’
His gaze flickered to Stefano who shrugged. ‘Give the lady what she wants, of course. We’ll make up a threesome.’
‘As you wish,’ Giulia conceded. ‘So I will phone the Gritti Palazzo and make sure you have a table for lunch on the Terrazza del Doge.’
‘Won’t you come with us?’ Jess asked her.
‘Thank you, no. It’s cooler here on Lido. And I have little commissions to attend to. I will mail your cards for you when I go shopping. Then you needn’t bother looking for a postbox. How many cards have you?’
‘Four or five,’ Jess said vaguely. ‘I’ll bring them down.’ She knew Giulia would destroy them. The one that really mattered was Eddie’s. She’d find some way of posting that herself.
‘Comfortable shoes. That is important,’ Giulia counselled, having adopted the motherly role. ‘It is not all gondolas. You will walk and walk and walk all day.’
They left at a little before nine, Jess in a cotton trouser-suit of pale green, open-toed sandals and a floppy straw hat. The boys, accustomed to sunlight, wore shades, but only on the water. The boat purred away from the mooring, and Jess gave it full marks for maintenance. She had seen Stefano’s hand hover over a key board inside a kitchen cupboard, but she was confident she’d be able to start the engine in any case. It would simply take a tad longer without the key.
She found she remembered the navigable lanes from her previous visit. They were clearly marked and a strict speed limit was adhered to, at least during daylight. It was only at night that, in bed, she’d heard the wide boys of Lido out racing, and the water slapping against the walls below as it sucked away at the foundations.
Stefano was cruising the waterbus lane, passing the jetties of Sant’ Elena and Giardini Biennale where small crowds waited for transport to San Marco. At Arsenale he turned in under the archway and proceeded to an inner quay where Franco leapt out to tie up.
‘All history,’ Stefano said sardonically, waving an arm to embrace the proud towers topped by their Venetian winged lions. ‘Once from here we ruled the world, which the Mediterranean then was. In these shipyards sixteen thousand skilled workers could build and equip a galley in less than a day. Ask me what this place has now become. A show place, yet another gallery to hold things that have no purpose.’
‘Art is its own purpose,’ Franco rejoined without heat. It was obviously a familiar argument. He’d finished with the ropes and held out a hand to help Jess ashore.
‘From now we walk. It is up to you to choose the route. I have a map here for you, but later you will get lost just the same. Probably more quickly if you consult it.’ Stefano was positively prancing alongside, searching her face with dark eyes full of mischief.
She knew he was right. Everyone eventually got lost in the narrow, wriggling alleys. If she’d wanted to impress the boys with how streetwise (canalwise?) she was here, she couldn’t. In fact that would be undesirable.
‘At risk of boring you, because you’ve done it a hundred times, it has to be the Doge’s Palace first and then San Marco. After that there’s the Peggy Guggenheim collection, the Accademia, Rialto Bridge, the fishmarket, La Fenice … But I think you both had better sort out the order for me.’
‘I leave it to my cousin to escort you to the Doge’s dungeons,’ Stefano offered, ‘while I sit in the piazza like an English gentleman and enjoy a Grappa. When you reach the top of the palace you may wave to me and I will deign to acknowledge you.’
‘So kind,’ Jess said. ‘Come on, Franco. I suppose we queue to get in.’
Giulia ha
d been right about comfortable shoes. One of the sandal straps was rubbing up a blister before they had completed the first two visits. Jess thought regretfully of her scruffy old trainers left at home in the narrowboat. A pharmacist supplied a neat dressing for her and they met up with Stefano for cappuccinos.
After crossing the Grand Canal to the Accademia’s cool shade she set a more leisurely pace through the lofty rooms full of Old Masters, until at a little before one they took a waterbus back to Santa Maria del Giglio and lunch at the Gritti Palazzo which overlooked the dazzling lagoon.
‘I rather think,’ Jess said sadly, ‘the Guggenheim will have to wait for another occasion.’ The combination of artichoke-stuffed turbot, vitello veneto and heady wine against the gentle background of Vivaldi’s music was soporific. When their gondola came she was ready to stretch voluptuously on the velvet cushions and rest her head on Stefano’s ready shoulder for a dream progress the length of the crowded Grand Canal. On their return journey, making way for a Japanese wedding procession in four floral-wreathed gondolas, they pulled in near the Rialto Bridge.
‘Just one thing more,’ Stefano insisted, brushing her ear with his lips. ‘Boutiques. You cannot spend a day in Venice without shopping. It is what modern Venice is for after all. Just five steps on land and we will show you Aladdin’s cave.’
Nothing could dissuade him from buying her a carnival mask which she admired: a delicate upper-face covered in white and silver sequins and edged with cocks’ tail-feathers dyed peacock blue. Then Franco led her into a glassware boutique where she chose an emerald-green paperweight with an orange and black twister at its centre.
She knew that when she finally left Venice she would be leaving these gifts behind. That could be taken as an insult, which she didn’t intend. For a moment, as Franco steered them back across the lagoon to Lido she was almost tempted to give up on the idea. Yet the way she was kept as an ironically honoured hostage was demeaning. She owed them for that.
Besides, just after the gondola had delivered them back to the piazza San Marco she had hit on a possible method to get away. In the little gardens where they sat a while before walking back to their boat, a group of backpackers were lying on the grass with cans of fruit juice and ice creams. Three had little Union Jacks sewn on to their gear. When two of the girls got up and moved off towards the public toilets she made her own excuses and trailed some way behind.
High partition walls enclosed the utility and she waited for them until they were fixing their makeup, screwing their mouths to take on fresh lipstick. ‘Hi guys,’ Jess greeted them, ‘how long you here for?’
The redhead darted her a look that meant back-off. ‘Long enough to piddle, is all,’ she sneered.
The other shrugged an apology. ‘Leaving tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Heading south.’
‘Would you do me a favour?’
They exchanged streetwise glances. ‘It will cost you,’ said the redhead.
‘Just to post this card to my boyfriend in England. I gotta coupla fellows waiting outside. Eyeties, and they’re the jealous kind. Here, see.’
She produced the postcard addressed to Eddie and a five Euro note.
‘Ten,’ said the redhead.
‘You’re sharp, but OK.’ She handed them over. ‘You travelling by train?’
‘Nuh. Got offered a lift in a carrier’s truck, four of us, down to Bari.’ Since the commercial transaction they appeared to trust her more.
‘Like to make that five? I’ll pay my way with the nosh.’ Again the girls looked at each other. It’s on, Jess decided. They take me for a sucker.
‘Maybe. Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘If you can get up early. Five-thirty at Piazzale Roma. It’s at the far end …’
‘I know it. I’ll be there.’ This was the perfect pick-up point for joining the mainland. She was really in luck.
‘What about the fellas?’
Jess put her nose in the air. ‘Plenty more where they came from. Same in Bari, for that matter.’
The girls grinned. ‘See yuh then,’ said the dark girl.
‘On the dot,’ the other warned, ‘or we go without you.’
‘Cool,’ she told them and watched as they shouldered their bags and went off. She waited another two minutes, renewing her makeup, then slipped out to rejoin Franco and his cousin in the shade of the little gardens.
‘We did buy you a cornetto,’ Stefano said mockingly, ‘but you took so long making yourself beautiful that I did you a service by eating it myself.’ He showed the tip of his tongue and made a suggestive licking movement while holding her eyes with his own. Franco had turned away a moment before and missed seeing her repugnance.
‘It’s been a wonderful day,’ she said as the powered boat headed back towards Lido. ‘Thank you both. I shall always remember it.’
This time Franco was at the controls and as he smiled back at her his attention was taken by something beyond. Stefano, picking up on it, swivelled in his seat and grunted. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing back inland to distant flashes over the northern mountains. ‘It’s going to be a noisy night. Heat’s been building all day. When the storm hits the lagoon it will be really spectacular.’
At present the water was like sheet silver. Not a breath of wind, unnaturally calm. She’d never known a storm here but she guessed it wouldn’t make for an easy escape.
The distant flashing continued for over two hours with no accompanying thunder, then a little after seven it rushed down from the heights to strike with demon fury. From a breathless stillness all hell broke loose. Torrential rain lashed the lagoon and the shutters of the room they ate in clanged against the outer walls while all the candles streaked sideways and went out. Through the darkness the boys struggled to fix the shutters across and close the tall windows. They had to shout to be heard above the buffeting of the wind.
Giulia was muttering, hunched in her chair. ‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘this could go on all night.’
So much for my plans, Jess thought. I’d end a drowned rat to venture out in this. If I wasn’t struck by lightning.
She knew that, curiously, the safest place to be in an electric storm was inside a car, totally surrounded by metal. Fibreglass adrift on water offered no protection at all. The escape had to be put off. There was no chance of keeping her rendezvous with the girl backpackers. All that duplicity for nothing. Except that they might have the decency to post that card to Eddie. Even then, in view of the relaxed Italian postal system, she reckoned he’d not receive it for another four days.
Giulia’s instant reaction to the ferocious weather was recourse to brandy. She had Rosalba produce half a dozen varieties of exotic flavourings, with which their full-size wine glasses were recharged.
They remained at table, peeling fruit and becoming increasingly pi-eyed while the tempest roared outside and the house thudded with its onslaught like an echoing cliff cavern battered by high seas.
Tomorrow and for several days Venice would be awash, with duckboards in the alleys, and gondolas sailing through the piazza San Marco as the deluge drained from the mountains and the lagoon rose. With the wind’s savagery, intricate tracery would be torn off ancient stonework and a little more of the elegant past would be lost forever.
Sad, Jess thought, but her main regret was purely selfish. It had been a good idea to go south and east, but now she would have to rethink her escape.
Stefano at last persuaded Giulia to retire, swearing she’d never sleep a wink, but tottering off on wayward feet. The young man leered back over her shoulder as he supported her from the room.
Franco sat on, seeming lost in depressive thought until finally he rested his arms on the table and his head sank down on them. Regretfully Jess decided there was no alternative to finding her own bed and pulling the covers over her ears.
Upstairs she found the windows had all been made secure earlier. It was only the room they dined in that had been left open for air until the storm actually
struck. She lay propped up against the pillows a while, watching a sliver of light flickering where the shutters failed quite to meet. Its repetition played on her mind and, mesmerized, she felt herself drifting until her head fell suddenly forward and she jerked awake.
Outside the wind continued tearing at the house’s fabric but the thunder was a mere roll of drums now, the flickering fainter. With everyone in the house asleep she might have a chance to leave, if she could brave the lagoon crossing.
Quietly she unlatched a shutter. The heavy wood with its iron hasp was almost torn from her hands but she held it wide enough to glimpse the water surging below. The overcast sky made distances uncertain but she caught the pale flecks of swirling foam and they struck at her rediscovered resolve.
It would be crazy. She let the shutter thud back into place and refastened the iron bar. It was then that she heard the creak of a floorboard beyond her door and the furtive sound of the handle being slowly depressed.
She slid behind the opening door, heart thudding, hoping that the shadowy hump of pillows would be taken for her sleeping body. Enough light escaped from the corridor outside for her to make out the man’s shape as he approached the bed. Too tall for Franco.
With disgust she remembered Stefano’s tongue when he spoke of licking her ice cream, and the leering smile as he led the drunken Giulia off to bed. He had been little more sober himself and she had a horror of his fumbling her in the dark.
Retreating further she brushed against something at waist height. It was the floor-based wrought iron candle-stand that must surely have come from some convent or chapel. The flower shape that held the guttered remnants of wax was surrounded by ivy-shaped leaves. Her fingers curled round the central stem and ran down until she had a firm purchase on it.
‘Carissima,’ Stefano breathed, leaning over the bed. ‘Tesoro mio.’
