Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  The evening was chilly as we made our way to the Casa Dana Rosti the next evening. Marco had put the felze on the gondola, and the black cabin was dark and silent, muffling the sounds even though the window blinds on each side were open. As I glanced out the window, I thought of Mrs. Bronson’s words and the uneasiness I’d felt from the moment I’d seen Odilé León, and I wished we had not come. But it was too late now. The gondola stopped; we were here. Joseph was already pulling the bell cord as I disembarked. I heard its chime beyond, and the door was opened almost immediately by a woman who eyed us warily in the moment before she cast her gaze down and said, “Welcome to the Dana Rosti, monsieur, mademoiselle.”

  The receiving court was cold and dim, with gaslights along the walls that colored the white marble a dim yellow. It felt very like a tomb, I thought, shivering, and not only because of the damp chill. I would not have been surprised to see crypts along the walls. The servant led us to the stairs at the side, marble as well, which disappeared upward into a darkened archway. Joseph took my hand as if he felt my discomfort, tightening his fingers around mine reassuringly.

  At the piano nobile, the servant turned abruptly to another door, opened it, and ushered us into the portego, which blazed with light. Three great chandeliers with tiers of candles sent a glare on the dark shine of terrazzo floors. The portego was lined with doors, each topped with bronze angels above gilded, sculptured shells, surrounded by equally gilded plaster festoons. The walls were pink and crumbling, that sort of lovely decay that marked all of Venice, set off by panels of marbled wallpaper in pale green. Candlelight seemed to dance on every surface. The place was beautiful and decadent, made to charm.

  Our footsteps were loud on the floor, and there was no other sound as the servant led us down the hall to a doorway on the right. Double doors opened onto the sala, which was as elaborate as the portego had been, frescos—seascapes—lining the walls, heavy bronze drapes hiding what I assumed were balcony doors. There was not much furniture—a few settees, a chair or two, a pianoforte, but all were elegant and well placed. There were sculptures here and there and paintings hanging from rosetted cords. The room, as large as it was, felt cozy and close. Several candelabra bore flickering candles; the gas sconces were unlit. The ceiling loomed darkly above. After the blaze of the portego, the room seemed both dark and romantic.

  I did not see her at first. Not until the servant announced us, and she rose from the shadows and came forward. I found myself silenced once again by her beauty. She wore a gown of deep burgundy that glowed vibrantly, as if it were fed by some other, unseen light, and it struck her dark hair with copper. She wore a necklace of gold and rubies that seemed to pulse against her skin, and that fine Venetian chain wound around both wrists dangled and looped, falling over her hands.

  I caught the quick flash of surprise in her eyes when she saw me. I had the impression that Odilé León was not often surprised—and that it was not something she enjoyed.

  “Miss Hannigan,” she said smoothly. “How lovely.”

  She spoke in English, that faint French accent warming her words. Joseph took her hand and bowed over it. She seemed to shudder; it was almost imperceptible, but it troubled me, as did my brother’s voice when he spoke. It was deeper than usual, almost hoarse as he said, “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Sophie. I did not like to leave her alone.”

  “No, of course not.” She smiled, but I saw a strain in it, a glitter in her eyes, which were very dark in the candlelight, though I’d thought yesterday they were gray.

  “Come, will you have some wine? Or something stronger?” she asked as she moved into the soft light, her gown shimmering. A small table held decanters of Murano glass, beautifully wrought. She paused there, turning slightly, and I thought she knew just what impression she made standing that way, that she had done it deliberately. I felt a stab of jealousy when I realized how Joseph was staring.

  It didn’t matter, I told myself again. She was just another woman, though more beautiful than most. I had lived this before, a hundred times.

  “Wine would be perfect,” Joseph said. “For the both of us.”

  As she poured, the decanter clinked against the glass once, and then twice, as if she were nervous, though I saw no evidence of that. She brought two glasses to us. The crystal was cut and beveled, the wine, when I drank, of a quality I recognized. Like Mrs. Bronson’s sherry, I’d never had finer. Everything in this room, in fact, spoke of riches.

  I had never felt so out of place. I wished I had not come, but then again, neither did I want Joseph to be alone with her. I said, “I spoke to a friend about you. She told me you were once connected to Nelson Stafford.”

  She frowned as if she did not know the name, and then her expression cleared. “Ah, the writer. The one who took his own life.”

  I nodded. “I found his body.”

  “You did?”

  “I was looking for places to lease and came upon him. The landlady said he had died of love for you.”

  Her expression went soft and a little wistful. “I see. You found him, and so perhaps you feel for him. Perhaps you feel a responsibility. Perhaps you have come to chastise me.”

  Joseph opened his mouth to say something. I touched his arm to stop him, and said, “I would not presume. It’s none of my concern. But I cannot forget him.”

  She took a sip of her wine, keeping the swallow in her mouth for a moment, pressing the rim of her glass hard against her full lower lip—hard enough that I thought it must have hurt. It went momentarily white before she released it again. She glanced at my brother, a sideways look; I felt something leap between them, and I was glad when she looked away again, when she said lightly, “Perhaps it will reassure you to know that I realized too late how . . . delicate . . . Mr. Stafford was. In mind, if not in constitution. My only fault is that I chose wrongly. The weight of another’s despair can be hard to predict. But Venice is to blame as well, you know. You feel it too, mademoiselle. Your brother’s portrait of you reveals as much. You feel the things that breathe in the air here. Venice yearns. Its beauty is a monster. It raises foolish, unattainable desires. It makes one want what one can never have. Or what one should never want.”

  I thought of the way I’d looked in my brother’s portrait, those things I’d felt as he’d drawn, the things I yearned for. I was afraid of what she was saying and how she seemed to see what I felt. Foolish, unattainable desires. The things I wanted that I should never have wanted, that I should not want now. I felt my brother’s quick glance, and I went hot.

  She smiled slightly, as if she knew how she’d disconcerted me, and said, “I am glad you have come tonight. I’ll endeavor to make it worth your time. The Venetians would say: venga a mangian quattro risi con me, which means, come and eat four grains of rice with me. They are known for their economy. But have no fear, I don’t mean to starve you like a Venetian. You must be hungry. Come to dinner and I’ll tell your brother why I invited him here tonight.” She put a slight emphasis on the word him.

  We followed her from the salon into the dining room—smaller, but still elegant, with a gleaming table of mahogany and a candelabra set at one end. It was already set for three—how efficient were her servants.

  “Please, sit,” she said, putting her hand on my brother’s arm to direct him to a chair, breathing deeply as she did so, as if she gained satisfaction from the touch. It was odd, and again I felt a hovering shadow of discomfort. But I sat in the other chair. The gilded embellishments on the ceiling winked now and again out of the darkness, the candlelight wavered, sending highlights of red into her hair, glancing off the rubies at her throat, shimmering on her gown.

  The first course was a luxurious crab soup, rich with cream and flavor. When it came, she inhaled deeply of it. “I love the smells of Venice. They are different from any other city. Do you not think so?”

  I managed, “I can’t really say. We’ve been to so few. But certainly it’s different.”

  She took
a spoonful of soup. “You will find no other place like it, I promise you. No other city has legends and ghosts like Venice. Have you yet seen the one at the Moretta I told you of?”

  “No. Are you certain there is a ghost?”

  She nodded. “It is why the owner does not often rent to Americans. They complain of it too much. Strange noises and such. Odd smells. I think the Germans enjoy it—but then, they have a sense of the macabre, don’t they?”

  “Odd smells?” my brother asked. “Like what?”

  “A strange perfume, I hear,” she said, and he smiled at her in a way that tightened my stomach. “Musk and sandalwood. And shadows.”

  “Shadows?” I asked. “I had not thought shadows had a smell.”

  Joseph said, “Oh, you know they do, Soph. You describe it when you tell your stories.”

  She asked, “Your stories? Are you a writer then, mademoiselle?”

  “Sophie doesn’t write them down,” Joseph said.

  “Ah. I so enjoy stories. Perhaps you would tell me one someday. Perhaps about the Dana Rosti. It has its own ghosts. Sometimes I think I can hear the sounds of past Carnivales in its walls.” Her spoon clattered violently and suddenly against her bowl. She bit her lip hard, pushing the bowl away, and gestured abruptly to the servant standing in the shadows. I noticed that she gripped the table as the servant took the dishes.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked her.

  Her fingers relaxed, and she raised her hands, sending the Venetian chain gently undulating. “I have been ill, and I’m afraid I’m still a bit weak. But I’m growing better. There is no need for concern.”

  The next course came, a steaming platter of saffron-scented rice, plump pink shrimp and gleaming black mussels, shining clams, and glistening sausage, along with round, crusty loaves of bread. She tore off chunks of it, handing it to us, along with a small bottle of olive oil, saying, “You must dip it in oil. It isn’t like the bread in Paris—nothing is—but it has its own charm.” She put a chunk of it to her nose, closed her eyes, inhaled. “It’s from the baker down the street. I think I can smell his children in it. Dirt and sunshine.”

  My brother laughed. She opened her eyes, smiling back at him as she put aside the bread and gestured to the dish of rice and seafood. “I first tasted this dish in Valencia, and it has become one of my favorites.”

  She served us herself. When I took my first bite I nearly swooned.

  “You see?” she said. “You like it?”

  “Oh my. Valencia, you said?”

  “A beautiful city. Have you ever been?”

  “No. I’m afraid this is our first trip abroad.”

  “Your first? Well, how much you have to look forward to, then. Where do you go next?”

  I glanced at my brother, who was toying silently with a shrimp. “I suppose back to New York.”

  “Venice only?” she raised a finely shaped brow. “Then this is no grand tour. You’ve come for a reason.”

  Joseph’s eyes were so dark in the candlelight they looked black. “For study.”

  “There is no place more suited for the study of art. But you must be careful, monsieur. The salons and entertainments will distract you from your purpose. I’ve seen it happen more than once. If you mean to learn in Venice, you should paint every day, whatever inspires you. No salon can teach you what the city itself can.”

  I protested, “James Whistler is at Mrs. Bronson’s every night. And Frank Duveneck. Joseph can learn from them too.”

  Her gaze turned slowly to me. “Yes. But true greatness means a singular vision. To learn technique is necessary, yes? But the rest . . . to put it to the test, to press the boundaries of genius . . . that needs a faith in oneself.”

  “Which I have,” said Joseph, leaning forward. “I know what I’m capable of. I know I can make people see something they’ve never seen before.”

  She looked at him, her eyes glittering. The world went suddenly muted, muffled and silent as if a scrim had fallen to dim it, and she was the only thing at its center. I felt her separateness, a darkness I could not interpret. It was oddly familiar—she reminded me of something I knew, though I could not quite think what.

  She said softly to him, “Ah yes. But what good is such vision if no one knows you exist?”

  “You understand,” said my brother in surprise.

  I was surprised too—not just that she’d said it, but that he’d admitted it. I didn’t like it. Joseph had never talked of his ambition with anyone but me.

  She said slowly, “You want fame, of course you do. But the question is, as always, what are you willing to sacrifice for it?”

  Her voice had gone low and mesmerizing. Joseph’s hand was clenched on the table, the planes of his face had gone stark, fiercely beautiful, his high cheekbones and the blade of his nose, his strong jaw and the slight cleft of his chin. I felt a terrible yearning in him, something dangerously fierce.

  She said, “I can tell you that Vivaldi risked everything.”

  I felt drawn back to her, almost against my will. She pushed her barely touched plate away, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. The Venetian chain slipped and dangled, catching on the ends of her sleeves. Her expression went dreamy and far away.

  “Venice holds him as one of her own,” she went on, almost whispering, as if she were speaking to an intimate, a lover, looking only at my brother. “They say his ghost still walks the calli, that you can hear him play on the nights when storm clouds chase the seawater into the canals, that on those nights, the cries of the gulls are the notes of his music.

  “But before he was a ghost he taught at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta, where he composed works for the orphan girls there to sing. Such beautiful songs. Such beautiful voices. They were famous the world over. Ah, but Vivaldi was dissatisfied. He wanted his music to be known not for the voices that sang it, but for his own genius. He wanted something separate, for himself. His own.”

  Again, I felt that twinge of discomfort, as if she saw something I didn’t want her to see, a sense that she spoke to me even as she did not turn her gaze from Joseph.

  “And so one night, he called for the devil, which is easy to do in this city, you know. Perhaps too easy. He waits outside St. Mark’s for those who are despairing, who cannot find God inside and so come to him.”

  The candlelight wavered; her voice was like a spell.

  “And the devil knows just what you want. He heard Vivaldi’s call, and so that night, he played in the calle beneath Vivaldi’s window. The sweetest, most enticing music. He wooed Vivaldi with what he loved, and Vivaldi opened his window to the devil. He welcomed him inside. He—”

  She stopped short, drawing in her breath sharply, pressing her hand to her stomach, bowing her head. I was still wrapped in the spell, but Joseph was on his feet, taking the few steps to her side, his fingers caressing her bare shoulder. “What is it?”

  She straightened at his touch. Her obvious relief was so strong it struck me as peculiar. She reached for his hand, squeezing it, and looked up into my brother’s face. He went rapt with an expression so erotically stark it made my heart stop. No different than the other women, I told myself, but it was growing harder to believe.

  She tried to smile, “No, I’m fine. A momentary pain. What remains of my illness. It is nothing. Truly.”

  Joseph frowned. “Should I call for a servant?”

  “No.” Again, the smile, a shake of her head that sent her earrings dancing against her jaw. “Please, sit down.”

  My brother’s hand was still on her shoulder, his long fingers reaching to the swell of her breast above burgundy satin the color of blood. He withdrew as if awakened from an enchantment and returned to his seat. Her hand went to where his had been as if he’d left it cold. She turned to me. “Stories of artists who sell their soul to the devil are all the same, are they not? The rise. The fall. The cost. What is your story, mademoiselle? Tell me how you came to be here in Venice. Where you have come from.
What you want. That is a story I would like to hear.”

  I took a sip of wine, trying to control the sudden trembling of my fingers. “I’m afraid it’s a very boring story. Our parents died when we were young, and our aunt raised us. We’ve come to Venice so Joseph can study.”

  The way she looked at me made me cold, as if she saw the memories I kept locked away, and I did not doubt that she could—had someone asked me in that moment, I would have told them Odilé León knew all my secrets.

  She said, “There are no boring stories. Only a failure to truly listen.”

  “I think you would have to listen hard to find interest in ours.”

  “Ah, but dead parents . . . that is a tale for tears, an unhappiness that endures. I have known many who are defined by it. I would hope the two of you have transcended it.”

  Joseph said, “It was a long time ago.”

  “But no less tragic for being so.” Her eyes were a strange color, that pale gray I’d first seen, but dark too, and at the same moment, as if the color shifted with the light. “I have learned that the world likes balance, yes? One cannot have sadness without happiness. Does Venice make up for your sadness in some small measure?”

  Her words, her eyes, called images to my mind—my first starlit night in Venice in the gondola with Joseph, the day on the Lido, my brother laughing, and Nicholas Dane in a darkened kitchen, candlelight shining on his golden hair. I heard myself say, “Oh yes.”

  “Oh yes?” she turned in obvious delight to my brother. “Do you hear that, monsieur? Your sister is in love with Venice, I can tell. And perhaps”—she turned back to me, her eyes shining, teasing—“there is a reason for it other than the city’s own charm? A new lover, perhaps?”

  How could I be surprised she knew it when she seemed to know so much? I felt myself flush. “Oh no. No, nothing like that.”

  “But there is a man. Come, come, there is no use hiding it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  My brother frowned at me. “We’ve made a friend who’s been very helpful. He’s taken a liking to Sophie, that’s all.”