Italian Passion

by Jayne Castel

  by Jayne Castel

  Faye Wilson stepped out of the water taxi, onto the wharf, and looked about her in awe.

  Now, finally, she understood what all the fuss was about.

  Venice was indeed like no other city she had ever seen. Around her, bell towers and dusky-coloured buildings rose out of the glittering lagoon. It was a city from another world, another era – before cars, planes and computers. An endless swath of blue stretched overhead. The growl of the water taxi departing, blended with the gentle slap of water against the wharf.

  It was mid-morning and despite an early start, Faye felt energised. She had managed to get some rest on the plane, and once the jet had touched down at Venice’s international airport, she had followed the other passengers out to where the water buses and taxis all docked – waiting to take visitors into the city. Only in Venice, Faye thought wistfully, could you arrive by boat from the airport.

  Faye turned and waved to the taxi driver. He waved back with a grin. Michele, who only spoke a few words of English, had chattered away to her in rapid-fire Italian for most of the trip. Unfortunately, Faye’s rusty Italian did not make conversation easy between them. She had studied the language for one year at university, but these days felt as if she had forgotten more than she had ever learnt. She could follow most of what he asked well enough, although she had trouble answering. Fortunately, Michele had not appeared to mind.

  Faye put her carry-on bag down at her feet and got out her map. She brushed her bronze, layered bob out of her eyes and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. It was late August, and despite that there were still a couple of hours till midday, Venice sweltered. Tracing the labyrinth of streets with the tip of her finger, Faye discovered that her hotel, Pensione Aurora, was only three blocks away.

  Glancing at her watch, Faye smiled. Her interview with Massimiliano Paolini was not until 2.30pm. She would have plenty of time to check-in to her hotel and do a bit of exploring on her own.

  She picked up her bag, slid her sunglasses back into place and set off along the street, towards St. Mark’s Square. Her hotel was in a street behind Venice’s most famous square. The closer Faye got to St Mark’s Square, the busier the streets became. She crossed the Bridge of Sighs, weaving her way through the crowds of jostling tourists, and into the Square itself. Despite the crowds, the magnificence of the expanse, with the domed façade of St Mark’s Basilica dominating it, took Faye’s breath away. She could not wait to drop off her bag and go exploring.

  “Please signorina, some money please!” As Faye made her way past the church, an old gypsy woman knocked against her. The old woman grasped at Faye’s sleeve with one hand and rattled a crumpled paper cup containing some coins in Faye’s face. Shocked by such an aggressive approach, Faye shrank away and shrugged the woman off. Not caring if she offended the gypsy or not, she grasped her handbag close and hurried away.

  Reaching the opposite side of the Square, Faye had to admit that the encounter had shaken her. Her nerves were in a worse state than she had thought.

  It had been a long while since Faye Wilson had taken a holiday – in fact, it seemed like months since she had looked forward to anything. Although she loved her little flat in Brixton, South London, and her job as a journalist, life had become stressful and joyless of late; an endless grind of deadlines, and a stressful work environment that was on the point of giving her stomach ulcers. Six months earlier, she had finished her relationship with Richard, another journalist, after she discovered he had been sleeping with a colleague; a woman Faye had believed was her friend. Everyone at work had known about it, long before she discovered the truth. Even six months on, working with people she now loathed, had taken the shine off life.

  Here in Venice, none of that mattered. She had three days here, and she intended to make every moment count.

  “Ciao bella!” a gondolier called out from where he stood next to his gondola, touting for customers. “Let me show you Venezia!”

  “Maybe later,” Faye replied with a smile.

  “Okay beautiful,” his thickly accented voice trailed after her. “I wait for you!”

  Despite the gondolier’s cheesy lines, which he probably used on every female tourist who passed his way, Faye’s smile widened.

  Italian men were incorrigible.

  ***

  Faye scooped the last of her strawberry and chocolate gelato out of the cup, before tossing the empty container and spoon into the rubbish bin. She had never tasted ice-cream like it; the flavours were so vibrant and fresh.

  Dipping her hands into a fountain to clean them, Faye glanced around. She had spent most of the morning exploring. Then, after enjoying a plate of gnocchi with fresh tomato and basil sauce for lunch, Faye made her way towards the Arsenale, the Venetian Arsenal, for her appointment with Massimiliano Paolini.

  Massimiliano, or Max as he was often called, Paolini was one of Italy’s most famous landscape artists at present. He had risen to fame at Venice’s last Biennale, two summers earlier, and had spent the past two years in virtual seclusion, creating a range of water-colour and oil seascapes that had won him international acclaim at this year’s Biennale.

  Faye was looking forward to meeting this artist, and discovering a bit about one of the art-world’s most charismatic newcomers. She had done some research before coming here, and had found very little on Paolini’s background. She knew he was from a small village in Umbria, and that he had studied art in Rome. The few photos she had seen were of a tall, athletic man with brooding Italian good looks and a mop of black hair that fell over one eye. Faye had a number of questions for this enigmatic artist, and hoped he would also show her his exhibited works inside the Arsenale.

  It was a long walk in the heat to the Venetian Arsenal, but a beautiful one. The walk stretched alongside the waterfront that looked over the sparkling lagoon. In the distance, Faye could see the fawn outline of Lido Island, and the black silhouettes of the vaporetti and water taxis that criss-crossed the water in a haphazard manner.

  The Arsenale di Venezia was a magnificent complex of shipyards and armouries; a legacy of Venice’s naval power. There were a number of visitors in the complex today, filtering into the south-east corner of the complex where the Biennale exhibitions were housed. Faye joined the crowd and, five minutes before her scheduled appointment, found herself at their designated meeting-place – the Artillery.

  The day’s heat had intensified and, taking a slurp from her water bottle, Faye found herself a spot in the shade of the building to wait.

  Faye was still waiting thirty minutes later. She glanced at her watch, for the tenth time in the last minute and unclenched her jaw. There had been many instances during her career as a journalist when VIPs had kept her waiting; yet, it was something she never had come to accept.

  It was rude.

  Muttering under her breath, Faye dug her mobile phone out of her bag and scrolled through her address book till she found Massimiliano Paolini’s number. Then, she called him.

  The line was engaged.

  Faye glared at her mobile and tried not to grind her teeth.

  What if he wasn’t coming?

  It did not matter, she told herself. Faye had three days here, and she would track him down – at his home if she had to. She glanced at her watch once more: 3.05pm.

  Faye began to stalk back and forth across the entrance to the Artillery.

  I’ll give him five more minutes, she seethed, and then I’m leaving.

  It was then that she spotted a tall, dark-haired man, dressed it snuggly-fitting jeans and a brushed cotton shirt, walk out of the entrance to the Artillery. He had his mobile phone glued to his ear and he was gesticulating wildly as he talked. Faye instantly recognised the artist from his photos. She put her mobile back into her bag and strode across to meet him.

  Max Paolini was not having a good day.

  “What do you mean, they’re not coming?” he roared into his mobile. “I had ten extra paintings shipped here y
esterday especially!”

  “I’m sorry, Max,” his agent attempted to pacify him on the other end of the phone. “Their schedule’s overbooked. I’m sure, if I pressure them, the British Fine Art Society can fit you in towards the end of the week.”

  “You do that,” Max snarled. “This is the second time they’ve put me off. I’m losing my patience.”

  With that, Max closed the phone call and slipped his mobile into his pocket. His conversation had carried him out into the bright afternoon sun, where he was half an hour late for an appointment with a journalist – another simpering fool who knew nothing about art most likely.

  Max was not in the mood.

  His gaze swept the courtyard, hoping that the journalist had tired of waiting and left, and came to rest on a young woman, no older than thirty, who strode towards him. She was attractive, with pale English skin and thick red-bronze hair cut into a neat bob. Beneath cotton drill pants and a gauzy shirt, he could see that she had a willowy, elegant body. Her hips swayed slightly as she walked.

  As she neared him, Max noted that the woman was struggling to contain her annoyance. Although large, tortoiseshell sunglasses covered her eyes, he imagined they were aflame.

  Not concerned in the slightest, Max waited for her to come to him.

  “Massimiliano Paolini?” She asked, with a surprisingly good accent.

  He nodded, replying in English. “Call me Max, most English-speakers find it easier.”

  He reached out and took the hand she offered. Her skin was warm and dry, despite the heat, and up close, she smelt of a delicately floral perfume; very different from the spicy or heavy musk perfumes that Italian women preferred. She removed her sunglasses, and Max saw that she had beautiful hazel eyes; thick-lashed and captivating.

  “I’m Faye Wilson,” she replied briskly. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  Max shrugged. “I had a meeting that went on longer than expected,” he answered, deliberately not apologising.

  Faye followed Max Paolini into the Artillery and smothered the instinct to smack him round the head with her hand bag.

  Arrogant bastard.

  He had kept her waiting for half an hour and did not even have the grace to apologise. Fuming silently, she followed him through cool, lofty corridors; her sandals clicking on the marble tiles.

  “We’ll do the interview in the exhibition hall with my paintings,” Max announced, his voice a bored drawl. “It’s closed to the public at the moment so we won’t be interrupted.”

  Despite that he had done little to impress her so far, Faye had to admit he spoke English extremely well, with only a light accent. His fluency in English should not have surprised her, as she had read that he had lived in Torquay for three years after graduating from art school.

  They entered the exhibition space; a wide area that still had cannon balls piled up artfully in one corner. A selection of paintings decorated the space; some hanging from the walls, others on stands. Ignoring the artist for a moment, Faye stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the paintings which had rocketed Max Paolini to the top of his field.

  Despite that her first impressions of the artist had been negative, Faye had to admit that that the man had talent. Seascapes: from peaceful, luminous sunsets and sunrises; to tumultuous storms and moody mist-shrouded scenes filled the space. It was hard to believe an artist could take one subject and present it in so many original ways. In each painting, his unique style was evident. Faye gazed at the paintings for a long time, enraptured, before she turned to the artist.

  “Do you like them?” Max Paolini’s mahogany gaze settled upon hers. His eyes were so intense that Faye felt a blush rise on her cheeks. She dipped her head, letting her hair shield her face.

  “They are incredible,” she said simply, “as I am sure many have told you.”

  “An artist never tires seeing others enjoy his work,” Max replied. “I’m glad you appreciate them.”

  Faye busied herself by pulling a Dictaphone, pen and paper out of her hand bag.

  “Are you happy for me to record our interview?” she asked. “I shall take notes as well but I want to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

  Max shrugged, as if he did not care either way. Faye switched on the Dictaphone and placed it on a ledge next to where they stood.

  “Right, let’s get started,” she said briskly, adopting her well-worn role as journalist. Despite that she had been looking forward to this interview, and that his artwork was even better in real-life, Faye was anxious to get the interview over with. His rudeness, coupled with his unnerving intensity, made Max Paolini a difficult person to have a conversation with.

  Faye began by asking Max about his background; his influences, his youth and the reasons he had chosen to become an artist. He answered her questions cordially, if perfunctorily, giving little away beyond the facts. Faye then moved on to question him about his time in Rome, and the events that had led up to him being ‘discovered’ as an artist. Once again, he answered every question adequately, but with a reserve that frustrated Faye. As a journalist, she knew that the material he was giving her, although interesting enough, would not be enough for a good feature article.

  “You’ve not said much about your family,” she noted eventually. “Your brother is also an artist, a sculptor you told me, who lives in Puglia. Tell me a bit about him, about your relationship?”

  Max Paolini visibly stiffened at that. “He’s two years older than me,” he conceded, “and left home when he was sixteen.”

  “And,” Faye prompted. “Do you see him often?”

  Max glowered at her, and Faye could see he did not want to answer her question.

  “I never see him,” he reluctantly admitted. “We fell out nearly ten years ago and have not spoken since.”

  Faye’s journalistic instinct flared at last. Finally, she had the scent of a story.

  “Why did you fall out?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m a journalist Mr Paolini. It’s my job to ask questions. Why don’t you want to answer me?”

  Max’s hands clenched at his side, as if he wanted to throttle her. Faye calmly watched him, having no intention of backing down when she was so close to discovering something about this enigmatic artist.

  “This is personal. What does my relationship with my brother have to do with my art?”

  “Everything,” Faye shot back. “Art is self-expression. Knowing about your relationship with your brother would help others understand your work.”

  “We fell out, that’s all you need to know,” Max replied, setting his jaw stubbornly. “I don’t want details about my family all over the British press.”

  Faye took a deep breath, calming the irritation that she knew would be evident on her face.

  “Very well, let’s move on to another subject shall we? What about your personal life. You’re not married, but do you have a lover, a muse?”

  Max Paolini laughed at that. It was an unexpected reaction. Amusement softened the arrogant lines of his face and made his dark eyes twinkle.

  “A muse? You have a very romantic view of artists.”

  “Don’t most people?”

  Max shook his head. “Anyone who works in the art world knows that making art is not about finding your muse. It’s about hard labour, putting in the hours, and making sacrifices.”

  “So no girlfriend then?”

  Max Paolini’s mouth twisted. “Women are a distraction. I have no time for them.”

  “That’s a sweeping statement,” Faye countered. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said,” Max replied. “I have no time for the trivialities of romance. My life is my art. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this interview is at an end. I’ve had enough of being interrogated about matters that have nothing to do with my work.”

  Surprised by his abrupt termination of the interview, Faye hurriedly grabbed her Dictaphone and switched it off. She ste
pped aside, to let Max Paolini pass, and in doing so, knocked against a stand holding one of the artist’s watercolour paintings.

  The stand toppled and crashed to the ground; the sound echoing in the cavernous exhibition space.

  Max Paolini swivelled round, from where he had been heading for the door, and rushed back to where the painting now lay on the ground.

  “Idiot!”

  Faye stooped to pick it up.

  “Don’t touch it!” Max roared. “Per l’amore di dio, you’ve done enough damage.”

  “I haven’t damaged it,” Faye insisted. “See, it’s still intact, none of the paint is scratched.”

  “Get out!” Max roared. “I’ve had enough of you!”

  Stunned by this man’s temper, as well as his rudeness, Faye backed up. She placed her Dictaphone, pen and notepad back into her handbag – her gaze narrowing as she stared back at him.

  “You are the rudest man I’ve ever met,” she snarled back at him. “I would never have knocked the painting over if you hadn’t barged past me.”

  “Get out!”

  “With pleasure!” Faye turned on her heel and stormed from the Artillery building. Out in the courtyard, her face burning, she kept going, almost running now, and did not slow her pace until she was outside the Venetian Arsenal and far from Max Paolini.

  “Obnoxious, conceited bastard,” she muttered as she walked away, along the waterfront. Her heart was still hammering in the aftershock of being yelled at. No man, not even Richard, had ever shouted at her. She pitied any woman Massimiliano Paolini ended up with; he would surely make her life a misery.

  ***

  The sun slid towards the west, bathing Venice in golden light. The heat of the day abated, and a light breeze, silky against the skin, wafted through the streets. It was the hour of the aperitivo, the before dinner drink, and Max Paolini was meeting his best friend, Giovanni, for a glass of wine.

  “I tell you, the woman was rude, arrogant and prying,” Max ranted to Giovanni, who leaned back in his chair, waiting for his friend to finish. “She used the interview to badger me about my personal life and then nearly destroyed one of my paintings.”