He opened the door to the room and was about to head down for dinner when a small movement beside the bed attracted his gaze.
It must have been the shadows encircling the room after he turned off the light but he was staring at what seemed to be the shape of a woman sitting on the bed pulling on her stockings. The manner in which she pulled the nylon up her legs was sensual private, and even though there was a familiarity about the figure Dunbar nevertheless felt he was intruding, watching something he was not supposed to be seeing.
The woman stood from the bed, smoothing her dress down over her hips, and picked up a bottle from the dressing table, wafting perfume over her face and neck. Dunbar closed the door behind him, shutting out the pale light from the corridor so that the dark room was his and hers alone, but she had gone. All that remained was the scent that floated like love in the air.
The Republic of Venice was a major maritime power during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, and a staging area for the Crusades and the Battle of Lepanto, as well as a very important centre of commerce and art in the 13th century up to the end of the 17th century. This made Venice a wealthy city throughout most of its history. It is also known for several important artistic movements, especially the Renaissance period. Venice has played an important role in the history of symphonic and operatic music, and it is the birthplace of Antonio Vivaldi.
In the dining room the headwaiter was at his side attentively, showing him to his table and laying a napkin delicately in his lap. He handed Dunbar the menu and asked in slightly accented English, “May I get you something to drink?”
“A bottle of Chianti, I think.”
“A good choice,” the waiter said. “And may I say what a pleasure it is, having you both back with us again, Mr. Dunbar.”
Dunbar started. “Now look here…” But the waiter was heading with precision towards the kitchen. It was then that Dunbar noticed he had been sat at a table that was set with two places.
A short while later a waitress brought his bottle of wine on a tray, poured a splash into his glass and waited patiently for him to sample it. He was never sure if he should sip the taster or sniff it. He liked wine but was no expert, and sniffing would prove nothing, as he was not sure what he was meant to smell. He sipped it instead and it tasted fine. He nodded approval at the waitress. She smiled and filled his glass.
The headwaiter had re-assumed his position by the doorway and as a small group of dinner guests appeared, greeted them effusively. “…A pleasure having you back with us again…” Dunbar heard him say, and it dawned on him that this was probably hotel policy, to make the guests feel appreciated and valued, and to show that the hotel staff were attentive, knowing each guest by name, aware of their previous visits to the hotel. Given that thousands of people a year passed through the hotel, how could they be expected to remember every name, every face? They were obviously briefed beforehand by the management. Only in Dunbar’s case they’d plainly got it wrong, and confused him with another Dunbar, or perhaps even a Dunster or Duncan.
Satisfied with his rationalisation of the puzzle, he smiled broadly at the pretty, dark-haired waitress when she returned and took his order for dinner.
The meal was beautifully cooked; pasta to start with a white wine and cream sauce, steak with fresh vegetables and potatoes, followed by a rich chocolate cake with tangerine sauce. He finished with three cups of strong black coffee. Over the years he’d become comfortable eating alone, and found that if he immersed himself in the textures and aromas of the food, the solitude became a bonus and not a curse.
The only thing that marred the evening was the awareness that he was being watched throughout his meal.
The group that arrived in the room just after him had taken a table by the window a few yards away from him. Their conversation was loud and animated, punctuated by guffaws of laughter. It was part of the noisy group that had plagued him since his arrival. Two women and three men; an odd grouping. He could not work out the pairings at first; not certain which of the men was unaccompanied, but gradually, as the meal progressed, it became evident that the tall, handsome man who had stared at him earlier, was the one without a partner. And it was he who seemed, once again, to be paying Dunbar an inordinate amount of attention. Dunbar was aware of the other man’s eyes upon him during the course of the evening. Occasionally he would look up from his food and glance across at the group and the man would be staring at him. He would still be eating and conversing with his colleagues, but his gaze rarely left Dunbar.
Well, you’ll know me when you see me again, Dunbar thought, and tried to ignore him.
Later, lying in bed and thinking about the evening, he realised that he could not bring to mind the faces of the other two people sharing the table with the man, but his face was etched clearly on his consciousness. Handsome features, cold blue eyes, a square, jutting jaw, the aquiline nose, ears that pressed close to the side of his head, and hair the colour of ripe corn.
Dunbar put his book down on the bed, took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. The man’s apparent interest bothered him slightly. What bothered him more was the fact that the man was vaguely familiar. He was sure he’d seen him before, but could not bring to mind in what circumstances. The man’s face nudged at his memory, but it was like trying to remember someone encountered only in a dream.
He put his glasses on the bedside table and was about to turn off the light when a movement by the balcony doors attracted his attention.
Someone was standing on the balcony.
Dunbar could hear a low voice, whispering in the darkness. It sounded like a woman but there was a second voice that was almost certainly a man. Lying in the darkened room Dunbar had an irrational but very definite impression that it was the man who had become drawn to him.
Dunbar slipped from his bed and tiptoed to the window. The curtains were moving as if they were breathing and it was with some nervousness that he gripped one edge of a curtain and pulled it away from the window.
There were two shadows on the balcony and they were embracing. As Dunbar watched, fascinated despite himself, they merged into one shape, filling the small area of the balcony. Dunbar called out, a noise rather than intelligible words, and the shadow seemed to slide over the edge of the balcony, pouring through the railings as if it was a liquid. He went onto the balcony and peered over at the ground below. There appeared to be a dark stain on the terrace but it was night and he may only have been seeing a pool of darkness unlit by the quarter moon.
Back in bed he slept fitfully but sleep he must have done, as it was a long, torturous night, filled with disturbing dreams. Images of Catherine before her illness, fit and well. Catherine turning the corner of a street, on a boat in the middle of a lake or perhaps a canal in Venice, laughing and calling to him from a lift just as the doors were closing. The Catherine he had fallen in love with, but dreamed of in situations where she was elusive and just out of reach.
Towards morning the dreams took a darker, more sinister turn, as he walked the streets in an area that looked like London’s Kings Cross, being approached by garishly dressed prostitutes; blondes, brunettes, redheads, make-up plastered on their pallid faces, all looking at him expectantly through the cold, dead eyes of his late wife.
In the part of the dream that finally woke him he was climbing a long, desperately seedy staircase in an old, near-derelict building. He was certain it was decaying building in the centre of Venice. The doorway at the top of the stairs opened and the sounds of a party in progress drifted down to him. He climbed wearily and as he reached the top and looked inside the room he could see a party in full swing. The guests were mostly recognizable as friends and work colleagues, drinking and talking amongst themselves. In the centre of the room was Catherine, dancing a slow smooch with a shadowy figure. Dunbar stepped into the room to get a better view of her partner. Taunting, the figure turned towards him, but not sufficiently for Dunbar to fully see the face. It was as if there was no face at all
, just a blank vista of shadows.
In the dream, Dunbar said, ‘Catherine?’
The music that had been playing stopped and the scene changed to one of a deserted Italian square. Dunbar stood at one side of the square and in the distance the two figures were still entwined, still engaged in their dance; Catherine and her anonymous partner dancing in silence on a carpet of leaves. Leaves that were shifting and undulating under their feet.
“My world now, Andrew! My world!” she called in a thin girlish voice.
Dunbar cried out and awoke. Wasted night had drifted into weary morning.
He was sweating and trembling from head to toe. The last dream was so vivid he could still hear the echo of Catherine’s voice.
Venice is built on an archipelago of islands formed by over one hundred and seventy five canals in a shallow lagoon, connected by more than four hundred bridges. In the old centre, the canals serve the function of roads, and almost every form of transport is on water or on foot. In the 19th century a causeway to the mainland brought the Venezia Santa Lucia railway station to Venice, and the Ponte della Libertà road causeway and parking facilities were built during the twentieth century. Beyond the road and rail land entrances at the northern edge of the city, transportation within the city remains as it was in centuries past. Venice is Europe's largest urban car-free area. Venice is unique in Europe, in having remained a sizable functioning city in the twenty-first century entirely without motorcars or trucks.
As he stood on the starboard side of the ferry that morning Dunbar marvelled at the sense of the past surviving in the modern, less forgiving, present.
When he had got out of bed and looked in the bathroom mirror he looked ten years older than his forty-eight years. Life had take its toll on his features and left him battle-scarred. The skin beneath his chin was beginning to slacken and small broken veins in his cheeks gave him a slightly florid complexion. It was such a contrast from the night before when he had looked in the mirror and a dapper, young-looking, smartly dressed, middle-aged man had smiled back at him.
It was Catherine’s fault, of course. Even in dreams, her presence had a depressing, debilitating effect on him. She sucked the life from him like a leech through the long, interminable years of their marriage and, as her illness crept up on them from all sides and enveloped them in desperation and need, the memory of her, lodged in his sub-conscious, continued to do damage. With a long sigh of resignation he turned on the shower, set the controls to hot and stepped under it, flinching as the spray soaked his body.
The ferry disgorged him and the other passengers and while people bustled around him he was able to stand aside and take in the sights and smells of the city. St. Marks Square was to his right and as he ventured slowly in that direction he noticed for the first time the person in the wheelchair.
The person pushing the wheelchair was a man of similar age to his own although as he trudged along with shoulders hunched and legs all but dragging on the pavement, he looked so much older, and weary. Who he was pushing was a mystery as the figure was covered extensively in shawls and blankets that prevented any hint of recognition through face or body.
Dunbar decided it was a woman as the person pushing was a man and he spent some idle moments wondering if they were husband and wife, or patient and male nurse, or, and he realised he was being mischievous, pandering to the relaxation of the holiday, possibly even lover and loved.
Dunbar spent an agreeable few hours visiting churches, sitting sipping coffees at cafes in the sunshine, and people watching. Without realising it he suddenly realised he was retracing the routes he and Catherine had enjoyed on their last visit.
“Something to eat?”
His pondering was interrupted by an attentive young waitress.
“Why not?” he took the proffered menu and opened it while the dark haired waitress stood by smiling.
He gave her his choice and she took the menu from him. “And will your wife be eating as well?”
“My…what…” Then he saw that the girl was indicating the place setting opposite him. The chair was pulled back as if someone had been sitting there, a purse was laid by the napkin, and a cigarette was lying in a glass ashtray. Catherine had been a lifelong smoker despite his dislike of the habit.
“Signore?”
“No, no just me.”
The girl left, mumbling under her breath, and Dunbar took the cigarette, placed it between his lips and drew deeply. With a snarl of disgust he threw the cigarette to the floor.
“Fate attenzione – be careful.”
Dunbar turned to see who was rebuking him, apology readily springing into words. There was a group seated at a table nearby and what disturbed him was the fact that the group were the couple from the dining room the night before, and their tall companion, the man who had shown such an interest in him.
None of them acknowledged him other than nodding in acceptance of his apology, and Dunbar looked away, slightly embarrassed.
On the other side of the square Dunbar could see the figure pushing the wheelchair. It was as if they were immune to the crowds, the pigeons, as they wound their way through until they found a table and chairs that suited them and they stopped. The man sat heavily on a seat and made sure the wheelchair was facing outwards so that the occupant had a wide view of the whole bustling square.
Dunbar was diverted from his watch by the food being brought to his table. He asked for a beer, and began to eat. When he glanced over to the wheelchair the person in it was waving at him. The phrase about drowning and waving came to him but he couldn’t decide if they were beckoning to him or just trying to get his attention.
“A friend of yours?”
It was the attentive man. He had placed himself on the chair at Dunbar’s table and was fingering the purse with the fingers of his left hand. Dunbar noticed there was a wedding band on the ring finger.
No, thought Dunbar. “I don’t think…” he began, but the man was smiling at his in such a supercilious way that anger flared. “Why are you sitting here?”
The man shrugged. “My friends are talking about going for a ride in a gondola along the narrow canals. Very romantic but for them, not for me. Romance and I…let’s just say that my time has been and gone.”
“Very interesting but surely at your age you can find…”
“I am alone. Like you. We can spend the afternoon together?”
In what seemed to Dunbar a suddenly confined space of the café table the silence between them was almost palpable, an unseen wall separating the two men. Both sat there quite still, staring out at the passing scene in the famous square.
Dunbar shifted uncomfortably. Silences had never bothered him, he and Catherine had grown to embrace them as a welcome respite, but he was extremely sensitive to bad atmospheres. All the years with Catherine had given him a kind of sixth sense about them, until it reached a stage where he could walk into her room and, though she was lying there with her eyes closed, saying nothing, he could still judge accurately that she was in a bad mood. It was as if her negative thoughts produced a dark shadow that hung over the room.
Here, in the warm sunshine and in this beautiful and enigmatic city, there was a similar atmosphere, though whether it was emanating from the other man or himself he wasn’t sure. It was there, however, an unspoken agenda between them. He stared out at the bustling square, aware the other man was staring at him, but tried to ignore it. It was an echo from last night in the dining room.
At the other side of the square the wheelchair was being wheeled away, but the person in it seemed to be straining their head so that they could still see Dunbar. The hand was held aloft but rather feebly.
“Sad to be confined physically like that,” the man said finally. “Sometimes the urge is very strong to climb very high up and step out into space, yes? Perhaps the tower of one of these attractive churches? Do you ever feel that?”
“Actually, no, I don’t.”
“Carlo Anscottetti.” The m
an stuck out his hand. “We’re staying at the same hotel, yes?”
You know damned well we are, Dunbar thought, but said, “Yes, yes we are.” He finally took the proffered hand and shook it. “Dunbar, Andrew Dunbar.”
“Yes, I thought I saw you in the dining room last night.”
“Well you did manage to stare at me all the way through the meal.”
Anscottetti gave a small smile. “Was I being that obvious? I apologise. It’s just that I have the unmistakable feeling that our paths have crossed before. You know when you see a face you recognize, but just can’t place it? Have you ever been to Venice before?”
“My wife and I did come here…”
“I knew it.”
Dunbar shrugged, and did not tell the other man that he’d experienced the same recognition himself. For reasons he could not quite explain to himself, he’d taken an intense dislike to Anscottetti, and wanted rid of him as quickly as he could. He turned his attention back to the scenery of the square.
There was a moment’s silence then Anscottetti said, “It’s a beautiful city, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Dunbar said, not looking round. “Yes it is.”
“It’s not only where I live but also my spiritual home.” Anscottetti changed tack suddenly. “A photograph, that’s where I have seen your face. In a photograph…but where?”
Dunbar rounded on him. “Forgive me if this seems rude, Signore Anscottetti, but I couldn’t care less if you think you know me or not. You don’t, and I don’t know you. I have been to Venice once before in my life, about ten years ago, and we did stay at the Riviera. This is my holiday. I came abroad to get away from peoples’ bloody morbid sympathy about my wife’s illness and the sheer dogged drudgery of looking after her for so long. I am not seeking companionship, nor am I looking to discover imaginary relationships that total strangers think they may have had with me in the past. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Ghosts and Hauntings Page 17
