The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  Still, she was aware that Paolo was not his usual voluble self. From time to time when he turned to look at her, she saw that his dark face was taut and strained – and at once she was filled with guilt. Now and again he paused to sip his whisky and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the gardens, and the happiness that had been shining out since Venetia had agreed to be his wife left his face. His expression became momentarily preoccupied, even troubled.

  Venetia noticed that he’d ordered another whisky. It was so unlike him to take a second strong drink in one evening. She wondered what was perplexing him. The visit to the hospital must have affected him more deeply than she had realised. He must be exhausted. I shouldn’t have let him take us out tonight. She and Zia could have stayed at home and Celestina would have made them something simple like crema di pomodoro, a plate of gnocchi and some salad, she told herself. At this stage in her reflections Paolo, as if impelled by her gaze, looked straight across at her and smiled. Her insides fluttered as they always did when he looked at her that way and she relaxed.

  A simple meal was literally not on the menu. Venetia had a copious dinner made up of risotto Milanese and crispy veal sweetbreads filled with Tartufi Neri, which the maître d’hôtel insisted was an early harvest that had just arrived that morning from Umbria. She ended her meal with a dessert made of golden, fresh nespoli with honeycomb ice-cream and a cup of black coffee.

  After dinner they accompanied Giovanna back to her apartment.

  ‘I’ll join you at the hospital tomorrow morning, Zia. Have a good night.’

  At the door to Bella Vista, Giovanna kissed her goddaughter and then Paolo. ‘Goodnight, cara, and thank you for the lovely evening, Paolo.’

  He gave a courteous nod. ‘It’s my pleasure, signora, and I hope the first of many.’

  As Venetia and Paolo were walking back to the launch, Venetia shivered for no apparent reason. ‘Someone walked over my grave,’ she said laughingly.

  ‘Don’t say things like that,’ Paolo snapped. ‘It’s morbid.’ He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders as though she were a rare piece of china. Then his voice softened. ‘Here, wear this. You must be tired, carissima, you need a good night’s sleep.’ Venetia pulled his jacket around her and glanced at him, realising that she had never seen him so tired-looking, but she smiled and said nothing.

  The tranquil night was not without its effect on Paolo and Venetia. They stood side by side a while in silence on the deserted quay, gazing over the Grand Canal’s mirror of water with its quivering reflections of many-coloured lights – red, green, yellow and blue. Gondolas full of sightseers, each with their lanterns fore and aft, glided past them like blossoms moving to and fro, backed by great façades of medieval architecture lit up in grand and gracious beauty by clever lighting. The moon shed a beam as soft as mother-of-pearl across the water. Lovers, honeymoon couples in boats, and would-be honeymooners moved in dreamy wanderings on the liquid table.

  ‘Will you come over to my place instead of going to the hotel?’

  Paolo looked down at Venetia. In the moonlight, she saw the quick curve of a smile move across his face. ‘If I stay with you tonight we will not sleep, amore mio, believe me.’

  ‘We could try.’ She smiled shyly, still staring out at the water.

  ‘Although I admit that I’m tired, I wouldn’t be able to resist you. Either a fool or a saint would turn their back on a night in your arms, cara, and I am neither.’

  At his words, a slow wave of heat curled through Venetia’s body.

  Suddenly Paolo’s hand went out and caught hers, squeezing her fingers convulsively. Slowly, Venetia turned her head towards him to find that he was looking at her. There was an urgency in his gaze, a pleading that caused her heart to leap in her breast. His blue eyes were glittering, and his face, lean and dark, almost terrifyingly stern with a new intensity. Then, suddenly, he removed his hand from hers, though it was only to clasp Venetia in his arms and gather her close to him. He tried to speak, but the words did not seem to come.

  ‘What’s wrong, Paolo? You look so pale and agitated suddenly.’

  ‘Just remember this, amore mio: I love you, Venetia. I’ve known this all along, ever since the day I met you. I want to take care of you for the rest of our lives. I simply cannot live without you…’

  ‘I know all that, my love, and I feel the same about you.’

  ‘Are you quite sure? What if...’

  ‘Shush, you’re exhausted and it’s all my fault, dragging you back down here and spoiling your holiday – there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Paolo shook his head in a way Venetia didn’t understand and searched her eyes. Then his mouth was on her forehead and he whispered her name again and again, ‘la mia piccola strega, my little enchantress,’ he breathed. He leant his cheek against hers and appeared to find comfort in doing so, but there was a kind of sadness about him, Venetia thought; she had the impression that his shoulders were suddenly bending under the weight of some predicament. Maybe he was realising now that asking her to marry him would be an added complication to his life and he was having second thoughts. Maybe it was all her imagination… Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft lap of the water against the quay.

  ‘Come, let’s go, Paolo. Take me home and get yourself a goodnight’s sleep – you’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  They stepped down into Paolo’s launch and motored away towards the Dorsoduro district.

  * * *

  An aura of wispy dream clouds surrounded Venetia. She seemed to be a prisoner in a bubble, floating between sky and earth. Through a hazy veil, the indistinct features of her lover appeared to her like an inaccessible mirage she knew would vanish at any moment if she didn’t capture it immediately.

  She sighed softly, lifting herself a little, her arms stretched, reaching out for him. ‘My love,’ she breathed. ‘My dearest love, my only love, don’t go. I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. I’ll always love you… you… only you.’

  She kept seeing the man at a distance, but the nebulous image went on fading, then coming back… she could almost see him clearly now, but then again his face melted away in the swirling brume of the unreal.

  She called after him, running now, overwhelmed by a frantic need to catch up with him. And then suddenly his arms were around her. Paolo… holding her… Paolo… stroking her… kissing her. She tried to press against him… feel him, throbbing with emotion, hungry for his touch… his warmth, but she met with nothingness… emptiness… air… cold air. Why couldn’t she feel him?

  He was whispering in her ear. The words were indistinct, though she knew they were tender… words of love… a melody surging and echoing… Paolo… Paolo, answer me. Is that you? Of course it was him, who else could it be? Even though she couldn’t hear the reply clearly, there was something about the voice that was familiar, like the low note of a cello, deep and barely distinguishable, but you know it’s there.

  Paolo, she breathed, lifting her eyes to look at him… Paolo… but it was not Paolo’s face that she met with, but Judd’s… and as tremors of fear raked her body, a shattering cry escaped her lips… Judd’s ghost!

  Venetia’s mind was still echoing with those two words as she wrenched herself out of her dream to escape him. She was sitting up on her bed, panting – disorientated for a moment, eyes wide open. Her hair was plastered to her skull; her mouth, her throat dry. Afraid to move, she clutched at her chest, terrified to close her eyes, fearing she would see him again if she did… Judd’s ghost!

  The shafts of silvery moonlight that played on the eiderdown and across the walls provided the only light in the dark room. Venetia looked around her, getting her bearings. Yes, that was it… she was back in Venice. She hugged her knees and rested her forehead on them, trying to quieten her breathing and allow her heartbeat to slow down.

  After a w
hile, she felt calmer and her pulse had recovered its normal beat, enough to begin thinking rather than just feeling. ‘Judd again,’ she sighed aloud. ‘It’s always Judd.’

  As soon as she believed she was rid of his memory, it came back to haunt her somehow. Venetia had run from the shadow of his abandonment for too long. Should she try and seek him out again and bring all those years of torment to a conclusion, once and for all? Maybe it would bring closure, and the echoes of this love would cease pursuing her; she would be able to get on with her life. Of course, Paolo would have to know about it, if that was her intention. But despite his philosophical nature, Paolo was a passionate and possessive man, she knew that – his condition had no doubt intensified the need for security and control. Perhaps this approach would only complicate matters. She’d have to give it more thought.

  Venetia turned on the bedside lamp and turned it off again: the light was too bright. She slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Pulling off her nightdress, she stepped under the shower. A little shudder of pleasure ran through her as her hot skin felt the coolness trickle over it and she closed her eyes, imagining Paolo’s feathery touch stroking her. She loved the way his hands moved over her, strong and firm, but tender too. Despite the passion and fire that ran through him, he’d never been rough with her, handling her body as if it were a precious jewel. Such gentleness in such a big man she had found deeply arousing, and it had intrigued her. Paolo had taught Venetia not to be afraid of her body and its demands.

  Ripples of emotion stirred her as the water curled intimately between her thighs, joining the moisture she could feel pooling in her core. All too aware of what she needed right now, Venetia wished that she had insisted he spend the night with her after all – she knew he would eventually have given in. It was too early to call him. He was exhausted… he must be fast asleep. She was exhausted too; the dream had unnerved her, but it was only a dream, she thought philosophically, maybe she should try to get another few hours of sleep. Yes, that was the best thing to do: go back to bed, close her eyes and sleep. Time would pass quicker that way and then, once the sun was up, she would ring Paolo.

  * * *

  When Venetia woke up again it was broad daylight, but it was still too early to call Paolo. Let him have a lie in, she thought. Before dressing, she made herself a pot of hot, strong coffee. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed a boost to get her going today. Taking it on to the narrow veranda, she sat in her thin dressing gown, lazily watching the traffic on the canal through the pattern of the wrought-iron screen guarding her balcony. She could hear the cooing of pigeons and she smiled, mentally comparing this view to the one that had become so familiar at Miraggio.

  It was a perfect blue and gold morning. The sky was flawless and the water seemed to dance with fluent brilliance in the warmth of the sun.

  Her mobile rang and Venetia rushed to seize it from her bag with a knowing smile. Paolo, she thought. He’s up early, maybe he couldn’t sleep either.

  It wasn’t Paolo, but Giovanna, asking her not to go to the hospital but to the office. There was a large slab of damaged mosaic that had just been delivered to her department and the Spanish client was in a hurry to get it back. It was quite a substantial piece that had fragmented off a mural in Granada. Giovanna thought that if Venetia tackled it with Francesca this morning, it would speed up the work and they’d easily have it ready for Señor Herrera within a couple of days.

  Somewhat relieved that she didn’t have the ordeal of the hospital to contend with again, Venetia dressed, and before going down tried Paolo on his mobile to arrange to meet him for lunch. The phone was turned off so she rang his hotel.

  ‘There’s no answer from his room, I’m afraid, signorina,’ the switchboard at the Hotel Cipriani informed her. They tried the dining room, as he was probably having breakfast, but he wasn’t there either.

  ‘Could you please put me through to the concierge in that case.’ Venetia held on for a few minutes before the concierge came to the phone.

  ‘Signor Barone took a taxi from the hotel very early this morning and hasn’t yet returned. His key is still on the keyboard.’

  Annoyed, Venetia put down the phone. Why hadn’t he called her? Most likely he hadn’t wanted to wake her – a sweet thought but nevertheless irritating. Besides, why would his phone be switched off? You’re being unfair, she castigated herself. He didn’t want to intrude since you were supposed to spend the day with Giovanna at the hospital, so he decided to do his own thing. And there could be any number of valid reasons why his phone is off.

  Hurrying out of her apartment, Venetia joined the huddle of people at the boat stop. She had to wait a little longer for the vaporetto that morning. There seemed to be many more tourists this year, probably due to the favourable exchange rate with the lire, she mused. Once she had finally got off at San Marco, she had to walk briskly to reach the offices of Bianchi e Lombardi on time.

  Francesca jumped up to greet her friend as Venetia entered the room.

  ‘Venetia! It’s wonderful and so unexpected to see you back here. I thought it would be months,’ she exclaimed, embracing her friend warmly, and then added with a mischievous smile, ‘We have poor Ugo to thank for that, I suppose.’

  Venetia sighed. ‘Yes, poor Ugo, and poor Zia, but the good news is that it was only a mild attack and he should soon be out of hospital.’

  ‘What about you? You look a little tired – I hope that animal isn’t giving you a hard time.’

  Venetia frowned. ‘What animal? I hope you don’t mean Paolo?’

  ‘Ooooooh, he’s Paolo now,’ Francesca laughed, mimicking the tender way she had pronounced his name.

  Venetia felt the telltale reddening of her cheeks giving her way. ‘Don’t tease, Francesca… I know it’s all very unexpected... As you know, I went out there really not looking for romance, but…’

  ‘But l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni charmed you, eh?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. I did try to fight my feelings at first, but you know that I was attracted to him from the very beginning. You witnessed our kiss.’

  ‘Sì, but this man is a mascalzone, who’s had hundreds of mistresses. There are so many rumours about him.’

  Venetia smiled sheepishly. ‘I promise you that he’s the most caring, attentive and affectionate man I have ever come across.’

  ‘Dio mio, you’re hooked, cara! Love is blind and I can see that this man has become your knight in shining armour now.’ Francesca arched an eyebrow, distinctly unconvinced.

  ‘He’s not what you think. Let’s sit down to work and I’ll explain – I have a lot to tell you.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. Chi può fare da testimone alla sposa, se non sua madre, who will bear witness to the bride but her mother?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, Francesca. I know how to be impartial when needs be.’

  ‘I’ll fetch us two cups of coffee and then you can confess all, while we tackle this unreasonably intricate job which they want finished in an unreasonably short time.’

  While Francesca was bringing the coffee, Venetia rang Paolo again, but still he had not returned to the hotel. He might have gone to Torcello, she thought. But if Paolo had been called away for work, he would have told me. She tried to brush away the small murmurings of unease.

  Venetia and her friend spent the morning working and chatting. Francesca almost dropped her cup of coffee all over herself when she told her that Paolo had proposed and she had accepted. By lunchtime, Venetia had been able to change Francesca’s views about Paolo. Just about. Still, the young Italian urged her to keep an open mind and not to wear blinkers. After all, she was not married yet. ‘Non c’è peggior cieco di chi non vede, there is none so blind as he who will not see.’

  At lunchtime Venetia rang the hotel again, but Paolo was still out. She rang Miraggio and fell on Ernestina for any news of Paolo when she answered. The hou
sekeeper told her that she hadn’t heard from the signore since they had both left for Sardinia a couple of days ago, but that if he turned up unexpectedly she would let him know that the signorina was looking for him. As Venetia hung up, she knew of only one thing she wanted to do that might help alleviate her rapidly growing anxiety.

  ‘I’ll take you out for lunch,’ Francesca suggested, looking at her watch. ‘It’ll be my treat in celebration of your engagement.’

  Venetia jumped up quickly and grabbed her coat. ‘Thanks, Francesca, but let’s leave it for another time – I have an important errand to run. I’ll be back here this afternoon to continue the job.’

  The two bronze giants on the top of the San Marco clocktower beat out one o’clock on a sounding bell. Venetia hurried towards her destination, in the midst of the great streams of people who came flooding from all directions in the sunlight, bringing with them the myriad buzzing and humming of the international world. For once, as she walked along, she was not admiring the Doge’s Palace, which shut out the sky with its great façade supported on a double tier of arches, or the Renaissance front of the Library of Saint Mark, where she spent many winter afternoons reading and researching. She crossed the great square with its Campanile towering above, the graceful shaft flecked with the shadows of passing clouds; the severity of the sober red brick of the bell tower made the main edifice of the Church of San Marco look almost fairy-like with its wealth of white marble lace-work and golden mosaic. Hundreds of pigeons crooned and strutted round her, glorious in their opal plumage, as she walked quickly through the broad square.

  Venetia was lost in thought; she needed to speak to Ping Lü. The last time she’d called on the Chineseman, the emporium had been closed but today an odd certainty came over her that she would find him and he would clear the doubts that had been creeping into her heart all morning. It was as if her strange dream sparked some unseen current that had touched and registered itself on a part of her brain. Something that matter-of-fact people would laugh at… but this was a quiet conviction she felt in spite of herself. Just as certain delicate instruments can feel an earthquake shock, although the earthquake may be five thousand miles away, the quiet murmur of knowledge inside us all can sometimes be heard above a roar. Jumping to conclusions, common sense said to Venetia. Intuition, an internal voice whispered.