The Devil's Advocate

by Vanessa James

  'But of course, I know this. That is why I show you the picture. You have not told Giulio, though, have you, mia cara?'

  Luisa lowered her head. 'No,' she said.

  The Principessa took her arm.

  'Then you should,' she said briskly. 'Dare a little. Is it so hard? No one else can do it for you—-and after all, what can happen? At worst, you get hurt. You get bruised.' She shrugged, and gestured back to the painting. 'It is worth it, don't you think?' She smiled. 'And now, no more sermons. An end to preaching. Shall we go in to dinner?'

  It seemed to Luisa that time passed very strangely; hours had a will of their own. Sometimes a day would speed past, it was gone almost before she was aware of it. The next would drag interminably, and she would be possessed with agitation. There was no word from Julius, and gradually she began to force herself to accept that there would be none. Yet every time the letters were brought in, or the telephone rang, her heart would seem to stop.

  There was a letter, one day, from Claudia. It was sent over from the Danieli. Luisa seized it, and hurried away with it to her room, tearing the envelope open, scanning the pages for the one name she wanted to read. But it came only at the end, when Claudia sent them both her love, and hoped they were both dancing the night away at beautiful Venetian parties. Her hands shaking, she forced herself to read the letter; but if Julius had been in England, Claudia seemed not to know it. Her letter was full of wedding preparations, of the dress she would wear, and the reception that would be held, and the tickets Harry had bought for a cruise of the Greek Islands. 'Then it's back to boring old Norfolk,' she wrote. 'I'm to have the baby there, it's decided, with the London gynaecologist in attendance, so the son and heir can give his first cries under the ancestral roof… Sweet, isn't it? Except I'm sure Norfolk is as dull as can be, and full of frightfully county people who can talk of nothing but horses…'

  Luisa let the letter fall. Claudia was happy enough now, that was clear. But later? If either of them resembled their mother, it was Claudia, she thought dully. Claudia, with her restless quest for new stimulation and excitement, her sweetly obstinate refusal to consider the wishes of others. Would she continue to love Harry, three years from now? Ten years? Twenty?

  But the question did not disturb her as once it would have done. She could not protect Claudia from herself for ever—in any case, perhaps there would be no need. Perhaps it was arrogance on her part to think she could help her sister anyway. She knew, in that moment, as the letter fell from her hand to the table and she stared sightlessly out of the window, that her own feelings for Julius would never change. She thought: I shall love him, three years from now. Ten, twenty—always. Just as I promised. Steadfast, she thought mockingly. And much good it had done her.

  Then, suddenly, the compulsion to write to him, to reach him somehow, if only through words on a piece of paper, was so strong that she almost wrote the sentences that had been forming in her mind all these days. But just as she was about to write she caught sight of Claudia's letter, with its hope that she and Julius were enjoying themselves at Venetian parties and dances. In the instant it came back to her; Julius and Vittoria, and the slow pulse of a waltz across the warm air of a courtyard. Then she put down the pen and pushed the paper away. She could not write. Perhaps the Principessa was right, and she did not dare enough; even now.

  After that, time seemed to pass even more slowly. Some days the Principessa would feel strong. On those days she would make Luisa go out. As if she were simply on holiday, the old woman took her around Venice. To the Rialto; to the market; to the Ca' d'Oro; to the Casa dei Mocenigo, where Byron had lived with Teresa Guiccioli, his last attachment. The journeys were torture to her. Each time they passed somewhere she had walked with Julius, a sense of loss so strong rose up in her that she felt the world before her fracture and disintegrate. It was less real to her than the memory in her heart.

  On other days the Principessa felt weak; her arthritis would confine her to bed. Then, sometimes, Luisa would read to her, or spend most of the day alone.

  'I should go back to England,' she said one day, when a week had passed.

  'Not yet, mia cara.' The Principessa gripped her hands firmly between her own. 'You see what has happened? I come to depend on you now.'

  So she let time pass. A curious inertia possessed her. She could not bring herself to write, not even to Luke, to Claudia. At least here she could shut herself away from the world;- everything could be locked out, except Julius.

  In the second week the weather grew warmer again; in the Principessa's garden the first bulbs, cyclamen and jonquil and wild narcissus, began to bloom. One morning Luisa picked just a few of them and took them in to the old woman. It was one of her weak days; she was lying propped up against the pillows, the great fourposter bed piled deep with books, and she smiled with pleasure at the flowers.

  'Grazie, grazie, mia cara…' She gestured to the windows. 'It will be a beautiful day today. You must not stay here, locked up with an old woman. I want you to promise me you will go out, Luisa. Today is a day for walking, is it not? Or just breathing the air. Say you will go now, for me.'

  And so Luisa had promised, a little unwillingly. But when she had crossed the canal and stepped out on the piazzetta, she felt her heart lift. The air was tinged with a salt freshness; the city glittered in the light as it had done the first day she saw it. This time she did not turn her eyes away from the places she had been with Julius, she looked at them, and instead of pain they brought comfort. Almost, it was as if he were with her.

  On an impulse, she walked along the quay, past the Danieli to the ferryboats, and took the one that was just leaving for Torcello. It was crowded with a party of Italian schoolchildren; they ran up and down the decks, crying out with excitement, the reds and blues of their uniforms vivid against the decks and the sea. But they got off at Lugano; she watched their teachers earnestly shepherding them into a crocodile, leading them off towards the glassworks. As the boat chugged on towards Torcello, she found herself alone.

  There she clambered down, and set off across the fields, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her back, watching her shadow move before her on the straight white road. Her sense of Julius was now so strong, so powerful, that she felt that even across a thousand miles, wherever he was, it must reach him. She stopped, listening to the silence. Could the mind do that? she wondered. And standing there, in the dry flat fields, she offered up an incoherent prayer that it might. I love him; let Julius know this, she thought, not caring now to which deity, old or new, she addressed herself.

  In the cathedral it was just as it had been formerly. Stepping into its coolness, she mocked herself for supposing it might have been different. This building had stood there for a thousand years—more, she told herself. How many women, how many men, in those centuries, had come there feeling as she did now? They were past, and forgotten and gone, but the building stood, liquiescent yet immutable, as eternal as the sea. For a moment a curious fatalism came to her. What did it matter after all? The end would be the same, no matter how fierce the grief, how sharp the lamentation in the heart.

  But then, turning towards the apse, looking at the mosaic, she read again the inscription. I am God… not slow to punish a fault, but at hand to aid those who waver…

  And suddenly all the lethargy, the fatalism, left her. She swung round sharply, staring at the empty doorway, where—before—Julius had stood. The silence was heavy. Against the opalescent glass flies buzzed. 'Julius!' she cried, her voice echoing in the stillness.

  She stared at the watered marble of the great pillars, at the floor, uneven with the tread of centuries, and she felt change stir in her, perspectives shift, as if her body responded to a new tide. And she knew, in that moment, what she must do. She must tell him, whatever happened, whatever the consequences. Nothing else mattered.

  For a moment she paused, hating herself, despising herself for her own timidity, her cowardice, her poverty of spirit. Then quickly, witho
ut hesitating, she ran out of the church and across the fields.

  Back at the Giudecca, she raced to the house. It was noon when she returned. The palazzo was shuttered against the sun, slumbrous, silent. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran to her room, and, her hands trembling with impatience, pulled out paper, envelopes, stamps. Julius, she wrote. She paused, trying to order the sentences that sprang into her mind, feeling a momentary fear that now, when it most mattered, she would not be able to find the words that fitted the feelings burning in her heart. Then, fearing hesitation, she just wrote, formulating nothing. Dear Julius, you must know. I tried to tell the air, today, in Torcello, but I must tell you. I love you so much. I have always, always loved you. And I have been so cowardly, so afraid…

  When it was finished she did not read it, but put it at once into an envelope, sealed it, and addressed it to his house in London. It would not bring him back, she thought, not now. But still, she had to tell him.

  She took it down to the post, slipping out the side doors stealing out through the reception hall half guiltily, for she could hear voices coming from the Principessa's sitting room, but just then, she wanted to meet no one.

  When she returned, feeling suddenly emptied and exhausted, as if that one impetuous action had used up the last of her vitality, there was no such escape. The Principessa must have heard her.

  'Luisa? Mia cara, come in here!'

  She called imperiously, and reluctantly Luisa stopped, opened the door. She stood there, in the doorway, staring into the room.

  The Principessa was obviously much better. The look of pain that sometimes pinched her face was gone; she was gay, sitting in the sunshine that flooded through the tall windows. Beside her, on the rug, two small dark children were playing. Opposite her, leaning back, head turned enquiringly in Luisa's direction, was a beautiful woman. Again, she was dressed in white, brilliant against her tanned skin. But her thick hair was loose now, falling over her shoulders. As Luisa looked at her she pushed it back impatiently from her face, and smiled.

  'Luisa…' the Principessa motioned her into the room, 'I have visitors, you see. I am so happy you should meet. My granddaughter Vittoria. And this is Francesca…' She indicated the little girl, who immediately hid her face in her mother's skirts. 'And Carlo. He is a little like me, eh? He will be a fighter, this one.' She put her arm around the little boy, who stared at Luisa curiously. Vittoria stood up.

  'Luisa.' She held out her hand, and, as if she were sleepwalking, Luisa crossed to her and took it. She stared into Vittoria's face, and the other woman smiled. She was older than Luisa had realised, but very beautiful; the smile lit her eyes.

  'I am so glad.' She pressed Luisa's hand warmly. 'I had hoped, the other night at the party, to meet you. I too have heard so much about you.' She paused, glancing at the Principessa. 'From Giulio.'

  'How do you do?' Luisa heard her own voice come out dully, but neither woman seemed to notice. Vittoria laughed.

  'We have known each other so long, Giulio and I. He is a great man, your husband. We owe him so much, my husband and I.' She turned to the Principessa with a look of enquiry. 'I may talk about it now, I think?'

  The Principessa nodded. Vittoria turned back, im­pulsively, still pressing Luisa's hand.

  'You must forgive me, but I am so happy. To be able to talk about it all openly now, after so many months. Such misery. Giulio will have told you something of that, perhaps?'

  She broke off, seeing the expression on Luisa's face, and turned back to the Principessa. There was a quick exchange in Italian, which Luisa could not understand, then Vittoria laughed.

  'I see. Then he has said nothing? But this is so like him. He does these things, these amazing things, but he never talks about them. He is a hero, Giulio, but an English hero perhaps, very discreet. Not like our Italians. He has not learned to boast.'

  Gently she drew Luisa down so they were sitting side by side on the sofa. Then she turned to her, her dark eyes wide with happiness the light clear now on the lines of tiredness and strain around them.

  'You have read in the newspapers in England of some of our troubles here in Italy, perhaps? The .terrorism, the kidnappings?' She paused, her lovely face clouding for a moment. 'My husband, he is the—how do you say?—the mayor, the chief man for the province, for this area, for Veneto. We knew always that he was at risk, of course, so we took all the precautions. But they were not enough. He was taken, two months ago now, on his way to the office. They stopped his car, and the driver was shot. We had only just said goodbye. It was my birthday, and we were going out to dinner that evening…' She broke off, tears coming to her eyes, looking across the room to where her son and daughter played contentedly. The Principessa murmured something, and Vittoria nodded. 'It is true—I must not upset myself. It is over now. But you see, Luisa, still I cannot quite believe it.'

  She paused, collecting herself, then went on, keeping her voice even. 'The kidnappers made terms. It was political, of course. Certain prisoners were to be released, in exchange for my husband. If not… They made him record messages write letters. They wanted money too, naturally. That was no problem. But the Government could not agree terms. All the time, negotiations, negotiations And the carabinieri… first they think he is here, in Venezia. Then no, he has been taken south. To Naples. I was in despair…' She broke off again, glancing to the Principessa. 'And so we sent for Giulio, and he came at once. He knows Italy very well. He worked on such a case once before—an English official, from the Consulate. But now—I did not have much hope. I do not hate these people. They believe what they believe, some of them are so young, just children really.' She paused, and turned back to Luisa, who sat silently, her eyes transfixed by Vittoria's face.

  'So. Giulio volunteered to be the intermediary. He took over the negotiations. It was dangerous for him, of course. If something had gone wrong, who knows what might have happened? He met with them, you know—quite alone, a month ago now. The carabinieri did not know, of course, they never would have allowed it. But Giulio went. He gave the terrorists the money they wanted, in person. He negotiated the terms. He persuaded them to drop some of their demands. But still, even so, we did not know, not for certain. And then, just before you came here, I think. We had a telephone call. My husband was free. They picked him up, unharmed, near Verona. It is for that the Principessa had her party, you see? For his freedom, for our re-union. And for Giulio…' She hesitated, her eyes looking kindly, but searchingly into Luisa's.

  'You really did not know this? Giulio said nothing. All the newspapers…'

  Luisa swallowed with difficulty, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. Suddenly so many little events made sense.

  'I… I didn't know. Nothing. I had no idea…' Impulsively, she pressed Vittoria's hand, guilt and self-hatred so acute she could hardly speak. 'I am so glad, so happy for you…' She broke off, as the tears came to her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  A look of consternation immediately came to Vittoria's face, and she put her arm around Luisa's shoulders. The Principessa stood up, and crossed to them.

  'Luisa, don't upset yourself. It is over. Mia cara…'

  Luisa raised her tear-stained face.

  'Why didn't you tell me? You must have realised I didn't know. And I thought…'

  The Principessa smiled.

  'But of course. But it is not for me to explain all these things. I had thought Giulio himself would return before now…' She paused. 'And then I thought, no, if he was not here, Vittoria should tell you. I was right, perhaps, don't you think?'

  Luisa stared at her in silence for a moment, looking at her old, infinitely wrinkled face, at the sharp clever eyes, and then she nodded.

  'Yes,' she said softly, 'you were right.'

  'So. Now,' the Principessa straightened, briskly, 'you are friends now, you and Vittoria. It is good to have women friends. It is important when the men are difficult, when they make trouble, that there is another woman to whom one can talk. And so
…' She paused, then said a few rapid Italian phrases to Vittoria, whose face immediately became sympathetic. She turned to Luisa with a wide smile.

  'Ah, I understand now. The Principessa says you have quarrelled a little bit, you and Giulio. It is for this you cry, as well as the other. No—please, I understand. But you must not cry for this. It happens with all men. Giulio has a little of the Italian in him, perhaps. He is very jealous, very quick-­tempered. It will be nothing, I promise you. Such things are of no account when two people love each other.'

  There was a little silence, as if both women expected Luisa to say something, and when she did not speak, Vittoria took her hand again, pressing it.

  'Luisa.' Slowly Luisa raised her head and met her eyes, which were alight with concern and gentleness. 'It hurts me you should be sad when I am so happy. When I owe Giulio so much…' She paused. 'You must believe me—I know. For instance, when all this happened, when we were still unsure how things would turn out, I went to London to see your Julius. I saw him at his house. It was the same day you were to go there to have dinner with him. He told me that he planned to ask you to marry him…'

  Luisa flinched, and Vittoria leaned towards her.

  'No, you must listen. Even then, in the midst of all these problems of mine, he was so happy, he could not hide it. He apologised to me, Luisa, that he could still feel such things, at such a time, when his friends were in trouble. But he could not hide it, you see? It shone—you can say that?—in his face, in his eyes. Then—well, I was so distraught myself, I could not take it in. I could think of nothing but my husband. But later, when I had time to think, I told the Principessa. It was extraordinary. I have known Giulio so long, and never have I seen him like this. He can appear so cold, you know? So distant. And always about him there was this sadness. But that day…' She broke off and smiled. 'So you see, I am sure. This quarrel, it is nothing. Coragio, Luisa…'

  Shakily Luisa returned her embrace. Then she stood up. She knew only that she must be alone, must have time to think, that she could not stay in the room a minute longer, even in the face of such kindness. The Principessa seemed to sense her feelings, for she made a little sign to Vittoria, who at once stood up.