Deep and Silent Waters

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘At the moment I am. I’ve had a couple of people working on it, but I haven’t been pleased with anything they’ve turned in. The present version has something of the atmosphere but it needs sharpening up.’ They passed a gondola idling on the edge of the Grand Canal and Sebastian asked, ‘Have you been in a gondola yet?’

  ‘No. Mel said they’re a rip-off.’

  ‘Well, you can’t leave Venice without having been in a gondola. It’s too special an experience.’ He hailed the gondolier who, silently moved closer to the edge of the path.

  Alarmed, Laura said, ‘I have to go, I’m meeting Melanie at Florian’s.’ Floating around Venice in a gondola, alone with Sebastian – the idea was too dream-like, marvellous. She was afraid.

  ‘I want you to see Ca’ d’Angeli.’

  Her heart turned over. ‘The house where you were born?’ Was it real, after all? Were there angels and ancient, faded tapestries on the walls, family portraits, echoing marble floors, a reflection of water on the ceilings?

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said wistfully, ‘but I can’t. I have to find Mel.’

  Sebastian curled a hand around her arm just above the elbow and, without looking at her, spoke to the gondolier in Italian.

  ‘Ca’ d’Angeli?’ the man repeated, staring. ‘Si, Signore.’ The man contemplated the sky, thought, named a figure.

  ‘A hundred thousand lira?’ Sebastian laughed scornfully and began to argue, shaking his head.

  ‘I really must go.’ Even to herself, Laura sounded helpless, weak-willed. She should pull free and walk away, but she was paralysed, torn between her fear of getting involved with Sebastian again and her desire to see Ca’ d’Angeli, to be alone with him for an hour or two.

  The bargaining ended abruptly. Sebastian jumped down into the gondola, still holding Laura’s hand.

  She tried to move away, but he gave a little tug and tightened his grip. She uttered a faint, bird-like cry of alarm, her foot slipped on the wet edge of the crumbling canal path, and she lost her balance, toppling forward into his arms. Sebastian held her, while the gondola rocked to and fro on the petrol-streaked water.

  Clutching him, she breathed in his familiar scent, eyes closing. Hadn’t she dreamt of this many times? Venice, the canal, a gondola, herself and Sebastian, floating towards the palazzo and the carved stone angels? He pulled her down on to the dark red padded seat, and the gondolier began to pole his way slowly into the Grand Canal.

  Chapter Three

  She picked up the telephone twice before she finally dialled. The operator’s distinctly Venetian voice was automatic, briskly polite. ‘Hotel Excelsior.’

  ‘Posso parlare col Signore Ferrese?’

  ‘Un momento, per favore.’ A pause, then the girl said, ‘Non rispondono,’ and told her that Sebastian had gone out an hour earlier.

  A moment’s hesitation – should she leave it at that? Nico had asked her to ring; she had rung. She did not want Sebastian under this roof. A shadow passed over the sun as she stared out of the window, but there was no cloud in the hot, blue sky: the darkness had been inside her eyes.

  ‘Hello?’ the operator asked, impatiently.

  ‘Would you take a message, please? Ask him if he would be so kind as to ring Contessa d’Angeli.’

  The girl’s tone changed, warmed. She was Venetian: she knew this house, this family. ‘Si, certo, Contessa.’

  ‘Grazie.’ She replaced the receiver. Sometimes she tired of this city, yearned for cooler, northern skies, for the bustle and buzz of her own city …

  Milan, 1932

  Contessa Vittoria d’Angeli had not been born in Venice, but in Milan, the commercial centre of Italy, modern, busy, industrious. It was the most significant time for Italy since 1861, when the scattered states had been unified as one kingdom. Mussolini had come to power in 1922, after which everything began to change for the better; not only were the trains running on time, as everyone joked in Europe, but Italy was being brought up to date in every other way. She was developing a large, modern navy, she had new factories, which were working flat out; medicine was improving, too, and new hospitals were being built. The old medieval Italy had gone for ever; a modern state was taking its place.

  By the time Vittoria was born, in 1932, Mussolini’s grip on Italy was total although not everyone was happy with how he ran the country, or his foreign ambitions. He had signed a pact with Ethiopia only four years before, but now he was building up arms and moving his army over its border. Why should he do that unless he planned to annex it? people asked each other, behind locked doors, in the privacy of their homes, or in bars when they were drunk.

  In 1932 none of the Serrati family were in the army; the new baby’s half-brothers were all too young, and their father too old and too important to Italy’s economy. The atmosphere in the house that day was of elation and excitement; the little one was healthy, her mother had had an easy time and was delighted to have her slender figure back.

  The Serrati family gathered to toast the health of its newest member. Champagne corks popped, people chatted and laughed, and in her swinging cradle the baby slept, oblivious of the changing panorama of faces that moved above her head. She had been born into a large, extended family of three generations and many were gathered here to welcome her: two grandmothers, a grandfather, uncles and aunts and her half-brothers.

  The four boys did not dislike their young stepmother but they still mourned their mother, who had died two and a half years ago. They were not easy at this party: they felt it would be disloyal to enjoy themselves too much.

  Their father glanced at them occasionally, his slightly bulging eyes urging them to look cheerful, then he would look back at his second wife in the low-necked white silk nightdress, which showed him how her breasts had ripened since her pregnancy. She was more desirable than ever. How long would it be before he could have her again? She wouldn’t let him near her while she was pregnant; claimed the doctor had said that sex might endanger the baby. Not that he had gone without all those months: his appetite was voracious, and had always driven him to others as well as his wife – servants, women who worked in the factory, or whores, although he used them as a last resort. With them, there was always that element of risk: you might end up with the clap or worse. He had been caught like that before and it had been no joke: the cure was almost as painful as the disease.

  He frowned thoughtfully. With all these young men in uniform and away from home, there was bound to be far more need for such treatment. He had had a chemist working on research for a couple of years, getting nowhere. Time to put more men on the quest for a less painful but more effective cure. Maybe he should offer a bonus. They would make a killing if they succeeded.

  Anna Serrati leant back against her pillows, smiling happily at the prospect of being able to go shopping again and buy lots of new frocks. Sickening to have been as fat as a pig for months. She wasn’t getting pregnant again in a hurry – she would see to that. Anna had a shrewd idea of how her husband had solaced himself while he was forbidden her bed, and she would be quite content if he went on getting his fun elsewhere. Anything, as long as he didn’t bother her too often. His weight was no joke.

  ‘Isn’t she sweet? Look at these beautiful big eyes,’ the nurse said, taking the baby, in her long, white lace-trimmed gown, out of the cradle and holding her up for them all to admire.

  Leo Serrati stared dubiously at the child’s round, red face. Look at that big nose and the double chin. She reminded him of someone but who?

  Anna Serrati considered her child, clear-eyed and cynical. Too bad she was no beauty – Well, she looks like him so let’s hope he takes to her. He isn’t getting any more from me!

  ‘It’s an ugly little bug,’ the eldest boy, Carlo, whispered to Alfredo, a year younger.

  ‘Looks like Papa,’ Fredo mouthed back, and the two other boys, Filippo, who was eight, sturdy as a young pony, and Niccolo, the youngest, with great dark eyes and a skin like polished ivory, shook w
ith smothered giggles.

  Their father didn’t hear any of that exchange. ‘We’ll have the biggest christening party Milan has ever seen,’ he announced. ‘We’ll invite everyone who is anyone. We have a lot to celebrate. We have a wonderful future to look forward to, and Milan is going to be the heart of the new Italy.’

  The baby yawned, pink gums glistening. Outside, church bells rang and the pink apple blossom showered in a soft, spring breeze.

  Four years later, the Italians had achieved what they were assured was a great victory: Il Duce had taken the capital of Ethiopia. However, many people hoped secretly that that would be the end of II Duce’s territorial ambitions and that their men could come home. Few had any idea where Ethiopia was, but they had been told that the Italian army had been welcomed there as liberators. They had not been told that their army had occupied only a tiny fraction of that vast country, or that Mussolini had decreed that Ethiopian prisoners-of-war should be executed as rebels.

  Vittoria Serrati was unaware of all that as she watched swallows darting in light zigzags around the stable-yard of her home on the Via Marsala in Milan.

  It was a bright May morning in 1936, her fourth birthday. She had just been placed on the broad back of her first pony and clutched the edge of the saddle with both hands, staring up at the flickering fork-tailed birds through her straight, dark fringe, paralysed with terror, certain that at any minute she would be thrown off on to the cobbles below. It seemed such a long way down to the ground.

  ‘Relax, Vittoria, for heaven’s sake! No need to be nervous. The pony’s as good as gold. You’ll see! She loves children.’

  Her father was in one of his better moods because it was her birthday and he believed her to be overjoyed at his present – as she might have been, if only she had not been so scared. She had wanted a pony but it was so big and, standing beside it, Vittoria had felt very small.

  If only she could have had time to get used to it, but her father never had time. Not a patient man, he was always in a rush to get away to work – or pleasure.

  Without warning his strong square hands had seized her round the middle, lifted her up and dumped her on the pony, and now he was irritated because she hadn’t set off around the stable-yard.

  ‘Off you go! Don’t just sit there!’ he scolded. ‘Giorgio, you’d better lead her.’

  The groom clicked his tongue. He was a short man, bow-legged, lined and wrinkled from working in the sun and wind, grey-haired because he was over sixty. These days, you couldn’t get young men for domestic service: they had all been called up. He led the pony a few steps and Vittoria gripped tighter at the saddle, helplessly jogging back and forth.

  Leo Serrati shook his head in disgust. ‘Sack of potatoes! Look at her! No give at all. She’ll never ride as well as Carlo.’

  He shot a look at the gold watch he wore on his dark-haired wrist. ‘I have to go. We’re having a board meeting this morning. Must get those monthly figures up. We can’t afford to fail to meet our quota.’

  His wife, Anna, tall and slender in a white dress made in Milan by one of the top designers, leant over to give his cheek a cool brush of her lips. ‘You won’t. You never fail at anything, you know that.’

  His firm had even succeeded in coming up with a rather more effective, less painful cure for venereal diseases, although it was not yet perfected. The army was trying it out on soldiers and the results looked good, not that he had talked about that to his wife. It was not a subject you mentioned to ladies.

  But her praise made him puff up like one of the pigeons strutting on the stable roof. He stroked a hand down her back. ‘I’ll tell the works committee you said that. It will put new heart into them. You know, Il Duce is right about the laziness of the people – they just want to have a good time and sit around in the sun. They have no stomach for work or war.’

  Anna’s face clouded. ‘You don’t really think he’ll get us into war with the British, do you? Why can’t we just leave it to Germany? What has it got to do with us?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Anna. We have to show we’re Germany’s friends. Hitler is the sort of man who thinks you’re either with him or against him. Don’t worry too much, the Germans can’t lose. The British won’t fight, nor will the French. Hitler invaded the Rhineland because it’s German territory. And he’s got away with it – nobody stopped him, they don’t dare. They won’t dare attack us because we’re helping Franco, either. They’re old dogs without teeth.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘I must go. Now that Vittoria has a pony she can ride with you every morning, but take Giorgio with you, I don’t like you riding alone.’

  She didn’t argue, not that she meant to obey him. ‘Si, certo. Arrivederci. Don’t work too hard, have a good day, caro.’

  Vittoria watched them glumly. If only she looked like Mamma, fine-boned and elegant, long legs and narrow, aristocratic feet, beautiful, wide eyes and a mouth like a red rosebud!

  Why had she been born so short and dumpy, with a face that always seemed to scowl because of her heavy black eyebrows and round black eyes? Girls were supposed to take after their mothers, weren’t they?

  Leo Serrati hurried back into the house without saying another word or even looking at his daughter. Tears pricked at her eyes.

  Her mother bit her lip ruefully. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. Papa isn’t cross with you. It isn’t your fault if you aren’t a natural rider. I don’t think we can hope for much, do you, Giorgio? Poor baby, she doesn’t have a clue how to sit a horse.’

  ‘Not like you, Signora,’ the groom said adoringly. Summer and winter alike. Anna Serrati rode every morning for an hour. Her seat on a horse was famous and much admired; she had hunted in the winter when she was younger. Now she rode very early then returned, changed out of her riding clothes and came downstairs to take charge of the house, which she had to run with just a few of the old servants who had been with the family for years. Young women wanted jobs in factories where they could earn far more than they ever had before; they laughed at the idea of domestic service.

  Luckily, the old servants knew their jobs inside out and were used to working long hours; especially as they all lived in the house and Anna Serrati had organised a rota, like the one used in her husband’s factory, so that work and rest time were equally divided. So far the house was as spotless as ever, the panelling highly polished, as was the art-nouveau furniture made for Leo Serrati’s father at the turn of the century. The food was as well cooked, the kitchen filling every day with the scent of bread baking and the strong aroma of garlic, wine and herbs.

  When this house was first built there had been other medicinal, smells in the air, of herbs, carbolic and tar, eucalyptus, menthol and liquorice, because the factory had originally occupied one wing, but now both it and the laboratory were in a new complex, half a mile away. The old premises had been pulled down to make room for this stable-yard.

  Vittoria was unaware that anything had changed, of course: to her, the world had always been the same. She was oblivious of the talk of war, the tensions beneath the apparently smooth skin of daily life here in Milan.

  She was just discovering that her family were part of what people called the capuccio, the cream of Milanese society. Leo Serrati’s pharmaceutical firm was important to the country; the drugs he manufactured were needed now more than ever and he grew richer every day. People were eager to be friendly with his family, especially as Anna Serrati was so beautiful.

  Sometimes she took her small daughter out shopping with her, or to have coffee with her friends, and Vittoria was petted and made much of by smiling women who kept saying how pretty she was, what a sweetie, wasn’t she a little doll? Their eyes told her that they lied, said that she was plain, not pretty, just as her mirror did.

  ‘Have you had enough, Toria? Take her off, Giorgio.’ Anna Serrati bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Run in to Nurse, darling. I’m going for a ride.’

  Vittoria’s legs felt wobbly now that she was safely down on the ground,
but she ran back into the house, through the winding corridor to the back stairs the servants used, and began the climb up to the bedroom floor.

  Her nursery lay at the back of the house, overlooking the stable-yard, but when she paused at the top of the steep, narrow staircase breathing hard from the effort of the climb, she heard sounds from her mother’s bedroom at the other end of the landing. It was her father’s voice! Eagerly, Vittoria ran towards the open door only to stop dead. When the nurse wasn’t looking after the child she had other duties in the house. Once she would have refused to do anything but take care of Vittoria, but with Italy girding herself for war she had bowed to the inevitable. Every morning she made beds and dusted furniture upstairs. She was doing Anna Serrati’s elegant nineteenth-century bed now, with deft, quick movements.

  As she leant over to plump up the pillows Leo Serrati watched the way the girl’s short lavender cotton print uniform slid up those slightly plump legs. He moved forward and ran his fingers up under the skirt.

  The nurse straightened with a gasp. ‘No, please, don’t, Signore.’

  He grabbed her by the waist and jerked her towards him, bent his head.

  The girl wriggled in his arms, her head pushed back by the onslaught of his full, wet mouth. His free hand roamed over her buttocks, pulled her closer, then ran up to fondle her full breasts under the stretched cotton. She struggled uselessly.

  He took a step, then another, still kissing her, pushing her backwards in front of him until she toppled on to the bed. He went down on top of her, fumbling underneath the full skirt. He pushed it up and Vittoria watched him pulling down white cotton knickers.

  ‘Don’t, oh, please don’t,’ the girl whispered, crying in husky, choked breaths, pushing at Leo Serrati’s fat shoulders.

  Leo Serrati didn’t answer. A second later the nurse opened her mouth to scream, but the man on top of her put his pudgy hand over it and pushed himself down between her spread legs. Her naked white bottom writhed on the bed.