Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  A gondolier sang as he drifted past and the canal waters sucked on the pylons below. The summer heat intensified the faint sewerage smell peculiar to Venice. The blueness of the sky seemed almost artificial. That was the problem with Venice: it was so exquisitely beautiful that it was in danger of becoming a bizarre fantasy existing only in the collective imagination.

  Gloria von Trocken entered the restaurant. She briefly greeted Daniel then joined a large table of Texans with whom she was staying. But before she’d even had a chance to order an aperitif, her dining companions were eagerly questioning her.

  ‘Gloria, honey, who are those English folk? And how do you know them?’

  ‘The dark-haired man is Daniel du Barry, owner of a string of first-rate British, Irish and Continental hotels. He’s married to a friend of mine and that’s his daughter. The fair-haired chap is an English lord, and the redhead is Mr du Barry’s personal secretary.’

  ‘So where is Mrs du Barry?’

  Gloria felt she had no choice but to lie through her teeth. ‘Oh, she’s been delayed on personal business. But no doubt Mrs du Barry will be joining her husband and daughter here soon.’

  Unlikely. Wild horses couldn’t drag Edwina to stately old Venice. Madam was currently creating a stir in Paris with Sean Kelly and a bunch of partygoers in tow.

  The Texans tried to get more information out of Gloria but she clammed up. Gloria tried not to think of what Eddie was getting up to. She had a tendency towards recklessness when she was drinking. And these days Eddie was drinking heaps.

  The maître d’ whispered to the Texans, ‘You know it’s thanks to Mr du Barry that we still have our theatre. He was instrumental in getting the restorations done after the fire and flew in experts from Rome. The place looks better now than it did before. Mr du Barry has also been putting his fortune to work on the problem of Venice sinking. For some reason Venice really matters to him. He’s renovating that magnificent old palazzo next door at great expense. It’s costing him an absolute fortune.’

  Gloria’s companions eavesdropped shamelessly as Cat read aloud from her guidebook. ‘In his palazzo Lord Byron had eight large dogs, five cats, a crow, a falcon, an eagle, two guinea hens, five peacocks, an Egyptian crane and three monkeys all wandering at liberty.’

  Michael leant back on his chair and squinted in the afternoon sun. ‘At Oxford I wrote a dissertation on Lord Byron.’

  Daniel deftly removed his wine glass from Cat’s hand and poured her a fifty-fifty wine and water. ‘Michael was in danger of being sent down, you know. He spent all his time throwing elaborate costume parties and gambling at the races.’

  Cat pushed her plate aside. ‘Michael, please tell us what Lord Byron was really like. Come on, you must know at least some of his secrets.’

  Daniel grinned and nudged Michael. ‘Get on with it, old boy.’

  Mary glanced at Daniel. He looked so tanned and handsome. The moment they’d left London he’d relaxed, and the further he moved from Edwina’s proximity, the more he reverted to his true self. She was delighted to see that his health had improved, his dark moods had lifted and he had become playful and pleasure-seeking. Danny didn’t seem to need liver tonics or headache pills once he was away from his wife. In the company of the three people who loved him the most, he’d managed to curb his heavy drinking and was determined to make them happy.

  Michael grinned, loosened his shirt collar and said to Cat, ‘I’ll do my best to satisfy your salacious curiosity, young lady.’

  Everyone within earshot shifted slightly forward, ears on stalks. Even the busy waiters were craning their necks. The vibrancy of Daniel’s party lit up the balcony.

  Gloria wished she was at their table, enclosed in the magic circle of their conversation. The du Barry clan had always fascinated her. Michael was taking his time, weighing his words carefully. He was as light and intangible as Daniel was dark and mysterious.

  Michael picked up his fork and speared an olive. ‘Lord Byron put a lot of time and energy into maintaining his reputation as an inveterate womaniser. You know he had a deformed foot, ladies? Well, despite that, the man was quite athletic. He also dressed elegantly and always looked very dashing. You see, men weren’t afraid of being peacocks in those days. Tight breeches showcased their genitalia and some wore tailored jackets with padding to give them a more manly physique.’

  Cat pointed at a palazzo across the way. ‘Was that really Lord Byron’s?’

  ‘Yes. One night in Venice, as he was leaving a party that had bored him witless, he leapt fully clothed into the canal and swam home to that palazzo. Lantern in one hand and paddling with the other. Byron was a marvellous swimmer, he once swam the Grand Canal for four hours in the fierce sun. His back was broiled into a mass of burnt, peeling flesh.’

  Cat prodded a piece of tomato. ‘Yuck. So did he genuinely like women or did he just like bedding them?’

  ‘Both. If he thought a woman was intelligent, he’d happily converse on taboo subjects. Caroline Lamb wasn’t the only woman who relentlessly hunted him down. He cultivated a dark, brooding, romantic aura. Rather like Danny Boy.’ He grinned at Daniel. ‘But Byron also had many female friends, including the eccentric Contessa Marina Querini Benzon. In her sixties she’d grown stout and during the winter months she’d conceal slices of steaming polenta down the front of her bodice. If you sat next to her in a gondola you could see the steam rising from her décolletage. She’d been wild in her youth, as Byron was. And he probably identified with her outrageousness.’

  Cat tried to hide her prosciutto under a bread roll. ‘I read that Byron was cruel to women.’

  Michael drained his glass. ‘Byron loathed dining with women and many scholars concluded that he hated women. But in actual fact it was because he adored the wing section of a capon. You see, etiquette demanded that ladies be given the wings and gentlemen make do with the legs. It infuriated Byron to see a female hogging his favourite delicacy. He could be very childish.’

  Mary laughed. ‘Was Byron as “mad, bad and dangerous” as they say?’

  Michael poured more wine. ‘Well, he was prone to depression and passionate rages. Subsequently Byron sought distraction from his fears by indulging himself with both sexes. No one was safe. He wanted them all: twelve-year-old girls, sophisticated women and nubile Greek boys.’

  Mary glanced at Cat’s untouched plate. ‘Cat, you haven’t eaten. You’re not on some silly diet, are you?’

  ‘No, it’s just too hot to be hungry.’

  Michael lit up a cigarette. ‘Perhaps she’s being Byronic. You know, Byron starved himself on a regular basis, eating only a nauseating mash of crackers, vegetables and vinegar. As a youth he’d been on the chubby side, then he morphed into a handsome lady-killer. Dieting wasn’t just about vanity though, his gammy ankle and foot felt better when he weighed less.’

  Daniel touched Cat’s shoulder. ‘At least finish your salad. Then we’ll go to the Doge’s Palace. Casanova was imprisoned there before making a spectacular escape.’

  Michael nudged Cat with his foot. ‘Let’s not waste time. Just eat the damned salad so we can get out of here. Cat, you’re going to love the Doge’s Palace, it’s exceedingly Gothic and the interiors are chockers with magnificent ceiling frescoes.’

  Daniel added, ‘And then of course there’s the Bridge of Sighs. The sighing occurred when condemned prisoners were taking their last look at mortal life.’

  Cat attacked her salad with vigour. ‘Sounds great. I’m on the job.’

  Michael looked out over the canal. ‘You know, Thomas Mann wrote of Venice being a place of death and disillusionment. What a load of bollocks. Venice is seething with lust and life. Even if you’ve got no damn interest in either, you can always ogle magnificent palaces or swoon over extraordinary art. Forget Paris, I want to die in Venice.’

  Early next morning, Gloria was already seated when Cat entered the hotel restaurant. The girl’s freshly washed hair was standing on end but she looked marvel
lous. They were the only two diners in the place. Gloria invited Cat to sit down and they hesitantly made small talk. She’d never spent much time with Edwina’s adopted daughter before and was curious.

  Cat said, ‘We didn’t bother getting a cook this time. Our palazzo is being renovated and we all like eating breakfast here anyway. It’s great going to different restaurants every evening.’

  ‘My favourite dish is Pollo alla Buranea, from the nearby island of Burano.’ Gloria said. She found it hard not to warm to Cat’s youthfulness. ‘The locals reckon their houses are painted in gaudy colours so the fishermen can get gloriously drunk but still find their way back home to their wives.’

  Cat’s natural wit and good manners made her a likeable companion. She was also astonishingly well read. It took Gloria by surprise because she normally loathed being around young women. Their flawless complexions and gormless attitudes annoyed the hell out of her. Also she’d had Eddie whining about Cat’s shortcomings, so it was disconcerting to discover that Eddie hadn’t told the truth about Daniel’s daughter. Was it jealousy? Gloria was so engrossed in their conversation that she didn’t see Daniel until he was practically on top of her. He didn’t seem especially pleased to find himself in close proximity to Eddie’s closest friend. Just as well he had impeccable manners.

  ‘Good morning, Gloria. Didn’t expect to see you here in Venice.’

  ‘I couldn’t be bothered with the crush on the Champs-Élysées at this time of year but I’ve heard Eddie is having a swell time.’

  ‘So I believe. One need never be alone in Paris. Don’t you agree, Gloria?’

  Gloria giggled nervously. She knew Sean Kelly was a close friend of his but she also knew Daniel despised the louche, decadent crowd that hovered around Eddie’s flame. For Eddie disliked her own company and needed a perpetual audience.

  Cat was oblivious to the dangerous undercurrent. ‘What’s happened to Michael and Mary?’ she asked. ‘Are they coming?’

  Daniel signalled the waiter. ‘Mary will be here in a few minutes and Michael is ill. Some sort of stomach bug, probably from swimming in that stagnant water yesterday. I did warn him. You see, Gloria, his Lordship rather fancies himself lapping the same waters as his hero, Lord Byron.’

  Gloria said, ‘I can recommend a Venetian doctor. He’s used to dealing with foreigners and speaks excellent English.’

  ‘Thank you, but Michael refuses to see a doctor. He’s always in rude health and has no faith in quacks, as he calls them. He’s been rummaging in my medicine bag again, so he’s probably going to try to cure himself with a few useless pink pills and some seltzer. I gave up and left him to it. So, Cat, what would you like to do today?’

  ‘Can we go and see the famous glass-blowing maestro?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I’ve got to finalise a big order for our new hotel in Monte Carlo, so that works well for me. Ah good, here comes Mary.’

  Mary Maguire was casually attired but exuding the sort of style that cannot be bought. Her halter-neck top showed off her lovely bare back to perfection and Gloria felt eclipsed. As usual. The du Barry clan always had that effect on her.

  Daniel, Cat and Mary travelled to Murano in Daniel’s handcrafted Celli motorboat. Cat was learning to manoeuvre the vessel and Daniel stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, yelling instructions over the roar of the engine. ‘Cat! Ease up. You’re going too damned fast. Moderate for fuck’s sake or we’ll end up in the drink.’

  Cat flashed Daniel a wicked grin but slowed right down. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  Daniel leant over and flipped the wheel to the left. ‘And steer clear of all light craft! We’ve got more backwash than these smaller boats. It’s bad form to make them pitch in the swell.’

  ‘I apologise for my recklessness, Captain, and shall endeavour to do better.’

  Mary laughed and leant back. The breeze whipped her hair around and the sun was warm on her bare back. She missed Sean but everything was perfect. It would be just the three of them for most of the day. The sheer pleasure of it all. Their boat crested the waves with ease and a light spray blew onto Mary’s face. She could feel every cell in her body relaxing, the grime of London already a distant memory.

  A larger motorboat was gunning straight for them, the driver oblivious to the danger. Daniel yelled, ‘Hard left, Cat!’

  Cat quickly swung the boat sideways, narrowly missing the oncoming boat by inches. Mary staggered and clutched the railing. The boat driver seemed stunned. He cut his motor and yelled across the water. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, dear chap. Don’t know what I was thinking.’

  Daniel shrugged and gave a wave. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  Gregorio’s daughter, Anna, took them down to the workshop. As they entered, Daniel whispered, ‘Nobody speaks to the maestro in here. He’s very focused on his work.’

  To Daniel it felt as if they’d entered Dante’s Inferno. Unlike the rest of the premises, which were contemporary and bright, the workroom had retained its dark origins. Workmen moved silently around the dirt floor. They were plodding in their movements and wore the sweat-stained clothes of hard-working foundry men. Their grimy faces were curiously blank and they didn’t even bother glancing at the visitors. They reminded Daniel of weary work horses. He remembered the day Cat had come running to him after seeing some blind coal-pit ponies as a child. She’d cried and been inconsolable.

  He was transfixed by the roaring furnace. A premonition gripped him and panic twisted his guts. He wanted to get the fuck out of there. A creeping sense of déjà vu had him by the balls. Something was wrong. What the hell was it? He clenched his palms until nails bit flesh and the pain shocked him back into the present. Daniel concentrated on his daughter’s face, glowing in the reflected light of a furnace. Her awe and fascination with the act of creation soothed him and he felt ridiculous for having allowed a panic attack to get the better of him. He put his arm around Cat and she smiled up at him.

  Nobody spoke. The workers knew Gregorio’s rhythms and a simple nod or wave sufficed to maintain routine. The maestro’s movements were not those of an old man; his hands were sure and strong and he seemed impervious to the furnace’s heat. Gregorio dipped a metal rod into molten glass and rotated it. He swiftly fashioned the glass with long-handled pliers, then inflated the vase to its correct proportions by blowing down the metal tube. At intervals an assistant reheated the glass.

  Anna explained to the visitors, ‘The colours he’s using today are the cool blues and silver tonalities of early morning light. Gregorio was inspired by a recent aeroplane flight over the ocean. His work is informed by natural elements.’

  Cat was mesmerised by the maestro’s hands. It was hard to believe those stubby fingers could produce such fragile work.

  Gregorio handed the finished piece to an assistant, nodded at Daniel and gave Mary an appreciative glance that started at her toes and slowly worked upwards. Anna looked at her and apologetically shrugged but Mary smiled. The old codger is two steps from the grave but he still feels it’s his duty to demonstrate his appreciation of the female species. To be sure, Venetian men are different from London gents. Or do Venetians simply have more in common with Irishmen? What’s Sean doing right now in Paris? Really it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  On leaving the workshop they entered a cool courtyard. Anna indicated a rough-hewn table under a shady grapevine. ‘Please, do sit. I’ve arranged some refreshments.’

  Gregorio came out of the workshop and sat at the head of the table. He and Daniel discussed the commission in rapid-fire Italian, after which Daniel passed him a folded cheque. They shook hands.

  Gregorio’s granddaughter appeared with a tray of magnificent wine goblets and Gregorio expertly uncorked a bottle and poured the wine. Cat held the fragile glass up to the light and admired the fine, intricate etching around the stem. The exquisite crystal glass shimmered and refracted the ruby red wine. Although inanimate, the glass seemed to possess a life of its own.

/>   Gregorio said something to Daniel in Italian and he translated: ‘These goblets are handcrafted eighteenth-century Venetian crystal. Each one is unique. Gregorio believes that beautiful objects are made to be used. If one is privileged enough to own such things, then by rights they should be utilised and not kept hidden away.’

  Cat’s mind reeled. With an unsteady hand she placed her goblet back on the table. The maestro read her fear and said in halting English, ‘Glass is made to be broken. I am old. I no more go to museums. They are sad places, full of stolen goods from many countries and other times. They are just banks, vaults full of greed and meanness. If you steal an object from its time and its people, the object dies. It becomes of no meaning. Without life.’

  He picked up Cat’s glass and handed it back to her. ‘This wine is good. Made by my grandson, his beginning vineyard. He’s a handsome bastard, the girls he make crazy.’

  Cat held her glass firmly and Gregorio raised his own in salute.

  ‘Caterina, I only see eyes your colour once. It was a young woman, years ago in Paris. She was what you English call, ah, a classy whore.’

  Cat said, ‘You mean a courtesan, right?’

  ‘Yes. She had two patrons. Brothers. Who keep her in the big house on the Champs-Élysées. They throw parties of such brilliance that all of fashionable Paris go mad to attend.’

  Two brothers. Cat tried to remember what the gossip had been about down in the labyrinth but it was so long ago and it eluded her. She leant forward. ‘Was she a beauty?’

  ‘When she laugh, she light up the room. A goddess. A muse. I knew men who would pay anything to spend the night with this woman but she stick with the two brothers. In France this make her virtuous. Ha ha. I once spend days creating in glass the magnificent colour of her eyes. I only have one vase left from this collection and it must go to you, Caterina.’

  She could hardly breathe. How rare were violet eyes? She’d never met anyone else with the same eye colour. It would be too coincidental for the woman to be her mother, but maybe they were related?