by Evie Blake
‘Sure, come on over. I’ve no plans.’
Valentina wonders fleetingly whether Leonardo is expecting her at his club again tonight. She needs a day off, especially after last night. She is not sure how she will face him next time she sees him.
‘Can we watch Lulu in Pandora’s Box?’
Valentina lets her face break into a wide smile, since there is no one here to see her. Gaby is almost as obsessed with Louise Brooks as she is.
‘Don’t you think that will make you even sadder?’
‘I need a good cry, and it’s the perfect film for my mood. Lulu is my heroine, Valentina. All she wants is to please men, and yet all they do is destroy her.’
A couple of hours later, Gaby and Valentina are curled up together on the couch, eating brioche filled with crema, which Gaby brought over, and watching Louise Brooks dancing.
‘She is so beautiful,’ sighs Gaby. ‘There is something about her that is different from all the other movie stars.’
‘She’s uncompromising,’ says Valentina, licking crema off her fingertips. ‘And she has this spirit. It’s intoxicating. That’s why everyone wants a little part of her.’
‘Lulu or Louise Brooks?’ asks Gaby.
‘Both. They are one and the same really, aren’t they?’
The girls watch the film in silence for a few moments.
‘Everyone goes on about Greta Garbo, and how mysterious and beautiful she was, but I think Louise Brooks was more of an enigma,’ says Gaby, stuffing the last of her brioche into her mouth.
‘You know that Louise Brooks claimed she and Greta Garbo slept together once?’ Valentina stretches out on the couch, letting her tiptoes rest against Gaby’s thigh.
‘I didn’t know Louise Brooks was gay.’ Gaby looks at her in surprise.
‘She wasn’t. She was just curious.’
It’s strange, Valentina thinks, that the only time she has ever really cried was when she saw Pandora’s Box for the first time. The film still has a powerful effect on her, even though she’s watched it countless times. To see this beautiful spirit misunderstood, mistreated and eventually destroyed.
After the movie, Valentina opens a bottle of red wine.
‘Do you want to go out, Gaby, meet up with the others?’
Gaby shakes her head mournfully, and Valentina feels relieved. She knows that if she speaks to Marco she might very well break down and tell him everything. And she is not ready to confide in anyone about what happened last night. Not until she knows what she feels herself.
‘No, I’m really tired tonight. Besides, we’ll see them at Marco’s party on Tuesday. Do you mind if I stay here?’
‘Of course not.’ Valentina pours them both a glass of red wine. ‘You’ll have to share my bed.’
‘I’d like that, if it’s okay. I feel safe here.’
Gaby hugs her, and although Valentina doesn’t hug her back, it’s nice to feel the warm appreciation of her old friend. Besides, she is glad she is not alone again tonight, with her head in such a mess. She is tired of waking up in that big empty bed.
She knows that Gaby will be all right eventually. She has never had a problem attracting men. She is traditionally pretty in a way Valentina will never be: petite, with long blond hair, clear skin and rosebud lips. Yet Valentina doesn’t see the point of saying something encouraging, like You’re so attractive, you’ll meet someone else, there are plenty more fish in the sea. She knows what it feels like to lose your heart to a married man, and she has to let Gaby grieve. She is proud of her friend for being strong and ending what was ultimately a doomed relationship.
The two friends eat dinner together. Valentina realises it is the first proper meal she has eaten in days. She forgets to eat when she is on her own, a bad habit picked up from her mother, who never cooked for them. Tina Rosselli usually left Valentina to fend for herself in the kitchen, warning her daughter not to eat too much. If they had guests for dinner, however, it was quite the opposite. Her mother would cook way too much food, picking at her own meagre portion while watching her friends’ every mouthful. How hard Valentina has fought against her mother’s dysfunctional relationship with food. She tried her best to ignore her mother’s instructions to cut back on carbohydrates as her bottom was getting too big, her daily comments on her weight loss or gain. Any normal mother would be worried if their daughter lost a dramatic amount of weight too quickly, but when Valentina lost her puppy fat, to such an extent that she turned from chubby child into skinny teenager practically overnight, her mother was delighted.
‘Oh you look so lovely, darling,’ she crooned. ‘If you were a little taller, you could model.’ She sighed then, patting her own flat stomach. ‘You just don’t know how lucky you are. It’s so hard to keep the weight down once you’ve had children.’
The incongruity of her comment was sickening, her implication that because of Mattia and Valentina she had put on weight unfair. Over the years Valentina had noticed a pattern. If her mother was happy, which meant she had a lover, she would put on a little weight, look younger, prettier and generally more healthy. Even so, she would complain constantly that men made her fat, forcing her to go out for meals and drink too much wine. As soon as she was single again, she would go on a crash diet, her weight plummeting like a stone. She would be bad tempered and sometimes downright mean, monitoring everything Valentina ate. Usually Valentina celebrated the arrival of a new lover in her mother’s life with a trip to the bakery.
Gaby’s home life was the opposite of Valentina’s. Sometimes Valentina could not help being a little envious of her friend, but usually she just loved to be included in her family gatherings. Gaby’s mother is a curvaceous, cheerful lady, and like her, Gaby is an excellent cook. She always claims that cooking for others helps her when she is down, and tonight she has prepared her speciality: tortelli stuffed with pears and cheese, a divine combination.
‘Shall we share another bottle of wine before we go to bed? Watch another Louise Brooks film?’ suggests Valentina after they have washed up and put all the dishes away.
‘Oh yes.’ Gaby looks almost happy. ‘Do you have A Girl in Every Port? I love it when she high-dives. It’s such a sweet movie.’
‘We can stream it off YouTube. I’ll look it up. You go and get the wine. There’s a bottle on the bookshelf in the study.’
‘Wow,’ Gaby comments as she comes back into the sitting room, bottle of red wine in hand. ‘That’s some art collection you’ve got in there.’
‘Oh, they’re just copies. All Theo’s.’
Gaby looks thoughtful. She sits down in the armchair, nursing the bottle of wine between her hands.
‘Did he tell you they were copies?’
‘Well, no . . . why?’
Gaby is an art restorer. If anyone knows about authenticity, it’s her. She puts the bottle down on the floor and gets up out of the chair. She says nothing, just takes Valentina’s hand and drags her into the study.
‘Look at this, Valentina, just look at it!’
Valentina looks again at the Dutch painting of the woman reading the letter in the window. It really is a pretty piece, a fine copy of a delicate masterpiece.
‘I am currently restoring some Dutch interiors. In fact I am working on a painting by this very artist, Gabriel Metsu.’ She taps the frame of the painting. ‘I really am very certain that this is not a copy. And if it is, then the painter is as masterful as Metsu himself.’
The two girls stare at each, slowly comprehending the implications of the five paintings hanging on the wall.
‘I am certain that the original was in a private collection in the United States. It’s called The Love Letter.’
Valentina examines the painting. How can Gaby really know for sure that it is the original? She doesn’t know what to say. It is just too shocking to consider that this painting hanging on her apartment wall might be worth millions.
‘Why has Theo got these pictures?’ Gaby whispers, even though there is no one in t
he flat to hear her. ‘Is he a secret millionaire? Is he going round the world to art auctions or buying off private collectors?’
‘I don’t know, Gaby.’
Valentina thinks of Inspector Garelli. She feels a little sick. She pulls her friend out of the study and for the first time locks the door.
‘Can we try to forget about it? I don’t want to spend the evening imagining all sorts of crazy things.’ She tries to pull herself together. ‘I’ll ask Theo when he comes back. I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Besides, I really do think you are wrong. They must be copies.’
Gaby looks at her sceptically but says no more.
Later, as the two girls lie spooned together in her bed, Valentina finds she cannot sleep. The mystery surrounding Theo is plaguing her. She slips out of Gaby’s arms and tiptoes into the study. She opens her iMac and googles Gabriel Metsu, The Love Letter. An image comes up, identical to the painting in the study. Underneath she reads, Private Collection, New York, USA. There is no mention of its theft or loss. So Gaby has to be wrong. Theo’s picture is a copy. Yet for some reason she doesn’t feel convinced. What are the chances of her best friend being an expert on Dutch seventeenth-century interiors? And a police officer nosing around asking her where Theo is?
She turns off her computer and picks up the old black photograph album. She puts it on her lap and flicks through the pages. Is this stolen as well? She can’t help thinking how precious these images must be for whoever took them or had them taken. Yet surely both photographer and subject are dead by now? She looks at the last image she enlarged. It is the back of a woman’s head and the top of her bare back. She has a black bob just like Louise Brooks; just like herself, Valentina thinks. She is tantalisingly close to seeing her face, yet she has only been provided with a tiny part of her profile. On her head is a sailor’s hat. Obviously, not hers.
Valentina crawls back into bed as quietly as she can. Gaby stirs.
‘V?’ she whispers.
‘Yes.’ Valentina can see the whites of her friend’s eyes in the darkness.
‘I can’t stop thinking about Louise Brooks and Greta Garbo.’
Valentina imagines the combination of Brooks and Garbo. Sleek black hair like lacquer and black eyes contrasting with soft fair hair and Sphinx-like grace, both of them so pale, both of them enigmas.
‘Yes, it’s rather a nice thought. Very aesthetic.’
Gaby laughs, and it pleases Valentina to hear her friend sounding lighter than she has all day long. She nestles back into the bed, and lets Gaby put her arms around her waist.
‘Have you ever made love with a woman, Valentina?’
‘Yes.’
She hears Gaby take a breath, feels her hands pressing into her waist.
‘Really? What was it like?’
‘Actually I slept with two women at the same time.’
‘Two women . . . Oh my God, Valentina, you’re so wild . . .’
Gaby squeezes her tight. It is so nice to be held. Valentina sighs sleepily.
‘And it was very erotic.’
Gaby pushes her face against the back of Valentina’s neck.
‘Maybe we might sleep together one day,’ she whispers.
‘Maybe,’ Valentina says. ‘But not tonight. I don’t want to be your rebound.’
Gaby kisses the back of Valentina’s neck.
‘You’re too special for that, Valentina. You’re like Lulu. Everyone wants a part of you.’
Belle
BELLE IS LOST IN CANNAREGIO. IT IS A PART OF THE CITY she doesn’t know well. She tries to follow her instincts, but it is impossible in Venice. The streets are a maze of twists and turns. She finds she ends up in the same piazza several times, although she took a different street out of it. It is early afternoon; her husband’s after-lunch nap must be nearly over. Belle knows she will not manage to return home in time to avert his suspicions. Signor Brzezinski will not believe for a minute that she has been visiting the Countess, a woman he knows Belle despises. She has run out of excuses and lies. He will surely punish her. She is waiting for the day he throws her out on the street. She thinks that the only reason he hasn’t yet done so is because he doesn’t want any scandal surrounding him. Why did his wife become a prostitute? Could he not satisfy her?
Cannaregio is where the less wealthy of Venice live. She is glad she is in her disguise. She would not like to draw attention to herself. Hard-eyed men loiter in the alleys, smoking and looking shifty. Maybe this is a wild goose chase. She is not sure whether Santos’s first mate was trying to trick her or not.
As soon as she had changed into her sailor boy’s outfit, Belle went to the same taverna where she had seen Santos for the first time. But he wasn’t there. She thought back to her night with the Scottish Captain and the Jamaican first mate and the boat she saw docked. She was almost sure it was Santos’s, but she needed to check. She sat down at the same table she had sat at before and ordered a glass of rum to give her courage. When the owner returned with her drink, Belle asked him about Santos.
‘Santos Devine!’ the man exclaimed cheerfully, his eyes lighting up with affection, or was it admiration? ‘Why, everyone knows which boat is his! It’s the big white schooner, The Queen Maeve. Very smart it is. Must have money somewhere, that old devil.’
‘The Queen Maeve,’ Belle repeated, rolling the strange name around in her mouth.
‘I believe,’ said the innkeeper, ‘it’s the name of some old Irish queen. He told me his father had a boat called the same.’
Yes, of course, Belle thought. That is why he is so enticing, the two contrasting parts of himself – Irish sailor and Spanish dancer – creating a splendid contradiction of wildness and grace.
After knocking back her rum as fast as she could, Belle walked down to the boats, trying her best to swagger like all the other sailors. It was a funny way of walking, striding along as if you possessed the world. She found The Queen Maeve easily, and as she looked at the elegant white schooner, she knew she was right – it was the same boat she had been looking at all those nights ago. Was it Santos who had lit the lamp that evening, drawing her towards him even then?
She shifted nervously from foot to foot, not quite certain what to do now that she had found his boat. Should she go aboard uninvited?
‘Are you looking for someone?’
She turned around. Behind her was an incredibly tall man. She barely reached his navel. He had on a long navy blazer, white trousers and a sailor’s cap. His extremely long fingers delicately balanced a cigarette, which he puffed away on while surveying her through narrowed eyes.
‘I’m looking for Santos Devine,’ she said in as low a voice as she could manage.
The man rolled his eyes.
‘Not another young dreamer wanting to have an adventure.’ He tapped her on the shoulder, and he was so big and strong that she nearly toppled over. ‘You look way too young to be thinking of going to sea. Go home to your mummy and grow up a little first.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ Belle said, trying to be as commanding and manly as possible. ‘I am looking for Santos Devine . . . because I need to speak with him. I don’t want to go to sea.’
The tall man narrowed his eyes further and looked at her suspiciously.
‘I am Santos’s first mate; you can tell me anything you want to tell him, and I will pass on a message.’
She could hardly tell this man the truth. How would he react if he knew she was a woman? Would he laugh at her and shoo her away?
‘I have a message for him . . . from my sister. It’s of a personal nature . . .’
Santos’s first mate relaxed, and gave her a conspiratorial grin.
‘Not another girl in love with Santos,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know how he manages to break so many hearts.’
At his words, Belle’s own heart sank. This was a hopeless endeavour. To Santos she was just another pretty girl. Why was she making a fool of herself, hunting him down like this?
‘All right,’ said the tall man. ‘You look harmless enough. He’s in Cannaregio.’ He gave her the name of a street Belle had never heard of. ‘He is at the mask-maker’s there, trading. Good luck to you and your sister.’ He slapped Belle on the back so that she almost went flying off the pier and into the sea. ‘And tell her if she has no luck with Santos, I make an excellent second best!’
He burst out laughing, and it sounded like a roll of thunder as he went up the gangway and on to Santos’s pristine white boat.
So that is how she has ended up one hour later still searching Cannaregio for this tiny street. She passes the Jewish ghetto again, and out of the corner of her eye she sees a narrow dark alley she didn’t notice the first time. She approaches it and looks at the name of the street. That’s it. She is here. She enters the alley uncertainly. A black cat saunters in front of her, and Belle follows it. The street seems to grow narrower and darker as the daylight is squeezed out of it.
Suddenly she comes upon an opening by a narrow canal, and there is a majestic crumbling Venetian house, shuttered and empty looking, leaning on its side as if it might disintegrate at any moment into the water. Attached to the moulting plaster is a sign made of white china. Laconi, she reads. That was the name Santos’s first mate gave her. Belle licks her lips nervously. This must be the mask-makers’s. It occurs to her that her intrusion might be unwelcome. Santos is after all in the middle of transacting some kind of business. Well, she has to go through with it now.
She knocks on the door. No answer. Maybe no one is home. She knocks again more boldly, picking up the brass knocker and dropping it from a height. She hears footsteps, brisk and light, and the door swings open. To her surprise, a woman stands on the threshold. She is older than Belle, but still very beautiful, with eyes as black as apple pips and silky olive skin. She is wearing a red petticoat, and is barefoot. Two black cats are weaving in and out of her legs, purring, and she holds another one in her hands, against her chest. She and the cat look at Belle with indifference. The woman raises her eyebrows questioningly. Belle has lost the power of speech. She doesn’t know what to say.
