by Evie Blake
‘I think you will look quite adorable in this,’ she says to the girl.
Pina looks at the dress in admiration.
‘It’s so fine,’ she says, taking it with shaking hands.
Belle watches Pina peeling off her wet clothes as demurely as possible. She herself has tugged off everything without a care for modesty. They are both women, after all. When Pina turns around to take the dress, Belle can’t help admiring her body.
‘Why, Pina, you really are beautiful,’ she tells her. Her Sicilian maid has an hourglass figure, something she never really noticed before. She has lusciously smooth brown skin, ample breasts with dark nipples, and jet black curls of pubic hair shaped in a perfect heart between her legs.
Pina looks at the floor with embarrassment, hastily pulling on the skimpy ballerina dress. It fits her perfectly, and is so short that her shapely legs are on display as well. What a shame, Belle thinks, that this girl is wasted as a servant. She is so exquisite, she should be a dancer or an actress. To think her wretched father sold her to Signor Brzezinski. Just like her own father. The thought angers her. Men can be foul.
As she is thinking this, Pina has been standing in front of the mirror, looking at herself in Belle’s costume. Belle sees her own naked reflection behind her, and she catches Pina’s eye in the mirror. There is something in the way Pina looks at her. It reminds her of someone but she can’t think who. It is a look of fondness, protective even. Why would her maid have such feelings for her?
‘I think you are beautiful, madam,’ Pina whispers.
Belle considers Pina’s gentle offering. How sweet a love could be between two women. If only she felt the same, and yet she is crazy to find Santos. She needs her man, and only he will do.
‘Thank you, Pina,’ she says, reaching past her into the wardrobe and pulling out her sailor boy’s costume.
The women’s bare legs brush each other, and Belle can feel Pina’s reaction to her touch. Spontaneously she feels moved, and she turns, kissing the girl on the lips. She closes her eyes, and it is as if she is giving herself the kiss of life, bringing back the little princess she once was, when she lived in Warsaw, before her marriage and the rape of innocence.
‘Sweet Pina,’ she says, pulling away. ‘I will look after you. There is no need to worry, believe me.’
Pina looks at her with serious brown eyes.
‘I believe you,’ she says.
Belle pulls on her white sailor’s trousers. She has to find Santos. They can’t go back to Signor Brzezinski. She wishes they could stay here, but it would only be a matter of a few days before her husband found them. They need to get out of Venice for ever.
‘I am going to find my friend,’ Belle tells Pina. ‘I will be as quick as I can. Wait here for me.’
The taverna is empty, apart from a couple of sailors up at the wooden counter. Belle swaggers over to them, trying to remember to keep her sailor’s cap low over her forehead. She was hasty in her preparations and is not sure whether she took all her make-up off.
‘Hello there, young man,’ the innkeeper addresses her. ‘What can I get you?’
Belle orders brandy and downs it immediately. It settles her still queasy stomach, and warms her after her run through the rain.
‘I’m looking for Santos Devine,’ she says. ‘Have you any idea of his whereabouts?’
‘I have no idea where he is now. All I can tell you is that he is no longer in Venice.’
No! She wants to cry out, shake this innkeeper by the shoulders, beg him to tell her that it’s not true, but she has to be a man in her sailor disguise. She has to hide her emotions. Even so, she feels as if she has taken a punch to the stomach, and she almost keels over in shock.
‘Hey, what’s wrong with you?’ one of the sailors asks.
She grips the wooden counter for support, draws herself up again.
‘Are you sure he’s gone?’ she asks the innkeeper.
‘Oh aye, I saw it with my own eyes. He was told to leave by the authorities. It seems that he stole something off some important businessman here in Venice.’
‘A Pole,’ one of the sailors adds. Belle doesn’t need him to tell her his name. So Signor Brzezinski knows who her lover is and has had him banished from Venice. She feels a lick of fury inside her belly.
‘I think they knew that there was no truth to the accusations, otherwise they would have arrested him, but in any case they told him to get out of Venice. For a while at least.’
These are the words Belle needs to hear. For a while at least. Oh, she knows her love won’t abandon her for ever. He will come back. And what news she will have to tell him. She is going to have their child.
Yet what is she to do in the meantime? The idea of going back to Signor Brzezinski’s house makes her feel sick, but with Pina in tow, it appears it is their only option.
When she returns to the apartment, Pina is asleep on top of the bed. She is still wearing Belle’s black ballerina dress and looks like a black swan, her arm flung over her head and her skirt ruffled up on the white sheets.
Poor child, Belle thinks. Why did I involve her in all of this?
And then she remembers that it wasn’t her who involved Pina. It was Signor Brzezinski. In all their years of marriage, she has never been able to call him by his Christian name.
She walks over to the French windows and looks down at the green canal. So Santos is gone. The fact of it is beginning to sink in. She crosses her arms and hugs herself, as if she wishes to keep warm their love inside her. Only yesterday, this view from her room seemed full of the poetry of love. The unblemished blue sky was a symbol of the perfection of their coupling, the faded grandeur of the Venetian palazzos across the canal the deep heritage of their love, the constant lap of the canal the rhythm of their union, again and again and again. Just one day later and everything she sees is changed. The sky is banked with dark, unloving clouds, weeping openly, the palazzos are not grand but falling down, forgotten, abandoned, and the canal hides its depths from her, reflecting back her yearning, slapping her in the face as if she has been dunked in icy water.
She closes her eyes, tries to summon a memory of him, yet already he is vanishing from her grasp. She can just see him, a dot on the horizon, riding the waves of the Adriatic Sea in his ghost boat, his statuesque first mate by his side like a macabre keeper. Could he not have waited for her? Maybe he knew her story all along and thought she would not leave Venice because of her mother’s residence on Poveglia. But her father put her mother before her, and now it is her turn. She would choose Santos over her mother, if she had the chance. She brings her hand to her belly. And what about this little life inside her? Would she choose Santos over her child? A child with his thick black hair and blue jewel eyes.
He is gone. She steps back from the window and sinks to the floor. Now she can cry, her hope trailing out of the window like a banner of loss. She tries to cling on to the innkeeper’s words. For a while at least. He has to return. He told her he would, didn’t he? And yet there is something deep down inside her that tells her otherwise. She begins to sob, for it is too much to consider the torment of her pregnancy without Santos. Signor Brzezinski will steal his child. Claim the baby for his own. What kind of father will he be? Will he beat Santos’s child like he beats her, like he beat Pina this morning? Why of course he will.
If only she were a man. The frustration of it makes her clench her fists, grit her teeth through her salty tears. She would kill Signor Brzezinski if she could.
As she feels herself disintegrating, falling apart on the floor of her apartment, a tiny hand is placed gently upon her shoulder.
She turns, and through her veil of tears she sees Pina, bending down and taking her by the hands. She leads her to the bed and makes her sit upon it. Wordlessly her young maid tenderly wipes away her tears, kissing her again and again on the mouth. Belle shakes her head. Her misery is so great, no one can make her feel better, no one but Santos. And yet Pina persists. She un
buttons Belle’s damp admiral’s coat, and takes off her sailor’s cap. She pushes her fingertips through her mistress’s wet hair, and blows it with her breath. In the ballerina dress she looks even more of an angel, as she undoes Belle’s wet clothes and peels them off her. She makes Belle lie down on the bed, and she strokes her to warm her chilled skin. She strokes her face so that Belle is lulled and closes her eyes. She strokes her neck and her shoulders; each one of Belle’s fingers she brings to her mouth and kisses. She strokes Belle’s belly, and its hidden treasure, her breasts, which are beginning to blossom in early pregnancy, teasing each nipple gently between her fingers. She strokes Belle’s legs and feet, working her fingers through the toes. And she strokes Belle between her legs, so very delicately, her gentle fingertips gradually replaced by her soft tongue.
Belle sighs. It is a sigh of ages; so old it began in her sixteenth year, and ends in this moment of comfort with Pina. She lets this young woman do this to her, because these physical sensations are the only things that keep her alive. She is not able to feel it, yet she is aware of Pina’s devotion, and she lets her layer her with her love, as if it is a soothing balm to her heart.
‘Louis Blackbird! Louis Blackbird!’
Belle wakes.
‘Louis Blackbird!’
Is she dreaming? She is held within the embrace of the sleeping Pina. She carefully lifts the girl’s arms off her chest. She can hear the slap of water against the side of a boat, right outside her window. And a voice.
‘Louis Blackbird!’
It is not a man’s voice, and yet she knows its owner brings a missive from Santos. She gets out of bed, grabs her blue silk dressing gown and goes out on to her balcony.
It has stopped raining now, although it is still overcast and the canal is full of grey shadows. Below her is a gondola, with a woman sitting in it. She is wearing a long scarlet dress and is barefoot, yet she wraps an elaborate black cape around her, and wears a plain white Venetian mask upon her face. Despite her disguise, Belle recognises her hair, long tresses of auburn curls that cascade down her shoulders. It is Lara, the mask-maker.
‘Lara,’ she calls down. ‘Lara, please, where has Santos gone?’
But Lara raises her masked face to her and shakes her head as if to silence her. She stands up in the gondola, and Belle can see that her hands are cupped around something. When she opens them, a blackbird emerges from her hands, flying up into the air above the canal. Belle can see something attached to the bird’s legs. Her heart fills with panic. Blackbirds are wild. How can she get it to come to her? And yet it is as if the blackbird senses her desperation, for it flies right towards her and lands on the railing of the balcony, blinking its knowing eyes at her.
Belle reaches out tentatively with the palm of her hand, and the bird struts on to it. She can see clearly now that there is a little velvet pouch tied to one of its legs. With shaking fingers she unties it, and takes it into her free hand. Then she raises her palm to the sky and lets the bird fly free. By the time she looks back down at the canal, there is no sign of Lara or her gondola. Did she imagine it? Yet she has the tiny pouch between her fingers. She goes back inside her apartment, and unties it.
Inside is a tiny gold ring. Not a ring for her finger. Oh no, this is Santos’s gold earring. To see it between her fingers, to remember the last time she touched it, as she cradled his face in her hands when he came inside her, is almost too much to bear. She holds her breath. It is a miracle to have this gift.
There is something else in the pouch. A tiny scrap of paper. She pulls it out and marvels at her lover’s miniature writing. She realises she has never seen anything he has written before. She reads the minuscule script. She reads it again; and again. She cannot believe what he is telling her to do.
Valentina
THE ENVELOPE WAS IN HER POSTBOX, ALTHOUGH IT IS NOT stamped or postmarked. She recognises the handwriting instantly. She rips it open, not even waiting until she goes back up to the flat. A train ticket falls out into her hands. It is a first-class ticket from Milano Centrale to Venezia Santa Lucia. It is dated for today, and the departure time is in two hours. Has Theo lost his mind? What is he playing at, putting a train ticket in her postbox with no word of explanation? She could be on a shoot today, or busy with something else. He has given her only a couple of hours to get ready, and get to the train station in time.
After last night, in the Dark Room, she thought he would be at home when she got back. She was ready then to confess her feelings for him. To tell him that she saw now the depth of his love for her. What he was willing to do for her. She was going to say sorry. But he never came back, and as the hours ticked by, her remorse turned to anger. She spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, and now she is tired and emotional. He is manipulating her, that’s what he is doing. And this train ticket is just another piece of evidence to prove it. Well, she is not going. That will show him.
She rides up to her floor in the lift, chewing her lip, indecision beginning to flood her. But what will happen if she does go? As the lift jolts to a stop and she pulls back the bars, a thought occurs to her. He is playing a game with her. Like the album of erotic negatives from the past. Like before they were living together, when they used to meet in secret locations as if they were anonymous lovers. How she enjoyed that. Maybe all Theo wants is for her to have some fun.
Okay, she thinks grudgingly as she goes back into her apartment. She’ll go. It’s just lucky she’s not working today.
Her two sides are in conflict – her soft self, her heart; and her protective self, her reason – and because of this, she selects one of her great-grandmother’s more ambiguous costumes to wear. It is the tiny pinstriped suit and trilby hat, with a delicate silk camisole and feminine French knickers underneath. She decides against flat brogues, and goes for a pair of high-heeled lace-up shoes, to give her a little extra height. She feels more confident now, like an androgynous gangster.
She picks up the black album that Theo gave her, and flicks through it. She has now developed all the negatives. The last four prints were the most beautiful. There is the one she had already viewed as a negative that inspired her fantasy of wearing the mask and showing herself off. There is a close-up of a naked breast sprayed with drops of water, and another of the stomach of the model from just below her breasts to just above her pubic bone, scattered with what look like white rose petals. The last one is the most seductive. The print is of a young woman sitting with her back to some kind of wall. She is naked, apart from a white Venetian mask on her face, obscuring her identity. She has what seems to be a short black bob, as was the style of the era. So it is the same woman from the light box picture, as Valentina thinks of it. Her knees are bent and her legs are apart in a comely V. She is leaning forward, and has thrust one arm through her open legs, her hand clenched into a fist, so that she is concealing her private parts. Although it is impossible to make out her expression behind her mask, Valentina can see that her lips are parted and her body language is a fiery flirtation. Come and get me if you dare. She just loves it.
She slips the album into her black briefcase. She is bringing it with her. She wants to know where Theo got these negatives, and if he knows who the woman is. More than anything, she wants to know why he gave them to her. It feels as if these pictures set the whole ball rolling, pulling her into a deeply erotic world culminating in Leonardo’s club and the Dark Room.
She is just on her way out of the door when she hears her phone beeping inside her jacket pocket. She pulls it out.
Bring the Metsu painting with you.
Just one line. No How are you? Are you all right? or Love you. Not even a smiley face. She is furious and texts back instantly.
Where are you? What’s going on?
But Theo doesn’t reply. What a frustrating man. On top of everything, he now wants her to walk out of the flat with a priceless painting under her arm, if it really is an original as Gaby claimed. She is sure Garelli or one of his cronies has
been watching the apartment the last couple of days. Moreover, there is also the blond man who accosted her at Marco’s party. She hasn’t seen him or his Smart car since Tuesday night, but instinct tells her she hasn’t seen the last of him. There is something about him that frightens her.
She glances at her watch. She has very little time to get to the station. What should she do? She rushes back into the study and considers the painting still hanging on the wall. It is quite small, she supposes. She hasn’t time to debate the wisdom of bringing it; she doesn’t want to miss her train. She grabs the picture off the wall and hunts around for something to put it in. There is no time to pack it properly. She sees her great-grandmother’s lace scarf abandoned on the chair, and she picks it up and wraps it around the picture. Not great, but better than nothing. She shoves the lace-bound painting in her black briefcase and runs out the door.
As Valentina weaves her way through the crowds in Stazione Centrale, feeling diminutive in the classical sweep of the grand hall, she can’t help thinking she is being followed. She spins around and sees him straight away. Garelli, at a newsstand, trying to look engrossed in a magazine. Really, he is a useless detective, she thinks. Even so, his presence worries her. She could be walking around with a stolen painting in her briefcase. If he catches her, arrests her, she will look very guilty indeed. Moreover, she doesn’t want him trailing her all the way to Venice and finding Theo. In fact Theo could be right here as well, in the train station, running for the same train. She looks around, but the station is thronging with crowds and she can’t see him anywhere.
She glances at the clock. She has about three minutes before the train leaves. She has to get rid of Garelli. She walks away from the platforms and back out into the main hall of the station. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Garelli following her. She goes down the walkway to the lower floor, and makes towards the metro, before darting into the bookshop. He has probably seen her go inside, but if she is quick she can trick him. She runs through the bookshop and up the stairs inside the shop, to come back outside to the main hall of the station again. Just one minute now before her train leaves. She runs through the crowds to Platform 13. She sees the guard about to blow his whistle and she waves at him. Oh, the value of being a pretty woman in Italy! The guard opens the door of the train for her just in time.
