by Evie Blake
‘Often it is impossible to prove who is the rightful owner of a work,’ Garelli continues. ‘It would appear that a person might take desperate measures and steal them.’
Their eyes lock, and Valentina knows that Garelli is referring to Theo. What will happen now when her boyfriend walks into the Danieli? Will Garelli arrest him? Will Theo run away and the policeman give chase, or worse still pull out a gun? She tries to stay calm, reminding herself of the facts. After all, officially there has been no crime committed.
‘But I don’t understand,’ she challenges Garelli. ‘Why do the victims change their minds and say that a theft hasn’t been committed after all?’
‘Shame, Miss Garelli. I can only think that these people didn’t know the true provenance of the pictures hanging on their walls. Maybe they wouldn’t have given them up easily – I mean, most of the pictures are worth millions – but once they were gone, they might have been persuaded by the thief to keep it quiet.’
‘Persuaded in what way?’
‘Told that he had evidence of the true owners; that they would be subjected to a lengthy and humiliating legal battle. I know for a fact that two of these so-called victims were Allied war heroes from the Second World War. I mean, imagine the shame for those men, to own Nazi plunder.’
It is an intriguing theory, and yet something doesn’t sound right to Valentina.
After a slug of his white wine, Garelli ploughs on with his explanation.
‘I do believe that what happened was that someone stole the pictures, and once the victim was informed that their painting was originally owned by a Holocaust survivor, well of course they retracted their statement of theft.’
‘But what would be the motive for the thief?’ Valentina asks. Was Theo that much of a philanthropist? That he would risk life and limb to return pictures to little old ladies like Gertrude Kinder?
‘That’s what I don’t understand either,’ Garelli says, scratching his head. ‘And that’s why I am here, with you, waiting for the same person.’
Neither of them speaks for a moment, as they eye each other up.
‘He’s not coming, you know,’ Valentina says eventually.
‘I know.’ Garelli nods towards her briefcase. ‘However, would you mind if I took a look inside your bag?’
Valentina glances at her briefcase, empty now apart from the erotic photograph album.
‘Sure, why not?’ She smiles to herself, looking forward to witnessing Garelli’s reaction to the pictures.
And now she is walking home alone through the narrow streets of Venice in her great-grandmother’s silk evening gown, her emotions in tumult. She is angry, disappointed and hurt, yet at the same time she is proud of Theo for what he has done, confused as well, and a little in awe. Her Theo. Her intellectual and not very practical boyfriend (he can barely hang a rack of shelves) is an undercover art detective, roaming the world for plundered art, stealing it and returning it to its rightful owners. She still doesn’t understand why he doesn’t work in conjunction with the police, or why Gertrude Kinder told her that all was forgiven. And who was that old lady so frightened of? Hardly Garelli.
Valentina enjoyed Garelli’s initial embarrassment at the erotic photograph album, but in fact it was the policeman who gave her a shock with something he said as he was leaving. It was mentioned so casually, as if it was something someone might say to her any day. Yet no one ever had, her whole life.
‘Goodbye, Valentina. It’s been a pleasure. You know, your father would be proud of you.’
He was on his way out of the bar of the Danieli as he said it. She stood up suddenly, swaying slightly from all the red wine she had drunk.
‘Do you know my father?’ she called after him.
‘Yes,’ said Garelli, smiling smugly in amusement. ‘Of course I do.’ And before she had a chance to question him further, he had walked away.
Garelli knows her father. Of course he does. Her head is aching with all the information she has had to take in over the last couple of hours. This tease of information about her father is the last straw. Having avoided the policeman, she now wants to interrogate him about her father. Who is he? Where is he? How could he forget all about her? It is a moonless night, and the sky is as black as her humour. Still no Theo. She wants him now. She needs him to take away the pain in her heart.
The streets are deserted. It is always this way in Venice at night. The tourists go home, and it appears that the majority of the city’s residents are ghosts. She wanders along by the canal, trying not to get lost. She hears footsteps behind her, but when she turns she can see no one. A church bell strikes midnight, and a black cat runs across her path. She has luck on her side tonight, then, although it doesn’t feel like it. Her thoughts drift back to Gertrude Kinder. She didn’t tell Valentina what had happened to her husband, but she guesses he must have died in the Holocaust. She finds it hard to think about that time in history. It is incomprehensible to her, the possibility of such darkness in the human soul.
What was it that Leonardo said to her about sadomasochism? That in fact by acting out these instincts in the bedroom, some people manage to avoid sadistic behaviour in the real world. Is that true? Or is sadomasochism a perversion that contributes towards humanity’s cruelty to each other? She wants to believe Leonardo. There are enough things to feel guilty about in this world without including pleasure.
Again she hears the footsteps, and yet still when she turns she can see no one behind her. She speeds up. Yes, Gertrude Kinder really was scared. She wanted to leave before he came. Who was he? Not Garelli, she is sure. And not Theo, of course. She thinks of the blond stranger on the train. He said he was Theo’s rival. Is that who Gertrude Kinder was so frightened of?
She speeds up as she hears the footsteps getting closer and closer. She is nearly back at Locanda La Corte. She dashes over the last bridge, and across the square, literally flying down the alley to charge breathless through the hotel doors, much to the consternation of the concierge.
Once she is safely inside her room, she turns out the lights, pulls back the curtains and looks down into the alleyway. She can see him there, standing with his back against the wall, his cigarette glowing in the dark, his eyes hooked on her like a cat’s. He is waiting for her.
Belle
AS BELLE PUSHES OPEN THE FRONT DOOR OF SIGNOR Brzezinski’s house, and she and Pina shuffle in, filled with dread, the scene that greets her is the last she expected to see.
The hall is full of people. Associates of her husband, their wives, the staff, including Renate, a cloth clutched to her breast, her face as white as a sheet. Strangers as well, police. They are all staring at her, suddenly silent amid the commotion. And in among these voyeurs, looking at her as if she is the main attraction, is a friendly face. Her very own Doctor. He moves quickly through the crowd, his face creased with concern.
‘My dear Signora Brzezinska,’ he says. ‘Please come with me.’
She grabs Pina’s hand instinctively.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Her heart is in her mouth. Oh Santos, what have you done? For she knows that all these people, the police, the Doctor means only one thing. Someone has died.
‘The maid can stay here,’ the Doctor says gently. ‘But please follow me, my dear.’
‘No, Pina must come with me.’ Belle squeezes Pina’s hand tightly in her own. She mustn’t let her out of her sight. Just in case.
‘Very well,’ he says.
She and Pina follow the Doctor up the staircase, the eyes of these people who loathe her upon her back. She feels like it is she who is the murderer. Her bedroom is as she left it only this morning. The wardrobe wide open, her clothes strewn across the floor, her jewellery box empty. And the balcony door is wide open. The Doctor looks at her, and she knows he has figured out that she ran away.
‘I think you should sit down, Signora Brzezinska,’ he says softly. Yet she cannot sit. She is all agitation.
‘Tell me,’ she demands. �
��What has happened?’
‘It’s your husband . . .’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’ He doesn’t say he regrets it, or that he is sorry. Why would he? He has seen what her husband did to her.
Pina gives a little cry, and Belle steps back in shock. She feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her. She is free at last. And yet at what cost?
‘How . . . how . . .’ she stutters, almost unable to speak. Oh, if her darling Santos has returned to Venice and killed her husband, what is she to do? If he is arrested, charged with murder, sentenced to death, she would want to kill herself as well, and yet she cannot because of the baby.
‘Louise,’ the Doctor says, taking her hand in his, ‘I am afraid your husband took his own life.’
Pina gasps, bringing her hands to her mouth.
‘What?’ Louise is speechless. It is the last thing she expected him to say. ‘But Santos Devine . . . what about Santos?’
The Doctor looks puzzled.
‘Who?’
Relief floods her. Signor Brzezinski has killed himself. It is nothing to do with Santos, and yet why would her husband, so determined, such a survivor, want to kill himself?
‘I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing?’ She is calm now that she knows Santos is all right. She sits down on the bed, puts her hands in her lap and looks up at the kind Doctor, waiting for him to speak.
‘Louise, something rather dramatic has happened in the world.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes . . .’ The Doctor pauses, licks his lips, hesitating before he speaks. ‘There was a big crash on the American stock market. Within a few hours, shares that were worth millions the day before became worthless.’
Belle looks at him uncomprehending.
‘What has that got to do with Signor Brzezinski?’
‘I am afraid that he invested all his money in American shares.’
‘He did?’
‘Apparently he was taken in by a con artist by the name of Frederick Harvey who persuaded him to invest all his money on the American stock market.’
So someone got the better of her greedy husband, eventually. She can’t help thinking this nasty thought, despite the fact that the man is dead.
‘It is a very odd thing,’ the Doctor says, looking at Belle quizzically. ‘Because this Frederick Harvey only conned your husband. He didn’t pick on any other businessman in the whole city. And nor did he make any money out of it himself. It seems quite bizarre.’
Santos.
Belle knows in an instant what her lover has done. He fulfilled his promise by killing her husband, but in a very clever way. She clasps her hands and tries to drop her head, careful not to show the Doctor her true emotions. She senses Pina sitting down beside her, taking her hands in hers.
‘It’s all right now,’ whispers the maid. ‘We’re safe.’
Belle looks up at the Doctor again. Her eyes are shining with tears. She knows they are not tears of grief, but of relief. Just as Santos told her in his note, her ordeal is over.
‘Tell me, Doctor, how did my husband kill himself?’
The Doctor winces.
‘Are you sure you want to know such details quite yet?’
‘Yes,’ she commands him. ‘Tell me, please.’
The Doctor walks over to the balcony door, takes the handle in his hand and swings it open, as if showing her Signor Brzezinski’s way out of their world.
‘He attached a brick to his leg and threw himself from your balcony.’
‘He cannot swim,’ she whispers, looking out at the grey skies of Venice.
‘Indeed,’ says the Doctor.
Signor Brzezinski’s downfall becomes the talk of Venice. Once the full extent of his financial ruin is revealed, no one questions the motive for his suicide. Belle tries to find a place of compassion for him in her heart. Yet she finds it impossible to say even one prayer for him. Instead she gives the task over to Pina, who despite the fact that Signor Brzezinski threatened to rape her seems more able to forgive than Belle.
What would she do without Pina? Not one week after the death of her husband, the bailiffs arrive, removing the very carpet from underneath their feet. The servants and all her so-called friends desert her, and it is just she and Pina left to be thrown out of the house. Fortunately she still has the apartment, and a little money from the kind Doctor to cover the rent. She sells all her jewellery, but her husband was never lavish with his gifts and the money doesn’t last long. If it were not for Pina, they would have starved. Belle keeps suggesting that she take up her work again as a prostitute, although surprisingly she has no taste for it now. Yet Pina will not allow it. She insists that now Belle is pregnant, she needs to focus on looking after herself in preparation for the arrival of the baby. She assures Belle that there must be another, more respectable way to make a living, and in the meantime she charms the stallholders down at Ponte di Rialto to supply them with spoilt food they cannot sell.
It is the pictures that give Pina the idea for their future. She is reorganising the cupboards in the tiny apartment when she comes across a stack of photographs of Venice that Belle took with Santos.
‘Where did you get these?’ she asks, fanning the photographs in her hand.
Belle looks at the pictures, and she feels a lead weight pulling at her heart. Oh, she remembers that day. The joy of Santos rowing her down the canal, the excitement of taking the photographs, and the pleasure she succumbed to after Santos rowed them out into the middle of the lagoon.
‘I took them,’ she says, not expanding on the other details.
‘You did?’ Pina asks, surprised. ‘Why, they’re really good. Do you have a camera?’
Belle opens the drawer in the tiny bedside cabinet and takes out the little bellows camera.
‘Santos gave it to me,’ she says, handing it to Pina.
Whenever Santos’s name is mentioned, Pina’s shoulders stiffen into a rigid line, and her face takes on a serious expression. Belle knows that Pina believes he has abandoned her, leaving her pregnant and destitute, yet Belle herself believes otherwise. He will come as soon as he can. Now that Signor Brzezinski is dead, nothing can stand in their way. It is true she is surprised that it has taken him so long, but maybe he hasn’t heard the news yet. Who will tell him that she is now free?
She tried to find Lara, but when she returned to the mask-maker’s house in Cannaregio, she found it abandoned. A neighbour told her that the red-headed courtesan had disappeared, leaving behind no information on where she might have gone. For a second Belle was seized by a pang of jealousy. Was it possible that Lara knew where Santos was? Had she gone to join him? And yet when she brought to mind their last tender lovemaking, she was certain in her heart that Santos was hers. She just had to be patient. He could be waiting for all the gossip about the blackguard Mr Frederick Harvey to die down.
Pina opens the lid of the camera and the little bellows lens springs up.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘why don’t we try to make money taking pictures?’
Belle returns her thoughts to the present, and their urgent need to survive.
‘Don’t you need a better camera for that? A studio, and lighting?’
And yet for the first time since she was thrown out of her husband’s house, she begins to feel a little hope. What if they can do something with the camera?
‘I am talking about snapshot pictures of visitors to Venice. Out and about in the city,’ Pina says, her dark eyes flashing with inspiration. ‘We approach tourists, take their pictures, and once we have got them developed, drop them off at their hotels over the next couple of days.’
Belle leans forward, and grasps Pina’s hands in hers.
‘That is an excellent idea, my dearest Pina, for it is quite new and different from the formal portraits most people have taken. I think it might just take off.’
Blackbird Photographers Esq., Calle Bressana, Castello, Venice is born. This is how Pina and Belle mak
e their living. They become infamous characters of Venice, and many of their tourist customers request photographs taken with them as well as on their own. The two friends dress up to go out and about looking for customers, Belle in one of her fancy silk dresses, Louise Brooks bob and furs, Pina preferring to wear a miniature pinstriped suit Belle has had specially tailored for her.
Each day as Belle takes her pictures on the streets of Venice, she is also looking for Santos. Hoping, praying she will find him again. She plasters a smile on her face, a welcome to their customers, and yet inside she is clinging to her faith. When will he come?
Valentina
SHE CAN’T BREATHE. HER MOUTH IS GAGGED AND HE is pushing her under the water. She kicks against him, but the water is as thick as treacle, pulling her down. She can feel her strength ebbing. He drags her up, and her nostrils flare as she tries to take in more air. Her eyes beg for mercy, yet the blond stranger is possessed. He looks at her without recognition, his eyes blank, his mouth set in a grimace. He dunks her back into the water, as if he is drowning a kitten. She twists and turns, flailing with her arms, trying to push up against the pressure of his hand that keeps her down. Water floods in through the gag in her mouth. She can taste it, the sea. It is pulling her down to its bed, and she can feel it in her body, her eventual submission as her limbs relax and she falls back into the depths.
She takes a deep gulp, dragging the fresh air deep into her lungs.
‘Valentina?’
She sits up in her bed in the Locanda La Corte, her eyes wide open. She is alive. It was a dream, just a bad dream.
‘Valentina?’
Yet the voice is real enough. She looks into the blackness of the room, and she can see a figure sitting on a chair by the window. It is her lover’s voice she hears, she is sure.
‘Theo?’ she whispers tentatively.
The figure gets up and walks towards the bed, leaning over and turning on the bedside lamp. Oh thank God it is him. Her heart lurches with relief and yet at the same time she still feels a shard of anger that his very absence makes her feel so weak and lonely.
