Overture in Venice

by Hester Rowan

  ‘Much better,’ I insisted. ‘Don’t keep Richard waiting, go out and enjoy the sun.’

  ‘With you lying here ill? I wouldn’t dream of it! Do finish your tea and try to eat some toast.’

  ‘I don’t want any more,’ I said pettishly, longing to be left alone. ‘I’m going to have another nap, and there’s really no point in your staying. Thank you for being so sweet, but –’

  ‘You have a good sleep, then,’ she smoothed me, ‘I’ll be here if you need anything.’

  I didn’t, but she was; for the rest of the morning, while I took my midday tablets with another sip of sour tea, and through the heat of the early afternoon. By now my irritation with her had turned to apologetic guilt – I was spoiling her holiday far more than she had spoiled mine in Venice. And so, although my head was throbbing, my knees were woolly and my general soreness had changed to a specific backache I insisted that I had recovered and got up.

  It was a greater effort than I wanted to make and I felt very groggy indeed as I steered myself across the road and sat down thankfully in the shade of the vine pergola by the lake. But at least I had put on a convincing performance for Jennifer and Richard and they allowed me to persuade them to take themselves off for an hour or two.

  There was a certain amount of preliminary fussing as they provided me with all the things that I might conceivably need in their absence: a glass of fresh lemon if I felt thirsty, a paperback novel if I wanted to read, my sun-glasses if I ventured out of the shade, my tablets to be taken on the dot of six if Jennifer wasn’t back to administer them personally. And then, at last, they left me in peace.

  It was a beautiful afternoon, down there by the lake, but I was in no condition to appreciate it. The stir and shimmer of the water dazzled my eyes, the steepness of the surrounding mountains made me feel vertiginous, the buzzing of the insects in the vines above my head was a permanent irritation.

  It was warm and airless under the pergola. I was thirsty, my mouth felt like one of the stony dried-up riverbeds that our coach had flashed across on the journey towards the Alps, but I was afraid that drinking might make me queasy again and I doubted that I could get back to the hotel unaided. Above all, inexplicably, the small of my back ached.

  I stretched out my hand to the glass of lemonade, intending to moisten my mouth. I picked up the glass slowly, unsteadily – and at that moment there came a furious quarrelsome buzzing from a tender bunch of grapes just above my table and a wasp fell plop into the drink.

  I stared at it dismally. The wasp had landed on its back on a fragment of lemon and was now thrashing its wings and zooming about the surface of the liquid like a demented motorboat. I watched it as from a great distance, without curiosity or concern, unable even to find the strength to flick the creature out. I felt ill and wretched, desperate for the drink that had been spoiled. So full of self-pity that I did nothing to discourage weak tears from gathering in my eyes; so self-absorbed that I didn’t notice the grim-faced man striding across the promenade towards me.

  Chapter Five

  The only person I could possibly have welcomed at that moment was kind, comfortable Owen. Had he been there I would probably have tottered feebly into his arms and burst into tears – so it was just as well for my self-respect that my visitor was one of the men I least wanted to see ever again, because nothing would induce me to give way to tears in front of Guy Lombardi.

  He ran down the steps from the promenade to the terrace, obviously glad to have found me. Not pleased, just coldly triumphant.

  I stopped snivelling, sat up – cautiously – as straight as my aching back would allow, and said all that I wanted to say to him.

  ‘If you’ve come to apologize for your unspeakable behaviour in locking me up, don’t bother. Just go away and leave me alone.’

  He gave an abrupt unamused laugh, pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. He still wore his Venetian suit but with considerably less elegance, as though he had only just arrived after a hurried journey across the hot plain. ‘I’ll go when I’ve found out what you knew that made you climb out of a first-floor window to get away from me,’ he announced flatly.

  I was so indignant that I nearly choked on my words. ‘Knew? I knew nothing! You don’t seriously mean that you expected me to stay meekly in that room until you chose to let me out! Of course I wanted to get away from you after you’d treated me like – like –’

  An elderly German tourist, sitting in the sun at the edge of the pergola, turned to look at me with disapproval. I let my voice drop. My head ached abominably, my back was too painful for me to sit in comfort. If only I’d had the strength I’d have stalked across the road to the hotel and slammed the door.

  Guy Lombardi looked slightly taken aback, as if it had only just occurred to him that I might reasonably object to the loss of my freedom. ‘I had to lock you up,’ he said stiffly, ‘while I took Signor Crespi to a friend’s house. I couldn’t leave him in the shop alone, he was terrified of Zecchini. And I couldn’t let you go until I’d found out what Alberto had told you.’

  It was hard to believe that the man could be so obtuse. I drew a long shaky breath and tried to speak rationally and calmly.

  ‘Look, I was simply an innocent tourist sitting in St Mark’s Square and it was pure chance that your friend’s nephew spoke to me. It’s no use your badgering me to tell you what he said, because I didn’t understand a word of it. And considering that you’ve admitted that he was a thief –’

  Guy’s face darkened angrily. ‘Yes, all right, Alberto had a police record – he was a pathetic small-time thief who spent more years of his life in prison than out. But he worked with my father during the war and my family owes him a debt. You may have despised him but he didn’t deserve to die like that, to be knifed and thrown into a canal. And as for your innocence – I’ve never seen anyone look as guilty as you did when you heard about his death!’

  I resented the allegation of snobbery almost more than the assertion of my guilt. ‘I did not despise him!’

  The German peered at me indignantly through the gap between the brim of his linen hat and the top of Die Welt, and I moderated my voice. ‘I felt – compassion for him, if you want to know. He was so vulnerable, so frightened. He needed help, and if I looked guilty it was only because I knew that I hadn’t been able to help him.’

  ‘He asked for your help, did he? Alberto didn’t speak a word of English, so why go on pretending that you didn’t understand what he said to you?’

  I despaired of ever getting through to him: ‘I’m not pretending – I guessed what you and Signor Crespi were talking about … it was the tone of Alberto’s voice, his look … oh, for goodness’ sake leave me alone. What does it matter to him any more, poor man? It’s too late for anyone to help him now.’

  An assorted half-dozen small children from the hotel, dressed in bright brief bathing slips, ran past us to the jetty laughing and shouting. Guy Lombardi glanced at them for a moment with an Italian’s indulgent affection for children, but then he turned to me with the weary patience of an English magistrate explaining the nature of a crime to a particularly dim-witted juvenile offender.

  ‘It matters because other people are affected. I had a letter a day or so ago from Signor Crespi. He said that a man who knew Alberto had brought him a message to say that Alberto was desperately anxious to get in touch with me when I came to Venice. But Alberto was afraid that he was being followed, and so he didn’t want to be seen speaking to me himself. For the same reason, he wouldn’t give his information to his uncle because he didn’t want to involve Signor Crespi in any risk. He was wonderfully loyal to his family and friends. All he would tell his intermediary was that he knew that violent men were after something of great value, and that innocent people known to me are in the way and might get hurt. He urgently wanted me to do something to help them.’

  It seemed to me that Alberto had been complicating things quite unnecessarily; there had been a very simple solution
to the problem of communication.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t he write to you about it, then?’ I said unsympathetically.

  Guy was immediately defensive. ‘Because Alberto happened to be illiterate. He could pass on his message only by word of mouth. He suspected that he was being followed so he wanted Signor Crespi to arrange that Anna, a girl we all knew, would be sitting in St Mark’s Square at a particular time on a particular evening. A girl sitting alone in a public place is an obvious target for the attentions of any Italian –’

  ‘Male chauvinists,’ I muttered, irritably waving some persistent insects away from my glass of lemon, but Guy pretended not to hear.

  ‘– so if Alberto went up and spoke to her it would be quite unremarkable. He intended to give her the message for me, and then go away. Fifteen minutes later I was to go up and speak to her myself, and she would pass on the message. Unfortunately, she was delayed. She never saw Alberto. But now we know that he talked to you instead – a long conversation, by Owen’s account, full of complicated explanations … Did he give you the message, asking you to pass it on to Anna? And did you give it to Zecchini, who then had poor Alberto disposed of?’

  I was infuriated by his insistence that I was in league with a criminal. ‘All I know about this Zecchini is that he and another man followed Alberto into St Mark’s Square. Alberto was frightened of them, I could see that. And when he ran away, with the other man after him, and Zecchini tried to talk to me, I knew why he was frightened. I was frightened too. And then Zecchini started following me, first back to my hotel and then to Signor Crespi’s shop. He must have thought that Alberto had given me some information –’

  ‘As he had.’

  ‘As he may well have done, except that I didn’t understand it! And now I’ve told you everything I know, and I’m not going to be cross-examined any more. I don’t care whether you believe me or not, I’ve had enough. You’re supposed to be Owen’s friend but you’ve treated me abominably … practically accusing me of murdering a man, and of being in league with a crook … locking me up and hounding me … can’t you get it into your head that I don’t understand Italian, and I wish to heaven I’d never come to your wretched country –’

  I could hear my voice rising, out of control. In a minute I’d be screaming at him, pounding on the table, throwing something. The German slapped down his newspaper, glared at me and ostentatiously moved his chair out of earshot. A middle-aged English couple, dressed in clothes suitable for a cool summer Sunday in Eastbourne, had been about to sit under the shade of the pergola but now they backed away into the sun in alarm.

  Guy Lombardi looked at me with reproof. ‘Are you feeling quite well?’ he asked.

  I sat tense and silent. If he hadn’t the sensibility to see that I looked ill, I certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

  He glanced over my belongings on the table, and picked up the tablets. ‘Oh,’ he said with disdain, ‘that’s the trouble, is it?’

  ‘Revolting Italian food,’ I mumbled. Humiliating enough to be ill, without being made to feel ashamed of it.

  ‘Rash indulgence,’ he retorted. Then, seeing my indignant look, he offered a hasty compromise. ‘Well, it might have been a local bug,’ he admitted magnanimously. ‘Unpleasant for you, anyway. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize – you must be feeling very low. Have the tablets helped?’

  ‘Yes, but –’ I don’t know what made me confide in him, except that as he had suggested I was feeling very low indeed ‘– if only my back didn’t ache so …’

  ‘Your back?’ He looked at the package again. ‘You’re following the instructions?’

  ‘Two tablets three times a day, I was told.’

  ‘Yes, but with liquids.’

  I was puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘To be taken with liquids,’ he said impatiently. He noticed my untouched glass of lemon. ‘Why didn’t you drink that?’

  I indicated the peacefully floating occupant. ‘Another of your local bugs,’ I complained bitterly.

  He declined to accept responsibility. ‘Your need was greater than the wasp’s. You should have drunk it first.’

  ‘I felt too groggy.’

  ‘But these tablets have a dehydrating effect. One of my English uncles is a country doctor and I often used to help in his dispensary, so I recognize the formula. No wonder you feel ill if you’ve been taking these without drinking.’

  ‘But how on earth could you expect me to know that? I can’t read formulae.’

  ‘You don’t need to. It says, here on the package: To be taken with liquids. Surely that’s plain enough?’

  I couldn’t summon the energy to sound victorious. I just gave him a gentle, weary smile. ‘It’s in Italian, isn’t it? It may have escaped your notice, Guy Lombardi, but I seem to have spent the past twenty-four hours trying to get it into your head that I don’t –’

  His jaw dropped. For a moment he looked remarkably foolish, and wretched as I felt, I savoured that moment. But then he covered his confusion by leaping to action.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he commanded. And that was foolish too, considering how weak I was. He ran up the steps and across the promenade, disappeared into the hotel and returned after a few minutes, weaving his way between the parked cars with a glass in his hand.

  ‘Drink that,’ he said.

  I sipped, cautiously. It was foully lukewarm, and I put the glass down with a shudder. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Plain boiled water, guaranteed germ-free. Get it down you.’

  ‘I don’t see how it will help. It’s my back that’s the trouble.’

  ‘That’s probably your kidneys. You’ve dried them out, and they’re complaining of thirst. I think your back will feel better as soon as you’ve absorbed some water. Come on, drink up.’

  I drank half a glass, slowly. He watched in stern silence, with no hint of understanding or apology, but I had no intention of letting him get away with it. ‘Did I hear a note of sympathy in your voice for the plight of a misunderstood, unwell tourist who doesn’t understand or speak Italian?’ I asked sweetly.

  He evaded my eye and addressed the middle distance. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize for disbelieving you. But you must see that the circumstances were very suspicious. It isn’t usual for an innocent tourist in Venice to become acquainted with one man with a police record and another who’s a notorious mob leader.’

  He was trying to put me in the wrong again, but I refused to appear to accept any blame by trying to defend myself.

  ‘Oh, but it wasn’t just a matter of disbelieving me,’ I reminded him. ‘You made several unpleasant accusations – and then there was the business of locking me up. I can’t imagine what Owen will say when I tell him.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell him myself,’ he said quickly. ‘And I do apologize, really.’ He gave me a broad, would-be friendly smile. The English couple, who had been sweltering out in the sunlight, glanced at each other to confirm that I no longer appeared to be raving, and ventured thankfully back into the shade. ‘And look,’ Guy went on, ‘as a friend of Owen, the least I can do is to ask you to come and spend the next few days with my brother and his wife. Their villa’s not far from here and it will be a lot more comfortable for you than an hotel. Owen’s coming to stay with us later this week, so you’ll be there when he arrives.’

  I didn’t bother to pay him the compliment of pretending to consider his proposition. ‘No, thank you,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Owen knows where I’m staying and I shall be perfectly happy to wait for him here.’

  He paid me back in my own currency. ‘As you like,’ he said with courteous indifference. ‘But I’m sure that my sister-in-law will want Owen to bring you over to the villa for a meal, so we may meet later. I hope you soon feel better.’

  He rose, straightened his jacket, turned to go; and then, suddenly, whirled round to face me again. His face was quite different – anxious.

  ‘Lord, what a fool I am. Did you notice that car, cruising past along the promenade? One
of the men in it looked just like Zecchini!’

  ‘It couldn’t be,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t. But don’t you realize, Clare, that you’re in danger? Alberto said that violent men were after his information, and God knows Zecchini is violent. He has no way of knowing that you didn’t understand what Alberto was saying to you, so he must think that you’ve now got the information he wants. That’s why he was following you in Venice!’

  ‘But he couldn’t have followed me here.’

  ‘Why not? He could have done exactly what I did – gone to your hotel and enquired where your tour was going next. Look, you really can’t stay here, it’s dangerous. Come to the villa, please. Now.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But nothing. I’ve enough explaining to do to Owen as it is without telling him that I left you here in danger. Remember what happened to Alberto?’

  ‘I remembered poor Alberto and shivered. ‘All right,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Just give me time to pack my things and leave a note for Jennifer.’

  I stood up, experimentally, and regretted it. My back seemed a little easier and I felt less unwell, but the message hadn’t yet gone down as far as my knees. They refused to co-operate.

  I sat down abruptly. ‘I don’t think –’ I began, but Guy caught urgently at my arm.

  ‘It is Zecchini. The car has gone by again and I think they’ve pulled up just beyond the hotel. Never mind about your things, I’ll ring Jennifer tonight from the villa and come down and pick them up tomorrow. All that matters at the moment is to get you out of here without being seen.’

  I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that I can walk very far.’

  ‘You won’t have to, my car’s just along the promenade.’ He looked at me critically. ‘Haven’t you got a scarf of some kind? That hair of yours is as conspicuous as a ripe cornfield in midwinter.’

  I didn’t bother to thank him for the compliment. ‘I bought one in Venice, but it’s in my room.’