“Markos?” I asked incredulously. He wasn’t wearing the knife-creased white trousers and starched white shirt he’d worn on the ship, but dungarees and a red knit polo shirt open at the neck. He looked different, and somehow younger, out of uniform. “I thought you were spending the day in Livorno.”
He looked up from his work and gave me a rueful smile. “I meant to, but I couldn’t get a date.”
I chose to ignore this remark, gesturing instead at the sketchpad on his lap. “Can I—may I see?”
After what seemed to me a moment’s hesitation, he turned it around. At the sight of his sketch, the sudden and (if I were honest) not unwelcome suspicion that he might have followed me to Florence died. He was good. More than that, he was very good.
“You’re very talented,” I told him.
“Thank you.”
“So what are you doing photographing tourists on a cruise ship?”
“It’s hard to make a living as an artist,” he said, dismissing the notion with a shrug before continuing in a very different voice, “So, since we both find ourselves in Florence, why not have lunch with me? I know a little ristorante near the Ponte Vecchio with outdoor tables overlooking the Arno.”
Much as my feet protested the very idea of retracing my steps all the way back to the river, I was sorely tempted. I glanced around for Aunt Maggie, but she’d disappeared; either she had decided to give me the opportunity to talk to a good-looking young man in privacy, or she’d gone behind the statue to investigate David’s posterior. Knowing Aunt Maggie, it could have been either one.
“I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to be meeting someone at two,” I said.
“And so, I’m too late again,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“It isn’t that,” I began, then remembered that I owed neither apology nor explanation to a chance-met stranger on a ship. “I don’t want to keep him waiting, so I’d better be going. I’m sure I’ll see you again back on the ship.”
I waggled my fingers at him in farewell, then circled around the statue in search of my aunt. Just as I’d suspected, she stood behind David, staring up at his marble buttocks.
“What a guy!” she remarked appreciatively.
I shrugged. “If you say so,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Robin?” She tore her gaze away long enough to look at me. “Is something wrong?”
“Can we go now? We’ll need to meet Paul soon, and I’d like to grab a bite to eat somewhere.”
As it turned out, we didn’t have time for a restaurant meal. We stopped at a curbside market and bought bread, cheese, and figs, and these—together with the apples I’d secreted away in my bag at breakfast—constituted our lunch, eaten balanced on our knees in Paul’s rented Fiat as he drove westward toward Pisa. I tried not to think about sipping Chianti at an intimate table for two overlooking the River Arno.
We arrived in Pisa at just past three-thirty. Thankfully, finding a parking space proved easier than it had in Florence, and after a short walk, we emerged onto the broad green space known as the Campo dei Miracoli—the Field of Miracles. If I’d thought Florence’s cathedral looked like a wedding cake, the Field of Miracles boasted three of them, all brilliantly white against the thick green carpet of grass. Nearest at hand was the round, barrel-like baptistry; beyond it, and by far the largest of the three, was the cathedral itself, whose tiers of arcades were reflected in those of its famous bell tower—the Leaning Tower, which did indeed lean out as if peeking out from behind its parent cathedral like a precocious child, too shy to call attention to itself yet determined not to be ignored.
Not that it would have been possible to ignore it in any case. Streams of tourists passed us on their way to seize a place in the line to climb the tower.
“What do you think?” Paul asked doubtfully, eyeing the long queue snaking out from the base of the tower. “They’ll be sounding the ‘all aboard’ at six. Can we make it in time?”
Maggie shook her head. “We’d better not risk it. What do you think, Robin?”
“Oh, it would be a shame to be so close and not even try to get in,” I protested. “We might never have another chance.”
“Go ahead and get in line, Robin,” Paul urged. “Maggie and I will keep an eye on the time, and if you haven’t returned by the time we need to head back to the ship, we’ll motion for you to come down.”
He didn’t have to work very hard to convince me. As I’d said, I might not have another chance. I paid for my ticket and stood in line, glancing at them occasionally in case they were signaling to me. As I watched, Paul threw back his head and laughed at something my aunt had said, and it occurred to me that they might have their own reasons for wanting me to attempt the climb.
There were almost three hundred steps from bottom to top, many of which had been worn uneven by the footsteps of eight hundred years’ worth of tourists, and the spiral staircase grew narrower the higher I climbed. Furthermore, the tower was dark, lit only dimly from the small windows spaced at intervals. And, as the tilt was almost fifteen feet from vertical—with no handrails—I had no more thought to spare for Maggie and Paul; I had all I could manage just putting one foot in front of the other.
At last I reached the top, and emerged into the sunshine. I waved at my ant-like aunt eight floors below, then took a couple of photos of the panoramic view from the top. Finally, determined not to linger until they had to flag me down, I retraced my steps down the stairs to the ground.
“I’ll admit, I’m glad you’re back on terra firma,” Maggie said. “Then again, if this ‘terra’ was very ‘firma,’ the tower wouldn’t lean the way it does.”
“It’s quite safe, at least for the present,” Paul assured us. “Someday it will have to be stabilized, but in the meantime, they only let a few people up at a time—which is why the lines are so long. If we’re all ready, then, let’s head back to the ship.”
Aunt Maggie and I agreed to this program, with one caveat: on our way out, we insisted Paul take a photo of us with the Leaning Tower in the background. The three of us located a point far enough away that the whole thing would fit into the viewfinder of my camera, and Paul took the shot, then took one more for good measure. To my surprised delight, he asked me to take a picture of him and Aunt Maggie together, even giving me his business card so that I could mail a copy of the photo to him.
“There’s no need for that,” I told him, checking the counter on the top of the camera. “I’ll have finished this roll of film by the time we return to the ship, so I’ll drop it by the camera shop on board for developing.”
I took the picture, and another just in case the first one didn’t turn out, then handed the camera to Aunt Maggie.
“Would you take one of me? I’d like to send it to Gene.”
“Excellent idea! Let him see what he’s missing. Say ‘Cheese,’ ” Maggie commanded, giving me no chance to defend my fiancé. I saw her finger move as she snapped the picture, but instead of handing the camera back to me, she glared at something or someone over her shoulder. “Well, drat! I’m going to have to take another one, Robin. Someone walked into the frame just as I snapped the shutter.”
I followed her disapproving gaze, and suffered a shock. The man had his back to us now, but I had no difficulty recognizing a muscular man of medium height with tanned skin and jet-black hair. I knew instinctively that when the photos were developed, they would show him to be about forty years old, with a thick mustache and somewhat fleshy cheeks. For I had seen this particular man before, and not just in a dream: it was he who had stood at the stern of the Oceanus and tossed Pedro’s luckless counterpart overboard.
Chapter 4
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS, The Tower,
Among School Children
“Robin? Honey, are you okay?” Aunt Maggie’s voice pulled me from the recollection of what I’d thought had been a dream.
“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head as if to banish the memory. I glanced back at the man’s retreating form, and noticed that he carried a bulging paper bag from one of the vendors’ stalls lined up along the entrance to the Campo dei Miracoli. I hoped whatever he’d bought here in Pisa would have a happier fate than his souvenir from Barcelona had. “It’s just that—you know I don’t like it when you talk about Gene that way.”
“I know you don’t, and I’m sorry,” she said with uncharacteristic remorse. “Here, let’s take another photo, now that there’s a break in the tourist traffic. You can get it developed onboard ship, and mail it to Gene from the next port.”
Actually, Gene was the last person on my mind at the moment, but having kept quiet about my late-night adventures thus far, I felt a bit foolish bringing them up now. I merely nodded, and smiled for the camera. But I had a feeling that particular photo would reveal my smile to be a bit forced.
The drive from Pisa to Livorno was considerably shorter than the trip from Livorno to Florence had been, so we reached the ship fully half an hour before the “all aboard” sounded. I stopped by the ship’s camera shop to drop off my film before dressing for dinner, and somehow I wasn’t surprised to see Markos back in uniform at the photo counter.
“Good evening, Miss Fletcher,” he said. “Did you enjoy your afternoon in Pisa?”
“Yes, I did. Very much, thank you,” I said.
“I trust your date did not disappoint.”
I thought of Maggie and Paul chatting in the car on the drive back to the ship. Actually, it had been their date, not mine, but that was none of his business. “No, I don’t think he disappointed at all. When can I pick up my photos?”
Markos looked as if he might have liked to say something, but whatever it was, he bit it off. “Four days—let’s see, that would be Friday, any time after three.”
“Thank you,” I said again, and started for the staircase leading up to my own stateroom on Capri Deck.
“Really, Robin, why do you dislike that boy so?” Aunt Maggie scolded as we climbed the stairs.
“I don’t dislike him,” I said somewhat unconvincingly. “He just annoys me. I don’t know why.”
Maggie gave me a rather knowing look, but said only, “Be sure to wear something tonight that’s easy to move around in. There’s dancing on the Lido Deck after dinner.”
Which meant, I suspected, that she’d already made arrangements to meet Paul after dinner on the Lido Deck. Oh well, I thought, one of us might as well have a whirlwind romance, and I, I reminded myself sternly, was engaged and therefore unavailable for shipboard dalliance. Still, I dressed for dinner in an evening frock with a full tulle skirt that wouldn’t hamper movement, just in case I should happen upon any potential dance partners under the age of forty.
When we reached the formal dining room on Firenze Deck, we were greeted by a smiling individual, resplendent in a white dinner jacket, who introduced himself as the maître d’hôtel and offered to show us to our table. I was a bit taken aback to discover that passengers were assigned to specific tables, and that while on board ship, we would be expected to share our evening meal with strangers. This appeared to be no surprise to Aunt Maggie, however, so I fell in behind her as we threaded our way between tables covered in white linen and laid with fine china, silver cutlery, and crystal goblets. The maître d’ led us to a large round table positioned before a window—not a porthole like the ones in our staterooms, but a wide picture window through which we could see the blue waters of the Mediterranean, each wave tipped with gold from the setting sun. Several of our tablemates were already in place, and I realized that some of them were not strangers after all: the Sugar Daddy (really, I must learn to think of him as Mr. Grimes before I said something embarrassing) sat with his back to the window, while the Mistress—er, Miss Duprée—had claimed the chair on his right. I wondered if this was so she might have a better view out the window, or whether it was because it placed her out of the sun’s too-harsh rays: given her advanced age, I thought cattily, she would probably be wise to keep out of direct sunlight. Out of pure malice, I took the place at Mr. Grimes’s left, allowing the setting sun to fall full on my twenty-three-year-old face; after all, Miss Duprée might be more sophisticated than I would ever be, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about the twenty years that separated us. As I sat down, I realized that the gentleman on her right was no stranger, either.
“Maggie, Robin,” Paul said. He and Mr. Grimes had risen as we approached the table (a courtesy that, I had to admit, would never have occurred to Gene), and the slightest of gestures brought Aunt Maggie to the vacant chair next to his. Since the maître d’ was busy holding my chair for me, Paul performed the same office for Maggie before he and Mr. Grimes returned to their seats. That left three chairs still empty. Two of the three were soon taken by a couple in their sixties, a red-faced man who looked extremely uncomfort-able in a dark suit and tie, and a woman, presumably his wife, wearing an obviously new gown that still managed to look frumpy on her.
“The name’s Hollis, Henry Hollis,” the man said, reaching across the table to shake hands with Paul and Mr. Grimes. “And this here is my wife, Martha.”
He smiled rather self-consciously at Mrs. Hollis as he performed the introduction, and she beamed back at him, blushing rosily.
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Paul said. “If I may do the honors?” He performed the introductions and then, after everyone at the table had been identified, asked the newcomers, “Are you perhaps celebrating your wedding anniversary?”
I had to admire his tact. It was obvious the Hollises were not frequent travelers (I wondered, with some chagrin, if any of my shipmates had formed that immediate impression of me, as well), and that they were ill at ease with the level of formality that prevailed onboard ship in the evening.
“Well, you might say so,” confessed Mr. Hollis with another sheepish grin. “In fact, we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Now, Henry,” Martha Hollis protested feebly, as everyone at the table exclaimed delighted congratulations—everyone except Miss Duprée, who offered a thin-lipped smile. I decided the socially awkward Mrs. Hollis was worth ten of her.
Aunt Maggie drew her out by asking questions about how they met and, upon learning that Maggie was herself a widow, Martha Hollis quickly lost her embarrassment in expressions of ready sympathy. It transpired that Mrs. Hollis—Martha Peabody, as she was then—had never been married before. She’d once been engaged, she said, but her young man had been killed in the Great War—the first one, she explained, the one that was supposed to end all wars, and had for a whopping twenty years. In the meantime, Mrs. Hollis—Henry’s first wife, that was—had died two years ago, and he’d hired the spinster Miss Peabody to cook and clean for him, as he was so busy with the farm that he came home in the evenings too tired to do more than slap together a sandwich before collapsing into bed to get what sleep he could before getting up the next morning to do it all again. And then one day, he’d realized that it was Miss Peabody’s companionship, rather than her cooking, that he most looked forward to at the end of the day.
“To tell you the truth,” she confided, flushing pink, “I’d lost all hope of ever marrying. So don’t you give up hope, Miss Duprée,” she added, directing this last to the Mistress. “I’m sure it’ll happen to you too, as pretty as you are.”
“I am in no hurry,” Miss Duprée assured her with a smile that would have frozen water. “There are worse things than being single—being obliged to live on a farm, for instance.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, quickly filled by Aunt Maggie. “What a romantic story, Mrs. Hollis.”
“Just like a fairy tale,” I agreed warmly, following my aunt’s cue. “I hope you and Mr. Hollis will be very happy together.”
Mrs. Hollis gave us both a grateful smile, but lapsed once more into an awkward silence that made it clear she was fully aware of the insult. When our final dinner
partner came to take the vacant place between Mrs. Hollis and me, everyone at the table, with the possible exception of Miss Duprée, could have fallen on his neck in gratitude. But as he seated himself, I got a good look at his face. It was the same man who had walked into my photo—the same man I’d seen on deck last night.
“I trust I am not too late,” he said with an accent I couldn’t place. “I hope you will forgive me.”
“Oh, but your tardiness is not my only grudge against you,” Aunt Maggie put in brightly.
“Indeed?” He bared his teeth at her in what I supposed must pass for a smile.
“Yes. You ruined the photo I took of my niece Robin this afternoon in Pisa,” she explained, although her playful tone made it clear that she spoke in jest.
He turned to look at me, a cold gaze through eyes that should have been dark, given the rest of his coloring, but instead were pale blue, startlingly so against his swarthy skin. Ice blue, I thought, resisting an urge to shiver.
“If this is so, I apologize,” he said, although I’d never heard anyone sound less remorseful.
“It—It’s quite all right,” I stammered. “We took another one.” Feeling something else was called for, I added, “I’m Robin—Robin Fletcher. This is my aunt, Margaret Watson.”
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