Deep and Silent Waters (8 page)

Sebastian gave him a wary, polite but distant nod. ‘
Signore
?’ He looked around, too, in case others were close to him; gangs of pickpockets operated in most tourist centres and he would not have been surprised to find that this man was part of one such gang and was trying to distract him until the others made their move.

Still in Italian, the old man said, the Venetian dialect salting his words, ‘You don’t remember me, Signor Ferrese? Look harder. It’s a while since we met, but you do know me, and I know all about you. I just want to warn you …’

Laura finished writing her postcards and pushed them into her handbag; the hotel would post them for her. Where was that waiter? When she had paid the bill she would have to rush, Melanie would be waiting.

Then, she heard Sebastian’s voice. At first she believed it was inside her head, an echo from the past, until another voice answered in low, muttered Italian.

They were a few feet from her, standing close together, Sebastian in pale blue jeans and a thin white cotton T-shirt talking to an old man, who looked like a tramp.

A few scraps of their conversation reached her, but her grasp of Italian was not good enough for her to understand much. Just a few words leapt out at her.

‘
Morte
…’ That word she did know: it meant death. ‘
Morte violente
…’ A violent death. She shivered. The old man must be talking about Clea. What was he saying? Her eyes riveted on Sebastian. She saw all trace of colour leave his face, his mouth harden, his face become a skull-like rigid mask.

‘
Assassinio
,’ the old man hissed, nodding insistently at Sebastian. ‘
Si, si, assassinio
!’ Biting her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood, Laura thought he must be accusing Sebastian of murder.

Sebastian snapped back at him and the old man jerked away.

‘
Non vada in collera
!’

She knew those words – Don’t lose your temper, the old man was saying, and he looked frightened.

Laura stood up and dropped money on the table, without taking her eyes from Sebastian.

He leaned towards the old man, his lips parting to snarl a muffled burst of words. Laura saw something in his face that she remembered from those terrifying, recurring dreams. She might love him but somehow she had picked up the violence within him; the murderous fury that showed now in his face. She didn’t understand most of what he said, but she picked up the threat in his tone, in his face. ‘
I morti non parlano
…
un segreto
…
capisce
…’

God, why hadn’t she learnt more Italian? She desperately wanted to know what he was saying.

The old man backed away, his hands held up in a plea. ‘
Signore, prego
…’ He started talking faster, very softly; she picked up only one or two words she understood.
Moglie
. Wife – that meant wife, didn’t it? Then again he whispered, ‘
Assassinio
!’

Laura couldn’t bear to listen to any more: she turned on her heel and began to run, guilt poisoning her mind. If she had never met Sebastian, never fallen in love with him and let him see how she felt, would Clea have died? Life was like a soft-skinned fruit that bruises if you so much as brush it with a fingertip. Every little thing you do can have such far-reaching repercussions.

Had he killed his wife?
No
! Not Sebastian. He would never kill anyone, let alone a woman he had loved – and Laura knew that he had loved Rachel Lear when he married her. Sebastian would never have married at all if he had not been in love. He had told her that when he first met his wife he had fallen for her at once. Rachel Lear had been the sex goddess of her day and a lot of men went crazy over her. Sebastian had not been the first, or the last.

But even if he had fallen out of love, why would he kill Clea? If he wanted to be rid of her he would only have had to walk out, divorce her. But Sebastian was a Catholic, of course; he did not believe in divorce.

Clea did, though: she had already been divorced once so why not again, if she was tired of her marriage? Marriage was not something Clea took seriously. But had she been tired of Sebastian? She had been very jealous that day when she found her husband and Laura kissing. Laura remembered the look on Clea’s lovely face; the black rage, the viciousness.

Next day Clea had sauntered on to the set and confronted Laura, who was sitting in a canvas chair out of sight of the camera, waiting to be called for a retake.

Laura had gone red, then pale, and had half risen. Clea had waved her back into the chair, had sat down beside her, crossed her legs – showing a lot of silky thigh in the process for the benefit of any men around – and yawned like a sleepy cat.

‘Don’t worry, darling, I’m not going to hit you. I’m quite sorry for you, actually. You don’t really think a gawky, half-baked beanpole like you is going to hold him, do you? He may have taken you to bed, but he does that with every girl who chucks herself at him. It doesn’t mean a thing. Take my advice, darling, get away from him fast. He’ll only hurt you, he’s a mean bastard.’ She turned back the black lace collar of her dress, and gestured to her pale neck: a bruise showed up disturbingly. ‘See what he did to me last night? He tried to throttle me. Those are his fingerprints. One day he’ll kill me. He’s so jealous of every man I look at. That’s why he sleeps around – trying to make me as jealous as he is!’

She had laughed, a clear, light sound that did not match the expression in her famous, violet-blue eyes, and Laura had felt as if she was watching Rachel Lear in one of her films. It was hard to distinguish her real life from her acting. How much of all that had been the truth? Oh, that Sebastian was jealous, Laura believed – what man, married to the most beautiful woman in the world, the modern Helen of Troy, adored and desired by millions of other men, would not have been jealous? He had possession of her, and yet he did not possess her. How could he when she constantly betrayed him, broke her marriage vows lightly – worse, enjoyed his pain, his frustration, his rage? If Sebastian had killed her, he had had good reasons for doing so.

Poor Sebastian. Laura knew how he must have felt. No other emotion was as corrosive: jealousy hurt, burned acidly in your stomach, destroyed your peace of mind, kept you awake at night and, when you did snatch a few minutes’ sleep, tortured you with dark dreams. Laura knew all about jealousy now.

‘Laura! Wait! Laura!’

His voice behind her made her panic. She ran faster but the path she was following now was so narrow that she was afraid she would fall into the narrow canal that wound beside it.

Sebastian caught her arm. ‘Why did you run away?’ He was breathless from running, or from the rage she had seen in his face when he was talking to the old man. She wished she knew exactly what they had argued about.

She didn’t answer, tugging to get away from him, her eyes lowered to the surface of the canal, which sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, the gleam of petrol turning the water into a spreading rainbow.

‘You’ve changed,’ he said, almost as if it was an accusation.

She looked up into his face. ‘So have you.’ Her tone was heavy with sadness, a voice of mourning. ‘Far more than me.’

He knew he looked older now than he had when they first met, and he felt older. Sometimes he felt like the oldest man still breathing.

‘Far more has happened to me,’ he said, in a harsh, smoky tone.

‘Yes.’ She took a breath, looked up, then plunged in. ‘I was very sorry to hear of your wife’s death.’

Their eyes held. ‘You think I killed her, too.’ Sebastian’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘Go on. Say it. You think I killed her, don’t you? Everyone does. They don’t come out with it but I see it in their faces. They all think I killed Clea.’

‘Did you?’ She stared at him, seeing the dark eyes glittering, the mouth hard and leashed. He looked capable of murder now.

In her head the old man’s words ran like the words of a song.
Morte
…
moglie
…
morte violente
…
assassinio
…

Sebastian’s tight lips parted. ‘No.’ The word grated though his teeth. His mouth said no, but his face contradicted what he said.

She could not stop staring at him, at the beauty of his face, the lustre of those great dark eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, the powerful bone structure that told of strength and conviction, the stubborn, wilful jawline.

They heard footsteps behind them: an elderly woman with a shopping bag was walking along the narrow path. Sebastian’s hands dropped to his sides and, freed, Laura turned and walked away very fast, towards the open waters of the Grand Canal. He followed and caught up with her.

‘Have you been sightseeing?’ His tone was politely distant, the voice of a stranger making small-talk.

She nodded without speaking, sick with desire, miserable with guilt.

‘Where have you been?’

‘The basilica.’ Her throat was ash-dry – it was hard to speak at all. She forced herself. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’

‘I haven’t been there yet.’

Her green eyes opened wide, startled, instantly suspicious. ‘You told me you were born here. You must have visited it some time.’

‘I was six when we left.’

Slowly she said, ‘Yes, of course. I suppose you don’t remember much.’

‘Not much.’ Too much, he thought, yet not enough. It was like seeing in flashes by a flickering candle in a high wind. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘Only a couple of days. Have you finished the film you were shooting in South America?’

‘Yes, I wrapped it up the day before yesterday, just before we hit the deadline. Are you working at the moment?’

‘No. I just finished filming in Ireland with Ross Kintyre. An Irish novel,
The Grey Pebble
. A small part, but the money was good, and he’s a wonderful director. It was great experience.’ How easy it was to slip into shop-talk, avoiding anything personal. Easy, but unreal.

They were not talking at all, were they? Not aloud, anyway. Their bodies spoke, but not their minds, which were shut to each other, shuttered rooms full of… what?

‘Work lined up?’

She was hot at the moment: soon producers would be beating down her door to offer her work. He watched her eyes, very green against that delicate pale skin, and her pink mouth, warm and sensitive and unbearably sexy. Did she know how desirable she was? When he first met her she had not had any idea what her body could do to men, but she moved differently now, with grace and control. She knew precisely the effect of her body. He had dreamt of being the one to teach her and hated to imagine her with some other man.

Laura shrugged. ‘I’ve been turning stuff down. Melanie’s getting cross with me. I keep getting offered parts that are dead ringers for the girl in
Goodnight, World, and Goodbye
. Why are so many people copycats? Why don’t they ever take chances, try something new or different? I don’t want to keep playing the same part over and over again. What about you? What are your plans?’

She was afraid to stop talking shop in case he moved on to something more personal, less safe.

‘I want to make a movie here, in Venice. I’ve had one in mind for years and I think I’ve even got a backer.’

‘How exciting. Who’s doing the script?’

‘At the moment I am. I’ve had a couple of people working on it, but I haven’t been pleased with anything they’ve turned in. The present version has something of the atmosphere but it needs sharpening up.’ They passed a gondola idling on the edge of the Grand Canal and Sebastian asked, ‘Have you been in a gondola yet?’

‘No. Mel said they’re a rip-off.’

‘Well, you can’t leave Venice without having been in a gondola. It’s too special an experience.’ He hailed the gondolier who, silently moved closer to the edge of the path.

Alarmed, Laura said, ‘I have to go, I’m meeting Melanie at Florian’s.’ Floating around Venice in a gondola, alone with Sebastian – the idea was too dream-like, marvellous. She was afraid.

‘I want you to see Ca’ d’Angeli.’

Her heart turned over. ‘The house where you were born?’ Was it real, after all? Were there angels and ancient, faded tapestries on the walls, family portraits, echoing marble floors, a reflection of water on the ceilings?

‘I’d love to,’ she said wistfully, ‘but I can’t. I have to find Mel.’

Sebastian curled a hand around her arm just above the elbow and, without looking at her, spoke to the gondolier in Italian.

‘Ca’ d’Angeli?’ the man repeated, staring. ‘
Si, Signore
.’ The man contemplated the sky, thought, named a figure.

‘A hundred thousand lira?’ Sebastian laughed scornfully and began to argue, shaking his head.

‘I really must go.’ Even to herself, Laura sounded helpless, weak-willed. She should pull free and walk away, but she was paralysed, torn between her fear of getting involved with Sebastian again and her desire to see Ca’ d’Angeli, to be alone with him for an hour or two.

The bargaining ended abruptly. Sebastian jumped down into the gondola, still holding Laura’s hand.

She tried to move away, but he gave a little tug and tightened his grip. She uttered a faint, bird-like cry of alarm, her foot slipped on the wet edge of the crumbling canal path, and she lost her balance, toppling forward into his arms. Sebastian held her, while the gondola rocked to and fro on the petrol-streaked water.

Clutching him, she breathed in his familiar scent, eyes closing. Hadn’t she dreamt of this many times? Venice, the canal, a gondola, herself and Sebastian, floating towards the palazzo and the carved stone angels? He pulled her down on to the dark red padded seat, and the gondolier began to pole his way slowly into the Grand Canal.

She picked up the telephone twice before she finally dialled. The operator’s distinctly Venetian voice was automatic, briskly polite. ‘Hotel Excelsior.’

‘
Posso parlare col Signore Ferrese
?’

‘
Un momento, per favore
.’ A pause, then the girl said, ‘
Non rispondono
,’ and told her that Sebastian had gone out an hour earlier.