Italian Passion (6 page)

Faye began by asking Max about his
background; his influences, his youth and the reasons he had chosen to become
an artist. He answered her questions cordially, if perfunctorily, giving little
away beyond the facts. Faye then moved on to question him about his time in
Rome, and the events that had led up to him being ‘discovered’ as an artist.
Once again, he answered every question adequately, but with a reserve that
frustrated Faye. As a journalist, she knew that the material he was giving her,
although interesting enough, would not be enough for a good feature article.

“You’ve not said much about your
family,” she noted eventually. “Your brother is also an artist, a sculptor you
told me, who lives in Puglia. Tell me a bit about him, about your
relationship?”

Max Paolini visibly stiffened at
that. “He’s two years older than me,” he conceded, “and left home when he was
sixteen.”

“And,” Faye prompted. “Do you see him
often?”

Max glowered at her, and Faye could
see he did not want to answer her question.

“I never see him,” he reluctantly
admitted. “We fell out nearly ten years ago and have not spoken since.”

Faye’s journalistic instinct flared
at last. Finally, she had the scent of a story.

“Why did you fall out?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m a journalist Mr Paolini. It’s my
job to ask questions. Why don’t you want to answer me?”

Max’s hands clenched at his side, as
if he wanted to throttle her. Faye calmly watched him, having no intention of
backing down when she was so close to discovering something about this
enigmatic artist.

“This is personal. What does my
relationship with my brother have to do with my art?”

“Everything,” Faye shot back. “Art is
self-expression. Knowing about your relationship with your brother would help
others understand your work.”

“We fell out, that’s all you need to
know,” Max replied, setting his jaw stubbornly. “I don’t want details about my
family all over the British press.”

Faye took a deep breath, calming the
irritation that she knew would be evident on her face.

“Very well, let’s move on to another
subject shall we? What about your personal life. You’re not married, but do you
have a lover, a muse?”

Max Paolini laughed at that. It was
an unexpected reaction. Amusement softened the arrogant lines of his face and
made his dark eyes twinkle.

“A muse? You have a very romantic
view of artists.”

“Don’t most people?”

Max shook his head. “Anyone who works
in the art world knows that making art is not about finding your muse. It’s
about hard labour, putting in the hours, and making sacrifices.”

“So no girlfriend then?”

Max Paolini’s mouth twisted. “Women
are a distraction. I have no time for them.”

“That’s a sweeping statement,” Faye
countered. “What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said,” Max replied.
“I have no time for the trivialities of romance. My life is my art. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, this interview is at an end. I’ve had enough of being
interrogated about matters that have nothing to do with my work.”

Surprised by his abrupt termination
of the interview, Faye hurriedly grabbed her Dictaphone and switched it off.
She stepped aside, to let Max Paolini pass, and in doing so, knocked against a
stand holding one of the artist’s watercolour paintings.

The stand toppled and crashed to the
ground; the sound echoing in the cavernous exhibition space.

Max Paolini swivelled round, from
where he had been heading for the door, and rushed back to where the painting
now lay on the ground.

“Idiot!”

Faye stooped to pick it up.

“Don’t touch it!” Max roared. “
Per
l’amore di dio
, you’ve done enough damage.”

“I haven’t damaged it,” Faye
insisted. “See, it’s still intact, none of the paint is scratched.”

“Get out!” Max roared. “I’ve had
enough of you!”

Stunned by this man’s temper, as well
as his rudeness, Faye backed up. She placed her Dictaphone, pen and notepad
back into her handbag – her gaze narrowing as she stared back at him.

“You are the rudest man I’ve ever
met,” she snarled back at him. “I would never have knocked the painting over if
you hadn’t barged past me.”

“Get out!”

“With pleasure!” Faye turned on her
heel and stormed from the Artillery building. Out in the courtyard, her face
burning, she kept going, almost running now, and did not slow her pace until
she was outside the Venetian Arsenal and far from Max Paolini.

“Obnoxious, conceited bastard,” she
muttered as she walked away, along the waterfront. Her heart was still
hammering in the aftershock of being yelled at. No man, not even Richard, had
ever shouted at her. She pitied any woman Massimiliano Paolini ended up with;
he would surely make her life a misery.

***

The sun slid towards the west,
bathing Venice in golden light. The heat of the day abated, and a light breeze,
silky against the skin, wafted through the streets. It was the hour of the
aperitivo
,
the before dinner drink, and Max Paolini was meeting his best friend, Giovanni,
for a glass of wine.

“I tell you, the woman was rude,
arrogant and prying,” Max ranted to Giovanni, who leaned back in his chair,
waiting for his friend to finish. “She used the interview to badger me about my
personal life and then nearly destroyed one of my paintings.”

Giovanni listened intently, his
handsome face impassive. Yet, as Max reached the denouement of his tale, a
smile tugged at the corners of Giovanni’s mouth. Max saw, and bristled.

“You think this is funny?”

“No, of course not,” Giovanni held up
his hands in front of him and bit the side of his cheek to stop himself from
roaring with laughter. “Not at all. It’s just that I’ve heard some women
describe you as arrogant and rude.”

“Are you my friend or my enemy
Giovanni? Do you think I should have been civil to such a woman?”

“I just think it’s a pity that this
is the first woman I’ve heard you mention with any passion in months – and you
can’t stand her,” Giovanni countered calmly.

Max glared at his friend, silently
fuming as a tuxedoed waiter swooped down on them with two chilled glasses of
pinot
grigio
and a bowl of stuffed green olives to accompany them.  As usual,
Giovanni was his calm, unflappable self; the antithesis to his fiery friend.
Giovanni was a photographer, from Venice but with blond hair, blue eyes and
chiselled good-looks that belied his Austrian heritage. He was everything that
Max was not, and it meant that their friendship was never boring. Max often played
devil’s advocate, while Giovanni was the voice of reason when Max let his
temper rule him.

Now was one of those times.

Max took a sip of wine and breathed
in deeply. There was no reason in taking out his rage on Giovanni. His friend
may have been more laid-back than he was, but he did not appreciate being
treated like a whipping post.

“What’s wrong Max?” Giovanni asked
finally, his gaze steady. “These should be the happiest months of your life.
You’ve made it. So many artists never do – look at me, still photographing
weddings to pay the bills when I just want to do my own exhibitions. You’ll
never have to paint anything you don’t want to again.”

Max looked away, glad of the dark
glasses that masked his eyes.

“It never seems enough,” he admitted
quietly. “Some days I feel as if it is all going to be taken away from me and
I’ll be left with nothing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re a famous
artist now.”

Max shook his head. “I know, but at
times none of it feels real. I worked so hard to get to this point. You know
what I’m like. My whole life was my art, and the struggle to get known. Now I
don’t have to fight anymore, but I feel like I should. Maybe I’m going mad.”

Giovanni shook his head before
popping an olive into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“In that case, it makes sense that
you feel this way,” he said after a minute. “Success is never what we think it
is.”

“When that journalist started
badgering me about my brother today, it brought everything back,” Max replied.
“Marina leaving. Sergio’s betrayal – every nasty detail.”

“Don’t blame her, she didn’t know,”
Giovanni shook his head. “Maybe you should have told the journalist about your
brother.”

“Why?” Max’s anger flared once more.
“So she could write some lurid account that ends up in the British tabloids?”

Giovanni sighed and dragged a hand
through his spikey blond hair. Max could see that he was frustrating his friend
but he did not care.

“Everything’s so black and white with
you Max,” Giovanni removed his sunglasses and fixed his friend with the cool,
blue-eyed stare Max knew so well. “How do you know she would have done that? As
it is, you’ve given her plenty of ammunition to paint you as a complete
bastard.”

Max gulped down the last of his wine,
his stomach churning. He knew his friend was right, but it would have killed
him to admit it.

Seeing that Max was about to storm
off, Giovanni quickly finished his own wine and stood up.

“Come on. It’s been a long day and we
both need to relax. Let’s go for a walk and head over to
Il cavallo di mare
for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Max replied
mutinously, digging into his wallet for some money to leave for the waiter.
Il
cavallo di mare
, the Seahorse, was his favourite trattoria; tucked away on
a side street, a couple of blocks away from the Grand Canal. Famous for its
seafood dishes, the restaurant was a favourite with locals. Max had been so
busy of late, he had not been there for a meal in months. Despite his mood, he
was sorely tempted.

“You will be,” Giovanni insisted,
seeing him waver. “Come on, let’s forget about today. It’s a beautiful evening,
let’s enjoy it.”

***

Faye Wilson was in love.

Yet, the object of her affection was
not a man. She was head over heels for Venice.

The gondola slid across the sparkling
water; bobbing gently in the wake of a
vaporetto
, a water bus, which
chugged by, laden with passengers. Faye leant back against the upholstered seat
and lifted her face to the warmth of the setting sun. The day had started off
beautifully and then turned disastrous. Now, Faye felt Venice working its magic
once more.

After the interview with Max Paolini,
Faye had returned to her hotel and taken a hot shower. Then, she had stretched
out on her bed and taken a nap. Upon waking an hour later, Faye had lain there
ruminating over the artist’s rudeness, and his complete lack of respect, until
her stomach began to hurt from the force of her rage.

This would never do.

She was in Venice, and who knew when
she would have the opportunity to return. She would not waste one more moment
seething over a man who was not worth a minute of her head-space.

Invigorated, Faye had leapt off the
bed and got dressed. She tossed aside the sweaty shirt and drill pants she had
worn earlier in the day, instead dressing in a green, halter necked dress that
reached her knees and fitted her perfectly. On her feet, she slipped flat,
Grecian-style sandals; better to navigate Venice’s cobbled streets with than
heels, and brushed her freshly washed hair so that it settled in bronze waves
around her face. Applying a minimal touch of make-up, just a swipe of mascara
and lip gloss, Faye had left her hotel room with a fresh outlook.

Now, as she swept her gaze over the
peeling façades of magnificent buildings and listened to the chiming of far off
bells, Faye felt the happiest she had in years.

“Are you enjoying the ride, bella?”
the flirtatious gondolier asked. He had been delighted when she had returned to
the mooring later in the day, and had spent the ride giving her long, sensual
looks.

“Very much,” Faye sighed. “You are so
lucky to live here.”

The gondolier smiled, before
shrugging. “Venice, she is beautiful, but maybe better to visit than to live
in.”

“Why’s that?” Faye asked, vaguely
irritated that he had just intruded upon her romantic haze.

“The things that make her beautiful –
the water, the old buildings – are the things that are ruining her. Venice is
sinking. We are trying to save her, but every year the sea rises higher,” the
gondolier replied, gesturing towards the row of buildings they floated by.
“Many of these buildings are now empty. The old families; they have all moved
away. It may sound romantic to live on a canal, but the reality is different.”

Faye nodded, glancing back at the
pastel façades with a new eye. Of course, he was right. As beautiful as Venice
was, she would always sit uneasily in the modern world. Yet, despite this, Faye
was glad Venice was still here, and glad that she was able to appreciate it.