The Echoes of Love (12 page)

Since Judd, no man had set her mind and her senses in such turmoil. Paolo and Venetia had scarcely touched – a couple of times only, but she could not deny the flame that had smouldered between them, kept in check simply because she had been afraid of its heat, and because he seemed to want it that way too. And yet, whenever they ended up crossing paths, he would not let her go. Even now, at the thought of the way Paolo's arms had held her possessively to his lean hardness, tightening his hold as he pressed himself against her, the warmth of his breath fanning her temple, Venetia felt weak at the knees, craving his lips and his touch.

But it was not only a physical attraction that drew her to him. From time to time when he thought no one was watching, she had read a hint of bitterness and anger in his features, as when driving his launch. Paolo, she believed, was a lonely and unhappy man. The melancholy in his eyes had struck her more than once and she felt an empathy with him that she had not experienced since Judd. Maybe it was true that he was in love with the young woman from the restaurant, and more fool him if he was holding off from marrying her just because of the ridiculous conventional rules enforced by the social circle he moved in. However, Venetia had a presentiment that the sadness in those blue eyes ran much deeper.

From then on, she tried to keep thoughts of Paolo at bay, stifling the voice that urged her to go looking for him, or at least attempt to find out more about him. She and Francesca didn't talk about Paolo again. Instead she drowned herself in work, spending additional hours at her office in the evening and returning home too exhausted to think. She slept soundly at night, as if she had been drugged. She was almost in a state of trance, curiously at peace.

* * *

Several weeks had gone by. Venetia had spent a particularly busy afternoon restoring a miniature mosaic on a small panel for a client. She loved working on such
tessellae
, which actually looked more like paintings. This particular
tessella
, dating back to 1282, was especially fine. It depicted a crucifix, with the Virgin Mary and Maria Magdalene kneeling at the base of the cross. The
tessella
was made of gold, lapis lazuli and other semi-precious stones set on to wax on a wooden panel. Venetia's client was an antique dealer and she had promised to drop off her package at his shop in Calle del Paradiso
,
the most medieval-looking street in Venice, bordered with small old shops and dreary wine bars.

It was six o'clock in the evening and having delivered the mosaic to its owner, she was making her way to Ponte del Paradiso, which stood at the far end of the narrow street. During the day, Calle del Paradiso was quaint, full of amusing nooks and crannies; most of the time it was draped with washing all the way along, so that the light filtered through shirts, bed sheets and underclothing. But on a night like this, when the sun had gone down and evening shadows gathered, and the cramped alley was shrouded in silvery fog, Venetia found the place gloomy and almost sinister.

Although it was March, winter was ceding reluctantly to spring and the weather was still cold, damp and foggy. Clouds had hung like a grey pall over the city for most of the day, and now came a thin drizzle of rain that gave every sign of becoming heavier. The moisture made thin slime of the festering garbage strewn about the sinuous, dimly lit street. Some of the buildings' walls in the semi-shadows seemed to be mouldering and lichen-grown, as if ready to fall to pieces. The streets of Venice in the mist breathed the sadness of faded beauty that waits for the dark veils of night, and the transforming magic of artificial light. As Venetia hurried down the cobbled pavement, she thought of the words Paolo had uttered on the veranda at the carnival ball,
‘a rude awakening for the unsuspecting tourist when daylight comes…'

She had almost reached the impressive Gothic arch spanning the street and opening on to the Ponte del Paradiso when her attention was drawn by a brilliantly lit shop window; so bright that it acted as a floodlight on the pavement and its surroundings. On impulse Venetia went in, without even looking at the display in the
vitrina
.

There was an odd contrast between the dazzling glow of the shop window and the dark room she had just entered, which was laden with the heavy aroma and smoke of incense. This was not the sort of place Venetia was accustomed to visiting and she was about to step out as quickly as she had stepped in when a sing-song voice called out to her in English: ‘You have come to right place, young lady.'

Still on the threshold, Venetia turned round abruptly and in the light thrown into the shop by the
vitrina
, she saw a sleek black head, a keen, clear ivory-tinted face, two elongated black eyes, and the frail, tremulous figure of a Chineseman.

He wore the dress of his country: a long silk, green gown with a string of large jade beads ending in a twisted yellow tassel, and a small skull-cap covering his head.

‘How did you know I speak English?' Venetia asked, a little wary.

The narrow eyes were filled with a dreamy sort of kindness. Innumerable deep wrinkles formed in his sallow cheeks, and his face brightened up with a slow smile. The Chineseman bowed with enormous dignity, his hands in his wide sleeves. ‘I have been waiting for you. Don't be afraid, come and sit down here,' he said cordially, leading the way into the room.

Although the place was dimly lit by a tiny lamp enshrined in an old stone lantern that stood in a far corner, the light was cunningly contrived and the room glowed softly. There reigned a sense of quiet peace and reverence. On the walls, Venetia could make out embroidered silken panels, woodcuts, and scrolls of fine workmanship done on Chinese parchment. She looked up and saw that the ceiling was entirely painted: on one side, the moon, the sun, and the stars depicting heaven; and on the other, beasts, trees, the sea and strange creatures, which she assumed represented Earth. On a wooden stand near the stone lantern were long, thin red and yellow joss sticks burning incense in a large bronze tray filled with sand; and next to it were two low seats made out of big embroidered cushions, facing each other and divided by a red lacquered squat table. The air was heavy; the woody and spicy fragrance of incense fumes mingling with the acrid scent of opium.

As her eyes got used to the semi-darkness she saw a huge cushion, leaning high against a golden panel, on top of which lay the most enormous coiled-up snake. The creature struck a surreal note in the peaceful room, and Venetia gasped, her hand flying to her throat in fear. She took two steps back.

‘Don't be afraid,' said the man softly, with a benign smile. ‘This is Nüwa, the goddess who separated the Heaven from the Earth, creating the Divine Land of China. She is the original ancestor of the Chinese people. She does not harm. On the contrary, she creates and she mends.'

Venetia gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I'm not very fond of snakes!'
That's the understatement of the year,
she thought. She wanted to flee the place, and everything in her rational mind told her that she was foolish even being here; but she had a strange feeling, as if an invisible, singular power were drawing her more and more into the shop, and something deeper than curiosity compelling her to stay.

‘I am Qiqiang Ping Lü, but they call me Ping Lü. Come, sit down. I have been waiting for you.'

‘Waiting for
me
?'

‘This rain today, it is a good omen. The heavens will speak, and there is so much that is troubling you. Isn't that so?'

Venetia stared back at the fortune teller, slightly bemused at the truth in his words, but didn't answer him. Even though it did occur to her that they were part of a clichéd opening phrase that all fortune tellers used, she had never had her fortune told, and had secretly wondered what it would be like. Why not take advantage of the opportunity? She had nothing to lose.

Ping Lü seated himself on one of the great cushions and signalled for Venetia to do the same. On the other side of him, she noticed a large bowl full of natural objects: shells, stones, crystals, and even small cactus plants. Along the top of the wall behind him was a beautiful scroll coloured in gold, black and brown, depicting a serpent with two human heads.

‘This is an old scroll dating back to the Han Dynasty, illustrating Nüwa and Fuxi, her husband, who was the first ruler of the world,' the old man told her, seeing the interest in her face.

‘It's beautiful.'

Venetia sat down opposite her host, her eyes straying, despite herself, towards the unpleasant reptile. As the man produced a crystal ball, her attention switched automatically to the glass globe, fascinated. It felt as if the magical sphere reached out to her and caught her up, pulling her into its core. Ping Lü sat very still, eyes shut, apparently in profound meditation.

After a while, that seemed ages to Venetia, he opened his eyes. Reaching out, he took the young woman's hands and placed them underneath his own over the globe. Venetia felt a kind of warm current pass through her.

‘Concentrate on what you want to know, keep your mind focused on your questions. The more powerful your concentration, the clearer the message will be.'

Venetia tried to obey, but there were so many thoughts fighting for supremacy in her mind, so much hurt that seemed to be suddenly bubbling to the surface, as though all the pain she had suffered these past years had come to a boil.

‘You are not calm. Your heart and your brain are in turmoil. It is hard to hear the whispers of the inner soul in the midst of such turbulence.'

‘I know,' she whispered as, to her surprise, tears started to roll uncontrollably down her cheeks.

‘Thomas Moore, a poet from your country, said:
“The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns.”
And we have a similar Chinese proverb:
“The rose has thorns only for those who would gather it.
” My child, you found love at an early age. You had youth, beauty and love; you were on top of the world, knee-deep in roses… then… the thorns got you, didn't they? And scratched you badly. But though you may not think it now, they didn't do you any lasting damage; the wounds are healing now, and you can still appreciate the flowers, yes?'

Venetia took a deep breath. ‘I thought that I was healing, but…' She shrugged, a look of hopelessness clouding her eyes.

Ping Lü blinked slowly and looked at her, his gaze fixed and pensive. ‘I know, my child. I can see haze, mist and fog surrounding this man your heart has recognised, this renewed passion, the echo of an old love. I can see youth, and courage, even bravado… a dominating personality, but always honest. Misfortune besieged him: betrayal, lies and prejudice assaulted him of old, and now there is nothing left but loneliness and despair surrounding him among the wreckage.'

‘What are his feelings towards me? Will anything come of these few brief moments that we've had together?'

‘My dear child, only you can feel such an intimate thing.'

‘How will I know?'

‘If he is the one for you, if your souls have recognised and chosen each other, then there is no limit to the works of Fate to bring you together.'

‘Is there anybody else in his life?'

‘The flesh is weak, my child, and the fog around him is a thick, dark and mystifying curtain.'

Venetia was struggling to understand what she was hearing. ‘What can I do? Is there any hope for us at all?'

‘As long as there is life, there is hope, my child. You must listen to your heart, only to your heart. The stem is long and full of thorns, and there is no shortcut to get to the beautiful flower. Evil forces are at work. I can see jealousy and malice, conflict and chaos. Power abused, and pain, so much pain… But I can also see the stars at the far end of Heaven. After the clouds have passed, they will shine strong and bright in your night, leading the way. The stars represent hope, perception and revelation. Yes, there is hope for a fresh start…'

The Chineseman lifted his eyebrows and looked properly at Venetia this time. ‘But you must not doubt, and you must not be obstinate if you want peace and harmony to be realised.'

Her heart beating slightly faster, Venetia listened, fascinated, to Ping Lü's impersonal, sing-song voice that lent an exotic flavour to his words. She felt slightly exulted, knowing suddenly in her heart that all was not lost, that tomorrow may not be as bleak as yesterday, and that she could dream, and her dreams might actually come true.

‘I don't know why, and it's absurd because I've only met the man a few times… but I seem to have a deep feeling that Paolo and I are made for each other. I've never been able to put my finger on it but I'm sure that this feeling is reciprocated. Am I wrong? Have years of celibacy clouded my judgement to the extent that the first real yearning I have felt for a man has made me misinterpret it for love?'

Suddenly Venetia was talking, after years of repressing her thoughts and her feelings, years of holding back words that needed to be said. She was pouring her heart out to this stranger, this placid old man from China, a place she had never been to and knew hardly anything about. All the misery and loss she had been through were being laid out on the table in front of her; and Ping Lü listened quietly, an impassive look on his ivory features, his piercing eyes never leaving her face.

‘The time for grieving has passed for you, my child. Your wounds have almost healed. Your heart is awakening from a fallow period. I can see a change in the direction of your fate. Every situation, however disturbing in its suggestion, has a reverse facet to it. The future may hold promise unimagined today. It is for you to search for that now.'

‘What do I do now? He's gone, and I haven't dared look for him.'

‘Believe in Fate. We say in China that what is destined to be yours will always return to you, and when Fate throws a dagger at you, there are only two ways to catch it: by the blade or by the handle.'