The Echoes of Love (9 page)

Chapter 3

T
he sun shone bright and warm. In the clear, still morning there was a velvety quality to the air as the boat to Torcello pushed its way through the dark-blue sea. Venice swayed away southwards, and the quayside and the city became a shadowy blur of vanishing tints. Venetia's spirits lifted, an excited feeling of anticipation coursing through her. Dressed warmly in jeans, a winter-white cashmere roll-neck jumper, boots and a brown leather jacket, she breathed in deeply, letting the tangy sea air fill her lungs. In doing so she thrust Judd, Paolo, Umberto and everything else that had been niggling at her for days out of her mind.

Murano, with its odd lighthouse built of drums of white marble, was quickly reached. Passengers climbed out, and then the
vaporetto
was off again. Gliding past the windless wall of the island's glass factories, they came out into the open lagoon. To the north, hundreds of telephone posts and poles defining the boat channels stuck out of the water, and to the right the ancient cypresses of the tiny Isola del Deserto made a dark-green screen of rich vegetation that seemed somewhat anachronistic in this otherwise stern, industrial environment. Ahead, there was the leaning tower of Burano, while beyond, low on the horizon and scarcely visible, stood the solitary tower of Torcello. The island of Burano was their next stop, with its low-lying gardens, the verges overhanging with broom and tamarisk; but as the station was deserted and Venetia was the only one left on the boat, she signalled to the driver to press on to Torcello.

When they arrived, Venetia got out of the boat and headed for the island's famous cathedral,
Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta
,
a ten-minute walk from the dock.
At last, the smell of clean air and the sight of green grass and trees
, she thought as she made her way along the canal, though it was a pity that it was too early for flowers.

The island was deserted, its marshes and sandy wastes of seaboard fringed with stunted pines, their black trunks bent landwards from long battling with winter storms. None of the few residents of the island seemed to be around; everything was wrapped in a profound melancholy silence, which was how she liked it. In this timeless, desolate landscape it was easy to imagine the first settlers in their wooden houses on stilts, fishing the waters and picking out an existence until driven further into the lagoon by Attila the Hun's barbarians. How incredible it was to think that alongside this struggle for survival had been such an aspiration to create great beauty, and ultimately the building of Venice, she thought.

Passing the lithe fifteenth-century Torcello Bridge, nicknamed ‘
Il Ponte del Diavolo
', Venetia smiled to herself; she delighted in Italian folklore. There were many bridges all over Italy labelled The Devil's Bridge. The name went back to the legend spread throughout the country during the Middle Ages, according to which many bridges were the work of the Devil, who was building them in exchange for souls.

It was not long before she reached the Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta. One of the most ancient religious buildings in Italy, it was a seventh-century wonder of Venetian-Byzantine architecture, standing like a solemn witness to the birth of its nation. Venetia loved its stark and strong frame, with its simple
campanile
of rose-pink brick, so different from the rich and elaborate architecture of the majority of Italian churches. Entering, she was always overcome by its extraordinary sense of quiet and dignity – of peace. Perhaps this was because, denuded of the extravagant embellishments usually seen in Italian religious buildings, it echoed in her mind the relative plainness of the Anglican churches back home.

The Virgin and Child mosaic in the central apse was in a precarious state. She wondered how the experts would tackle it without causing large areas of the timeworn gold
tesserae
to break away. In the right apsidal chapel there was still some scaffolding erected over the mosaics being restored. Looking upwards through this frame, Venetia could see great-eyed figures of saints and angels peering down at her, with wonderful, alive expressions.

The only mosaic that seemed in reasonable condition was the vivid representation, in blue, white and gold, of the Last Judgement that took up the whole of the west wall, over the entrance. Not for the first time, Venetia marvelled at the intricate attention to detail in the immense tableau: on the right, the wrathful river of flames pouring over the naked, tormented damned, with worm-eaten skulls below; to the left, the faithful being ushered into heavenly paradise by beautiful angels; and the aged figures of Adam and Eve kneeling at the blowing of the last trumpet. She longed to be able to touch their rough, shining surfaces but even if that were possible, her trained eye, despite the distance, could perceive that there were many loose patches, and the mosaicists would have an immense task keeping the picture intact.

‘And so we meet again.'

Venetia caught her breath. She didn't need to look round to recognise the dark, velvety voice that had just made her jump. She turned to find Paolo standing behind her, an enormous smile lighting up his face and his eyes shining with amused surprise. He looked suitably casual in a pair of blue jeans and a sky-blue jumper over a crisp white shirt. With a Bordeaux polka-dot silk foulard tied around his neck and tucked into the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, he had all the relaxed and natural elegance of a magazine model.

‘Forgive me if I startled you.'

She stared at him, her lips parted on an amazed breath, her pupils dilating. She blinked. What on earth was he doing here? The memory of his arms around her the night before, and his body pressed against hers, flooded her mind, taking away her ability to form any words.

Paolo pointed at the mosaic and crossed his arms. ‘Hell is horrid, Paradise is splendid, there is no sentimentality here, no softening of the blows, wouldn't you say?'

He continued to look at her directly, clearly enjoying her confusion; but his gaze was also alight with something more, something that was sending warm shivers down Venetia's spine, and somewhere lower, unexplored.

Her heart was pattering hysterically beneath her breast, but somehow her voice managed to emerge cool. ‘
Ah, buongiorno, Signor Barone.
What brings you to Torcello?'

Paolo beamed. ‘The same thing that has brought you here on such a fabulous morning, I suppose: the need to get away from Venice and breathe some fresher air… But to come back to the mosaics you were so engrossed in, I'm curious about your opinion. Don't you agree that it's a formidable illustration of what may await us after death?'

‘That's because the incidents of the story are laid in with all the powerful, uncompromising drawing of the period,' Venetia said, looking up at the mosaic as she launched herself into a stream of rhetoric to hide the havoc his sudden appearance had created inside her. ‘Though the brilliance of the dramatic vision here is exceptional, and its blend of eastern pre-Islamic artistic traditions with Christian imagery is striking.'

Her pulse was leaping like a mountain stream bounding over rocks, and she hoped he didn't notice the slight tremolo in her voice. ‘It was the time of the Inquisition and the fight against heretics, a reaction against the other growing religious movements in the world…' She continued to look up, feeling his eyes still on her. ‘The Church used art as a way of ensuring that faith was absolute and crystallised in people's mind for the dogma to reign supreme.'

‘You're very knowledgeable, Venetia – you allow me to call you Venetia?' He was smiling at her, admiration and a hint of amusement lurking in his eyes.

She ignored both the compliment and the question, and turned to face him, her brows shooting up. ‘Don't you think that we keep bumping into each other a little too often?' Her manner was abrupt, almost unfriendly, but he seemed oblivious to it.

His features relaxed into a soft, musing smile. ‘The long arm of Fate, wouldn't you agree?'

Paolo's question caught Venetia by surprise. She was intensely conscious of him standing too close beside her, and it made her feel nervous. All the same, she tried to muster her composure. ‘I don't believe in Fate. One forges one's own destiny.'

‘I'm afraid that I disagree. I believe there is no flight from Fate. But maybe we could continue this discussion over lunch. It's almost one o'clock and I know of a small restaurant where they serve the most delicious
goh
risotto. It's only frequented by locals, which is usually a good reference.'

‘Thank you, but I've brought a sandwich.'

His black brows contracted. ‘Thanks, but goodbye?' His tone was gently sardonic.

Venetia looked away. ‘I didn't mean to sound rude.'

He made a wry gesture at himself. ‘I've never been slapped down so often in my life.'

She met the brooding intensity of his eyes. He suddenly looked tired, as if he hadn't slept for weeks. Her tender heart twisted in unwilling compassion. Was it compassion or perhaps something more potent? Conflicting emotions fluttered through her head. She was almost ready to accept his invitation, but only almost.

‘I really need to make some notes about these mosaics. Their condition is very much like a plaque I'm working on at the moment.' Her voice softened. ‘So thanks again for the invitation, but maybe some other time.'

Paolo looked down at her from his great height with a glimmer of impatience in his deep-blue irises, his lips tightening in an effort of self-control.

‘Very well, it's your choice, of course. Though I cannot understand your obstinacy, please consider the subject closed. I will not importunate you again,
signorina.
' Upon which he nodded politely, turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty basilica.

There was a dreadful finality about his words. And as Venetia heard the door close and the silence return, she felt a cold hand clutch at her heart.

She spent half an hour strolling around the building, trying to concentrate in vain, replaying again and again the conversation that had just taken place. As previously after rebuffing him, she was confused and depressed. Her mind clouded with remorse. How could she be so rude? There really was no harm in accepting his invitation to lunch. Why did he bring out such an acute reaction in her?

Over the years, Venetia had been taken out for lunch and dinner several times; she'd had many dates, and had always welcomed a degree of male attention. She enjoyed flirting innocently, and from time to time had even allowed herself to be kissed but her emotions had never been involved; she had invariably been in control.

Paolo was different. She felt threatened in his presence; not only threatened, but vulnerable. She could sense the ice that she had so carefully wrapped around her heart beginning to thaw. Years of self-control, and the foundations of the fortress she had erected about her were being shaken, putting her emotional and mental state in jeopardy. She needed to protect herself. Even though deep down she believed that the girl with Paolo at the restaurant could have been just a client or a friend, her presence that day had provided a convenient excuse for Venetia to keep him at bay. Now, the current crackling between them was providing a heat that could easily disintegrate her defences.

Still, some part of her yearned to be held once again by a man, to feel her body come alive, as it had the night before on the dance floor in Paolo's arms. Despite the fact that it was faithfully guarding her from love's harm, being celibate naturally had its disadvantages. The need to be loved that had built up in her was occasionally so painful that she found the tension almost unbearable.

Once more Judd's image, which over time had blurred around the edges, grew sharp in her head as if she had seen him only yesterday. With him she had known love, passion and a total fusion of mind and body, and she missed him now almost as acutely as she had missed him all those years back. Judd was probably married with a brood of children by now. He could never be hers, but knowing that didn't end the hopeless ache of longing within her.
Shake yourself out of this glum state, girl
, she remonstrated,
or you'll drive yourself mad
. She glanced at her watch; it was already half-past one. Perhaps she'd find a bench overlooking the lagoon, she thought, or maybe sit on Attila's throne to eat her sandwich. After lunch she would visit the church of Santa Fosca and then head home before dark.

The sun was high when Venetia emerged into the courtyard. The old trees cast shadows upon the ground; the light was tinged with gold. Flanking the lawn, the pink church of Santa Fosca looked impressively lonely with its arcades of stilted arches and its slim, elegant columns of Greek marble with Byzantine-style capitals. Pigeons were circling the columns, perching on the fragile cornices, cooing to each other in their soft, enchanting voices. The ancient little town was her own; she could pause and admire its beauty and its spell to her heart's content.
Impossible to dwell upon a secret grief for long in a place like this
, she told herself as she made for Attila's throne.

She settled herself on the white seat formed by a single piece of rough-hewn stone, which stood on the patch of grass opposite Santa Fosca. As she was taking out the
panino
of salami, mozzarella and rucola
from her bag, a voice from behind startled her.

‘Una leggenda locale vuole che chi si siete su questa sedia si sposerà entro un anno,
local legend has it that anyone sitting in this seat will be married within a year.'

She turned sharply and glared, scarcely able to believe that he was still hanging about. ‘Do you make it a habit of creeping up on people?'

Paolo's dark features assumed a wolfish grin as he walked round to stand in front of her and folded his arms. ‘No, only stubborn beautiful young women who refuse to have lunch with me.'