Authors: Siobhan Daiko
Fern sat back in her chair. Luca’s reassurance had almost calmed her fears, except she hadn’t told him everything. There was something she’d never told anyone – not even her therapist. It festered inside her, poisoning her life. She’d never, ever, be rid of it, and, one day, she’d be called to account for it. Not today, though, hopefully. Today she was in Venice, and there was something about this place that sang to her heart and soul. She drained her glass and said to Luca, ‘At least let me pay for these drinks.’
He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll settle up. Then we can go for some lunch.’
She watched him saunter towards the entrance of the café, his long legs covering the distance in easy strides. He was so different to Harry, who’d been blond, of medium height and stocky. She was attracted to Luca, of course she was, and she’d had to swallow the lump in her throat when he’d readily agreed to be “just friends”.
Lump of what? Not yearning, surely?
Clearly, he wasn’t attracted to her at all, and that was fine, wasn’t it?
She remembered the instant attraction between herself and Harry. She’d met him when she’d set up an investment account for him after his uncle had died and left him two hundred thousand pounds. Harry had been cautious about money and insisted she find a safe home for his inheritance. She’d done that for him, and then he’d invited her out to a posh restaurant. They’d barely eaten a thing, so intense had been the sexual pull between them. Back at his place, supposedly for a night-cap, they’d hardly stepped through the front door before they were at it. And it had been like that for most of the three years she’d known him. That is until . . .
Damn!
That buzzing sensation was back in her head. She gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles became white. Paint was flaking off and had caught under her fingernail.
This is what’s real. Hold onto it!
Turning her gaze towards the far side of the square, she let out a gasp. There, in the corner, shaded by the campanile, was Zorzo’s studio. Her eyes lost focus and the world around her disappeared.
I manage to get myself assigned to a small room on the ground floor of the Queen’s palazzo. Practically a store cupboard, except it’s perfect for my purposes. Dorotea is surprised that I don’t want to share quarters with her upstairs on the
piano nobile
, and regards me with suspicion. I hope she won’t guess my motives.
My lady’s Venetian home is on the Grand Canal in the San Cassiano district. I’ve been here before, of course, only now there’s more purpose to my existence than the last time I visited the city. The painter has said that he’ll come for me in his boat this night. I find myself shivering with anticipation.
The evening meal seems interminable, even though the court is tired from the journey.
Such a palaver! So many courses!
I’m too excited to eat. Finally, we retire and I wait. And I wait. And I wait. If he doesn’t come, I fear I’ll collapse with disappointment.
There’s a rattle of pebbles on the window and I jump up from my mattress. He’s below me, his small craft bobbing on the emerald-green water. ‘Come, Cecilia,’ he says.
I grab my cape and mask, and then tiptoe through the
magazzino
. The painter has nudged his skiff against the landing stage and I step aboard. He stands at the stern with a set of oars in his hands while I perch at the prow, my identity hidden by the white
Bauta
with square jaw and no mouth, worn by Venetians at all times of the year when outdoors. If I’m seen, no one will know me.
Signor Zorzo rows us past the Campo della Pescaria, and then under the wooden Rialto bridge. Venice is magical tonight, its pearly palaces shining under a full moon, its chimney pots reaching for the stars. Excitement fizzes within me. I know I shouldn’t be out alone with this man, except I can’t help myself. I’m like a bee to his flower; he makes me feel important. I’ll pose for him and, in return, he’ll teach me to paint. I trust his promise; there’s no reason for me to suspect otherwise.
‘We’ve arrived,’ he says, tying up by some steps. In one bound, he’s ashore holding out his hand. My own is like a child’s compared with his. The warmth of his touch surprises me, and I let out a small gasp. ‘Do not fear,’ he says, misinterpreting my exclamation. ‘I shall treat you with the utmost respect.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks and glance away from him. If only he knew how much I long for him to crush me against his strong chest, and to feel his lips on mine once again. ’Tis better I keep to my resolve, and remain a maid until my wedding day.
Much better!
My maidenhead will be checked by doctors before I go to my bridal bed, as is the custom.
You are a fool, Cecilia! Who will want to marry you? You have no wealth.
My shoulders sag.
The painter’s studio is at street level. Windows give onto a
campo
, dark shadows outlined by the moonlight. He has set up tallow candles around the room, and holds a taper to them from the fire he has kept burning in the grate. ‘Pray sit here.’ He indicates a stool. ‘I’ll paint you first. Then I’ll give you some instruction on the use of colour.’
The chair has been positioned on a small platform so that my eyes are level with the painter’s. I remove my mask and cape, which he takes and hangs on a hook by the door. ‘Loosen the stays on your sleeves. I’d like your shoulders bare. And remove the net from your hair. ’Tis too beautiful to hide.’
My fingers tangle in my ribbons as they tremble at my wantonness. If my lady could see me now she’d banish me from her court. Yet I can’t resist wishing to please this man, who looks at me with admiration and, at the same time, honours my virgin flesh. What they say about him being a womaniser cannot be true. Or perhaps he doesn’t consider me woman enough?
I steal a sideways glance at him. He has rested a canvas on a wooden contraption, which, I’ve found out, is called an easel and was invented by the artist himself. He holds a twin-headed stick in his hand and is sketching in the highlights and lowlights of my portrait.
‘Stay still,
dolcezza
,’ he admonishes. ‘You’re fidgeting.’ He has called me sweetness, but not in a lover’s voice. ’Tis the tone an uncle would use with a niece. The painter must think me such a child, even if he can’t be more than ten years my senior.
Keeping my gaze on the far wall, I let my mind wander. What would Dorotea do to show this man that she’s ripe for plucking?
No, Cecilia!
You mustn’t think like that! You need to keep your purity.
The artist picks up a palette, the wood curving in such a way that it seems as if some beast has bitten a chunk out of it. He clips on his swag of brushes and his pot, with what I presume is a mixture of linseed oil and turpentine. I’m envious as I study him, wishing I had his abilities.
At length he has finished. ‘Are you thirsty,
dolcezza
? Would you like some wine?’
Nodding my agreement, I get up from the stool and wander over to the easel. He hands me a goblet and I stare at the canvas. Not only has he caught my physical characteristics, he seems to have caught my spirit as well: the flash of defiance in my eyes, the stubbornness of my chin. I’ll never be as great an artist as this man. ‘My art is nothing compared with yours,’ I say.
‘Let me be the judge of that,
dolcezza.
Did you bring anything to show me?’
‘No. I rushed out when I heard you call and left my work behind.’ I decide there and then not to let him see what I’ve accomplished thus far. Better to learn from him first.
‘Come, let me show you my paints and explain the language of colour.’
He leads me to the far wall, where there’s a grindstone and glass jars containing vivid powders. ‘These are liquefied with oil, drop by drop.’ He picks up his brushes and caresses them lovingly as if they were women’s tresses.
‘What are the brushes made of?’ I ask, although I know the answer already.
‘Horsehairs wrapped with waxed string onto sticks, or small clumps of squirrel fur forced into bird quills which are then inserted into narrow wooden batons.’
‘How interesting,’ I say, with a flutter of my eyelashes, and I take another sip of wine.
‘The brushes are graded according to the size of the bird that suffered to provide them: crow, duck, small swan, large swan . . . ’
I put my hand to my mouth. ‘They aren’t alive, surely, when they’re de-feathered?’
The artist laughs and indicates his collection of colours, showing me the most precious ultramarine blue, ground from lapis lazuli, and cerulean, as transparent and luminous as the lagoon. Cobalt needs the addition of lead white to maintain intensity, whereas indigo, dark blue-black like the night sky, should be used for background work. He goes through all his other tints, talking of them as if they were old friends. My head is spinning by the time he has finished.
‘Come,
dolcezza
,’ he says. ‘I must get you back to my lady’s palazzo. Can you feign sickness tomorrow? I shall come for you in the morning. We can make a start on your lessons.’
I realise that if I do nothing, he will not kiss me, and I have been thinking of nothing else for hours. So I plant myself in front of him and place my hands on his chest. I raise my head and, finally, his lips meet mine and he kisses me so deeply I’m dissolving. My body becomes liquid in his embrace; the feeling is wonderful.
Finally, Zorzo pulls back and gazes into my eyes. ‘
Dolcezza
, you have my heart.’
What does he mean? I want to ask, but he grabs my cape from the hook by the door and wraps it around my body. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘The hour is late.’
Back in San Cassiano, I collapse on my bed, my whole body throbbing. Eventually, I drop off to sleep, with the memory of his kisses in my thoughts. Some hours later, although it seems like only moments, Dorotea is shaking me. ‘Wake up, Cecilia!’
I groan and open my eyes. Then I clutch my belly. ‘I have my monthly pains,’ I lie. ‘Can you manage without me?’
‘We shall have to, won’t we?’ Dorotea huffs.
A smile bubbles up from within me. I gulp it back down again and make an effort to look indisposed. ‘I shall be better momentarily,’ I say. ‘Must be the journey here that has upset my humours.’
‘My lady has just told me we go to her villa on Murano tomorrow. She has invited the Marques of Mantova for a
pranzo
.’ Dorotea shakes a finger. ‘You had better be well enough by then.’
I peer up at her from my pillow, only something strange is happening. The edges to Dorotea’s body are blurring and she starts to fade. I can feel someone shaking me.
Shake, shake, shake. She wished whoever was doing that would stop. It was most rude of them.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Zorzo?’ She reached for his hand, and found hers enveloped in a bear paw. What was Zorzo doing in her room?
‘It’s Luca,’ the voice said. ‘You’ve had one of your episodes.’
‘Who?’ His tone was familiar, yet her mind struggled to place the name. She opened her eyes, then closed them again, blocking out the sight of a stranger with hair cut shorter than she’d ever seen anyone wear and strange, dark eyeglasses. She pulled her hand back.
‘Luca,’ the man repeated.
Recall whooshed into her mind, whirling around like surf on a beach before retreating and leaving her giddy.
‘Luca . . .’ She ran trembling hands up and down her arms. Of course. She’d come to Venice with Luca. They’d gone to the Accademia and she’d seen Giorgione’s painting. She recalled staring at the naked lady, and seeing Cecilia staring back, whom Luca called her nemesis. Recalled the bolt of familiarity as she’d contemplated the two other paintings by Bellini. Recalled the cocktail she’d drunk had been named after him. Recalled staring at this square and seeing Zorzo’s studio, the place where love had flowed through her veins for the first time.
Not your veins, Fern. Cecilia’s.
Your love was Harry, wasn’t it?
The blood rushed from her head and she swayed. She wanted to be back with the painter; her soul ached for him.
‘Here, take a sip of water,’ Luca said, grabbing the bottle and glass from the next table and ignoring the startled expressions of its occupants.
‘I’ll be fine. It always feels like this when I come to. Just give me a minute.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said, sipping from the glass and swallowing her distress. ‘I think you should apologise to those people, don’t you?’
‘
Mannaggia!
’ Luca clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘
Scusi,
’ he said to the startled elderly couple. He handed the half-empty bottle back and ordered another one for them. After paying for it, he held out his hand to Fern. ‘Some lunch will make you feel better.’
She kept her hand in his. After all, they were walking alongside canals and crossing bridges, and, if she had another of her funny turns, she didn’t want to fall into the water. Within a short time, they’d arrived at the Trattoria alla Madonna.