Inamorata (21 page)

She said, “I can tell you that Vivaldi risked everything.”

I felt drawn back to her, almost against my will. She pushed her barely touched plate away, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. The Venetian chain slipped and dangled, catching on the ends of her sleeves. Her expression went dreamy and far away.

“Venice holds him as one of her own,” she went on, almost whispering, as if she were speaking to an intimate, a lover, looking only at my brother. “They say his ghost still walks the
calli
, that you can hear him play on the nights when storm clouds chase the seawater into the canals, that on those nights, the cries of the gulls are the notes of his music.

“But before he was a ghost he taught at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta, where he composed works for the orphan girls there to sing. Such beautiful songs. Such beautiful voices. They were famous the world over. Ah, but Vivaldi was dissatisfied. He wanted his music to be known not for the voices that sang it, but for his own genius. He wanted something separate, for himself. His own.”

Again, I felt that twinge of discomfort, as if she saw something I didn’t want her to see, a sense that she spoke to me even as she did not turn her gaze from Joseph.

“And so one night, he called for the devil, which is easy to do in this city, you know. Perhaps too easy. He waits outside St. Mark’s for those who are despairing, who cannot find God inside and so come to him.”

The candlelight wavered; her voice was like a spell.

“And the devil knows just what you want. He heard Vivaldi’s call, and so that night, he played in the
calle
beneath Vivaldi’s window.
The sweetest, most enticing music. He wooed Vivaldi with what he loved, and Vivaldi opened his window to the devil. He welcomed him inside. He—”

She stopped short, drawing in her breath sharply, pressing her hand to her stomach, bowing her head. I was still wrapped in the spell, but Joseph was on his feet, taking the few steps to her side, his fingers caressing her bare shoulder. “What is it?”

She straightened at his touch. Her obvious relief was so strong it struck me as peculiar. She reached for his hand, squeezing it, and looked up into my brother’s face. He went rapt with an expression so erotically stark it made my heart stop. No different than the other women, I told myself, but it was growing harder to believe.

She tried to smile, “No, I’m fine. A momentary pain. What remains of my illness. It is nothing. Truly.”

Joseph frowned. “Should I call for a servant?”

“No.” Again, the smile, a shake of her head that sent her earrings dancing against her jaw. “Please, sit down.”

My brother’s hand was still on her shoulder, his long fingers reaching to the swell of her breast above burgundy satin the color of blood. He withdrew as if awakened from an enchantment and returned to his seat. Her hand went to where his had been as if he’d left it cold. She turned to me. “Stories of artists who sell their soul to the devil are all the same, are they not? The rise. The fall. The cost. What is your story, mademoiselle? Tell me how you came to be here in Venice. Where you have come from. What you want. That is a story I would like to hear.”

I took a sip of wine, trying to control the sudden trembling of my fingers. “I’m afraid it’s a very boring story. Our parents died when we were young, and our aunt raised us. We’ve come to Venice so Joseph can study.”

The way she looked at me made me cold, as if she saw the memories I kept locked away, and I did not doubt that she could—had someone asked me in that moment, I would have told them Odilé León knew all my secrets.

She said, “There are no boring stories. Only a failure to truly listen.”

“I think you would have to listen hard to find interest in ours.”

“Ah, but dead parents . . . that is a tale for tears, an unhappiness that endures. I have known many who are defined by it. I would hope the two of you have transcended it.”

Joseph said, “It was a long time ago.”

“But no less tragic for being so.” Her eyes were a strange color, that pale gray I’d first seen, but dark too, and at the same moment, as if the color shifted with the light. “I have learned that the world likes balance, yes? One cannot have sadness without happiness. Does Venice make up for your sadness in some small measure?”

Her words, her eyes, called images to my mind—my first starlit night in Venice in the gondola with Joseph, the day on the Lido, my brother laughing, and Nicholas Dane in a darkened kitchen, candlelight shining on his golden hair. I heard myself say, “Oh yes.”

“Oh yes?” she turned in obvious delight to my brother. “Do you hear that, monsieur? Your sister is in love with Venice, I can tell. And perhaps”—she turned back to me, her eyes shining, teasing—“there is a reason for it other than the city’s own charm? A new lover, perhaps?”

How could I be surprised she knew it when she seemed to know so much? I felt myself flush. “Oh no. No, nothing like that.”

“But there is a man. Come, come, there is no use hiding it. I can see it in your eyes.”

My brother frowned at me. “We’ve made a friend who’s been very helpful. He’s taken a liking to Sophie, that’s all.”

She lifted a delicate brow. She looked at Joseph and then at me as if she’d seen something between us that intrigued her. “Ah, is that all it is? A friend?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a quick sip of wine. Joseph gave me a reassuring smile, but I saw how carefully Odilé watched us, as if she were determined to decipher something that puzzled her. Again, I felt it as something familiar.

She said, “Monsieur
,
now I think perhaps it is time to tell you why I’ve invited you tonight. What proposition I have to offer.”

Joseph’s gaze jerked to her. “A proposition?”

Just then, the servant returned, bearing a silver tray. On it were many little mahogany-colored fluted cakes. She set the tray on the table, and then next to it a small cloth bag. I heard the clanking of coins.

Odilé León took up a little silver fork, speared one of the cakes, and set it before my brother, easing it off the tines with her fingers. “
Canelés
,” she said. “A specialty of Bordeaux. I’ve heard they were first made by nuns. Strange, don’t you think, that nuns and monks make the most sensual food and drink? Do you suppose it’s their closeness to God that gives them such secrets?”

She speared another and gave it to me. I took a bite. It was crispy on the outside, and chewy, custardy on the inside, tasting of vanilla and burnt sugar.

Joseph said, “Or perhaps it’s their yearning that lends such flavor.”

“Yearning,” she repeated. “Yes, you may be right.” She reached for the little cloth purse, hefting it in her hand. “I would like to commission you, monsieur
.
”

“Commission me?” Joseph looked at her in blank surprise. “But why? Why me? You’ve seen nothing of my work—”

“I saw the sketch you did of your sister in the Rialto.”

“And you would commission me on the basis of one sketch?”

She leaned forward, handing my brother the purse. “It was enough to show me that you are exactly what I am looking for. What I have been looking for for some time. This is half of what I will pay, with the rest to be paid upon completion.”

The bag weighted Joseph’s hand. I wondered how much was in it. Joseph asked, “Completion of what? Who is the subject? Yourself?”

Odilé León smiled. “I think you know something of desire, don’t you? Of the kind of yearning that gives life flavor, as you say, the thing that makes us feel immortal. That is what I want. A portrait to show me that. I want to look at it on those days I have forgotten there is such a thing to feel.” She took up another
canelé
, the golden chains of her bracelets sparking in the candlelight, twisting as if they were alive. She took a bite of the pastry, closing her eyes, savoring.

I heard Joseph’s quick inhalation. I saw once again the bewitchment in my brother’s eyes, her dark magic, familiar again, and so palpable it prickled my skin. The night seemed to close in on me, that heavy Venetian sea air, weighted with the things she’d spoken of, devil’s bargains and desire, a yearning that beckoned, that knew me by name, that laid my secrets bare.

N
ICHOLAS

I
watched the Dana Rosti, as I’d been watching for hours, feeling a grim satisfaction at the presence of the police gondola. So they’d caught on to her involvement at last—I could not have asked for a better way to slow her. Odilé must be suffering. Perhaps the loss of the singer and the two days without sustenance had weakened her into paralysis. It was a pleasant thought, no matter how unlikely. I had an image of Odilé naked and writhing, her own coils strangling her tight.

She would have a new victim soon, but the thought of spending another night waiting for the appearance of her latest lover held no appeal, and I had other interests now too. I hurried back to the rooms I shared with Giles. He was dressing to go to the Alvisi, and when he saw me come in, he paused, frowning as he knotted a broad swath of bronze silk about his throat.

“Where the hell have you been, Nick?”

“I had some business,” I told him, going to the kitchen, where the dirty glasses from two nights ago still littered the counter. “Is there anything here to eat?”

“Not a thing,” he said, following me. “You look like death.”

“Yes, well, I’m cold and hungry. And tired.” I grabbed a very hard roll that I didn’t remember either of us buying. My stomach growled as I gnawed at it without much success.

Giles finished knotting his tie and scrutinized me. “You’d best go to bed. You look done in.”

“And give you the chance at Sophie Hannigan without any competition?” I teased, making my way to my room. “I should say not. Just give me a moment to dress.”

“You missed her last night. She and her brother were both at the salon. Asking for you.”

I paused and looked over my shoulder at him. “Both of them were asking?”

“Well, she was.” Giles frowned as if he didn’t like the thought of it. “In fact, she seemed quite distressed that you weren’t there.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Was she?”

Giles sighed. “You’ve done it, haven’t you? Won her before I’ve even got a chance? You weren’t in the kitchen five minutes!”

“Long enough for a kiss.”

He made a face.

I clapped him on the shoulder. “I am sorry, my friend. But I couldn’t quite help myself.”

“She is astonishing,” Giles agreed. “And so is he, you know. The two of them are . . . well. . . .”

“They did well enough on their own last night, I take it?”

“As if they were born to it.”

His words brought back that little consternation; I remembered how I’d felt seeing Hannigan with Whistler. How little he’d needed me. I pushed the thought away. “I’m going to get dressed. Wait for me?”

Giles sank onto the settee and crossed his arms, letting his head fall against the wall with a helpless thud. “I suppose there’s no hope I could take her from you?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

I left him to dress, and we were on our way within the hour. That evening fog was gathering again, the damp chill of Venice easing into my bones. When we arrived on the doorstep of the Alvisi, I barely said two words to the servant. I raced up the stairs, Giles following breathlessly behind, calling irritably, “Slow down, Nick! What’s the hurry?”

I stepped into the
portego
and scanned the crowd, but I saw no sign of them. Not there, and not on the balcony. In the main salon, Katharine Bronson was holding court with three others. She raised her eyes to me as I entered, beckoning me over.

“Mr. Dane, how we did miss you last night!” She turned to the three. “You’ve met the Paulsons, haven’t you? And Mr. Sweeten?”

I had, and I nodded a hello to each of them, barely able to contain my impatience long enough to ask, “Have the Hannigans arrived?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not yet,” she said. “But bring them over when they do, will you, please?” She turned to the others. “Mr. Dane has brought us the most marvelous artist and his sister. You really must meet them. They’re twins, and quite extraordinary. . . .”

I wandered away as soon as it was prudent. I went to the
portego
, positioning myself with an eye to the door, and involved myself in several absurdly boring conversations while I waited for a glimpse of them. But the hours passed, and they did not arrive. I began to feel anxious. After eleven o’clock came and went, and then midnight, I cornered Giles and said, “Did they say anything to you about not coming tonight?”

“I would have told you if they had,” he said with exasperation.

When the clock struck one thirty, I told Giles I was going home and left the Alvisi. I did not go home, however. Instead, I made my way to the Moretta. Had there been a single light on, I would have rung the bell, but the place was dark. They had obviously already gone to bed.

I told the gondolier to take me to the Dana Rosti. There was only a single light on at Odilé’s, and no flickering shadows. No one was about, no visiting gondola. I realized then that I’d been afraid Odilé had found them—though I knew it was impossible. I’d been watching. I would have known. It was very late now, nearly three, and abjectly still; even the mist hovering about the water did not seem to shift as my gondola moved through it to the
fondamenta
. The night felt strange, as if the world were on watch, but it was only that I was, I knew, and I let my unease fade into relief. They were not here—of course not. Why should they be? I paid the gondolier and disembarked, parking myself again beside the rotting boat. And then I turned up my collar and prepared to spend another watchful night among the ghosts of Venice.