Out of the Ice (31 page)

Silvia handed me the key, which felt cold and heavy against my skin. ‘Lock up and come down when you’re ready.’

The bed was still made up. Georgia’s clothes lay strewn across a thickly embroidered gold bedspread that hung in neat lines.

In the bathroom, Georgia’s make-up cluttered a tiny marble shelf. Everything said she’d gone out into the night to meet someone – most likely, a man. A faint trace of perfume hung in the air, sweet and familiar.

Georgia would never be unfaithful. But what had she been doing, and why wasn’t she here?

‘Anything?’ Fabio called from the doorway.

‘It looks like Georgia went out to meet someone,’ I replied, coming back to the main room.

‘And didn’t come back.’ Fabio frowned as he walked in, picking up a few clothes and putting them down again.

‘Should we call the police?’ I asked, thinking I would have to make another call – to my ex-husband David White, who was working with Georgia. I assumed he was still back in Australia and not over here, but I hoped he could shed light on what was going on.

Fabio went to the old black phone sitting beside the bed and dialled. He spoke urgently in rapid Italian, as I moved a few steps away and found David’s number in my phone’s contact list. I sucked in my breath. I hadn’t spoken to him since our divorce two years ago. His voice came on the line, authoritative and calm, ordering me to leave a message. ‘David, it’s Laura. I’ve just arrived in Venice and Georgia’s not at the hotel, or answering her phone. They say she hasn’t been here since last night. Can you call me urgently? Thanks.’ I hung up, rattled.

Fabio crashed down his phone.

‘The police will look. They are worried to hear this news. They have been working with Georgia – a team met with her yesterday. The meeting ended in the early afternoon. I’ll call the hospital.’ He dialled, spoke intensely, waited, thanked the person on the other end and hung up. ‘She’s not there, so that’s good news.’ He moved to a chair, indicating for me to sit opposite. ‘So tell me, Georgia said you saw a boy in an ice cave? Could you please tell me everything? It’s all right, we can stay here. I think this is the best place to stay.’

Georgia hadn’t said anything about Professor Fabio Natuzzi and I didn’t have any idea who he was.

‘I’m sorry, but could you let me know a bit about yourself?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ he replied assuredly. ‘I am a human rights lawyer. Georgia and I have been corresponding, and we met here yesterday. She wanted me to come back this morning. Georgia first phoned from Antarctica, and I knew immediately what she meant when she asked about pale-skinned boys, boys who looked like they hadn’t seen sun in a long time. I am what you would call an expert in the movements – illegal – of children.’

He pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

I shook my head, shuddering at Georgia’s description –
pale-skinned boys
.

‘Would you like one?’ Fabio proffered the packet. As I declined I was reminded of the cigarettes at Fredelighavn. Fabio took a long drag of nicotine as I opened the balcony doors, aware the smoke might damage the ancient mural of angels and devils overhead.

‘So,’ he said, unfurling a line of smoke, ‘there is quite a trade here in illegal child migrants. A flood of humanity that arrives on our shores at night and disappears through Italy, making their way to whatever countries will hire cheap, hidden labour. You might be surprised to know that England hides many illegal children.’

‘Where do they work?’ I asked, alarmed.

‘There’s manufacturing still in Britain.’ He took another long draw of his cigarette. The smoke was starting to make me nauseous. ‘Here in Europe they do whatever they can. A lot of these children are economic refugees. They have no real need to leave their home country, which often has a good education system. But the children have parents and relatives, whole villages even, who pay for their travel with people smugglers. They put up, say, ten thousand American dollars, and the children arrive here in Venice. Then they go and work, and send money home. Everyone who paid for their journey gets their share accordingly. The children become like a stock, and send home dividends. They are boys. About twelve. Maybe fourteen. They view it as an adventure, as a rite of passage. They are from very poor families and are helping out.’

He took a tiny silver box from his pocket and butted his cigarette into it emphatically, then lit another cigarette.

‘So, I do not like this. There are
true
refugees, as I’m sure you are aware, children included, whose lives are at stake for religious and political reasons. People who
must
flee their country. We have more and more of these asylum seekers, an overwhelming number. More than at any time since the Second World War.’

I thought of my mother, and the boatloads of refugees desperately crossing the Mediterranean to Italy in leaking vessels. The photo of the two small girls, drowned, face down in the shallows . . .

‘The economic refugees clog the already overloaded system,’ continued Fabio. ‘They should not come. But when children are sent by their parents and villages it is wrong and I try to help. Some we repatriate here. Italy is kind to children. And although every child should be reunited with their family, maybe sometimes this is not so good, if their parents have let their young ones go in this way to be exploited as child labour.’ He tapped cigarette ash into his silver box with a staccato movement.

‘Your boy in the ice. He may have been picked up from here and taken to Antarctica, or they may have picked him up elsewhere. But we think they drop the boys back in Venice. If they’ve been doing unspeakable things, where better to lose the children when they grow too old?’

I flushed with fury and concern.

‘Here in Venice,’ continued Fabio, ‘they can join the throng of refugees disappearing into the shadows. They have the chance of work, exploitative as that will be. You’d be surprised how many of these refugee children make good. They become engineers, doctors even. Some would say the end justifies the means. But not me. And if children have been abused, we must do whatever we can for them.’ He leaned forward, his amber eyes bright.

‘Georgia and I together filled in the jigsaw of the pale boys. And this morning, I have word. A shipload of boys, unearthly white, has set off from Turkey, earlier than we first thought. We’d been told it would be tomorrow, but now we think it will be tonight that your boy will arrive. I’ve left a message for Georgia about this.’

A surge of maternal instinct rose through me.

‘Will you come with me to the dock?’ he asked.

I nodded, overwhelmed, trying to imagine how I would feel seeing the boy again.

‘The most important thing is that you identify him, otherwise it will be just another boatload of refugees among the flood of asylum seekers. We will have detectives and immigration officials with us, and we will stop this paedophile ring that takes children to South Safety Island. With your help, we can prosecute. This is a human rights violation. This is my specialty and the reason I get up in the morning. Often it is hard to have any impact at all. But tonight, it is perhaps possible.’

Fabio finished his cigarette, squashed it into the silver box, and stood stiffly.

‘I will come for you at eleven o’clock. I trust Georgia will be back by then. Now, I must go, I have an appointment at the university.’

After he left, I looked around the room for any notes, or a phone, or computer. I couldn’t find anything. Surely Georgia would have brought her computer? Although maybe not. She could have just had her phone, and she would be carrying that on her.

I tried again to call her but was sent straight to messagebank.

I caught the lift down to my room and took a shower to wash off the cloying smoke. Anticipation built that I would be meeting the boy tonight, but I was feeling increasingly uneasy about Georgia. I phoned the Italian police and was transferred from person to person. One woman acknowledged that Georgia had been reported missing; no one could find anyone who was working with her.

I looked up Professor Fabio Natuzzi online, and there he was, smiling out – a law professor at Venice University, a specialist in human rights, just like he’d said. He’d written many papers on child refugees, including reports for the United Nations.

I phoned Kate but she didn’t answer. I cursed – I really needed to talk things through. I asked her to call, and then I left further messages for Georgia and David.

In the lobby, I gave Silvia my phone number and she promised to let me know as soon as Georgia came in. I needed air, and so I went out into the grey afternoon and walked, joining the throng of tourists heading for St Mark’s Square. As I moved under a high stone arch, the square stretched before me. At the far end, the golden cupolas of St Mark’s Cathedral glowed dimly in the light and the Doge’s Palace loomed white and mysterious – but in between stretched a vast sea of blue–green water. St Mark’s Square was a giant swimming pool. It was
acqua alta
, high tide. Snakes of raised duckboards had been laid across the square and people were trotting along on top, as if promenading on trestle tables. An orchestra still played, on its stage, outside the sumptuous Caffè Florian and, remarkably, the shops spread around the square on three sides under the grand stone arches were open, plying their glittering wares of gold and gems and luxurious fabrics. A group of men, tall, ebony-skinned, possibly illegal refugees, had set up a table selling cheap plastic overboots that looked like luminous green garbage bags. I bought a pair and put them on over my shoes, tying them above my knees.

I couldn’t keep still, thinking about Georgia. It was unlike her not to come back to the hotel last night. Perhaps she was staked out somewhere, gathering information on the boy’s arrival, and didn’t have time to call? She was a detective. If anyone could look after themselves it was her, but no matter how many times I told myself that, I still felt sick.

As I clambered up makeshift steps to the duckboards I held my phone, waiting for someone to return my calls. The sea slopped beneath me, a dull, dirty colour up close, brown through the green. There was a hush over the square.

Perhaps David was here with Georgia, and they were staked out together?

I kept walking, not really thinking about where I was going. I reached the other side and waded through water that splashed up my legs, then I went down an alley of shops winding towards Rialto. The tourists thinned out: I’d chosen an alley that wasn’t a main one. Sound hollowed, and I was suddenly alone.

The shops evaporated, replaced by blank-faced houses as the walkway became impossibly narrow, flooded by a canal that had spilled over in the high tide. The alley stopped in a dead-end, where water lapped, making a quiet hissing noise. I retraced my steps, but soon I became even more lost as I waded through polluted seawater looking for something familiar, or a sign back to St Mark’s Square or on to Rialto. But every intersection was just more houses with crumbling, blank walls. I tried to pull up a map on my phone, but it wouldn’t load.

I looked at the time – 4pm. It was growing darker by the minute on this dull day. Panic rose, my hands were clammy. I felt like I’d never find my way, trapped in a maze. I was in a run-down area. There was nobody on the street.

Just as I was about to phone Silvia at the hotel to ask for help, I saw a roughly-sketched arrow scrawled on a wall, announcing Rialto. I followed it, only to get to an intersection where there was no arrow, and three alleys shot off in different directions. I took a stab at the middle one. After five minutes I heard voices echoing and the sound of feet sloshing through water. Turning into another alley, I met up with a crowd of tourists. I tried to calm down as I followed them to the Rialto Bridge. Arching over the Grand Canal, the pale stone steps of the bridge rose up, tiny shops on both sides twinkling with lights. I went across, looking everywhere for Georgia, peering into jewellery stores packed with luminous silver and gold rings and necklaces, specialty shops selling handmade notepaper, other shops full of Murano glass decorated in gold leaf. Georgia was not inside them. But of course she wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t be shopping if she hadn’t come home last night. I turned back.

My feet were aching as I trailed more tourists up an alley with a sign pointing to St Mark’s Square. There was an unreality to the twilight as it clung to the old stone walls, turning colours sickly. A dead rat floated past.

The tourists were laughing, voices booming; I didn’t let them out of my sight. We went under an arch and St Mark’s Square, still submerged, stretched in front. I wanted to hug my unknowing guides. The snaking duckboards were far away from this entry, but I was happy to wade through the water to the exit I knew. I found the broad walkway that led towards my hotel. Bustling shops were lit up brightly. Beside a window filled with sleek leather gloves, I turned right into a tight alley, then right again. The hotel was at the end, a beacon of hope.

I hurried in, not stopping to take off my overboots. ‘Silvia, have you heard from Georgia?’

Silvia looked confused. ‘No, but I would have called you, of course.’

‘I was just hoping,’ I said, deflating.

‘This is very bad. The professor told me he reported it to the police. I’ll call them again.’

She spoke intensely down the phone, listened, and hung up. ‘Nothing. No sign of her.’

I tried Georgia’s phone, and when it went straight to messages I gave another plea to call, joining the ones I’d already left. My head throbbed. I texted David, sick of hearing his voice when I asked him to ring me.

‘Have you eaten?’ said Silvia. She clunked down a multilingual sign –
Back in 5 minutes
. ‘
Prego
, come.’ Upstairs in her tiny apartment, she put a hearty pasta in a microwave, zapped it and handed over the steaming bowl aromatic with basil and tomato. She picked up a stick of bread and pulled an open bottle of white wine from the fridge. ‘Here, take these to your room.’ I declined the wine, which was difficult because it might have helped to settle my nerves, but I needed to be alert for the boy’s arrival. Tonight I could save him.