Season of Storms (5 page)

It was noon when he reached the Piazza San Marco.

The midday sun had bleached the square and cast a haze across the piazzetta, so that even the statues of San Teodoro and San Marco’s winged lion, they who had for these eight centuries stood vigilant, their eyes fixed ever eastward over the serene lagoon, appeared today to slumber on their columns while below them at the edge of the canal the water barely swelled beneath the waiting row of gondolas.

He turned his back upon the gleaming pinnacles and domes of the basilica and searched among the faces in the strolling crowd for hers. No easy task, that. All of Venice seemed to be here, standing idly sharing gossip in the shadow of the bell-tower, or lunching at café tables by the Moorish colonnades. Music rose and met from either side of the piazza where the orchestras competed for attention from beneath their café awnings, a cultivated duel of rival melodies and rhythm that yet managed to produce a pleasing harmony.

“Maître!” a delighted voice behind him cried and, turning, he recognized the oldest of the waiters from the café on his right, a sun-creased man from Corsica whose thick French accent clung to every word. “Maître, what a joy to see you here again. You must sit here, where all who pass can see you and pay tribute to your talent.”

He hesitated . . . he had not meant to stop here, but rather, like one of his own hounds, to keep to the chase, to find the scent and pursue it, relentless . . . but the waiter’s words, the blatant adoration, moved him suddenly. He sat. What did it matter, he thought, if he
paused for a meal? Did not his own hounds hunt the better when they were refreshed?

He ate and drank deliberately, in honour of the watching eyes.

A scraping of chairs at the table behind him announced the arrival of a new party, young, gay with laughter. A man in English said: “Oh no, but it really was too bad of you, John, not to stop the boat and let her have a go. She might have done it.”

“Nonsense. From what I’ve heard, nobody gets in to see him. That man of his guards him like a Gurkha.”

And then a woman, in amusement, said: “I fancy Celia’s a match for any man’s man. Aren’t you, darling?”

Still with his back to their table he froze, his glass half-lifted to his lips, as something wonderful and warm began to tingle all along his spine. Fighting the impulse to leap to his feet at that moment and face her, he felt in his pockets for pencil and paper. Their meeting, this first meeting, mustn’t be ordinary. It must be creative, it must have appropriate drama. He wrote quickly, and signalled the waiter.

“Yes, maître?”

Keeping his voice hushed he urged the man closer, conspiring. “Behind me—the blonde at the table behind me . . .”

A glance flickered over his head and then back again. “Yes, maître?”

“There is only one blonde?”

“There is, maître.”

“Excellent. When I am gone, you will give her this note,” he said, folding the paper and pressing it into the waiter’s hand. “You will give it to her privately, pretending it is something she has dropped, perhaps. Do this for me, and I will be forever in your debt.”

The waiter bowed his head and left.

Once more the laughter of the English party rang out close behind him, and he raised his glass and drank the sweetness of the wine and smiled.

vii

I
had seen the Piazza San Marco in films.

I had known that it would be the most enormous public square I’d ever seen, alive with flocks of beating pigeons swirling upwards, wheeling, settling, then rising once again to spread their wings above the multitude. When I stood at the centre of the square, in the shadow of the soaring red-brick campanile, or bell-tower, I felt that I was standing on the very spot where East met West, with the onion-domed Byzantine splendour of St. Mark’s Basilica glittering gold and white beneath the sun before me and the other three sides of the square at my back ringed with porticoed buildings in an echo of the ancient Roman forum, pale stone arcades and shaded cloistered walkways.

To the right of the basilica, the pastel-patterned walls of the exquisite Doge’s Palace, with its pointed Moorish arches, formed the north side of the smaller piazzetta that opened from the great piazza onto the fresh sea-salt–scented breezes and wide blue of the lagoon.

We’d arrived that way, disembarking from our gondola beneath the watchful eyes of St. Mark’s lion and St. Teodoro standing on his crocodile, set high upon their matching red Egyptian granite pillars that for centuries had stood as both a welcome and a warning to those entering the city from the sea. Often, Rupert told me, foreign visitors in olden times were greeted by the sight of a body hung to swing between the pillars—an executed traitor, perhaps, or some unfortunate citizen who had fallen afoul of the Council of Ten, that secretive band of assassins and spies who’d scuttled through the shadows of the Doge’s Palace like a plague of rats and kept their stealthy vigil with an ear at every door, earning themselves, by their methods of torture and terror, a fearsome reputation throughout Europe that had rivalled that of the Inquisition.

There hadn’t, of course, been a dead body hanging between the twin pillars today, although Rupert had taken great pains in describing what one might have looked like, to give me the proper effect. Rupert had a director’s compulsion for setting the scene.

Which was why, after we had spent an hour or so at the Rialto, breathing the breezes that washed the high bridge, and indulging in some rather wistful window-shopping, Rupert had insisted we hire a second gondola to take us further down the Grand Canal, so I could see the Doge’s Palace as its architects had meant it to be seen—from the water.

“I’m giving you a memory,” he had said, in explanation. “You only see anything once for the first time. The sight should be one you’ll remember.”

And to make sure that I did, he’d snapped a photo of the pointed palace arches rising out of the lagoon as we’d approached.

He took another photo of me now, as I half-turned from my admiration of the basilica. The camera clicked and whirred as the film began to rewind automatically, and Rupert swore. “I knew I should have brought a second film.” Zipping his camera case closed he squinted down the length of the piazza. “There must be a shop around, surely . . .”

“There,” I said, and pointed. “I’ll wait here for you, if you don’t mind. I want to feed the pigeons.”

Rupert smiled. “Right then, I won’t be long. And then we’ll have a cup of tea at one of the cafés, whichever one you like.”

I considered this briefly as he headed off to buy his film. There were several cafés sheltering in the long and shadowed galleries behind the arching porticoes that ringed the huge piazza, each one having extended its territory out onto the paving stones with a tidy array of tables and woven-backed chairs whose colour marked them—and the customers who sat in them—as the property of that particular establishment. One had yellow chairs; another cream ones, but the café closest to me had done theirs a lovely pea-green, a colour that seemed to have succeeded in attracting patrons. Nearly all the pea-green chairs were occupied by people slowly sipping wine or nursing single cups of coffee; people watching people, reading papers, reading guidebooks, simply lounging, half an ear tuned to the compact little orchestra that sat upon its awning-covered platform underneath one rounded archway, playing waltzes.

Any melody, apparently, would do—traditional or modern, from an opera or a Broadway show—so long as it was in three-quarter time.

The pea-green-chair café, I decided, was definitely the one we ought to choose. But for the moment, I was in no hurry to have a drink. There were pigeons to feed.

The maize-sellers dotted the piazza, perched on folding chairs and stools behind their wheeled white stands, cheerily scooping the hard yellow kernels into little plastic bags. They did a smashing business. I bought three bags all at once from a middle-aged man with friendly eyes whose cigarette appeared to be permanently attached to one side of his mouth—it bobbed when he smiled but stayed firmly in place, sending up a curling wreath of pure white smoke as he took my money in his work-creased fingers.

I loved feeding pigeons, no matter what anyone told me about their being dirty birds. I loved their plump grey bodies and their warm contented cooing and the bobbing of their iridescent heads. And I’d always had a feeling that they liked me, too.

Certainly the birds here in the Piazza San Marco seemed to find me irresistible. As I tossed my first handful of maize they rose around me in a flapping mass, cooing madly in encouragement, their small pricking feet settling on my sleeves, my back, my hair, while a flurry of wings fanned the air by my face. Some of the greedy ones didn’t wait for me to throw the maize, or even to gather it into my hand, but thrust their searching beaks into the open bag and took what they were after. “Now then, that’s bad manners,” I told them, and nudged them aside as I tried to make sure that they all got their share. The bag began to empty, and my covering of pigeons subsided a bit, dropping to my shoulders and my forearms and then fluttering by twos and threes towards the ground.

It was then I first became aware that I was being watched.

He was sitting alone at a table some fifteen feet in front of me, drumming a folded newspaper with fingers that were restless with energy. A youthful-looking man, with one of those faces that might have been thirty or forty-five, handsome in that easy, open way that always looked to me American. His hair in the sunlight was a light brown, carelessly cut, and his clothes were the casual clothes of the tourist. He’d apparently been reading the paper, but had lowered it to look at me, as though he found me much more entertaining.

I registered this quickly and glanced down with careful nonchalance, opening another bag of maize to bring the pigeons back around me, swarming upwards like a living screen. But when the grey whirlwind of wings slowed and sank again, calming, the man was still there. This time he grinned, a flash of perfect white, and in a clear voice he called over: “Need some help?”

I’d been right about him being an American.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure.” However appealing I might find the smile and the accent, I thought, it wouldn’t do for me to be chatting with a strange man when Rupert came back, not with all of the lectures he’d given me over the years on the dangers of doing just that. I moved off a step or two, hoping that would send a stronger signal to the American.

But a few minutes later, when I’d finished doling out the contents of my third and final bag of maize, I looked round to find him still sitting there watching me, drinking a beer now, his newspaper set to one side. “All done?” he asked. “Then come and have a drink.”

He said it just like that, as though we knew each other well, as though there wasn’t any reason why I wouldn’t want to join him. I didn’t for a moment consider doing it, but having never been faced with this particular pick-up technique, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do. If he’d been more aggressive, or lewd and suggestive, like most of the men who came on to me were, then it would have been simple. I could have been rude. I could have made a haughty exit, parting with a comment that would cut him down to size. But rudeness in this case seemed rather excessive. Instead I shook my head again and answered him coolly, “No, thank you, I’m waiting for someone.”

“You can wait as well sitting as standing. And anyway, Rupert won’t mind.” He stood himself, with hand outstretched. “I’m Den O’Malley.”

I must have looked a blank, because he added, “Your stage manager.”

“Oh.”

The man who’d be in charge of every detail of rehearsal and performance, taking care of the practical, technical matters so Rupert could concentrate on the creative; the man who’d be responsible for scheduling my life and who would be by turns my advocate, my taskmaster, my sympathetic ear. This wasn’t quite how I’d expected to meet him, and his name didn’t ring any bells—I was sure Rupert had mentioned someone else—but here was this man standing now with his hand out, and I didn’t want to be rude.

“Celia Sands.” It felt odd giving someone my real name in a professional context. I’d got so used to being Celia Sullivan. But Galeazzo D’Ascanio’s grandson had hired me on as Celia Sands, and that would be the name used in the programmes, so I might as well get used to it. Still, it tumbled strangely from my tongue, like someone else’s name.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, over the handshake. “I got the package from your agent, with your picture, though I have to say it doesn’t do you justice. You’re much prettier in person.”

It was not the most original of lines, and it shouldn’t have worked, but something about the way he delivered it charmed me in spite of myself. I sat down. “Thank you.”

“That’s a fortunate name, Celia Sands. And it’s your real one, is that right? But you’re not a relation? Damn, that’s too bad—it would have made a great story for the newspapers. Oh, well. What can I get you to drink?”

“I don’t really—”

“This beer’s kind of weak, but there’s wine, or tea, or . . . hang on, here’s Rupert.” As he raised his arm, calling to Rupert across the scattering of tables that divided us, I took the opportunity to study him more closely. I had never met a man who talked as quickly—or as much—as me, till now, and it felt odd to be the one who couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He’d have made a good Henry the Fifth, I thought, playing my little Shakespearean casting game. He certainly appeared to have the restlessness, the energy, the natural bent for leadership. Watching him stand and call a second time to Rupert I could easily imagine him rallying the troops at Agincourt, though there was something playful round his eyes that made me think he might not have had the stick-to-it-iveness to take part in the actual battle.

Rupert had stopped at the edge of the pea-green-chair tables, and was staring.

“There, he’s seen us now,” said Den. He waved again and grinned and sat. “He probably doesn’t recognize me without my beard—he’s got that fatherly protective look on.”

He was certainly wearing some kind of a look, though I couldn’t have said what it was, and it had vanished by the time he reached our table.

“Dennis, this is a surprise.” He greeted Den O’Malley with a smile and a handshake but his eyes . . . well, there was something in his eyes that wasn’t right. “You’re here with Bill?”

That
was the name that Rupert had told me earlier, I remembered now—the man who was supposed to be our SM. Bill Melansky.

“I’m here instead of Bill. He’s had some trouble with his heart—his doctor said he shouldn’t make the trip. Didn’t D’Ascanio fax you? He said he was going to.”

“He did, yes, he just didn’t say . . . well, it doesn’t matter, really. Bill’s all right, though, is he?”

“Cranky as ever. Here, have a seat, it’s good to see you. It must be . . . what, three years?”

“About that, I should think.”

Den shook his head in disbelief. “Where does the time go? You’re looking well. And Bryan? How is he? The two of you are still . . . ? Yeah? Well, that’s great.” He raised his glass in a salute. “You’re an example to us all, you and Bryan. I don’t know how you do it. My wife’s become an ex-wife since I saw you, did you hear?”

“I did, yes,” Rupert said. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, she knew what she was doing. I’m no good at being married. And besides, she’s less expensive this way—no more bills from Bloomingdale’s.” His blue eyes laughed, without regret. “This being single isn’t bad, you know. It has its . . .”—and he looked at me—“its compensations.”

Rupert smiled and warned him, “Careful, Dennis. That’s my little girl you’re leering at.”

“Was I leering? Sorry, force of habit. Let’s order a drink, then, OK?” He hailed the waiter.

Rupert surprised me by ordering Scotch. Unlike Bryan, Rupert rarely drank anything stronger than tea in the daytime. He leaned back in his chair, taking up the dropped reins of the conversation. “So, Dennis, where are you staying?”

He named the hotel. “Little place down an alley near the train station. I always stay there. D’Ascanio offered to put me up at the same hotel where he’s got you, but I have kind of a loyalty thing going with the place I’m in, and anyway I’ve gotten so I like my hotels cheap and cheerful. Makes the trip more interesting. Besides, I won’t have to drag my luggage too far in the morning. What time does our train leave, do you know?”

Rupert said, “Not offhand. I left the schedule back at the hotel. I know it’s early, though. Supposedly the tickets will be waiting for us at the station, young D’Ascanio has it all arranged.”

“Then I’m sure the tickets will be there. He’s done a pretty good job of arranging things so far. Have you met him? What’s he like?”

“He seems a decent chap, and very keen.”

“Yeah, that was my impression on the phone. We’ll see.” Lifting his beer, Den leaned back in his chair and directed another quick smile at me. “But here it is your first visit to Venice—it is your first visit? And we’re spoiling it by talking shop.”

I didn’t mind, and told him so, but he refused to be convinced.

“No, we’ll have to stop. Have you been inside the basilica? The Doge’s Palace? Seen the Bridge of Sighs?” When I shook my head to all of them he turned a half-accusing eye on Rupert. “What the heck have you done with her all day, then?”