The Echoes of Love (2 page)

She hurried on to the
vaporetto,
suddenly eager to flee, but as the waterbus pulled away from the quay, she watched him go up the stairs and disappear into the snow-white night with a strange sinking of the heart, wondering if she would ever see him again.

* * *

As it turned out, in the weeks that followed they had bumped into each other often at Fritelli, a coffee shop on Piazza San Marco where Venetia stopped for a
cappuccino
and
biscotti
every morning on her way to work, and where she met friends at weekends for afternoon tea. Most days, Paolo arrived as she was leaving. Whenever their eyes met fleetingly he had smiled politely, but had never stopped to talk.

And then tonight, on
Martedì Grasso
, at the grand ball that
il Conte
Umberto Palermi di Orellana was giving to celebrate the inauguration of his new home near Piazza San Marco, and the first Carnival of Venice of the twenty-first century, Paolo had been there.

His tight Arlecchino outfit, with bright multi-coloured patches in diamond shapes and a short frilled collar, clung to his muscular body like a second skin, and he wore a white felt beret adorned with a rabbit tail. Almost stopping in her tracks as she entered the vast ballroom, Venetia had recognised him behind the devilish features of his half-face leather black mask, not only because his athletic body towered over most of the guests, but also because of the easy, almost imperious way he moved through the crowd; and then, of course, there was the deep cleft in the middle of his chin that would always give him away.

All evening, Venetia had been aware of the penetrating azure-blue eyes following her around the room, and when occasionally she met their enigmatic gaze she found it hard to tear away from their scrutiny. Neither approached the other; they had merely circled around their mutual awareness, which vibrated heavily in the air no matter how dense the crowd became. And now, as she stood before the mirror, he had once more been there in the dim shadows, the reflection of his powerful silhouette caught in the glass by the leaping light of the fire, devilment sparking from behind the black mask.

A couple of ladies in full carnival dress, their heads clouded in veils of black lace, walked out of the ballroom, interrupting Venetia's reverie. She looked up at the clock. Firelight fell warm on the gold dial. Time had stopped for her. She was amazed at how long she had been standing there reminiscing about her lost life, feeling the echoes of a lost love. She should be returning to the party.

Venetia took off her Columbine mask. She still sensed she was half in the past and paused for a moment with her hand on the door handle, listening to the voices and the people laughing, before turning it and going in.

The long room, flooded with a golden glow from enormous
Murano chandeliers, was filled with people mostly hidden behind carnival masks, their disguises rich and colourful, glittering with the splendour of diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Transformed by their costumes into stately drifting mountains of Burano lace, with bright trailing peacock skirts of old brocade, the ladies flicked fans before their false faces, their heads adorned with neat, small cockaded
tricorne
hats. The men too wore masks, but with noses protruding like beaks – the famous
‘bauta'
: the Venetian disguise
par excellence
. For many, the costumes consisted of voluminous black cloaks wrapped high about the neck, and with white stockinged legs they looked much like crows and magpies. Their heads were covered in large black
tricorne
hats with sweeping lines, the edges trimmed with flickering white feathers. There were also costumes inspired by historic court attire, and other fantasy-style masquerade dress. The surreal majesty of the scene reminded Venetia of the dusky painting ‘
Il Ridotto'
by Venetian artist Pietro Longhi that she had always found so spooky, with its macabre eighteenth-century figures disguised in masks and shrouded in shadows.

The heavy door shut softly behind her and she stood there unnoticed, looking at the guests in their fabulous attire, some masked and others not, all talking and laughing. She felt a little underdressed in her simple, frilled, low-bodice
sobretta
outfit, with its patchwork of red, green and blue diamonds and large white apron and mob cap trimmed with lace. It represented a woman of the people, Colombina, the perky maid in the
Commedia dell'Arte,
the counterpart of
Arlecchino, and sometimes his wife. The costume had been given to her by her godmother for a New Year's Eve masked ball in London, and it had won first prize; in fact it had been the fancy dress party at which she had met Judd; but that was years ago… so much had happened since… she must not think of all that now. She shook off her darkening mood and moved into the sea of revellers.

Unconsciously searching for him among this pandemonium of masks, Venetia did not see Paolo immediately. When she spotted him, she saw that he had bared his face and was standing at the far end of the room, a glass of champagne in one hand while the other rested on a Corinthian column. He gave an impression of fitness and steadiness, and the other men in the room appeared to Venetia washed out in contrast. Though his body was lithe, there was something almost frightening about his apparent strength and vigour, almost inhuman. She had to admit that Paolo, with his dark head and his deeply tanned face lit by those arresting cobalt eyes, was the most striking-looking man she had ever seen: like a fallen angel.

He was surrounded by other figures of the
Commedia dell'Arte
. There was
il Dottore
wearing a long black tunic with a jacket that reached all the way to the ankles, black shoes, a skullcap, and an unusual black mask that covered only the nose and the forehead;
il
Capitano
in his suit with bright multi-coloured stripes and gilt buttons, a feathered cap and a frightful sword; and
Pulcinella
in a loose linen blouse belted with a rope over thin tights and a huge warped belly, a hat and a half face-mask with a hooked nose giving him a bird-like look.

Paolo was watching Venetia intently, only half listening to the vivacious blonde
cortigiana
in a splendid golden outfit of the courtesan with plunging neckline and a tall conical hat. His head stood out distinctly against the ochre wall, his gold-bronze face beaming now as his
host approached. They spoke for a few minutes before threading their way through the crowd towards Venetia.

Il Conte
Umberto Palermi di Orellana was a tall, aristocratic, handsome man in his early thirties who was known to be a
bon viveur
and a philanderer. Tonight he was Lelio, the elegant
innamorato
, lover of the
Commedia dell'Arte
, in a sumptuous court dress of the eighteenth century. As was customary for that character, he did not wear a mask. He had met Giovanna Lombardi, Venetia's godmother, at a drinks party. A few weeks later, he had approached Giovanna's firm, Bianchi e Lombardi:
Architetti, to take on the refurbishment of Palazzo Palermi, which he had just inherited from his father and which was in need of a total face-lift.

The renovation and redecoration of old historic buildings was Venetia's speciality and the Palazzo Palermi had become her first big project while working in her godmother's firm. After graduating from Cambridge, she had completed a Master's degree in History of Art at The Courtauld Institute of Art in London, and had then spent some time at Istituto per l'Arte e il Restauro
‘
Palazzo Spinelli' in Florence. Even though she showed great promise in straightforward architecture, Venetia did not feel it was her calling. And so Giovanna had put her in charge of
Marmi Storici e Pietra
,
the department for the restoration of historic buildings, where she was able to develop her talent for restoring mosaics and murals. She had immediately excelled and was beginning to make a name for herself in Venice.

Still, as her first major venture, the job had taken almost a year to realise, during which time Umberto had tried every trick in his book to seduce the young woman. It had been to no avail: his Adonis good looks and his charm left her cold. By the end of the assignment, not only had Venetia managed to carry out the works to completion without falling out with the notorious womaniser, but she had also gained the Count's admiration and respect. So much so, that he had asked her to marry him. She had been careful to turn him down gently. Umberto had taken the rebuff graciously but told her that he would not give up hope and she could be sure he would be asking her again.

‘Venetia,
cara,
you look amazing,' Umberto Palermi oozed, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips, his eyes brilliant with lust. ‘I have neglected you all evening. You must forgive me.' Not waiting for her reply, he added: ‘Have you met my best friend,
il Signor
Paolo Barone?' and, turning to Arlecchino, he introduced her. ‘
La
Signorina
Aston-Montagu, who waved her magic wand over this place and from a heap of ruins turned it into a
magnifico
palazzo
.'

A twinkle lit Paolo's eyes. ‘No, I don't think I have had the pleasure of meeting the
signorina
,' he declared, a deep and sexy cadence in his voice.

Venetia felt herself blushing. It was really annoying not to be able to control one's colour. Looking up at Paolo, she was sure he must be aware of the effect he had on her. With luck he would conclude that it was actually Umberto's proximity that was affecting her in this way. His powerfully masculine glance swept over her and she felt an involuntary heat unfurl deep down. Remembering her manners, she put out her hand.

‘How do you do?'

Suddenly, there was a violent blast of noise before their hands could make contact.

‘Ah, the fireworks have begun,' exclaimed the Count, taking Venetia's arm. ‘Come, let's go outside.'

The heavy brocade curtains were drawn back by young pages in eighteenth-century court dress and elegant floor-to-ceiling windows pushed open, inviting guests on to the wide veranda. Venetia was grateful for the interruption that was taking her away from Paolo's silent scrutiny. No man since those far-off days had stirred her as he did, almost from the moment they had met on that strange, dramatic evening. And while Umberto escorted her on to the terrace, although she could not see him, Venetia had no doubt that Paolo's eyes were still dwelling on her with that curious expression she was beginning to know, and which puzzled her so.

Umberto's
palazzo
, only a few streets away from San Marco, had an enviable view over the waterway, where the neck of the Grand Canal joined the broader stretch of water in front of the city's famous square. The wide canal had filled with boats and barges gliding along the dark water like fireflies: each vessel was trimmed with arches of leaves, plume-like clusters of ferns, and festoons of laurels, lit up with hanging paper lanterns and slowly drifting through a swaying mass of gondolas.

From the far end of the Grand Canal, among the docks and shipping, the muffled darkness burst suddenly into a festival of dazzling light as the mysterious night sky became starred with jewels of fire.

The fireworks soared into the air; they broke into raying diamonds of brightness and then floated towards earth, expiring in their downward flight. Other little points of light appeared, followed by tongues of flame rushing up from different places and flowing out large luminous bubbles of silvery-blue and green and sapphire. One after another, the rushing rockets sprang hissing upwards and, towering far above the water, burst with a soft shock into a golden sheaf of fire. They hung uncertain for one moment in the sky, and then came showering down.

Clouds of pearly smoke billowed out from under the trees on the
piazza
, turning from ruby to rose, from yellow to opalescent green – curling mists that enriched everything around and transformed the crowds and buildings into a fabulous, surreal painting soaked in gold.

And then, from out of the obscurity, a crystal waterfall curved up like a wave and streamed down into the darkness, white, noiseless and shimmering; on and on the miraculous river of silver flowed over and melted away, and a great uproar surged from the masses watching from the boats and on the shore.

Venetia was aware of Umberto being called away at this point and relieved that his rather overt attentions next to her were now gone, but Paolo had remained. She could feel his eyes on her, close somewhere, and she shivered slightly though she was transfixed on the scene of great splendour and movement above her. She watched, fascinated, as huge plumes of golden spray tossed high in the sky, looking like dissolving feathers of fire, and wheels of green spun madly to extinction, hurling burning sparks from them and blooming fire flowers.

There was a pause before the spectacular finale. Soft stars of colour shot up, soaring into the night. One after another, bouquets of primrose, coral and lilac rose slowly into the sky, blossomed exotically there, flamed, floated, and then vaguely fell, as if faint with an excess of beauty, into the inky water below, which received them and folded them to itself with a kiss.

It was the first time Venetia had witnessed firework displays on such a magnificent scale from so close, and a strange excitement coursed through her like the blazing colours that had exploded across the dark sky above. ‘A dream being born in the night air,' she murmured to herself, as the glimmering wonder ended.

‘Just that one moment of insane beauty before they consume themselves and die,' answered Paolo's voice out of the darkness.

Venetia was now even more aware of his disconcerting presence behind her, as Paolo's low voice seemed to caress her provocatively, and she was not sure whether she wanted to welcome his company or flee it.