Lady of Asolo (9 page)

They ate a delicious meal of fish risotto, followed by grilled sea bass and green salad served with chilled Pinot Grigio. Fern told Luca about what he’d called her “episode”. He listened, nodding but keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘I’ll show you San Marco,’ he said when they’d finished eating. ‘It’s well worth a visit.’

After crossing the Rialto Bridge, they made their way through a labyrinth of small streets towards the heart of the city, passing designer shops selling everything a tourist with money could wish for. Fern’s nerves jangled.
Keep focused! You’ll be all right.

Of course she’d seen pictures of the square, but the real thing made her breath catch. The Basilica’s columns and domes shone in the afternoon sunlight, in radiant mounds and pleats, in golden extensions and undulating surfaces.

‘It’s amazing.’ She stared at the clock tower on the left. Familiar, but the other buildings around the piazza were new, as was the bell tower (although it was in the same place and the loggia at its base jogged her memory). The Doge’s Palace appeared to have changed little, even though she’d read in Aunt Susan’s book on Venice that it had suffered from a fire in the late 16
th
century.
So many fires!

Luca led her up the steps to the arched portals of the basilica and in they went. A queue of people in front was making slow progress. Didn’t matter, though; they could take all the time they liked. Light leapt and twirled from myriad minute surfaces of refracted gilt. The aroma of incense and candlewax filled Fern’s nostrils. A millennium of worship in this place.
And Cecilia came here and saw what I’m seeing now.

Above her and at every angle, extraordinary gleaming mosaic figures danced in a cloth of gold: lions, lambs, flowers, thorns, eagles, serpents, dragons, doves. It was an incredible sight, both terrifying and soothing at the same time. Emotion welled up, and she squeezed Luca’s hand.
No need for words.

They stumbled out into the sunshine. The piazza heaved with tourists, cameras clicking and pigeons swooping to peck at the corn held out to them. ‘Let’s have a drink before heading home,’ Luca said.

They sat at an outdoor table.
Florian’s.
A friend at work had warned her about the prices here. Luca was being far too macho and alpha male about not letting her pay for anything, but she knew what to do this time.

A waiter was hovering. ‘
Due bicchieri di Prosecco,
’ Luca ordered. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked Fern. ‘No flash-backs?’

‘No. Just a deep conviction that I’ve been here before.’

‘I was wondering about something. Have you considered that you might be possessing Cecilia?’

The weirdness of the notion had her gaping at him. ‘What on earth do you mean? Cecilia lived nearly five hundred years ago. I’m still alive.’

‘I’ve been reading up about it. There’s a theory that past, present and future are all happening simultaneously but in parallel dimensions. Perhaps there’s been a blip in the space-time continuum,’ he added, eying the musicians tuning up on a podium. ‘And if that’s the case, who came first: you or Cecilia? You tell me she seems to be aware of you occasionally.’

Fern frowned. ‘I’ve seen
Back to the Future
too, you know. It’s just fiction.’

‘No. The theory actually originated with Einstein’s concept of space-time.’

‘What about your theory she was trying to tell me something, get me to do something for her so she could rest in peace?’

Luca shrugged. ‘Whatever it is, I just hope you’ll be all right. I have to admit I was scared for you earlier on. You were in what I can only describe as a trance.’

‘Please don’t worry. I don’t think Cecilia wants to harm me. I’m still not sure about your parallel dimension idea, though. Seems a bit farfetched.’

‘And being possessed by a woman who died half a millennium ago isn’t?’

‘Touché!’ She sipped the rest of her Prosecco, gazing around and absorbing the magnificence of St Mark’s Square. Then she said, ‘Just need to pop to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Va bene,’
he said, stretching out his legs.

On her way past the bar, she asked for the bill and settled up. She’d need a second mortgage to pay for it when her credit card statement arrived, but she’d made her point. She just hoped Luca would take it in the spirit with which she’d intended.

Back at the table, she said, ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve paid for our drinks. It’s the least I can do.’

Luca laughed. ‘Not at all. The gondola is on me, though. I insist.’

‘That would be lovely.’ She fell into step beside him. They strolled hand-in-hand towards the lagoon and again recognition rolled through her as she stared in wonderment at the island on the other side of the basin. A campanile, like an enormous pencil, pointed skywards as if about to write a message. ‘I know I sound like a cliché. But I’m overwhelmed, it’s all so beautiful.’

Gondolas rode the waves, tethered along the waterfront. Luca approached one of them and negotiated with the gondolier. Fern stepped onto the boat and sat next to Luca on a plush red seat in the centre. ‘This part used to be covered in the past, I think.’

‘Quite right. To preserve the modesty of young women like Cecilia. She’s quite a rebel, by the way. Sneaking out to see her painter at night. She would have been kept indoors in those days, as only courtesans could walk about freely. I wonder if Cecilia managed her meeting with the painter?’

‘Well, I’m not about to find out,’ Fern said, injecting a note of determination into her voice. ‘It’s not every day you get to see the Grand Canal by gondola. I’m going to make the most of every minute.’

The afternoon sky had started to fade to a smoky blue and the sun was casting a wash of gold over the buildings. Cecilia and her artist could bide their time. Of course, Fern wanted to find out if her nemesis had learned to paint. It could wait, though. For now, she’d enjoy this glorious experience and revel in the beauty of Venice. She reached for her camera.

Luca was working overtime. He scrutinised the pile of paperwork on his desk: estimates to send out and quotes to get in. Routine stuff, which he could handle on autopilot, but it had mounted up. He thought about Fern and their gondola trip yesterday, remembering her smiling softly, taking everything in and clicking away with her camera. When they’d passed under the Rialto Bridge, she’d grabbed hold of his arm and he’d held her hand firmly.

A frisson of discomfort now as he imagined her spending time with the painter.
Pazzesco!
He shook his head and picked up another sheaf of papers.

After work, he drove back to his flat. He sat on the terrace with a glass of chilled Chardonnay, and gazed at the view of the mountains, with Monte Grappa in the centre looking like a gigantic camel’s hump. Would Fern be up for a drive through the hills and dinner at a trattoria tomorrow evening?
There’s only one way to find out.
He went to the phone, rifled through his address book, and dialled Susan’s number. Fern answered and said she’d be delighted, thanking him again for the visit to Venice yesterday.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Fine. Cecilia has left me in peace.’

‘Well, that’s good to hear. What have you been up to today?’

‘Aunt Susan and I went to the market in Bassano. Bought myself a new pair of sandals. We had the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. The town is charming, isn’t it? I’d love to go back there and do a watercolour.’

‘I worry about you driving on your own. What if you have a flash-back?’

‘Unlikely in a car. I’ve realised it only seems to happen when I’m in a place associated with Cecilia. Talking of which, I’m planning a visit to Murano the day after tomorrow. That’s where her story will continue, I think. I’ve decided to go with the flow, as they say. I really want to find out what happened to her and solve the mystery of why she’s singled me out.’

‘Will you be on your own?’ His gut clenched with concern. There was no way he could take another day off work.

‘Aunt Susan will come with me. Not that she’ll be much help; she’s convinced Cecilia is a figment of my imagination. She loves Venetian glass, though, and would like to get some from Murano for her collection. I’ll take my sketchpad and sit by a canal while she goes shopping.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow evening, then.’

He hung up and ran his fingers through his hair. How the hell was he going to keep his relationship with Fern on a friendly footing? He’d never been “just friends” with a girl in the past, and had never managed to commit himself to any one of them either. Fern was different, however, and it wasn’t just because she was English.
Mannaggia la miseria!

***

The following evening, he pulled up outside Susan’s house and rang the bell. Fern answered the door. She was wearing a light green cotton gypsy blouse that brought out the emerald in her eyes. He was glad she hadn’t embraced the power-dressing of most women he knew, and that she’d done away with the ubiquitous shoulder-pads gracing even everyday outfits. How anyone could think those things attractive was beyond him.

Fern waved to her aunt and settled herself in the Alfa. He took the road behind Asolo towards the village of Monfumo, where he’d booked a table in the small restaurant overlooking the square. They sat on the balcony, the sinking sun casting a rosy glow over the surrounding hills. Peach and pear orchards hugged their crests, and farmhouses nestled in the dips between them, half barn and half living accommodation topped by terracotta roof tiles. The night air was warm, almost too warm, and perspiration beaded Luca’s upper lip. He wiped it with his napkin.

‘There’s something I’d like to ask you,’ he said after they’d ordered a plate of
prosciutto
with melon and a carafe of the house red. ‘Last night I had words with my sister. I can’t get anywhere with her, and I don’t think I’m ever likely to. She’ll have to come to the realisation Federico is wrong for her on her own. Ma is beside herself with worry, however. Thinks you’re a good role model and she’d be really grateful if you’d try and befriend Chiara.’

‘Your mother did say something along those lines before. I forgot to tell you I met your sister and her boyfriend in Altivole the other day. Didn’t like him much.’ Fern chewed the corner of her thumb nail. ‘He reminds me of someone I once knew. Not a nice person.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘I’ll do my best. What’s your sister interested in?’

‘Her horses and Federico, of course, not to mention her political ideas. Oh, and after a lot of persuasion on my part, they’ve agreed to participate in the re-enactment of Caterina Cornaro’s court at the end of the month. There’s a thought.’ Luca grinned. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining in with our dance group? You should have no difficulty with the steps.’

Fern laughed. ‘That’s if I still remember them. Why not? How often do you rehearse?’

‘Once a week for now. As we get closer to the re-enactment we’ll meet more often. The next rehearsal is in three days’ time.’

‘Good. Aunt Susan and I have decided to treat ourselves to the opera tomorrow, at the Fenice. We’ll stay the night in Venice then come home after breakfast.’

‘Lucky you,’ he said, envious. ‘Which opera?’

‘
The Capulets and the Montagues
. And, before you say anything, I know it’s not based on Romeo and Juliet, but on an earlier work that many believe inspired Shakespeare to write his play.’

Their main course arrived – lasagne with wild boar ragù. They lifted their forks and tucked in, falling into silence as they ate. ‘That was delicious,’ Fern said eventually. ‘Can’t eat another mouthful.’

‘Coffee?’

‘I’ve had my quota of caffeine for the day, but you go ahead. Oh, and no argument, Luca. I insist on going Dutch tonight.’

His inner voice told him not to contradict her. ‘How about a nightcap at the Caffè Centrale?’

‘Lovely.’

Half an hour later, in Asolo, he ordered a grappa for himself and Fern requested a
limoncello
. They sat at a table on the outside terrace facing the fountain.

‘Can you tell me about your family?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair. ‘There might be something in your background that links you to Cecilia.’

‘Did I mention that I spent my early childhood in Nicosia like she did?’

‘Yep.’

‘It’s the only connection I can think of, other than the art, of course.’

‘You haven’t told me anything about your parents.’

‘Dad took early retirement from the Army and set up a landscape gardening business. He’s retired now and he and Mum spend their time pottering about their own garden near Chepstow or playing bridge.’

‘No siblings?’

‘I always wanted a brother or a sister, but Mum had a hysterectomy after having me because of complications giving birth.’

Their order arrived and they clinked glasses.

‘Are both your parents British?’ Luca asked.

‘Dad’s Welsh, of course, but Mum’s half Greek on her mother’s side. Her family have been in London for a couple of generations, though. Wouldn’t it be extraordinary if I were related to Cecilia in some way?’

‘There’s no way of finding out, I’m afraid,’ he said, knocking back his drink.

A familiar voice came from the left and his heart sank. What the hell was Francesca doing here?

The glamorous blonde sashayed up to their table, shoulder pads forward, and gave him a frosty look. ‘
Buonasera, Luca. Come stai
?’

‘
Bene, grazie.
’ He introduced his ex-girlfriend to Fern, who met the frozen glare with a wide smile.

Francesca draped her arm around the suave-looking silver-haired man she paraded before them like a trophy. ‘
Il mio fidanzato, Gabriele,’
she said, emphasising the fact that he was her fiancé. They declined Luca’s offer of a drink, saying they had to get back to Treviso, and, arm in arm, practically waltzed out of the café.

‘Who was she?’ Fern asked.

‘My ex,’ he said, not wanting to elaborate. He glanced at his Rolex. ‘I’d better get you home.’

Driving towards Altivole, he kept Fern’s face in the periphery of his vision. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but compared with Francesca’s fake glamour and that of the other women he’d dated in the past, her naturalness was far more alluring. He groaned to himself.

***

Luca woke up suddenly, sweaty sheets tangled around his legs. He disentangled himself and reached for his bedside light.
Bloody three am.
I’ll never get back to sleep now.
It was too hot for comfort.
Where’s the fan? In the basement storage area, probably.
He wasn’t about to traipse down there at this time of the night. What had woken him? There was no noise that he could discern. The street below was silent and he couldn’t even hear the owl that sometimes hooted in the tree beneath his window.
Mannaggia!

He shut his eyes and tried to drop off. A niggle at the back of his mind, then a voice. Now he knew what had woken him. He’d had that recurring dream.
Too late! Too late! Too late!