Inamorata Page 2

  “Oh,” I breathed, and Joseph laughed and pulled me gently toward some man who offered us a piece of paper with the tariffs for the gondola printed upon it.

  Joseph didn’t even look at it. He took me with him to where a row of gondolas waited, the strangely shaped funereal boats bobbing gently with the current, the toothed projections of their bows alien and vaguely threatening. My brother handed our bags to a tall, broad-shouldered gondolier whose face I could not see well in the darkness, and glanced up at the sky. “The stars are out. Look.”

  He was right. Glitterdust across a broad expanse of blue. Before me, the water unfurled like dark swaths of shadowed silk, colors muted, reflections cast by the lamps hanging from the prows of the gondolas rippling, and my heart swelled at the beauty and the romance of it.

  “You’re spoiling me,” I told him.

  “Don’t you deserve it?” His dark blue eyes looked black in the darkness, glowing. “Don’t we both?”

  He passed me off to the gondolier. The man’s long, strong fingers wrapped mine, warm even through my gloves as he helped me into the boat. I arranged myself as comfortably as I could upon the pile of black-leather-covered cushions in the middle, but they were made for lounging, and I could not lounge in a corset and tight skirts.

  Joseph settled himself beside me, stretching out his long legs. The white of his trousers glowed in the darkness. White, in spite of the day of travel and dust, but one could not see the dirt on them now. He put his arm against my back, a bolster, something solid to lean against, and I gave him a grateful look.

  The boat pushed off into the Grand Canal, and we were plunged into a world of impressions, other gondolas like shadowed hearses gliding past, the bouncing halo of their colored lamps lending an enticingly mysterious air. Abandoned palazzos in dilapidated splendor rose from the water, together with the reflections making a strange sort of labyrinth that melted and dissipated constantly, always changing so I was never quite certain of what was real and what was just an image. A shadow might become a man who disappeared through a silently opening door, a quick shaft of light slanting, washing away, gone, the candles and tiny oil lamps from little street shrines seemingly floating in an endless dark. We caught smatterings of music or conversation as we passed beneath balconies, the sounds carrying distinctly on the water.

  It smelled of elusive perfume and river water washed by a sea tide and ancient stone. Joseph and I were silent with wonder as we were swept farther down the Canal. It seemed to go on forever, and I was glad for that, so perfectly stunning it was, and then suddenly there was the Campanile, the pillars of the Molo, St. Mark and his winged lion, the pink-and-white glimmering pattern of the Ducal Palace, all so beautiful and unexpected in spite of the fact that I had been expecting them. Only . . . not this way, not in darkness and not in enchantment.

  The boat turned into a narrow canal, stopping only a few yards beyond a low, arched bridge. “Danieli,” the gondolier said in a deep voice.

  Joseph got to his feet and helped me from the gondola onto the slippery stone steps. He arranged to have our trunk brought in, and then hefted our bags, and together we went inside the hotel.

  I had never been in a place so fine. I felt an imposter as I took in the marbled floors and walls, the Moorish arches and Oriental-styled pillars. The lobby was opulent, with multi-tiered gilt stairs leading into an atrium. We could not possibly afford to stay here—how had I made these arrangements? I was certain, as Joseph went to the desk and checked us in, that the man there would say, “Oh, monsieur, I am so sorry to tell you that the price is not what was quoted you. I am afraid you must pay a good deal more.” But the man only handed Joseph a paper to sign and then we were going up those impossibly narrow, beautiful stairs, past more galleries and more gilt. Gaslight blazed brightly from sconces everywhere, and there was so much heavy marble I wondered that the whole thing didn’t sink into the lagoon.

  When we finally reached our room, and the porter left us, I leaned back against the door and said, “Did you check the price? Did I make a terrible mistake?”

  Joseph had gone to the window, and was pushing aside the slate-blue velvet drapes. He looked over his shoulder. “It’s cheaper than you remember. And we’re only here until we can find something else.”

  “There were others I could have chosen. I’ll look into it tomorrow—”

  He motioned for me to come to him. When I did, he drew me close, my back to his chest, and wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Look out there,” he whispered, his voice rumbling. “It looks like the setting of every story you ever told me.”

  I followed his gaze. The Canal glimmered before me, the towers of San Giorgio Maggiore looming shadows in the near distance. The Molo stretched to the right with its dozens of gondolas moored for the night, black and jagged shadows against the lamp-lit glow of the fondamenta. It did look like a fairy tale.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, and I heard his reverence; I felt it in him as he held me tight and close. He leaned forward, his dark hair brushing my cheek. “You did this perfectly, Soph. I won’t let you regret it.”

  I took a deep breath. “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll discover who we must see. I’ll find the way in. It will take a few days at most, I promise, while you look for a place to rent. All right?”

  I gripped his arms, holding him in place, and nodded, my hair coming loose from its pins where it caught on the stubble of his cheek. “All right.”

  Gently, he pulled away. I let him go. “Now go to bed,” he told me. “You’re tired.”

  “You must be just as tired.”

  “Not yet. I want to look for a while.”

  He was right; I was tired. I unbuttoned my coat and took off my hat and my gloves. I went to him to undo the myriad fastenings of my gown and petticoats and corset, which he did, his deep blue gaze focused on the view outside.

  I undressed and put on my nightgown, and then I let down my hair, brushing it before the mirrored dressing table. When I went to braid it, Joseph said, “Leave it,” so I knew what he meant to do. I left it falling about my shoulders, dark and curling, as he liked it, and went to the bed. The room was chilly and damp, and I was cold. There was neither fireplace nor stove. I lay down—the mattress was thick and comfortable. I asked, “Might I have a blanket?”

  Joseph shook his head. I didn’t protest. I lay there on top of the bedcovers and waited. But he only stood at the window, and I was too tired, and so I closed my eyes. I felt sleep hovering, no matter the cold, and I was back on the Canal again, swaying in a gondola beneath the stars while the water lapped against the sides in a soothing, quiet rhythm, and it was only then, in some distant part of my mind, that I heard Joseph go to his bag at last. I heard the shush as he took what he needed from it, the scrape of a white-and-gilt chair as he pulled it across the floor, next to the bed. I heard the hush of his breath and the quiet rustle of paper, the scratch of charcoal. I didn’t open my eyes, and he didn’t ask me to. I let the lap of water and the familiar rhythm of his drawing rock me to sleep.

  NICHOLAS

  I watched her in the Rialto strolling among the fishmongers and the peddlers, a vision of grace that caught every eye she passed, so beautiful it made one ache to see her. That was one thing that had never changed: despite everything I knew of her, the desire I felt for her remained, and I feared it always would, my own wasting disease. No one could compare to her as she hovered over pyramids of speckled plums and pressed an elegant finger to test the freshness of a tunny. She laughed with a produce seller as she weighed a bright pepper in her hand, those perfect lips parting, flashing white teeth. She wore dark blue that accentuated the red in her hair, the gray of her eyes. Jet buttons. A hat with a black feather sweeping to brush her cheek.

  I stayed out of sight. I would show myself soon enough, but for now, I only waited in the shadows as she bought a bit of red mullet, a loaf of bread, a melon—she had a particular fondness for it�
��though none of these things would appease her real hunger.

  I followed her like the devotee I was as she made her way to a small cafe and took a seat at one of the tables on the street. I hid myself behind a stall selling spicy sguassetto, watching as her gaze darted from one thing to another. As always, I felt the draw of her, stronger now, as it always was toward the end, and I knew others felt it as well—a juggler had staggered as she passed, dropping one of his pins; an organ grinder stuttered over his keys. But she was not hunting, I realized. She was waiting, which meant she had already found her next victim. I wondered how much talent he had, if she thought he might be the one, or if he was only easing the pain of her hunger while she searched.

  My senses sharpened as a man approached her, and she broke into a charming smile. He was tall and blond, though not so blond as I, his hair straight where mine was curly. He sat down at the table and pulled his chair close to her, touching her familiarly—already her lover, then—and as if he could not help himself, something I remembered. His hair was too long; his coat frayed at the hem. I thought I’d seen him before—at the salon, perhaps, though not for some time. He was an artist of some kind, of course. And young as they all were. Pretty as she liked them. She was always so predictable.

  I leaned back against the wooden post of the stall and waited impatiently through ordered coffees and sweets, fawning and rather nauseating public intimacies. Then at last, he rose, leaning to kiss her before he left.

  I hurried after him. I could almost smell the tang of his sweat as I followed him out of the Rialto. The vision of that little room in Barcelona flashed through my mind, strengthening my resolve. I had spent the last seven years doing exactly this, trying to save these men as I wished someone had saved me, but more importantly, keeping them out of her hands. This one, and hopefully the next and the next and the next. And when the cycle was permanently broken . . . I hoped—I believed, I prayed—that the talent she’d stolen from me would return. Then, I could become again the poet I’d been on my way to becoming. Then I could take back my life.

  This man did not go far. Only to the Campo San Bartolomeo, where he sat at the wellhead, pulling out his notebook and a pencil. I expected him to begin scribbling frenziedly—the inspiration she provided was like a fever—but he only sat there, staring blankly at the page. After a few moments I stepped up to him, casting a shadow. He looked up, frowning and squinting at me where I stood in the sun.

  “Hello,” he said, cautiously polite. He was as English as I was, too distracted even to try for French, which was widely spoken here, a clean substitute for the incomprehensible Venetian dialect.

  “Oh, thank God you speak English,” I said. “I’ve spent the whole morning looking for a countryman in this wretched maze.”

  He lifted a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun, and smiled. He wore a great deal of cologne. I smelled it from where I stood, even in the open air. “You must be new to Venice.”

  “A veritable babe,” I lied. “I arrived just yesterday and already I’ve been lost three times. How does one navigate?”

  “Getting lost is part of the experience.” He motioned to his notebook. “I’ve written my best poems playing Wandering Jew among the calli.”

  “You’re a poet?”

  He ducked his head humbly. “I make some claim to it.”

  “Well so do I! Imagine, a fellow poet and an Englishman! You must let me buy you a drink. There’s a cafe just over there. Come with me and regale me with your impressions of Venice.”

  “I would, but—”

  “And if you’re a poet, surely you’ll know Katharine Bronson? She’s a good friend of mine; in fact, she’s who I came to Venice to see. I’m to go to Ca’ Alvisi tonight for her salon, assuming I can find it.”

  “I’ve been there. Though . . . not for a while.”

  “So you can point me in the right direction.”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Perhaps you know another friend of mine too. Odilé León?”

  I saw the friendliness in his expression melt away, replaced by suspicion tinged with jealousy. “You know Odilé?”

  “I’ve known her for years.”

  “Really? I confess I’ve only known her a short time, but . . .”

  “A moment with Odilé is worth a thousand lifetimes, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” His expression turned to one of such longing and adoration it was almost embarrassing. It was like seeing myself in a mirror, as I’d once been.

  “Ah, the stories I could tell you,” I said. And then I waited.

  The opportunity to speak of her with someone who understood was what hooked him, as it always did. It was one of my better strategies. He nodded and offered his hand. “I’m Nelson Stafford. Perhaps we should have a drink.”

  I shook his hand. “Nicholas Dane. And I would be delighted.”

  He rose, tucking away the notebook and pencil, and I led him to a cafe across the campo. But I didn’t stop at one of the outside tables. Instead, I took him inside, to a table in a dark back corner, away from prying eyes. He was so eager to speak of her that he didn’t question why I might choose gloomy darkness in lieu of bright late-summer sunshine. I ordered a bottle of wine, though it was barely past noon. When it came, he gulped down the first glass in moments. Now, with time to observe him more closely, I noticed the signs of her demolition. He’d been with her at least a week, I thought. Perhaps two. He looked famished, like someone who could not eat or sleep for thoughts of her. It was hard to tell if this was the best time—too early, and they wouldn’t listen; too late and . . . well, too late.

  “When did you know her?” he asked me fervently. “How long ago? Where?”

  “I met her when I was twenty-three,” I said, sipping my own wine. “Nearly seven years ago. In Paris.”

  “Ah . . . to think of her in Paris!”

  I gave him a thin smile. “Do you imagine she fails to bewitch any city she visits?”

  “Were you—”

  I shook my head, trying to put him at ease. He would listen to nothing if he thought I was a rival, past or present. “We were friends only.”

  “How could you resist her?”

  “She’s the one who chooses, like any woman. Haven’t you learned that by now? Surely there’s not a man in the world who wouldn’t be with her, given the chance. I would have done anything for her once, but she didn’t return my interest, more’s the pity.”

  He poured more wine, drinking it thirstily. “She is . . . she is beyond anything I’ve ever known. Such inspiration . . .”

  “Yes indeed. It’s what she does, you know. Inspires. Until she doesn’t.”

  He was in the middle of taking a sip, and he paused, frowning over the edge of his glass. “Until she doesn’t?”

  “Your poetry was what caught her eye, wasn’t it?”

  “She saw me writing at Florian’s. She sat down beside me and I found myself reading lines to her aloud. She said it was sublime.”

  “You’ve written odes to her?”

  “Yes. Yes, who wouldn’t?”

  Idly I played with a spoon, watching how the gaslight glinted upon it. “Have you written a great deal?”

  “I did, but . . . but lately—”

  “Lately you’ve been too distracted to write.”

  His gaze leaped to mine. “How did you know?”

  I shrugged. “It’s what happens. You’ll get over it. Unless you’re lucky enough to be chosen.”

  “Chosen?”

  “Then, why, you’d write an epic for the ages. She is the muse of all muses, and if she chose you, she would inspire a poem that would give you a fame you’ve only dreamed of.”

  He was watching me closely, with a fevered light in his eyes, never doubting. No, of course not. He’d already felt the pull of her, the exhaustion of such a rapacious appetite.

  I went on. “But such a thing has a cost. That poem would be the last you ever wrote. Except for doggerel, perhaps. Rhymes for chil
dren to speak as they learn their letters. Mother Goose. ‘Daffy down dilly has come into town . . .’ ‘Little Tom Horner. . . .’ Whatever genius you once possessed would simply disappear.” I snapped my fingers, and he jerked as if the sound startled him. “You’ll go mad or take your own life. But dying of a peaceful old age . . . no, my friend, you can’t hope for that—unless you do one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Leave her now. Walk away from her and live. Or stay and die in madness and frustration.”

  He stared at me in stunned amazement. “Leave her? How could I possibly do that?”

  I poured his next glass of wine. “You said you’re having trouble writing. You haven’t eaten, unless I miss my guess—”

  “I’ve no appetite.”

  I lowered my voice. “You’re desperate to have her. You can hardly think of anything else.”

  He went red. “You said you were never her lover. How do you know these things?”

  “My friend, I have known this woman for years. I know what she is capable of.” I leaned back in my chair. “Do you think you’re the only one? There have been dozens before you. Hundreds, even. I have seen it again and again.”

  “Hundreds?”

  “Hundreds. She will destroy you. She will drain you until you are nothing but a shell, and then she will discard you, the way a spider discards her prey once she’s sucked the fluids dry. And if that is the worst of it, you will be fortunate indeed.”

  He reached for his wine and drank convulsively.

  I cajoled, “You don’t understand what’s happening to you. You’re afraid and desperate in the same moment. Shall I tell you what happened to the others she inspired?”

  He nodded, wide-eyed as a child.