Page 29

Venice

Despite being in a grand location, I decide to keep the routines that I began in the humble pensione.

I rise just before dawn and head out with my sketchbook to capture the city as it comes to life.

In St Mark’s Square, it is only the pigeons and me until swift, silent nuns appear, flowing across the square to the early service.

My mother wrote of this and drew a sketch of the grey figures in movement with the pigeons fleeing in front of them.

I turn to a clean page and rough in the architecture and then the flock of women.

Something in me almost merges the grey birds with the nuns in their flowing habits.

In their midst is a white pigeon or a dove.

By the time I’ve finished working, the only uncovered place on the page is the dove.

‘You are talented.’ A man’s voice comes from behind me.

I jump.

A priest in full black cassock peers over my shoulder.

‘And you have captured the nuns and the pigeons so well.’ He laughs. He is American, and dark as any Italian I have seen. His eyes are the colour of coffee beans. ‘Father Terence Keeney.’ He holds out his hand. I take it and note that he has a direct look about him.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ I say.

‘I am indeed, and I would say you too are a long way from . . .’ He pauses and studies me. ‘I could be wrong, but I have a friend from Falmouth, so I’ll broaden the net and say Cornwall.’

I grin. ‘Impressed. St Ives.’

‘Land of artists, and they’ve produced a fine one in you.’

‘Thank you.’ I look down at my work. It is all the shades of charcoal, with fast lines and edges.

‘I’m about to have a coffee. Would you like to join me?’ he asks.

The square is already filling with early tourists. I stand and smooth down my trousers. ‘I’m not one of your flock.’

‘With painting the nuns like pigeons, I didn’t think so.’ He laughs. ‘I know a little place that serves the best coffee and pastries.’ He winks, and I collect my things.

Before long, we have dived down several calle and walked through to a campo, where we come to a small place that looks nothing like a café.

As soon as we enter, space appears at the busy counter for both of us.

Father Keeney speaks swiftly in what to my ear sounds like unaccented Italian.

It certainly doesn’t retain any of his American twang.

Two steaming cups of milky coffee and two cannoli filled with lightly sweetened cream appear while he has a conversation with the man behind the counter.

‘Tony here,’ he waves his hand, ‘is beginning to doubt I’m a priest because I turn up in the early hours of the morning with a beautiful woman.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You do this every morning?’

‘I try . . . except for Sunday, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I say, wondering what type of priest buys coffees for lone women in Venice.

‘The look on your face says you don’t trust me.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners.

‘It might not lie.’

‘Excellent. You shouldn’t trust someone just because they wear one of these.’ He tugs on his dog collar.

‘What’s an American priest doing here?’ I ask.

‘I spent a great deal of time in Rome and an opportunity came up to study here for a bit.’

I take a sip of my coffee. It is indeed the best I’ve had in Venice. I must remember this place and how to reach it.

‘You still look wary.’

I smile, letting that be my answer.

‘I’ll tell you the truth.’ He lifts his cannoli and pauses. ‘I’m a spy.’

I laugh uncomfortably, because surely he can’t be. And if he is, he wouldn’t tell me.

‘How’s our American film star?’ A man walks in and slaps him on the back.

My eyes open wide. Have I been really taken in? Is this man actually an actor?

‘My sister can’t believe you are really a priest. She is going to mass on Sunday to be sure.’

I stop myself speculating on his vocation and instead focus on his face.

It is strong. His eyes are wide apart and deep-set.

His mouth is not as full as I first thought.

Age might be mid to late thirties. Under the cassock, which he wears with ease, he has broad shoulders.

He looks more like an athlete than a priest drawn to Rome.

‘Penny for them?’ he asks.

‘Good coffee,’ I say.

‘You were not thinking of coffee.’ He smiles.

‘Mind-reader?’

He opens his hands out. ‘Part of the job.’

‘Priest or spy?’ I counter.

‘Both. But what were you thinking of?’

‘Drawing you, and that you look more like a sportsman than a man of God.’

‘Fair. Love both, but God won.’

I finish my cannoli more puzzled than before. ‘Why am I here?’

He laughs and his eyes almost disappear.

‘If I wasn’t a priest, I could say I’ve always been fascinated by red hair, but in truth I watched you furiously sketching and was intrigued.

’ He takes a sip of his coffee. ‘And once I saw the result, I thought to myself that this woman is an artist to know.’

I frown.

‘You began so traditionally, with the lines and shapes, and people and birds, but by the end it had transcended the actual to a more spiritual plane.’

I shrug. ‘It’s a quick sketch.’

‘Don’t dismiss it as such.’ He taps my notebook. ‘There are layers and meaning there that you may not yet see yourself.’

I shake my head.

‘Trust me, they are there, and you will see them, if not now, then in a few years.’

‘Are you an art historian or critic of some variety?’ I squint at him, hoping it will let me see who he really is.

‘Well, the Church owns enough art to require one, but no.’ He leans in close and whispers, ‘Art is my secret passion.’

‘Not so secret.’

‘True.’ He pauses. ‘Now I have been rude. I don’t even know your name.’

‘It is me who is rude, for I didn’t give it.’ I look down at my hands. I don’t know how to behave with this man. He is mildly flirtatious.

‘I need to know, because in the future I see great things for you.’

I snort into my coffee in the most unladylike manner. ‘So you are a fortune-teller as well.’

He holds out his hands again in a most Gallic way that doesn’t fit with his vocation. ‘Never that, but I can spot artistic skill a mile off.’

‘An artist yourself?’

‘No.’ He finishes the last of his coffee. ‘A bit of a photographer when I have time.’

The man behind the counter clears away our empty cups and plates.

I reach into my pocket to pay, but Father Keeney takes care of that after an argument with the man.

I can only gather that the café owner doesn’t want to take his money.

Finally it ends, and the priest takes my elbow and leads me out into the sunlight.

‘Are you off elsewhere, or are you going to take that sketch back to your room and create a painting from it?’

‘I’m heading back to begin a commission.’ I pause, daunted by the task in front of me. I want so much to paint Katherine, but not for Forster.

We walk together back towards St Mark’s. This is a part of the city I haven’t yet explored, and I will come back here.

‘What is the commission, might I ask?’

‘A portrait of a very beautiful woman.’ Katherine’s image immediately fills my mind.

‘That sounds intriguing.’

I frown. ‘Yes and no.’

‘Explain, please.’

We cross a small bridge where women are hanging laundry out. Joyful colour is reflected in the water below.

‘Her husband wants something staid and traditional that will act as an object he can show off, saying, “See, this is my exquisite wife.”’

‘And you don’t approve of the husband?’

‘I don’t.’ There is no need to lie about it to this man of the cloth who I am unlikely to see again.

‘Or of his possessive attitude?’

‘No.’

‘Or is it really the bland painting he is asking for that is bothering you, I wonder?’

I don’t reply.

‘It is all of the above, I think, but it is the last that is the biggest trouble for you.’ He stops in front of a plain door.

‘This is where I leave you. I hope to meet you again and I look forward to finding out how you work around his request and make it something extraordinary.’ He puts his hand on the door handle. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’

‘Sheba Kernow.’

‘As in Bathsheba?’

I nod.

‘Very interesting, Miss Kernow.’ He bows his head and leaves, his cassock flowing. Who is he, this priest?

* * *

The whole of the palazzo is awake on my return, judging by the energy and noise. Forster’s bags are by the door and he is dressed for travel.

‘There you are, Miss Kernow. Katherine thought you had fled in the night.’

‘No, I was out sketching.’ I search the hallway for her.

He frowns. ‘No matter now. I will show you where to paint her.’ He marches ahead and I follow, hoping this won’t be too awful.

We climb a flight of stairs and I know my worst fears will be realised.

He flings open the double doors to their bedroom.

Katherine stands silhouetted in the morning sunlight looking more like an apparition than a human. Her white silk nightdress glows.

He drags a chaise longue to straddle the French windows. ‘Just here, with the glory of Venice behind her.’

The view he is referring to is almost invisible with the morning light streaming in. My eyes struggle to adjust to the contrast between the dark room and the June sunlight.

‘This,’ he says, ‘is what I want.’ He takes Katherine’s hand and pulls her to the chaise, positioning her like she is his doll.

Once her body is in place, he turns her head so that she is looking at the bed.

Her profile is beautiful, with her long neck and sharply defined jawline, but not as beautiful as her face.

‘You must let Sheba decide some things, Simon. She is the artist.’ Katherine pushes her hair back and glances at me.

‘I want you looking away.’ He crosses his arms. If he stamped his foot, I wouldn’t be surprised.

‘Is it really me if people can’t see my face?’ she asks.

‘I don’t need people to see you,’ he says, leaning down to her.

This is not comfortable. I step back.

‘I want them to see just your beauty.’ His voice is low and threatening.

It’s clear he simply needs to own everything about her, even her image. Katherine rises, proving he doesn’t control her every move.

‘Sheba is the artist. You have chosen the subject and the position. Let her decide the rest.’

He casts a dismissive glance at me. ‘She needs guidance.’

Katherine purses her mouth.

‘I must dash so that I make the train,’ he says, and kisses her before leaving. I have seen my mother kiss my father, my father kiss his new wife, and never have I felt as sick as I do now.

Katherine yawns as the housekeeper enters the room.

‘ Buongiorno , Signora Bocca, please may I have some coffee.’

The housekeeper looks at me and I nod.

‘What wonderful things have you been up to in the early hours?’ Katherine pulls the sketchbook from under my arm.

She flips the pages, stopping on this morning’s effort.

‘St Mark’s Square.’ She holds it away from her, squinting slightly as she rotates it back and forth, before a big smile spreads across her face.

‘I doubt the nuns would like it.’ She closes the book before handing it back to me.

‘They’ll never see it, so I’m not overly concerned.’

‘Not afraid you’ll be damned to hell?’

‘That’s always a possibility.’ I smile, thinking of Father Keeney. If all priests looked like him, female attendance at mass would rise dramatically, and the queue for confession for those with lustful thoughts would circle the building.

‘That is a very seductive smile. Do tell.’ She flops down onto the chaise longue and taps the empty space beside her. ‘Sorry for my tedious husband.’

I shrug. She is the one who chooses to live with him.

Looking over her shoulder at the canal, she says, ‘It will be awfully difficult to paint me here, will it not?’

‘Not my first choice, but if we use the afternoon light, it should be better.’ I wave my hand. ‘This is not the best light for painting, especially in the style he wishes.’

‘How would you paint me?’

I begin to speak, and then stop. I can’t say I’d paint her nude, from the back, with her looking over her shoulder at me. It is her birthmark that is calling to me.

‘I might paint you as they did in the past, standing tall with the tools of your trade about you and in the distance a halcyon view.’

‘Ah yes, somewhere I have one of my ancestors painted this way.’

‘I would love to see it.’

She shook her head. ‘No you wouldn’t. He was dusty and boring.’

‘What portraits have you seen that you like? What style would you like to be painted in?’

‘Hmm, as Picasso does. That could be interesting.’

‘You might have to sleep with him first.’

She arches an eyebrow. ‘Really? You’ve met him?’

‘He is acquainted with a friend of my father.’

‘What was your impression?’ she asks.

‘Genius, but tricky.’

‘Sadly, they frequently are.’ She lights a cigarette and offers me one. I wave it away.

‘Who else?’

‘Perhaps Michelangelo.’

I laugh. ‘Don’t think he did too well with women.’

‘You have a point.’

The housekeeper returns with coffee and some toast.

After she’s gone, Katherine says, ‘Shall we use what’s left of the morning and visit a museum or two?’

I accept the cup of black coffee she offers me.

‘It won’t take me long to dress.’ She stands.

‘Last night was such a bore. I should have stayed here with you.’ She opens her closet and flicks through it, pulling out a blue dress with a white diamond pattern running through it.

She tosses it on the bed before pulling out stockings and a slip.

Without closing the shutters, she takes off her nightgown, continuing to chat to me about who was at the party last night.

I know none of them, so I let her voice run over me as I make sure to look out the window and not at her while she dresses.

‘Can you do the buttons for me?’ she asks with her back to me.

I secure them, thankful that her birthmark is hidden beneath the fabric.

‘Which museum should we begin in?’ She finishes her coffee.

‘It’s best to start at the Accademia.’ I have already spent hours there, but each time I find something new to study.

‘Bit stuffy, but fine.’ She bites into a piece of toast.

‘It’s always good to start with the earlier works, then move forward.’

‘Yes, miss,’ she says, mimicking a child at school. ‘Have you had something to eat?’

I nod, not sure I want to recount my meeting with the priest, and that strikes me as odd.

‘Then let’s go.’

I grab my sketchbook and follow, uncertain what the day ahead will bring.