Page 36

Venice

I lie watching Katherine breathe. Her dark hair presses against her cheek.

In that moment I know what my painting is missing.

Despite the low light, I work swiftly filling in the details from the memory of each touch, each moment of laughter and each second of ecstasy.

I don’t hear her wake, but when I look up, she is watching me.

Her glances aren’t veiled and her eyes shine.

They don’t hide her pain, her genius or her love.

It is all there. I work furiously as she moves to the chaise.

The rising sun touches her bare skin where I planted kisses not long before.

Each brush stroke caresses her now as I touched her, and I relive those moments of passion.

Steps sound on the floor outside the door. I hold my breath. Neither of us has a stitch of clothing on. The person walks on past and I add one last touch of crimson to her mouth. Then I lay down my brush and go and kiss her.

‘I must go now.’

She nods, handing me my clothes. She flings on her dressing gown, which only deepens my desire. It is the contrast of the burgundy of the fabric and the fairness of her skin. Once I’m dressed, I pick up the sheet to cover the painting.

‘Let me see.’

I stop as she gasps.

‘My God.’

‘It’s you.’

She nods with her hand to her mouth.

‘It is you as the world sees you.’

‘No, the world sees nothing but a beautiful canvas. You have painted the veneer as well as the complicated person living behind it.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Thank you.’ She helps me to drape the sheet safely over the painting, making sure that nothing touches the wet surface.

* * *

Forster is due back by four, and Katherine is restless.

Only the occasional glance eases my concern that she regrets last night.

Focusing on anything other than her is difficult.

I can’t believe she feels the way I do. The need to talk about us is overwhelming, but she is silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

By noon I have suggested we head to the Accademia, or go and look at the work on display in a nearby church.

But she insists that she must be here when he arrives.

Not even the suggestion of Harry’s Bar can shift her.

I don’t need to be around when he returns.

In fact, I’m dreading it. She will alter before my eyes and I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

In order to keep sane, I leave the palazzo and seek out the areas the tourists never venture to.

There, under clothes lines filled with colourful garments, I work with watercolours.

The heat of the day increases my speed, but finally I have to abandon the work.

It is too warm to focus. The only places to find cool air are the many churches.

I am wary after losing myself and my sense of time in the last one, but I slip through a small door that opens up into a vast space.

My eyes adjust and I stroll, admiring the varying saints in ecstasy – and after last night, I understand more of just what that means.

Everything inside me is shouting happiness.

But then I stop. How can I make this work?

The organ begins playing, startling me. A few painful notes ring out like a runner trying to catch their breath, then the sound transforms to music that transports me elsewhere. I don’t recognise the tune, but it fits with the baroque interior.

I sit in a pew to the left side of the church and study the painting of the Ascension of Mary behind the altar.

The music and the art blend together in perfection.

Closing my eyes, I let myself think about last night.

Her touch, her tenderness, her understanding of my lack of experience, and above all, her belief. She believes in me.

Katherine has woven a spell around me. She casts one over everyone except the man who is her husband.

He holds such control over her. I open my eyes as fear surges through me.

What will he do if he discovers Katherine is my lover?

He must not find out and I hope his self-centred nature will blind him. But how do Katherine and I go forward?

The music stops and I wait to see if it will begin again.

When it doesn’t, I rise to leave the peace of the church and my own disturbing thoughts behind.

Sunlight streams through a window, hitting a painting of a biblical scene.

My heart stops. Bathsheba and David. My mother is partially draped in a white cloth as she stands by a tub.

She is painted in exquisite detail. I can see myself in her features.

If only she were here so I could talk to her.

My heart aches with longing for her. I need that reassuring touch, the calming voice, the understanding.

How do I find my way forward? Grief swamps me and I can’t move.

An old woman walks in front of me and I turn away from her scrutiny and study the rest of the painting. My father as David is in profile and stands on a balcony looking down on Bathsheba. My mother’s expression is one of innocence, and yet it isn’t.

‘Is this the painting of your parents?’ Father Keeney asks.

I jump. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘From behind the organ.’ He points down the aisle towards the nave.

‘Was it you playing?’

He cracks his knuckles. ‘It was.’

‘Impressive.’

He shrugs. ‘You don’t have to answer, as I can see for myself how you resemble your mother.’

I flush and look at my mother again. She is delicate where I am awkward, but there is no denying the resemblance.

‘The original painting of King David and Bathsheba that was here was sold to pay for repairs to the building. The artist who painted this one gave it to the church. He visits regularly. Would you like to meet him?’

‘Yes. That would be wonderful. It would be a way to connect with my mother.’

‘Is she lost?’

‘She died three years ago.’

He rests a hand on top of mine. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll have a word with Roberto, the artist.’ He adjusts the camera hanging around his neck. ‘You wouldn’t like to be my model for today? I’ve been given this new camera and I’d love to see what it can do.’ His grin is lopsided.

‘Well as it happens, I’m free, so I’m happy to oblige.’ I haven’t been a model in a while. It would be a good change.

‘Excellent.’

With one last look at the painting, we head out into the crowded campo, where we dodge crowds. Finally we reach quieter areas and I have lost all sense of where we are. Without warning, we come to the Arsenale. This is an area I have not explored.

‘I’ll just take a shot or two here.’

Nothing catches my eye, but I am not a photographer.

‘If you stand there by the canal.’ He points.

The sun is high and it is incredibly hot. There are no shadows to speak of, so I’m at a loss as to his composition. This time of day is not ideal for an artist. Things are flat, but maybe for a photographer it is different.

‘The boatyard behind you,’ he waves his hand, ‘was once the heart of the Venetians’ power.’

‘That makes sense in view of the water that surrounds them.’

‘But their time has passed.’ He puts the lens cap back on and takes my arm. The sense of being watched follows me.

Father Keeney’s pace picks up as we move through some crowded areas. ‘There’s been an outbreak of typhus near here, so we’d best be quick.’

‘Typhus?’

‘Sadly, yes. The poverty in places is astounding, but it is not a side of Venice that many see.’

Even when I arrived, I didn’t see the poverty that is in front of me now. Only once we are near the tourist areas does Father Keeney stop.

‘There’s the Doge’s Palace. I think a shot here would be good.’

I pose as asked. He is a most patient man as he waits for crowds and clouds to pass.

The bells ring. Hours have slipped by, and we’re now standing with the throngs in St Mark’s Square.

‘Time to take the classic tourist photograph,’ he says.

I laugh as he keeps waving me back until his hand comes up to stop me. While I wait, Katherine and last night fill my thoughts.

‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘The film is finished and the last shot is the best. There was something different about it.’ He studies me. ‘I can’t quite place it, but you shone.’

I’m in love , I say silently, but I shrug.

‘Shall we have a coffee?’

I look to the clock tower and see the hour. ‘Another time.’

‘A better offer?’ he asks with a smile.

‘Maybe,’ I say, and take my leave, making my way back towards the palazzo.

My pace slows the nearer I get. I dread my return and long for it in equal measure.

These hours being with Father Keeney have been a tonic, but now reality sets in.

How am I to behave? If I was in love with a man, I wouldn’t have to hide my feelings.

People would celebrate young love. No one but Katherine and I will celebrate ours.

This isn’t fair. I brace myself and enter the palazzo, not sure what will ensue.

The housekeeper informs me that Signor Forster has arrived and that he and the signora are together in the salon, so I avoid it.

I have no desire to see him, and I don’t have the skill to look him in the eye and lie.

I’ve never been good at lying, which is why I said so little when I left Cornwall.

And why I didn’t answer my father’s questions about why I was going.

I pull out my mother’s diary and look at what she was doing on this day twenty-one years before.

The heat is most oppressive at midday. That is when I, like much the population , lie in a darkened room and move as li le as possible.

However, it is when my brain is the most active, as I cann stop it thinking.

The sunlight steals in below and around the shu ers and I see shapes and plan paintings in my mind, for it is simply too hot to move.

Last night he walked me back and ki ed me. I was changed for ever in that moment. My soul sang. It had found its match. Love changes everything.