Page 40

Venice

The contrast between the phthalo-blue sky and the terracotta of the walls is sharp, almost tart in its vividness.

None of the lingering mists of the past few mornings soften the day.

The tension in the air is almost unbearable despite the fact that we’re outside for breakfast. The table is shaded from the sun by an awning and the scent of the roses is cloying.

Katherine hasn’t said a word other than to ask for more coffee, while Forster talks non-stop about Il Duce and his brilliant new poems, which he waves about.

He doesn’t mention the large painting still dominating his room.

From Katherine’s appearance, she hasn’t slept at all.

Rather than come to the Biennale with me today, she should go to bed.

‘Serafino tells me the Biennale is filled with works like your painting,’ Forster says, flipping over the newspaper he is reading.

Katherine looks at me. ‘Painting?’

‘Yes, the one in her room that looks like a child has been given a box of paints.’ He lifts his coffee cup. ‘But Serafino saw something of merit in it, even if he wouldn’t want it hanging on his wall.’

‘You haven’t shown me.’ Katherine eyes me across the table.

‘I painted it yesterday.’ I smile when I long to reach out and touch her, give her some reassurance.

Her head moves up and down, but it is more like she is about to nod off than in any sort of communication.

‘I understand Ben Nicholson is one of the artists representing Great Britain. Do you know him?’ Forster helps himself to tea.

‘I do, and also Winifred Nicholson, who has paintings there as well.’ It is not quite a month since I last saw her.

Then I was searching for a miracle cure to become normal so I could fit into life in St Ives, and now I’m searching for a way forward with Katherine.

We must make our love work somehow. It would mean that I couldn’t go home to St Ives.

Nellie made it plain that there is no place for me there as a freak.

But now I know love and I am complete with Katherine, I will sacrifice the dream of a normal life with a family and acceptance in St Ives.

My life with Katherine would be too difficult there.

I couldn’t be me and I couldn’t subject her to that type of scrutiny.

Now, thinking of the isolation of Lamorna, I see the appeal.

There would be no need to hide who I am.

I would be free to be an artist and a lesbian.

Forster clears his throat. ‘His work is very odd.’

I blink, refocusing on him. ‘It’s striking and innovative,’ I place my hands flat on the table. ‘And Winifred’s is a breath of fresh air.’

‘It looks like child’s work as well, but at least I know what was being painted.’ He butters a piece of toast. ‘Now the painting you did of the urchin, that was perfection.’

There is only one way to see the world, his. I reach for the strawberry jam, longing to throw it at him.

‘I trust your painting of Katherine is up to that standard. It irks me no end that I can’t look at it.’

‘You mustn’t.’ Katherine looks up from her plate.

‘I don’t see why not.’ He takes a bite of toast and my stomach turns. How has she stayed with him? He is unbearable in every way.

‘Aside from me, do you want others to see your poems before they are ready?’ Katherine challenges him, and I’m relieved to see the fight back in her.

‘Well, if you put it that way.’ He presses the newspaper flat.

‘I do.’ She reaches across the table and places her hand on his. It takes everything in me not to knock it away. So I eat my egg and look at the beautiful mosaic work on the table.

‘What time shall we leave?’ asks Katherine.

‘In half an hour.’ I send her a questioning look.

She stands. ‘I had better dress properly.’

‘Herr Hitler arrives today.’ Simon leans back in his chair and looks as if he’s won an award. ‘I will be with Conte Volpi, taking him to the Biennale. I’m pleased that you and Katherine will witness this historic moment.’

Katherine stops still and looks over her shoulder at me, then her husband. With her smile fixed in place, she says, ‘That will be wonderful, darling.’

He grins, and my heart sinks. Our day alone enjoying art is to be doubly ruined.

* * *

The crowds are light as we arrive, and I try to push to the back of my mind the fact that Forster and Herr Hitler are coming to this place of joy.

The range of art on display is truly inspiring, and ideas bubble within me.

The use of line, shape, form and colour is so varied.

Before we left, I didn’t have time to show Katherine the painting of her that he had dismissed.

When I looked at it again last night, it helped to fill some of the space left empty inside me without her by my side.

I’m consumed by jealousy. He has the pleasure to be with her.

But she told me that she had spent the night working on his words.

On the vaporetto journey to Giardini, she nodded off. If she would take my advice, we could find a peaceful spot for her to take a nap. With her arm through mine, she says, ‘I don’t want to miss a moment of this day with you.’

‘This is hard,’ I say.

‘Incredibly. All I want is to be with you, but we must make the most of the moments we have.’

I can’t argue, and I’m worried about her. The dark shadows under her eyes do not detract from her beauty but strangely make it more compelling. But she is being ripped apart and I’m part of the cause.

‘With any luck we will be in the wrong pavilion when Simon appears, and we won’t have to see him at all.’

‘We can hope.’ I sigh. The beauty around us is great but there is also a sense of dread following us. What can I do to shake it off? ‘We haven’t visited the British pavilion yet. I’m longing to see it after what your husband said.’ I regret my words as soon as I’ve uttered them.

‘Please don’t remind me he’s my husband. Call him Simon or Forster, but not my husband.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I do fervently wish.’ She smiles. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’

My heart clenches. ‘Yes?’

‘It might work.’ She squeezes my arm and holds me close to her side. I’m grinning, wanting to dance and sing and shout. Instead we walk sedately past beautifully dressed people of all nationalities. They take no notice of us, but surely our happiness must be visible.

‘It will take some careful planning.’

My heart races. This will happen. We will be together. I calm my thoughts and say, ‘Of course.’

‘It also can’t be rushed.’ She pauses. ‘We need to build up your name so that when you return to England, people will seek you as a portrait painter.’

My shoulders fall.

‘What’s wrong?’ She studies my face.

‘That’s not really what I do.’ It’s clear where she is heading with this. Sacrifices will have to be made.

‘We will need something to live on, and if you paint portraits for the wealthy, you will then have the means to indulge your real passion.’

‘True.’ I know this, for I watched my parents paint for the visitors and then for themselves. It is part of survival.

‘I don’t know yet what I can do to bring in money, but I’ll start hiding my jewels. We will be able to sell them as necessary, and the same with some of my clothes.’

‘You’ve been thinking about this.’ Excitement bubbles in me like the fountain in the distance with Cupid at the top.

‘Freedom.’ She is almost breathless as she says the word. The expression on her face is one of longing. ‘Do you have an address that I can send things to for storage?’

I consider my father but know that wouldn’t work with the harridan there. My grandfather would do it for me, though. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ She brings her free hand to mine and holds it for a moment. Need for her surges through me.

‘It will take time so that things don’t seem to fit together,’ she says, squinting in the bright sun.

‘I agree.’ The air about us is sweet with the scent of jasmine. We are in a paradise now, but we will create a new one together.

‘I want you to know I haven’t felt this hopeful in years.’ Tears glisten in her eyes. I want to kiss her, but instead I take my hankie and dab her eyes. ‘Simon is safe. I understand our relationship.’

‘A prison is safe.’

‘True.’ She stays my hand. ‘Our plan is reckless. Is it really what you want?’

I nod.

‘You’ll be forced to paint to sell, not to express your talent. You won’t be able to hide your work.’

‘I know.’

‘You know, but do you understand? And what will your father say? Will you be able to go home?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know how he will react. I know that my friends will not accept me. But I cannot accept myself without you.’

‘Are you sure? You are young, you may have a change of heart.’

I close my eyes. She’s trying to make sure I know the risks and what it all means.

I came to Venice to find a cure, but instead I found love, and discovered that to be fully me, I need to accept who I love, who I am and what I am.

For that, I will risk exclusion, I will hide our love so that only we know it.

There will be a safe place in Cornwall where I am not known and where we can live as friends to the outside world.

It will work. ‘I am sure. I have found my home in you.’

Another tear slips down her cheek. ‘I felt that once, but love can break and die.’

‘Do you love me?’ Jealousy for what she felt for the man she loved before threatens to swamp me.

She smiles. ‘I do, but I don’t know if love is enough for the price we will have to pay.’

I take her hand in mine. ‘It is.’

‘There you are,’ Forster’s voice booms across the garden.

We drop hands and step back. Our hope of not seeing him is destroyed.

‘Darling,’ Katherine says.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Conte Volpi.’

Volpi kisses Katherine’s hand. ‘Enchanting.’

‘And this, my darling, is Herr Hitler.’ Forster’s chest is puffed out as I catch sight of a short man who looks like the many photographs I have seen.

His eyes remind me of a rodent. He is dressed rather drably in a dark suit.

From the papers, I know he is here to discuss the fate of Austria with Mussolini.

Katherine gives a stunning performance, with her face lighting up with a smile. ‘Herr Hitler, what an honour it is to meet you.’ A man I hadn’t noticed translates her words.

Hitler’s reply is lost to me, but the man again translates. ‘Herr Forster has spoken of your appreciation of my work,’ he says.

‘I’m so pleased he has.’ She beams at Hitler, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Thankfully no one notices. She transforms from the real woman I love to an award-winning actress wooing her audience. The vile man begins to smile. I don’t like the way he looks at her. I prefer Volpi’s open admiration.

Hitler turns to the aide, who says to me, ‘And you are?’

‘An artist, Bathsheba Kernow.’ Forster steps closer to me. Hitler frowns as he appraises my attire and Forster’s expression matches his. My stomach turns.

Hitler stares openly as he stands in front of me. We are eye to eye. I don’t offer my hand. Again he speaks to the aide, who says, ‘We are about to enter the British pavilion. Accompany us.’

It is an order. I want to refuse, so I hold back. This is wrong. I’m not a fascist and I don’t have to pander to them. Katherine’s glance pleads with me, so I follow the party inside. Immediately I spot Winifred’s work. Her presence is here, and I relax.

‘Herr Hitler, what do you make of the work?’ Simon asks in hesitant German, which the translator rephrases after asking Simon in English what he was trying to say.

Hitler stands in front of a work of Ben Nicholson. It was all white with cut-out shapes. His voice is loud and unpleasant, and even without the translation that follows, his opinion is clear.

‘Herr Hitler finds this work very unsatisfying. He says he is an artist, and this,’ the aide waves his hand, ‘does not offer anything to the viewer. It is nothing.’

Anger rises in me. He had no right to say it offers the viewer nothing. Each viewer is different. ‘It challenges the viewer to see things a different way,’ I say.

Simon bashes my arm. The aide translates and Hitler speaks quickly.

‘Your mind is ill formed if you see anything in this,’ the aide declares while Hitler studies my features, looking for something. Whatever he finds, he does not like it, and he walks away. I don’t follow.

Katherine rests a hand on mine. I am torn, but I will not continue with them.

Simon takes her arm, leading her on. Before long, they are out of sight.

I take a seat, and slowly the rage inside me dies.

The sooner Katherine and I leave, the better.

I will find a way to earn enough money for us to live on.

She could tutor children, or maybe there is something else.

Coming out of my thoughts, the first painting I see is one of Winifred’s. Her life has been turned upside down, but she is thriving. Katherine will do the same. Maybe then she could write and publish under her name.

I stop. Not her own name, because then he would find her.

It would have to be a pseudonym. She would never be able to appear in public.

My shoulders sink. She will never receive the accolades she deserves for her work.

This is wrong, and yet I can’t see a way that we could fix it, unless he dies.

My breath catches. Murder is not in me, even though it would solve everything.

‘I’m so glad you stayed here and I found you,’ Katherine says. She places a hand on my arm.

I look behind her to make sure she is alone. ‘What have you done with them?’

‘I left them when Herr Hitler refused the painting he was offered because it wasn’t right, and then took another that met with his approval.’ She shivers. ‘He was so unpleasant.’

‘How did you escape?’ I drink her in, relieved she is with me again. It pushes my worries away.

She smiles. ‘I pleaded a headache from a late night.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘Simon couldn’t say anything to that, as it was for his sake that I was up all night.’

‘You do look exhausted.’ The strain of the encounter with Hitler and the acting it required shows on her beautiful face.

‘Thank you.’ She touches her cheek.

‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘I know.’ She takes my arm. ‘Let’s find a cup of tea, or something stronger.’

I send her a look.

‘It has to appear to Simon that everything is the same, until it isn’t.’

I can’t argue with that, but I can hope we will find tea before alcohol. But maybe a gin will help me to forget that rude man.