Deep and Silent Waters

‘A hundred thousand lira?’ Sebastian laughed scornfully and began to argue, shaking his head.

‘I really must go.’ Even to herself, Laura sounded helpless, weak-willed. She should pull free and walk away, but she was paralysed, torn between her fear of getting involved with Sebastian again and her desire to see Ca’ d’Angeli, to be alone with him for an hour or two.

The bargaining ended abruptly. Sebastian jumped down into the gondola, still holding Laura’s hand.

She tried to move away, but he gave a little tug and tightened his grip. She uttered a faint, bird-like cry of alarm, her foot slipped on the wet edge of the crumbling canal path, and she lost her balance, toppling forward into his arms. Sebastian held her, while the gondola rocked to and fro on the petrol-streaked water.

Clutching him, she breathed in his familiar scent, eyes closing. Hadn’t she dreamt of this many times? Venice, the canal, a gondola, herself and Sebastian, floating towards the palazzo and the carved stone angels? He pulled her down on to the dark red padded seat, and the gondolier began to pole his way slowly into the Grand Canal.

Chapter Three

She picked up the telephone twice before she finally dialled. The operator’s distinctly Venetian voice was automatic, briskly polite. ‘Hotel Excelsior.’

‘Posso parlare col Signore Ferrese?’

‘Un momento, per favore.’ A pause, then the girl said, ‘Non rispondono,’ and told her that Sebastian had gone out an hour earlier.

A moment’s hesitation – should she leave it at that? Nico had asked her to ring; she had rung. She did not want Sebastian under this roof. A shadow passed over the sun as she stared out of the window, but there was no cloud in the hot, blue sky: the darkness had been inside her eyes.

‘Hello?’ the operator asked, impatiently.

‘Would you take a message, please? Ask him if he would be so kind as to ring Contessa d’Angeli.’

The girl’s tone changed, warmed. She was Venetian: she knew this house, this family. ‘Si, certo, Contessa.’

‘Grazie.’ She replaced the receiver. Sometimes she tired of this city, yearned for cooler, northern skies, for the bustle and buzz of her own city …

Milan, 1932

Contessa Vittoria d’Angeli had not been born in Venice, but in Milan, the commercial centre of Italy, modern, busy, industrious. It was the most significant time for Italy since 1861, when the scattered states had been unified as one kingdom. Mussolini had come to power in 1922, after which everything began to change for the better; not only were the trains running on time, as everyone joked in Europe, but Italy was being brought up to date in every other way. She was developing a large, modern navy, she had new factories, which were working flat out; medicine was improving, too, and new hospitals were being built. The old medieval Italy had gone for ever; a modern state was taking its place.

By the time Vittoria was born, in 1932, Mussolini’s grip on Italy was total although not everyone was happy with how he ran the country, or his foreign ambitions. He had signed a pact with Ethiopia only four years before, but now he was building up arms and moving his army over its border. Why should he do that unless he planned to annex it? people asked each other, behind locked doors, in the privacy of their homes, or in bars when they were drunk.

In 1932 none of the Serrati family were in the army; the new baby’s half-brothers were all too young, and their father too old and too important to Italy’s economy. The atmosphere in the house that day was of elation and excitement; the little one was healthy, her mother had had an easy time and was delighted to have her slender figure back.

The Serrati family gathered to toast the health of its newest member. Champagne corks popped, people chatted and laughed, and in her swinging cradle the baby slept, oblivious of the changing panorama of faces that moved above her head. She had been born into a large, extended family of three generations and many were gathered here to welcome her: two grandmothers, a grandfather, uncles and aunts and her half-brothers.

The four boys did not dislike their young stepmother but they still mourned their mother, who had died two and a half years ago. They were not easy at this party: they felt it would be disloyal to enjoy themselves too much.

Their father glanced at them occasionally, his slightly bulging eyes urging them to look cheerful, then he would look back at his second wife in the low-necked white silk nightdress, which showed him how her breasts had ripened since her pregnancy. She was more desirable than ever. How long would it be before he could have her again? She wouldn’t let him near her while she was pregnant; claimed the doctor had said that sex might endanger the baby. Not that he had gone without all those months: his appetite was voracious, and had always driven him to others as well as his wife – servants, women who worked in the factory, or whores, although he used them as a last resort. With them, there was always that element of risk: you might end up with the clap or worse. He had been caught like that before and it had been no joke: the cure was almost as painful as the disease.

He frowned thoughtfully. With all these young men in uniform and away from home, there was bound to be far more need for such treatment. He had had a chemist working on research for a couple of years, getting nowhere. Time to put more men on the quest for a less painful but more effective cure. Maybe he should offer a bonus. They would make a killing if they succeeded.

Anna Serrati leant back against her pillows, smiling happily at the prospect of being able to go shopping again and buy lots of new frocks. Sickening to have been as fat as a pig for months. She wasn’t getting pregnant again in a hurry – she would see to that. Anna had a shrewd idea of how her husband had solaced himself while he was forbidden her bed, and she would be quite content if he went on getting his fun elsewhere. Anything, as long as he didn’t bother her too often. His weight was no joke.

‘Isn’t she sweet? Look at these beautiful big eyes,’ the nurse said, taking the baby, in her long, white lace-trimmed gown, out of the cradle and holding her up for them all to admire.

Leo Serrati stared dubiously at the child’s round, red face. Look at that big nose and the double chin. She reminded him of someone but who?

Anna Serrati considered her child, clear-eyed and cynical. Too bad she was no beauty – Well, she looks like him so let’s hope he takes to her. He isn’t getting any more from me!

‘It’s an ugly little bug,’ the eldest boy, Carlo, whispered to Alfredo, a year younger.

‘Looks like Papa,’ Fredo mouthed back, and the two other boys, Filippo, who was eight, sturdy as a young pony, and Niccolo, the youngest, with great dark eyes and a skin like polished ivory, shook w

ith smothered giggles.

Their father didn’t hear any of that exchange. ‘We’ll have the biggest christening party Milan has ever seen,’ he announced. ‘We’ll invite everyone who is anyone. We have a lot to celebrate. We have a wonderful future to look forward to, and Milan is going to be the heart of the new Italy.’