Deep and Silent Waters

‘You must go down to the kitchen and talk to her later, after dinner, about old times,’ she said, and again Laura wondered if that was a subtle reminder that the kitchen was where he belonged, in spite of his fame, his success, his money. She could see nothing in Sebastian’s face to betray what was going on inside him but Laura picked up an echo of pain, anger, and felt an instinctive urge to protect him from the soft, smiling murmurs of the Contessa.

Her mother had often said she loved drama too much, put more of it into daily life than was really there. She hoped she was overreacting: she would hate to see Sebastian – or anyone else – get hurt.

‘I’m afraid I have to get back to the hotel, Contessa,’ she said, politely. ‘I would have loved to stay for dinner but it is impossible. Someone is waiting for me.’

The dark brows made a half-moon of amused query. ‘Ring him and ask him to join us.’

Laura knew she had flushed and was angry with herself. ‘She’s my agent, and we are having dinner with some important people this evening. I have to be there.’

The Contessa pouted like a child. ‘Oh, but you could change the time. Meet them later. You know, we eat very late, in Venice – you could eat a little pasta with us, then have dessert with your important people.’

Sebastian drawled, ‘I’m afraid I have to get back, too. My whole team are waiting for me. We are planning a celebration meal after finishing our last film, I can’t back out.’

‘Nico will be very disappointed,’ the Contessa said reproachfully.

‘I’m sorry, some other time, perhaps. But I know Laura would love to see something of the palazzo before we have to go.’

‘Of course, please, come in – ah, here is Antonio.’

The man had appeared silently in the doorway: very thin, slight, in a black waistcoat and white shirt, black trousers, giving the impression of a uniform. He had grey hair, olive skin and dark eyes.

‘You remember Antonio, Lucia’s husband, Sebastian? He, too, has been working for us all his life. He remembers you, don’t you, Antonio?’

The man smiled faintly, bowing. ‘Si, si, già, Contessa.’

Sebastian shook hands with him, spoke in rapid Italian. Laura picked up a touch of frost in him, sensed that he did not much like this man, and she could understand why: Antonio had secretive, cold eyes behind those heavy lids and black lashes. He kept them veiled most of the time but when you did catch sight of them they betrayed a chilly subtlety, which made you shiver.

‘Some wine, Antonio, per favore.’

‘Si, Contessa, subito.’ He vanished and the Contessa waved Sebastian and Laura after him, into the house.

‘My husband’s family is one of the most ancient in Venice, Miss Erskine. Ca’ d’Angeli was built in fourteen thirty-five, during the reign of the great Doge, Francesco Foscari, who was a cousin of the man who built this house, Simeone d’Angeli.’

Laura explained apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I know almost nothing about Venetian history.’

‘No, of course, how should you? It means nothing to anyone but a Venetian.’

‘And your own family?’ Laura asked. ‘Are they Venetian too?’

The question fell into a silence, cold as marble, frosty as winter. ‘No, we are Milanese,’ the Contessa answered at last, and walked quickly towards the open front door to close it.

Laura gave Sebastian a look of enquiry, raising her brows. He shook his head, but she saw cold amusement in his eyes. Maybe he would explain later.

As they passed through the ground floor, the Contessa leading the way, Laura asked, ‘Why is this floor completely empty?’ then hoped she had not touched on another delicate subject. Maybe the family couldn’t afford to furnish the whole house.

But the Contessa answered casually, and without resentment this time, ‘So that when the tide floods in over the door-sill, as it does with every really high tide, nothing will be ruined. If you look at the wall you’ll see tide-marks from years back. Here, in Venice, we’re used to flooding. We clean the marble once the water level falls again but you never quite get rid of the stain. The mixture of salt and grime sinks in – it is very destructive to this marble. But that’s why most houses in Venice have an empty ground floor. We all live on the upper storeys of our homes.’

The stairs were steep and Laura clutched at the banisters, afraid of slipping on the marble. At the top they emerged into a wide, dark room running from the front of the house to the back, hung with tapestries over marble walls. The floor was marble too; the ceiling decorated with cartouches containing paintings, each framed in gilded plaster. Laura stared up at plump ladies floating on pink clouds, looking sensually inviting, surrounded with more cherubs like those on the palazzo’s façade, but painted this time, each carrying a cornucopia from which flowers and fruit cascaded into the laps of the smiling women.

‘Do you remember the ceilings, Sebastian? Or have you forgotten everything about Ca’ d’Angeli?’ The Contessa’s dark eyes watched him intently.

‘I remember very little. I was so young when we left.’

‘So you were.’ The Contessa walked on. ‘This is the main floor of the house, the bedrooms are above, but the salon is down here.’

The long, dark room was sparsely furnished: here and there gilded chairs with bow legs had been arranged against the walls between elegant bureaux and several tables on which stood delicate little objects, of ivory, silver or glass. A high window at each end gave some light but the hall was still shadowy and the air had a mustiness that told you the windows were never opened, even at the height of the summer.

From an open door on the left came the sound of Mozart, clear, precise drops of music. They walked towards it into a large, high-ceilinged salon where two comfortable yellow silk brocade sofas faced each other in the middle of the room, placed on faded but clearly old and probably valuable Turkish carpets; nearby stood a table piled with leatherbound books, and around the room smaller tables supported lamps with Venetian glass shades in deep, dramatic colours, rich burgundy or dark blue, leaded like Tiffany glass to form the shapes of flowers and leaves. Next to them were silver-framed photographs, a gold clock and delicate porcelain figures, which looked like Meissen.