Deep and Silent Waters

The manager laughed uncertainly with the air of a man who does not appreciate jokes about golf, his own personal religion. He played whenever he had a spare minute. He said, ‘I guess you don’t have time. I know you’re becoming a big name in the art world. I read the rave reviews in the local newspapers of your pieces in the Esposizione Internazionale d’Arte Moderna here last year. They really loved your stuff. I meant to try to get to the exhibition but I never had time. The papers said you were selling your sculptures all over the world these days. Congratulations.’

‘I’m doing okay,’ Nico agreed. ‘I’ve even got one here, in the Galleria d’Internazionale d’Arte Moderna in Ca’ Pesaro. A mother and child, not very big, but I got a good price for it.’

Now the manager did look impressed. ‘I’d no idea! You must do something for us, something special that will fit in with our décor.’

Nico glanced around, his brows lifting in disbelief. Something that fitted in with all this turn-of-the-century kitsch? But the lift arrived before he had to answer. ‘Ciao,’ he said, then as the doors closed he began to laugh.

A few floors up the lift stopped, the doors opened and Laura Erskine walked in. He looked at her with real pleasure: she knew how to dress, this girl – he admired the white cotton tunic she was wearing. The simplicity was perfect for her: elegant, sophisticated, exciting, with that Titian hair in soft coils around her face and her long, long legs beneath the white cotton, touchably smooth in sheer stockings. Few women had that height, even fewer the ability to carry it off, with head held high, moving with cool grace, the touching vulnerability of a foal.

‘Ciao,’ he said softly, and for a second saw a freezing rejection in her face because she hadn’t yet looked at him closely. Then she did a double-take, her features unlocked and she smiled shyly.

‘Oh, hello, it’s you. I didn’t recognise you for a second.’

She was pale this morning, he noted, her beautiful green eyes underlined by bluish shadows on that delicate skin, and there was a faint quiver on the wide, generous mouth. What bone structure! He traced it from the high temples to the fine jawline. Wonderful.

Had she dined here last night, with wine flowing freely? She looked as if she was suffering from a hangover.

‘Oh, we’re all linguists in Venice,’ he said. ‘We need to speak most of the major European languages. People are our business and we can’t expect our visitors to speak Italian.’ He grinned. ‘Late night?’

A warm pink flush ran up her face, delighting him. It suited her better, that glowing colour. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was husky and self-conscious.

She wouldn’t blush like that over a mere dinner party. What had she been doing last night? And with whom? Nico found himself interested in the questions, even more so in the answers.

‘You are going to sit for me, aren’t you?’ he asked, his brain busy with suggestions and conclusions. How involved was she with Sebastian? Newspaper gossip had reached them here, but how much fire was there behind all that smoke? ‘I have an idea for a piece. It’s vague at the moment, and I’m not sure how it will go when I actually start work, but I was thinking of doing you as David.’

She stared blankly at him. ‘What?’

‘A female David – you know, Michelangelo’s statue in Florence.’

Still baffled, she nodded slowly. ‘Of course.’

‘And there are many others, of course.’

‘Many other what?’ She was watching him as if he was talking in riddles.

‘Davids. He was always a popular subject for artists through the Middle Ages, the little man who takes on a giant and wins. And it occurred to me that this is the age of feminism, of women taking on every aspect of man’s world so it seems to me time to have a female David, a very young David taking on the world of men in what appears to be a hopeless struggle. What do you think? Now, be honest! If you think the idea is crazy, say so.’

‘Oh, no! I didn’t get what you meant at first, but I love it,’ she said, as the lift stopped and they got out. ‘What a brilliant idea! It’s amazing that nobody’s thought of it before. What would I wear?’

He laughed – every woman who ever sat for him asked that question. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to pose in the nude.’

Her colour deepened to a lovely glowing rose. ‘I didn’t think you would!’

‘No?’ His eyes were faintly cynical, a little mocking. ‘Most women think of that right away. They assume artists always want to get their clothes off! But, actually, I’d ask you to wear more or less what you’re wearing now. A simple tunic ending above the knees, and your hair just like it is today. Those curls are oddly similar to the way Donatello’s David wears his hair, you know.’

> ‘I only know Michelangelo’s.’

‘You’ll find Donatello’s David in Florence, too, but in bronze not stone, a slender boy, very camp, with a lot of curves, wearing a hat over long hair.’

‘A hat? What sort of hat?’

‘Just like one you would see at Ascot today.’ He grinned. ‘A charming little hat, you’ll love it. Women always do. The Donatello is very different from the Michelangelo statue – that David is stern and frowning, with a lot of muscle, very grave, very masculine. Donatello’s has one hand on his hip in a provocative pose – yet he’s holding a massive sword in one hand – you can’t believe he could ever lift it to cut off Goliath’s head!’

They walked along the corridor and paused to ring the doorbell of Sebastian’s suite. Nico propped himself against the wall, arms folded.

‘I see you in exactly the same position as the Donatello, but holding out the head of Goliath.’

She shuddered. ‘How horrible! No, I couldn’t do that, don’t ask!’