“And is it?” he wondered. “Cursed?”
The corners of her mouth turned down in a wry gesture he was coming to recognise. “It gave me nightmares. When I was a child.”
Daniel studied Ca’ Dario. It was unfair that the mansion was dwarfed by the palaces around it. The design was unusual and interesting. “How could a house like that give you nightmares?”
“I was a child! And it was doubtless a dream. I was coming back from confirmation, in my sweet white dress, standing in the back of the vaporetto, feeling the most important person in the world.”
She hesitated.
“And?” he asked.
“It was Carnival. I looked up at a window. There. On the second floor. The long one second from the left.” The boat was moving steadily past the house now. “There was a face. A man, holding up his hands. I thought he was screaming.”
“What did he look like? Young? Old?”
“I don’t recall. It was a dream, probably.”
“Or the house is cursed.”
She laughed, thinking he humoured her. “I don’t think so. Though Woody Allen nearly bought the place a couple of years ago. Now, that would have been scary.”
“You’re a wicked, sharp-tongued woman, Laura,” he observed. “Can one visit it?”
She shook her head. “Private house. Mind you, I believe your friend Mr. Massiter maintains an apartment in the neighbouring palace. Perhaps he will let you peer in from there. With your pretty American girlfriend, naturally. ‘ ’Ave a nice day.’ ”
He decided he would not rise to that particular bait. The vaporetto rounded the end of the canal, with the great grey slab of Salute to the right. Laura stood up, scanning the jetty, and he followed suit.
“Massiter’s not arrived yet,” she said, pointing to a walkway beyond the public stop. “He’ll pick you up there, I imagine, where the taxis dock. The manners of the man. Why couldn’t he come for you?”
“I’m grateful in any case.”
She gave him a fierce look. “Grateful, grateful. You spend too much time being grateful, Daniel. No one does anything without a reason, not even Scacchi.”
“But…”
It was too late. In true Venetian fashion she had elbowed her way through the crowd. The sunglasses were jammed on her face once more. By the time he reached the pavement, she was a distant figure, marching off towards San Marco.
Daniel waited. Ten minutes later a sleek, polished speedboat docked exactly where she said it would. Hugo Massiter sat in the open back, sharing a bottle of champagne with Amy Hartston. As they left the jetty, Daniel, too, held a glass of the exotic liquid in his hand, feeling as if his world had suddenly expanded.
He looked back at the departing San Marco shoreline. There, standing in the small park, was the tiny red-and-blue figure of Laura watching him go, believing, he felt sure, she was invisible in the distance.
19
An evening on the lagoon
As they passed the Arsenale and began to head out into the open waters of the lagoon, Hugo Massiter refilled their champagne glasses and bellowed over the roar of the engine, “Dimitri?”
The young boatman at the front of the craft, tanned and tall, his eyes hidden behind large black sunglasses, turned to peer at them. “Boss?”
“Fast as you can.”
Dimitri shrugged. The vessel’s nose lurched skywards. Amy Hartston and Daniel Forster found their backs thrust deep into the leather bench seats and immediately broke into foolish grins.
Amy wore a pale evening dress cut low at the neck, and looked enticingly elegant, older than her years. Massiter was dressed in cream slacks and a pure white cotton shirt. The sunglasses had been replaced by a captain’s cap, complete with blue anchor at the front, which sat at a jaunty angle on his head. Daniel had never been so close to a wealthy man before. Hugo, as he insisted on being called, was not what he expected. He seemed too relaxed, playful almost, to be real. Nevertheless, Daniel found his presence, and Amy’s, exciting. His life had grown larger since he’d arrived in Venice. Everything which preceded it now seemed oddly muted and two-dimensional.
The boat lurched northwards, bouncing off the swell, through the channel marked by buoys which ran between the busy, built-up island of Murano to the left and Sant’ Erasmo, a low green oasis of vegetable gardens, and the home of Piero, to the right. Daniel recalled his last trip on the lagoon in the Sophia, meandering across the grey water with three sleeping men, a dog at the tiller, and Laura, mysterious Laura, who had hidden herself on the San Marco waterfront simply to see him go.
“Something’s wrong?” Amy asked over the roar of the boat and the crashing of the waves.
“No,” Daniel replied. “I was just thinking how unexpected all this is. I came here simply to catalogue a library.”
Massiter offered them a plate of bruschette spread with tomato, porcini, and anchovies. “Life would be so tedious if it were composed only of the expected,” he said. “A library?”
Daniel abruptly realized he needed to be on his guard. He suddenly wished Scacchi had advised him in greater detail about how to deal with Massiter. It was curious that the old man had given him so little guidance. It seemed he expected Daniel, for all his naivety, to shape the course of any dealings which might ensue.
As circumspectly as he could, he explained the history behind his trip to Venice and his special interest in the Republic’s printing presses. Scacchi had offered to pay a little in return for sifting through some old documents which would otherwise, he said, be thrown away. Daniel expressed his surprise and gratitude at discovering he’d been enrolled for the summer school.
“And you’ve found something?” Massiter asked immediately.
“Not yet,” Daniel replied, and was surprised to discover that on this occasion he lied quite easily. “The documents were left in the cellar, and most seem to have been affected by water.”
Massiter shook his head. “What a waste! But you see, Scacchi is merely a dealer in antiques. We’ve done a little business with each other before — at arm’s length, as he insists. I never get a dinner invitation, you know, or even a call for drinks. The antique dealer’s weakness is that he sees value only when it is thrust in front of him. To think he may have had a treasure beneath his very nose and let it rot for want of a little attention.”
Daniel was not willing to accept this harsh criticism, even if it was true. “Signor Scacchi has been a good, kind man to me. Without him I would still be in Oxford looking for some menial job to pay the bills for the summer.” And alone, he nearly added, drifting through a monochrome existence.
Massiter waved his hand in apology. “Of course, of course. I meant nothing personal. Your loyalty does you proud. Now, Amy. A little about you, for Daniel and to refresh my own memory.”
She smiled vacantly and told, in a few sentences, of growing up in Maine, of her father who was “very big” in “real estate,” and how summer in Venice was the highlight of her year.
“But your college?” Daniel wondered.
“Strictly for rich dumb girls. Which I am. Make no mistake.”
“Ridiculous,” Massiter said sternly. “Amy has played here since she was a spotty twelve-year-old brat, and every year her rise in stature amazes me.”
“Yeah. Right. They love the idea of some girl player being the star of this thing, Daniel. Ever since that kid got murdered — the young ones say her ghost still haunts La Pietà. Used to believe that myself.”