Inamorata (4 page)

S
OPHIE

W
hen I
woke the next morning, Joseph was already up, shaving at the washbasin. A pale, watery light filled the room; reflections danced over the ceiling, sun-cats shifting and playing.

I stretched and got out of bed. “Did you sleep?” I asked him.

He glanced at me and flicked shaving soap from the razor into the basin, where it skimmed like a tiny cloud. “A little.”

I went to his sketchbook where it rested on the gilded dresser, pushing away the little pile of broken charcoal sticks he’d left upon it, to see the sketch he’d done while I was sleeping. Though I was pretty enough, my brother made me beautiful. In the drawing, I looked voluptuous and sensual, my hair alive and shining where it curled over my shoulder, my pouting mouth not caused by a faint overbite, as I knew it to be, but because he’d made my lips full and plump and . . . alluring. Which I knew wasn’t true. Pretty enough, but not alluring.

“It hardly looks like me.”

“You say that every time. It looks exactly like you.” He drew the razor over his jaw with experienced precision. “At least how I see you.”

“Perhaps you need spectacles.”

He made a face and rinsed off the razor. “You should get dressed. We’ve a full day ahead of us.”

I felt again that rush of nerves, which I worked to hide as I pulled on my chemise and corset, going to him to tighten the laces. He helped me slip on my gown, and as he was buttoning it, I said to him in the mirror, “There’s no time for the Piazza today, Joseph. Not St. Mark’s nor anything else. Not yet. You do understand me?”

He slanted me a glance as he slipped the last button through its loop. “You don’t think it will be full of artists?”

“Tourists, yes. Not that they might not be helpful, but you won’t know, will you? Especially if you get lost studying a Titian for two hours. The Accademia first. There will be a dozen copyists there. One of them must know someone who could get us in. Promise me.”

He reached for his shirt. “I promise. I won’t linger in the Piazza.”

“I don’t care how beautiful the light is.”

“It will still be beautiful tomorrow,” he agreed. He pulled on his shirt, buttoning it before he ran a hand through his dark brown hair—his idea of brushing it. I was envious again of how perfectly it fell in artful disarray, waving and curling at the ends, brushing his collar.

Suddenly I was afraid to have him out of my sight. We didn’t know the city; so much could happen. He was all I had. “Your hair’s too long,” I said, my fears erupting in quick criticism.

He only smiled and knotted a crumpled tie about his throat.

“And there’s still dust on your trousers.”

“I won’t be talking to rich tourists, remember?” he teased, taking up his coat. “D’you really think anyone would trust an artist who was well put together?” He was so good at carelessness that even I forgot sometimes that it was a lie, something he cultivated. It helped allay my fears; it was a reminder of whom we meant to be here. He would do what he had to, what he’d promised me he would do. For today, he would ignore the beauties of Venice, and look for the man—or woman—who could get us into Katharine Bronson’s inner circle. We had a plan, and he intended to follow it, and I must do the same, no matter how fragile I felt away from him.

Joseph went for his sketchbook, tucking it beneath his arm, shoving the charcoal sticks into his pocket. Then he came to me, chucking my chin before he leaned to kiss me. “Just find us a place to live, and leave this to me. And Soph, I don’t want you thinking I need a studio the size of a stable. I expect to do most of my work out of doors anyway. This is Venice, remember. If I don’t paint the view, we might as well have stayed in New York.”

“We didn’t come here for the view,” I reminded him.

“Oh yes we did.” Though he smiled, ambition glittered in his eyes. “Don’t forget it.” He went to the door and opened it. “I’ll arrange for a gondolier to take you around—”

“No, please. The expense—”

“I insist on this, Sophie. For now I want to know you’re safe without me. And anyway, we want to set the right impression, don’t we? People sense desperation. We won’t get what we want if we appear to want it too badly.”

I gave him a pert smile. “Of course. Why, I wouldn’t think of going about Venice without an escort—how scandalous! I am the very respectable sister of Joseph Hannigan, after all.”

He laughed and gave me an admiring look that warmed me. “Why, you make me half believe it.” Then, before he ducked out the door, “Not on your own, Soph, not to save a few francs. Take the gondolier. I mean it. Or I’ll spend the whole afternoon at the Doge’s Palace just to spite you.”

“Very well,” I promised.

Once he was gone, I forced my uneasiness away and made myself think of what I must do. We had enough money for only a few days at the Danieli, which meant I had to find us something else quickly. I finished with the rest of my toilette, and then I pulled on my hat and my gloves, leaving my coat behind. The day was beautiful, the damp chill of last night already a distant memory.

As I went downstairs and stepped again into the opulent lobby of the Danieli, I was struck once more with that sense of imposture. Two well-dressed women, one wearing a frighteningly expensive-looking fringed silk shawl, talked near the desk. I remembered what Joseph had said about impressions, and summoned my confidence. Pretending that the elegance of the Danieli was not just something I expected, but my due, I gave them my best smile. Their glances turned curious and measuring, and I felt a frisson of fear that I’d made a mistake, that they somehow knew of me. But then they looked away. There were several other people about, a gentleman sitting negligently in a silk-upholstered chair, smoking a cigar that filled the whole lobby with its stink, an older couple, another man with a woman who looked to be his sister, but I avoided meeting any other eyes and went to the desk. “I’m Sophie Hannigan,” I told the man there. “My brother was to make arrangements—”

“Your gondolier awaits, Miss Hannigan,” said the man with a smile. He rang a little bell, and when a porter came hurrying over, he directed, “Please show Miss Hannigan to Marco.”

I was led out to the water steps, to the gondolier Marco. He was as tall as my brother, though Marco’s shoulders were broader, his forearms corded with muscle beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. He was bronzed and smiling, with such an air of good health and amiability that I trusted him immediately.

He held out his hand for me, flashing adorably crooked teeth, and introduced himself as “Marco, who will soon be your favorite gondolier in all of Venice.”

“Sophie Hannigan,” I answered with a smile as he helped me into the boat. Like last night’s gondola, the cabin on this one had been removed, but in its place there was an awning striped white and blue. Beneath that was a seat of black leather cushions, with two other smaller seats on either side, and a gray carpet below. Marco moved to his spot at the stern while a boy pushed the neck of the prow from the mooring post.

“Where will you go,
padrona
?” Marco asked. “I am yours all day.”

He made it sound almost indecent; I had to resist the urge to look at him again, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face. I remembered what my research had told me, that the gondoliers were the best source for information in the city. “I’m looking for a more permanent lodging, a place to rent for my brother and myself for a few months. Nothing too expensive.”

“Ah, you must leave it to me.” He immediately swung the huge oar in its lock so we turned about, and we moved away from the sparkling Bacino, slinking into a narrow canal. It seemed to lead us into a strange and mysterious land, where the gilded, rococo beauty of Venice faded away to reveal charmingly quaint pale-pink walls stained so romantically with mildew it was as if an artist had put it there for the best effect. Reflections sank into the water and bloomed out again, wavering and dancing as we passed. Ripples cast by the gondola’s prow lapped against steps and narrow
fondamentas
. Crabs scuttled at the edges, a cat or two dodged into shadows.

I was struck by how rustically beautiful it was. Laundry strung from the balconies overhead fluttered in the slight breeze. A fig tree poked its head over a garden wall. The dichotomy of feeling lost in time while at the same time moving through it was hard to shake. Once or twice, I saw a woman leaning pensively over a balcony railing, or a group of girls laughing as they hurried down a
calle
. Although I saw few people, it wasn’t the least bit quiet. Sounds carried down the
calli
and over the canals, footsteps and the calls of gondoliers and from somewhere someone singing, someone else shouting. The singing of birds—canaries and parrots—hanging in cages from the balconies among the laundry was a perfect accompaniment.

Marco took me to palazzos among the regular brick and pink homes of peasants and merchants, helping me out onto slippery steps, speaking to the owners in that strange Venetian dialect. He escorted me with a dignified pride—almost possession—as we went into narrow courtyards with their elaborately carved wellheads in the center, statuary picturesquely blackened with mildew and clothed in moss, up stairs onto terrazzo floors that undulated gently with the settling of the house, vast empty spaces and aged frescos running the lengths of walls.

Many palazzos had been broken up, no longer serving families, but instead boarders who rented by the floor, or by the room, which were separated by a common hall or stairway. The upper floors, most coveted and decorated by those who had lived there, were still beautiful with their pillars and marble and arched windows, plaster carvings and impossibly high, elaborately painted ceilings. Many had recesses where once had hung immense frescos done by Titian or Tiepolo or countless others—artists had been a dime a dozen in Venice when the nobility had built these palaces, and there was no place I saw that didn’t either still have them or had empty spaces where they’d once been before they were sold off.

But each place was too expensive or too small or dirty or dilapidated, and I was growing frustrated and tired. As much as I had enjoyed the day, the sun was lowering in the sky, and I had a nagging headache behind my eyes from the glare of the sun on the water.

I told Marco, “We should go back. My brother will be returning.”

“We are very close to one more,
padrona
,
ai
?”

I nodded wearily and put my hand to my eyes, and we turned down another narrow canal. He brought the gondola to a stop at an arched doorway set in a facade of beautifully detailed plaster. He moored to the brown
palo
and helped me out onto stairs so coated with algae that I had to grab his arm hard to keep from slipping. I glanced up at the darkened passageway leading from the stairs, which was so wonderfully mysterious it somewhat restored my temper.

The courtyard was paved with cracked slabs of Istrian stone, half of it hidden behind a spreading fig tree and a set of stairs that led to the main floor. At the top was another arch, which opened into a wide
portego
, with huge paned windows at the other end letting in the sun, glowing upon the pale terrazzo floors, filling the room with light. Frescos lined each wall—some bacchanalian revel I was just turning to look at more closely when a rather large, florid-faced woman emerged from a doorway. She was middle-aged, with graying hair nearly falling from its chignon.

Marco fell into a flurry of Venetian. When he was done, she burst into a smile and fluent French, “Welcome, mademoiselle. You are looking for rooms?”

“For my brother and me,” I answered in kind. “I’m Sophie Hannigan. My brother, Joseph, is an artist. He’s come here to paint, and so—”

“You’re looking for a studio,” she broke in. “And bedrooms. A sitting room too, perhaps? And a kitchen, of course. Well, I have the upper floor available now, though you must split it with my other young man. He’s a writer, so perhaps he and your brother will suit.”

She turned, gesturing for me to follow her to the end of the
portego
, and then up another staircase to a set of doors, which she flew open with a flourish—and without knocking, I noted. We entered an empty
sala
with the same bare spaces on the walls I’d noted in other places, where paintings or frescos were gone. The ceiling bore evidence of having been removed as well, and each corner had holes where carved plaster cornices had been taken out and no doubt sold. But the space was huge and high ceilinged and lovely, and the rooms she showed me were equally so—a sitting room and one bedroom overlooking the canal, another overlooking the courtyard, though the view was blocked by the fig. There was a third large and well-lit room that would serve well as Joseph’s studio.

“All for only forty francs per month.”

An amount I could afford, and rooms I liked. My headache eased.

“Who is the writer living here?” I asked her when she finally paused for a breath.