Stone Virgin (34 page)

He had no difficulty in finding a
sandolo
to take him from Burano. The approach was as he had remembered it, though the islands to the north and west were half obscured by the haze, their outlines glimpsed only occasionally. The tide was up, the flats were covered, the surface of the water like dull silver as the reflections were absorbed in the mist. Gulls flew high above; there was clear light in these upper reaches, the birds’ wings and breasts emitted flashes of brilliance as they turned in flight.

The Litsovs’ boat was tied up alongside the landing-stage. On the other side, beyond the bleached boards, a ruined row boat leaned heavily sideways, half submerged. He was relieved to see no other boats there.

The walk to the house was marked in stations of recognition. These sounds of slapping and creaking he had heard before while mounting the steps; this was where he had seen the lonely figure of Chiara in her red scarf; this was where Wiseman had greeted her; here he had stood when first he looked into her face.

His apprehension increased as he walked down the path towards the door. It was unconventional, extremely so, just to turn up like this without any kind of warning. Supposing they are in bed together, he suddenly thought. He overcame the impulse to turn and walk away. Then she had opened the door and was looking at him. Her face was completely without expression for a very brief moment, then broke into a pleased smile.

‘Simon, it’s you,’ she said. ‘How very nice to see you.’

He could detect no special consciousness on her face; but his awkwardness was increased by the knowledge that she must see his importunity, see the meaning of such a visit, uninvited, unannounced – the meaning of it was there in his awkward hesitation on the doorstep, his eyes that belied the merely social intentions of his smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, close to her in the narrow passage. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘I’m glad you came,’ she said. She was smiling but her eyes regarded him steadily. With rising heart Raikes thought he saw a contradiction in them similar to his own, some attempt to hide feeling, avoid declaration. Whatever the truth of this, her next words showed no such intention. Pausing at the door that led off the passage, turning to him she said, ‘I have often wanted to see you.’

She was near enough for him to smell the scent she had used, near enough for him to see, as she looked at him, the tawny, warmer flecks in the otherwise cool eyes; near enough too for him to watch some slight irresolution appear on her face, some impulse checked, the impulse to look away, he suddenly realized, to turn aside before a moment arrived when it would be too late. Quite deliberately, standing there at the door, she survived this hesitation, continued to look steadily at him. The next moment Raikes had taken her by the shoulders and kissed her on the lips.

The kiss did not last long, but it lasted long enough for him to feel an unmistakable response. His heart was pounding as he stood back. Chiara looked at him a moment longer, then swiftly leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, immediately afterwards opening the door to let him through.

She did not take him this time to the room where Litsov’s bronzes were displayed, but to a much smaller one at the back of the house with windows that did not look over the Lagoon but gave a view of dark twisted pine trees shrouded in mist and the roof of a long low building beyond – Litsov’s studio he supposed.

He watched her move about, his whole being concentrated on her movements, the second kiss she had given him, swift, friendly, full of promise, present in his mind. He would have liked to tell her that he thought of her constantly, that he loved her, that he was ready to bless the universe for the fact of her existence. However, shifting in his armchair by the window, balancing his cup of coffee, he said none of these things; words of true feeling were difficult, impossible, at this stage, with interest declared but intimacy not yet arrived at.

They spent some time talking about not very important matters, things that Raikes kept little memory of – perhaps because of the events that followed. Then quite suddenly she said, ‘Oh, I have something for you. I was going to send it …’ She stood up, smiling. ‘It is for you,’ she said, ‘and yet your presence here put it out of my mind. That is strange.’

She was out of the room some moments, then returned with an envelope, which she handed him. ‘When I wrote to thank my aunt,’ she said, ‘I happened to mention the year you had told me your Madonna was carved, 1432. That is right, isn’t it? It was by chance really. I was trying to explain why you were interested. Well, it seems that the good soul found something dated in that year, a copy of a letter – the family correspondence was collated and printed privately in the mid-nineteenth century sometime, by my great-grandfather, I think. One of the few Fornarini to have had studious tastes. There is not much private correspondence surviving from those years, hardly any. Marcantonio Fornarini was at the court of Naples during the 1430s and he wrote regular diplomatic dispatches but they went directly to the
Signoria
, and were kept in the state archives. This letter is by Federico Fornarini, who was a younger brother of Marcantonio, according to my aunt. It seems to be a reply to some previous letter, but there is no trace of any. I have put it into English, I thought you might have problems with the language of the fifteenth century.’

‘I have problems with the language of the twentieth,’ Raikes said. ‘I am very grateful to your aunt. And to you too, of course,’ he added, though as he sat there holding the long white envelope, he could not have said whether his gratitude was for her help or for the marvellous fact of her being in the world at all or – more basely perhaps – for the beauty of her legs, which he had been strongly aware of from the moment she sat opposite him in the low chair.

Something of all this must have appeared on his face, for after a moment she said, with some slight confusion it seemed, ‘You can look at it now if you like. You will be disappointed, I’m afraid. There is nothing much in it and no references to the Madonna.’

At this moment, glancing towards the window, Raikes saw a tall, slightly round-shouldered figure emerge from the thick belt of mist surrounding the pines and start walking towards the house. ‘Your husband is on his way over,’ he said. He noticed that Litsov was dressed very formally, in a grey suit and black shoes.

‘Litsov is in a bad mood today,’ she said. ‘He has been upset by something, I don’t know what.’

Raikes said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He was glad that this time at least she had not found it necessary to tell him how highly strung her husband was. After a moment’s hesitation he slipped the envelope into an inside pocket. ‘Are you worried I will say something to provoke him,’ he said, ‘in my well-known clumsy way?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it is not that, besides you are not clumsy. No, his work is not going well, I think, and when that happens, he always blames circumstances or other people. He is very –’

‘Highly strung? Yes, I know.’

Raikes was in an angle partly obscured by the door and Litsov did not see him immediately on entering. He advanced some paces into the room and said abruptly, ‘I’m going to take the boat.’ Turning slightly he saw Raikes. The look of indignant solemnity on his face seemed to deepen.

‘Simon Raikes,’ Raikes said, getting to his feet. ‘I came to lunch some time ago.’

‘I remember you,’ Litsov said. ‘I never forget faces. We had a discussion about form. I think you saw my point of view.’

‘Oh yes,’ Raikes said. ‘I
saw
it all right.’ Quickly he enjoined caution on himself. He mustn’t start arguing with Litsov again. Something pompous about the man provoked him now as it had done before.

‘The boat?’ Chiara said. She looked astonished. Raikes had the impression that her face had paled since Litsov had come into the room. ‘Why are you dressed up like this?’ she said.

‘That should be obvious.’ Litsov’s face collapsed suddenly in the strange lipless smile that Raikes remembered. It was clear that though upset and even angry about something he was at the same time pleased that he had taken a decision – pleased too, it seemed, by the expression on Chiara’s face, which was both surprised and alarmed. ‘I am going to the mainland, my dear,’ he said. ‘I am going to Mestre.’

The suit was sharply creased, obviously not much worn. It looked incongruously smart on Litsov’s angular, slightly stooping figure. He had dressed with care. A dark-blue handkerchief protruded in neat folds from his breast pocket; his narrow pink tie was secured by a tie-pin with a large pale stone in it, an opal perhaps; his black shoes were highly polished.

In all this, as in that triumphant and vindictive declaration of intent, there was something childishly defiant, or so it seemed to Raikes, something touching almost, because it was weak and accompanied by such solemn self-consciousness of manner. By announcing it, dressing up for it, he hoped to convince the adults that he was serious. The smart suit, the neat tie, the polished shoes, they were all designed to show Chiara that she needn’t argue, he
must
go, nothing could prevent it – was he not dressed for it?

‘I’ll just have some coffee first,’ he said.

‘But how do you think you’re going to get there?’ Chiara said. ‘Have you seen the fog that’s coming up? In an hour or so it will start getting dark. You don’t know the channels.’

‘I know them well enough. I’m going in any case.’

‘It’s too dangerous, Paul. You can’t go.’

Up till now Litsov had been maintaining an air of non-chalance, smiling from time to time, helping himself to coffee, though it was obvious that he had been badly put out by something. Now, however, the smile disappeared. ‘Of course, you don’t want me to go,’ he said. ‘I know that.’

‘I’m thinking of the dangers.’

‘Oh yes,’ Litsov said, in a peculiar and disagreeable tone. ‘Why don’t you take me then? You know the Lagoon better.’

Forgetting his resolve to keep out of it, Raikes said quickly to Chiara, ‘If it’s too dangerous for him, it’s too dangerous for you.’

‘That’s just an excuse,’ Litsov said. ‘It may interest you to know that I did a spot of phoning this afternoon while you were busy gardening. That surprises you, doesn’t it? My well-known aversion for telephones … No, I don’t want to discuss it,’ he said quickly, as Chiara seemed about to inter-rupt. ‘I’ve decided to go myself and find out what’s happening.’

‘Why not get in touch with Richard?’ Chiara said. ‘Or I’ll do it if you like. He could tell you what the situation is.’

‘No doubt he could.’ It was a sneer, almost. ‘I have no intention of getting in touch with Richard,’ he said.

An uneasy silence followed this remark. Chiara’s face still wore the strained, slightly abstracted expression with which she had greeted her husband’s announcement. Raikes felt embarrassed. ‘How is your work going?’ he said.

‘My work is going well,’ Litsov said. ‘It is other people who don’t seem to be doing their job.’ His eyes were on Chiara.

‘You have the casting done on the mainland, I believe?’ Raikes said, still valiantly persisting.

‘I do everything here but the actual mould for the casting. And the firing, of course, I make the model and the rubber mould, I even assemble the wax sections.’

‘Who delivers the models for you?’

As Litsov was beginning to reply to this, Chiara broke in sharply. ‘Paul,’ she said, ‘I’ll take you across if you like. As you say, I know the channels better than you, but you’ll have to wait until I come back from dropping Simon. You can’t go off with the boat anyway until Simon has been taken back. It shouldn’t take long.’

Litsov paused for what seemed a long time. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

Taking this as his cue Raikes got to his feet and said he thought he’d better be on his way. They left Litsov there, in his smart suit, helping himself to more coffee.

Immediately outside they kissed again, but briefly. The mist was thicker now. Pale water met the pale sky in a seam that was undetectable – only occasionally parting to show a darker line. Far out, softened and diffused by the mist, yellow lamps marked the deep-water channel. At the landing stage he noticed that the tide was lower; there was a glisten of mud here and there, dark fronds of seaweed broke the surface, the mooring stakes revealed blackened stumps.

Chiara had lit the lantern in the stern. In dark beret and long raincoat, she handled the boat with complete assurance. She was unfaltering in all things to do with physical action – Raikes was reminded suddenly of her sure hands round the young roots.

The muffled waste of water closed round them. The sound of their engine was all the sound in the world. Where sea and sky parted there were darker bars, mere darker levels in the haze, discernible as land because gulls walked and waded there. As they drew nearer to Burano, Raikes made out the stooping figures of men ankle deep in the shallows, looking for clams – they appeared to be cautiously walking on the water.

At Burano he had expected her to cast off immediately and return, but she stepped out with him on to the jetty and tied the boat up. ‘I feel I need a drink,’ she said, ‘before going back.’

They found a café on the main square. After no more than a sip of cognac she went to make a phone call. It seemed to Raikes that she was away rather a long time. When she returned she said abruptly, ‘I’ve told him I’m not coming back tonight. It’s too foggy already and it will be dark soon. It’s just too risky.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Raikes said. ‘I expect he was furious, wasn’t he?’

‘Who? Oh, Paul … Yes, he was, as a matter of fact. If I go back, you see, he will make a fuss and try to insist on taking the boat out. And that would be dangerous, you know.’ She seemed suddenly to have become tense and somehow defensive. ‘Too dangerous for me,’ she said, ‘and I know the Lagoon much better than Paul.’ It was almost as if she expected him to argue.

‘I think you’re right.’ Raikes did not know whether he was experiencing excitement or fear. Not quite looking at her, he said, ‘Do you mean you’re not intending to go back there tonight at all?’