The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (24 page)

This house had done nothing but wish me ill from the moment I’d set foot within it, and yet I recognized its pleas for help. I felt how they colored Samuel’s visions and his dreams like the dye in the canal. I felt them in the watchfulness of crumbling statues. And I knew, as I stroked Samuel’s hair, that to save him I needed to understand the house too. I needed to understand the secrets its walls had seen—Laura Basilio’s secrets—and somehow find a way to make all this misery a dream of the past.

Chapter 30

I roused when Nero returned that night. As he came into the room, I heard voices in the courtyard nudging through my half sleep, Madame Basilio calling, “Giulia!” and then a chatter of dialect, followed by the clang of metal against stone.

Nero smelled of cold. His hair was flecked with icy droplets. “It’s snowing again,” he whispered as he crawled naked into bed beside me, fingers already at the buttons of my nightgown, drawing the muslin from my shoulders, pushing it down to nuzzle my breasts. “Warm me up, cara.”

Which I did, with enthusiasm, until we were both sweating and languid, and then I fell back into sleep touched with disturbing dreams—wisps of spirit floating through the air, twisting in the currents, walls crumbling at my touch to reveal deeper, darker shadows that stretched so far back into time and terror I could not see the end, a canal pulsing red and churning with algae and flotsam, a woman falling from a balcony, chestnut-colored hair flying upward, white gown tangling about her bare legs, arms flailing.

I woke in the middle of the night, gasping and frightened. I reached out to touch Nero, certain he was dead, panicked until I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. I laid my cheek against him to hear his heartbeat, burrowing close; his arm came around me in sleep, and after that, I dreamed of nothing.

But everything felt different when I woke to gray morning light and snowflakes falling intermittently and slow, melting the moment they hit the stones below. A seemingly benign scene, and one that should have been lovely, but the world felt weighted and somehow off, wrong, as if the snow were just a pretty stage set that hid something dark and dreadful behind the backdrop.

I glanced away from the window. Nero was still sleeping, on his stomach, the blankets to his waist, his arm flung over his head. The light cast him in grays, dark hair and ashen skin against white sheets, so he looked like a portrait someone had drawn and put upon my bed. Nothing real. I could not quite remember the feel of his touch; last night came to me in bits and pieces, images against lamplight.

I looked back to the courtyard and saw Giulia hurrying across to the kitchen, carrying something wrapped in paper. This was as good a time as any to speak to Madame Basilio. With Giulia in the kitchen and Nero sleeping, there was no one to stop me. I thought about waking Nero to ask him how his aunt had been, but I didn’t need him to tell me. I would know upon seeing her whether yesterday had affected her for good or ill.

I closed the bedroom door quietly behind me, and went to check on Samuel. He was asleep as well, the straps jumbled together in a pile beside the bed—I had untied his hands immediately upon his falling asleep. There was truly nothing to stop or delay me, but I found myself wishing there was. That strange uneasiness. I forced myself to ignore it and went downstairs.

When I knocked at Madame Basilio’s door, there was no answer. I knocked again, harder, and looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see Giulia racing up behind me. The courtyard was abandoned. I rapped again.

Again, no answer. No sound of footsteps within. I wondered if Madame Basilio was ignoring me deliberately. Carefully, I tested the lever, expecting it to be locked, surprised when it gave way. I pushed the door open—only a few inches, not wanting to offend—and called softly, “Madame Basilio?”

My voice fell on marble and stopped dead as if the house had absorbed it. I pushed the door open a bit farther. “Madame? Madame Basilio, are you here? It’s Elena Spira. I’d wondered if I could have a word?”

Still nothing. The silence was profound, as if the floor was abandoned and had always been so. I stepped inside, closing the door softly, giving in to the impulse to not make a sound, careful, quiet footsteps, the hush of my breath. “Madame Basilio?” I tried again as I went down the hall, a whisper really, anything louder felt unnatural. I checked the sala. The room was empty.

I heard a shuffle, a breath, and I started, spinning around, but there was no one there, and I realized I’d heard only my own movements. It was eerily quiet; the watchfulness from upstairs descended, needling. I knocked quietly at each closed door before peeking inside. The dining room held a massive table but only three chairs clustered at its end. The bedrooms were spartan; the beds simple and unadorned, velvet bed-curtains replaced with looped swaths of cheap yellowed mosquito netting.

Again, I was aware of the ruined artwork, rotting, mildewed. The floor must have been beautiful once. As I went through the rooms, I realized how much was missing—like upstairs, there were empty spaces on the walls, shallows where frescoes had been removed. I remembered Samuel’s story about Nero’s promise to his father, his aunt’s steady whittling away at it, his resentment and his broken heart.

But Madame Basilio was nowhere. When I emerged into the courtyard, Zuan was drawing water at the well.

“Have you seen Madame?” I asked, and he frowned and shook his head.

I hurried past him, into the kitchen. Giulia was the only one within. She was up to her elbows in some large fish, filleting it, her forearms dotted here and there with silver scales like sequins on a costume. She pursed her mouth, her brow furrowing in disapproval and dislike when I entered.

“There is no polenta today,” she said defiantly. “Take him some cheese.”

“Where’s your mistress?” I asked.

“She is too tired to see you. Yesterday was very trying. She is sleeping.”

“No, she isn’t. I’ve been looking for her. I can’t find her anywhere.”

“You were in her rooms? Alone?” Giulia’s dislike turned to startled alarm. She withdrew her hands from the fish, wiping them madly on the apron about her waist, leaving flecks of scales and bits of grayish, translucent flesh. She pulled off the apron and flung it onto the bench. “I will ask Zuan where she is.”

“I already did. He hasn’t seen her.”

“She would not have gone somewhere without one of us.”

Giulia hurried from the kitchen. I followed her to the courtyard, where she stopped before Zuan, her words a flurry. Though I could not understand them, I didn’t mistake the fear in her voice, nor the way Zuan froze, his face going pale beneath his black hair.

Giulia turned to me. “Does Nerone know she is gone?”

I said, “Perhaps she went up there, and I simply missed her. I’ll look.”

I ran back to the third floor, but I knew the moment I went inside that Madame Basilio was not there. It was as quiet as I’d left it. I reached the bedroom just as Nero stepped out, shrugging into his coat. His smile of greeting died the moment he saw my face.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I went to talk to your aunt, and she has disappeared. Giulia and Zuan are worried.”

“I haven’t seen her since last night,” Nero said.

“Perhaps she’s with Samuel,” I said, but Samuel was alone, sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only trousers and rubbing his face tiredly. He looked over his shoulder, frowning when I asked, “Has Madame Basilio been here?”

“Why would she be?” he asked in a low, dull voice. “She was there yesterday, wasn’t she? The exorcism.” He shuddered, his skin pimpled with cold. “I’ve been remembering. Only bits and pieces.”

There was no time to worry over that now. My sense that something was wrong grew.

Nero said, “She’s no doubt gone to see Padre Pietro to arrange another bout of torture for you.”

“Giulia said she wouldn’t have gone anywhere alone,” I said.

“Giulia wants to believe she is indispensable. Aunt Valeria will return soon enough, I promise you, and all this worry will be for naught.”

I could not banish mine.

“You don’t think that’s where she’s gone, do you?” Samuel asked me in a quiet voice.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “Something’s not right. Don’t you feel it?”

“Yes.” Samuel’s gaze slid to the corner of the room.

“Perhaps . . . don’t you think we should at least go to the church and see if she’s there?”

Nero frowned. “Why are you so concerned, Elena? You don’t even like her.”

“But she’s your aunt,” I said. “I know you would care if something happened to her. And I just . . . I can’t explain it.”

He studied me for a moment, and then he nodded. “Very well. If it will make you feel better, there’s no harm in looking.”

“You’re going to the church?” Samuel rose. “I’m coming too. Let me get dressed.”

It didn’t take long for Samuel to finish. When he put on his overcoat over his suitcoat—no vest, no tie or collar—Nero said, “The two of you look like a matched set.”

Because of the bruises, I realized. Samuel’s were now dark and spreading, large purple pearls ringing his throat, obvious without the collar or tie. I knew from looking in the mirror this morning that mine looked the same, though more livid, because beneath the darker thumbprints were also healing bruises, mottled green and yellow.

We followed Nero to the courtyard gate. Giulia came flying after us, her voice rising. Nero said something brusque to her, and gestured for us to follow him out into the campo, closing the gate again firmly in her face. “She’s sent Zuan for the police.”

Neither Samuel nor I answered, though I was somewhat relieved. Our worry had become contagious; Nero’s mouth was set, anxiety chiseling his face as he led us over the slick bridge to the Madonna dell’ Orto.

The snow began to fall more heavily, though it was still little more than a soft sprinkling of cold. The dell’ Orto was not so quiet today as it had been when I’d visited it with Madame Basilio. People—mostly women, heads bowed beneath black shawls—dotted the pews. I heard the soft whispers of prayers, a murmur I found vaguely comforting.

Several glanced our way, their prayers paused by curiosity, and I couldn’t blame them. Nero strode down the aisle with purpose, and Samuel and I scurried like acolytes behind him. What must we have looked like—neither man wearing a hat or a tie, Nero’s face set like stone, Samuel limping as he tried to keep up, I too would have wondered what such urgency could mean.

Nero went to the archway leading to the offices, where we were stopped by a priest. Nero spoke to him impatiently. The only words I understood were
Padre Pietro
.

It became clear that the priest was not going to let us through, and Nero’s words became shorter and more clipped. Samuel limped up beside. In French, he said, “Please. If you would inform Father Pietro that his . . . patient from yesterday is here, and I am sorely in need of his aid. It is all I can do to hold the demon at bay. I am terrified for my soul.”

It was evident that the priest knew of the attempt at exorcism. He drew in his breath sharply and stepped back.

“Please,” Nero said, tense with strain and impatience and worry.

Nervously, the priest nodded. Now it seemed he could not let us through quickly enough.

Nero didn’t bother to knock at the office door. He opened it so quickly Father Pietro started, dropping the pen he held. It rolled across the floor.

“Signor Basilio! And Signor Farber—”

Nero interrupted him, each word in his question bitten off.

The priest shook his head, looking puzzled as he spoke.

Nero turned to us. “She hasn’t been here. He says to try the Merceria or the Rialto. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. He suggests that she may have gone shopping.”

Christmas Eve. It seemed impossible that time could have passed so quickly. More than that, it seemed incongruous that there could be anything happening beyond the events in the Basilio, that there could be people shopping and preparing, that anyone could care about Christmas now.

“Do you think she may have?” Samuel asked.

Nero shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Giulia said she would not have gone alone,” I reminded him.

The skin around Nero’s nose whitened. “There is much Giulia doesn’t know about my aunt.”

“Zuan was still there, so she didn’t take the gondola.”

“Or she hired another,” Nero said.

“Why would she have done that?”

“To keep a secret,” Samuel suggested. He leaned heavily against the door, easing the weight from his knee. “But if she’s gone there, we’ll never find her. It’s too crowded.”

Thoughtfully, Nero said, “She has her favorite shops. They haven’t changed in years. I suppose it would not hurt to look.”

Father Pietro watched us carefully—well, Samuel, anyway. It was discomfiting, how avidly he stared, as if he wanted nothing more than to wrestle Samuel to the ground and wrench the devil from his chest.

I said quietly, “Zuan’s gone after the police. Wouldn’t it be better to have them search?”

Nero shook his head. “It will be at least an hour before they come to the palazzo. In that time, we could already be at the Rialto.”

“If she’s there, she’ll finish her shopping and come home,” I said hopefully.

Samuel said, “I don’t think she’ll be coming home, Elena. Neither do you.”

Nero bit off a curse. “I can’t just sit around and do nothing. Come or not, as you like.”

Samuel and I didn’t confer; there was no need. I knew we would not abandon Nero now. With an apology and thanks to the priest, we left the Madonna dell’ Orto and stepped out into the wet, cold day. There were no gondolas to be hired here, and so Nero led us to the nearest
traghetto
station, where the gondoliers lingered for fares, and we quickly hired one and set off for the Merceria.

It was thronged, so much so that the falling snow never hit the ground, but only seemed to hover above the streets, melting on heads and shoulders and vast piles of goods. The snow lent a greater air of gaiety, so the Merceria had the aspect of a fair, even in the cold, though coughing and sniffling seemed to be the order of the day, and I saw the red sores of chilblains on too many hands and cheeks. Peddlers called out as they pushed through the crowd. Merchants stood at the doors of their narrow, dark little shops, displaying their goods, their arms full of brightly colored scarves or housewares.

Samuel struggled to keep up, and I put my arm through his and kept closely to him while Nero dodged into one or two shops that had been favorites of his aunt, coming out each time looking grimmer than ever, a short shake of his head, a terse, “He hasn’t seen her in days.”