The Invitation(67)

He continues down the steps beyond the courtyard, where there is a second paved level that he hasn’t yet explored. As he moves away from the uproar of the frogs there is another sound, a liquid sound, coming from the direction of the swimming pool. Curious, he moves towards it. And then he sees her. A white shape in the blackness, entering the water. He begins to run.

‘Stella,’ he calls to her, stumbling, tripping down the path. ‘Stella, stop!’

She is in up to her waist. The fabric of her nightdress foams about her like a pale sea creature.

Without thinking he plunges into the water. He reaches for her and finds her arm and then her waist, through the floating skeins of material. He pulls her toward him.

At first she is limp in his arms, still lost to sleep. But then her hands are gripping him. She is blinking, gasping with the shock of the cold – which must be what has woken her. ‘Hal,’ she says, staring at him. ‘How—’

‘You were sleepwalking,’ he says.

She shuts her eyes. ‘I thought I was there,’ she says. ‘I had almost got him free.’ Her teeth are beginning to chatter. For the first time, he becomes aware of the cold, and of the warmth of her against him.

‘Come on,’ he says, helping her to climb out.

She is silent on the journey back up through the garden – embarrassed, perhaps a little in shock. But when they split to go to their separate rooms, she lays a hand on his arm. The warmth of her palm sears him through the wet material.

‘Hal,’ she says, ‘thank you.’

There is something in her face, a new openness, he thinks. Something has changed.

He returns to his room and towels himself dry, changes into dry clothes. He can hear her moving about in her room too, no doubt going through the same ritual: the opening of drawers, her feet on the flagstones. And then, after a few minutes, he hears the groan of her door opening. He listens, intent. She is outside, he is certain.

He goes to the door. He cannot hear anything, but he can sense her presence on the other side, as tangibly as if he could see her. What is she doing? Is she deliberating whether to knock? He imagines her hand, lifted, wavering. Well, he thinks, he will decide for her. He turns the handle. It is stiff, slow to move, and he has learned now that he has to put his whole weight against the door to get it open. When it finally does, he is greeted by darkness on the other side, the blank dark of the empty hallway.

It is for the best.

He climbs back into bed, and reaches for the journal, which is increasingly becoming a means of silencing the clamour of thought.

THE PROCESS BEGINS. The painter visits the house on the Via Cairoli every day, and the captain waits eagerly for the great unveiling. He asks, on a number of occasions, whether he may see the portrait in its unfinished state, but the young artist assures him that it would ruin the effect of the final piece for him. So over the weeks that follow he tries not to become too impatient, reminding himself constantly of the great prize that awaits.

When he visits Luna she seems happier than before. She is friendlier with him when he visits, too. The housekeeper tells him that she no longer leaves the palazzo as often, which is a pleasing result – though the restless sleep wandering does continue, to the perturbation of the whole household.

On one visit, encouraged by her smiles, he attempts to embrace her. It is the first time he has made such a move toward her – he feels that the moment has come. But as he reaches for her, a fearsome growl comes from the corner of the room. He draws back, confused. The dog is crouched low, its teeth bared in a snarl. It looks as though it is readying itself to leap: at him. He takes a step away from the girl, and the animal relaxes slightly. He glances at Luna, seeking some sort of explanation, but she merely looks back at him steadily, as though nothing is amiss.

Again, he moves towards her. Again, the dog growls. It is a terrible sound. This time the creature is stalking towards him. Feeling foolish, and not a little afraid, he makes his excuses and begins to retreat slowly from the room, all the while keeping the animal in his sights, making sure that it is not about to pounce on him.

There is nothing for it, he thinks furiously, back in the safety of his own palazzo. The beast must go. It will not be easy explaining this to her – there is such a bond between girl and dog that he suspects she will be upset. There is another thought, too, one that he tries to avoid entertaining. But it keeps coming to him, try as he might to push it away. There is something they say about women who share a peculiar bond with a particular creature. It is meant to be a sign of something … But no, it is mere superstition. He is a modern, intelligent man who can allow no time for such ideas. And she is good, and innocent. He is certain of it.



Hal feels a shiver of recognition. The painting, in Genoa. One and the same, surely, as the piece mentioned here. And there was something in it, wasn’t there? A sense of complicity that felt like some secret, shared, between subject and viewer. Or subject and painter.





26


The next day dawns warm and gorgeous: there is summer in it. Hal has come down to the stone jetty with the intention of going for a swim. The cold water hits his skin like a slap – memories of the previous night surfacing – but he becomes accustomed to it. He turns onto his back, sculling away from the shore. This sea supports him, seems almost to cherish him. Above him the land rises high as a cathedral into the blue.