The Venice Sketchbook(47)
I set off, full of expectation, praying that my hair would stay in place during the crossing of the lagoon. We had been invited for eight, but I had been brought up to think it was rude to arrive on the dot. But I hadn’t expected to wait so long for a vaporetto, and when it came it was horribly crowded with people going across to the Lido for dancing or gambling, as I gathered the nightclubs and casino were out there. We took a long time to disgorge passengers at San Zaccaria, and then at the subsequent stops. So it was late when we finally arrived, and I walked briskly from the landing stage, across the plaza and down the broad street called Granviale Santa Maria Elizabeta. I remembered how Imelda had been scathing about Henry when he was late. I wondered what she was saying about me now—if she had come, that is. I had extended the invitation to my fellow foreign students, and they hadn’t seemed overwhelmingly excited.
“If nothing better comes up,” Gaston had said. “Not exactly how I would choose to spend Sunday evening. Does anyone know where there is good dancing?”
So now I took a deep breath before opening those tall, gold-tipped gates and then walked up a gravel path between palm trees to a blood-red villa. The door was opened by an elderly male servant, who ushered me down a long marble hallway and out to a patio at the rear of the house. Lights had been hung between trees, and they flickered in a cool breeze off the Adriatic. Even though it was still not quite dark, the figures on the patio were bathed in shadow, and I paused for a moment, unsure of myself and not wanting to step out into that group.
Then the countess spotted me. “Ah, my little English friend,” she said, coming forward with her arms open. “You have come. How wonderful. Do let me introduce you to my friends.”
I was led forward feeling horribly shy. I saw then that the other students had come. Even Henry had made it before me. He gave me a little wave and raised a glass to me. He and Franz were standing with our professor and his wife. I recognized also the jolly priest from the other night, and the smooth Vittorio, chatting with a painfully thin but horribly elegant blonde woman, an older dark-haired man at her side.
“Let me introduce Bibi and Arturo from Spain,” the countess said. “Another of our visitors, Miss Browning from England.”
They nodded politely and went back to their conversation as I was led away. I was sure Bibi had taken one look at my dress and decided I was not worth talking to. I was moved on to another distinguished-looking couple. “And let me present you to Il Conte Da Rossi.”
I found myself staring into the face of a man with military bearing, iron-grey hair and a face that was definitely an older version of Leo’s. Why had he not mentioned that his father was a count?
The count must have seen my alarm because he gave me a friendly smile. “You need not look so worried,” he said, “I do not bite, I assure you.”
“It is good of you to grace us with your presence, Count,” the contessa said. She addressed me. “The count is not normally known as a big patron of the arts.”
“I resent that,” Count Da Rossi said. “I have great appreciation of real art. Invite me to a showing of Caravaggio or Leonardo or even Renoir, and I’ll be there in an instant. I appreciate beauty. But you cannot tell me that a woman with two heads, one eye and three breasts is a work of beauty!”
“Not all art is meant to be beautiful,” Professor Corsetti said. “It is meant to evoke an emotional response, maybe to stir anger or sadness even.”
“And what response would this lady with one eye and three breasts evoke?” the count demanded. “Pity? Loathing?”
“Perhaps fascination?”
The count shook his head.
“But you came anyway,” the contessa said, “even though you knew I was going to reveal a new piece of artwork.”
“I could not resist your presence, dear Contessa,” he said.
“Flatterer. But where is your son, and the adorable Bianca?”
“She was not willing to make the arduous trip across the lagoon,” he said with a smile.
“She is not well? In the family way, perhaps?”
“Not that I know of. We can hope,” Count Da Rossi said. “No, I rather think it was the company that did not excite her. Too many of us are old and boring.”
“Rubbish!” the contessa exclaimed. “Speak for yourself. I may be old, but nobody could ever claim that I was boring, could they, darling?” She turned to Vittorio.
“Absolutely not, cara mia.”
I studied this with interest. So the relationship was maybe more than gallery owner and patron, yet he must be at least thirty years her junior. But she was still an attractive woman, with such lively eyes.
“You do not have a drink.” The countess took my hand and led me away from Leo’s father. I was still a little shaken and so relieved that Leo and Bianca were not present.
“Ah, here is a friendly face,” Countess Fiorito said, switching to English as she paused next to a man standing beside the drinks table. He was dressed in a very English blazer. “Mr Reginald Sinclair, His Majesty’s consul here in Venice. Reggie, darling, one of your fellow countrymen, or rather countrywomen. Miss Browning.”
“How do you do, my dear.” He gave me a friendly smile. He was an older man with a pale moustache and jowls that gave him a rather hangdog look. “So nice to see a fellow English person. Most of them have fled for home, fearing the worst, I’m afraid.”