The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (12 page)

“From hearing
what
?”

He leaned back against the door and ignored my question. “What else did he do, other than try to steal laudanum?”

“Isn’t that enough?” I put the last of the bottles in the case and closed the lid.

“There’s something you’re not saying. You’re fluttering like a bird. He disturbed you in some way. I can see it.”

“It’s only that I’d thought I could trust him.”

“He’s desperate.”

“As am I. Desperate to help him.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and watched me as I shoved the case beneath the bed. “A good hiding place,” he observed. “It might take him all of a minute to find it.”

“I don’t think he’ll be trying it again,” I said.

“Oh? Why not? What did you threaten him with?”

“My disappointment.”

“A potent threat.”

“I wish you would open the door. Anyone could note it.”

“Anyone?” He raised a brow. “Giulia? Zuan? My aunt? Does what they think matter?”

“Perhaps not, but I—”

“How was tea?”

I sighed, surrendering. “Short, as you said.”

“What stories of my bad behavior must I explain away?”

“None, as it happens. She wanted to know how Samuel was doing. I think. It was strange. She spoke of spirits. And your cousin. And then she asked me to leave.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. We were talking of your cousin’s death and she became upset.”

His frown grew. “What did she say exactly?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember. It seemed so long ago already, though it could not have been more than an hour. “I said I was certain your cousin was with God, and she said Laura was an angel, and then she told me to leave.”

He pushed off from the door and came over, seating himself at the foot of the bed, a safe distance, clasping his hands between his knees. “She’s always been odd when it comes to Laura. I think you shouldn’t worry over it.”

“I can’t help it. She is hosting us.”

“She’s not. I am. And I say it doesn’t matter.”

“Well.” I took a deep breath. “Your aunt is quite unsettling. I don’t know if I like her. I know that’s not very Christian of me.”

“I don’t like her either,” he admitted with a smile. “So we can go to hell together. It’s probably more interesting, anyway.”

I couldn’t help a small smile in return. “How blasphemous.”

“I don’t want you to be distressed. Laura died two years ago, and still Aunt Valeria keeps her room a shrine. I was surprised she put Samuel there.”

“I suppose losing a child might do that to anyone.”

“She was impossible before that. Laura spent half her life trying to escape her mother.”

“It was Laura you were betrothed to.”

“Yes. Another of my aunt’s great disappointments, that I wasn’t the godly man she hoped for her daughter. I think Laura didn’t mind it. Which would you rather have, a tirelessly good and godly man? Or one with a touch of wickedness?”

“A godly man,” I teased, because it was not what I knew he wanted me to say. “One for whom I can be a helpmate.”

He grinned; it was infectious. “You break my heart. I’d wager I could change your mind on that score, but unfortunately, I promised my aunt I’d accompany her to mass. All those prayers for my soul, you know. But if you have need of me . . .”

“I’ll call if Samuel becomes troublesome,” I promised.

“Not really what I’d hoped for,” he said. “But I’m happy to oblige. For that or . . . anything else you might think of.”

His flirtation was a balm; I felt it soothe and caress. I lowered my eyes and said quietly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” and when he left with a light chuckle, I felt much better.

Chapter 14

The next morning, once I’d measured the bromide, I pushed the medicine case under the bed until it couldn’t be seen. Mr. Basilio was right; it wouldn’t stop Samuel if he decided to come after the laudanum again, but at least it was out of sight, and therefore I hoped not a temptation.

When I went to his bedroom to give him the bromide, he was curled beneath the blankets, sound asleep, and I mixed the medicine quietly and left the cup on his bedside table. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I couldn’t resist going to the balcony—soft steps, holding my skirts to keep them from swishing—to peek at what color the canal was today. A rather sickly yellow. Nothing to impress. Still, it astonished me to see the water change so completely, and I stood there for a moment, watching the dye tangle in the gentle current, before I left to get breakfast.

The air was cool and wet, the courtyard stones dark with moisture from a morning shower. Gray-tinged clouds floated languidly against a pale blue sky, darker ones hovering in the distance. The little boy I hadn’t seen for several days now leaned against the wall outside the kitchen, looking bored. When he saw me, he tensed in alarm, but he didn’t run off or leave his post, though he looked as if he wanted to.

I said, “Bonjour.”

His eyes widened, fingers clenching. He ducked his head, muttering something.

I opened the kitchen door to warm air and the rich scent of roasting pork, something briny and fishy. Giulia and Zuan, along with the man I’d seen the other day—a Nardi brother, the boy’s father—sat around the table with bowls of polenta and shrimp in some reddish sauce. They had been talking and laughing, but they stopped short the moment I stepped inside.

The bounty on the table was astonishing.
Not my concern
, I reminded myself. Samuel didn’t care. But I couldn’t help my surge of annoyance, not just because of the food, but because of Zuan’s immediately lowered eyes and Giulia’s glare that made me feel my intrusion acutely, though the Nardi brother stared at me with unabashed, and rather too ardent, interest.

I glanced away, and it was only then that I noticed Nerone Basilio standing in the corner. My heart gave a little jump—how had I not seen him immediately?

He said, “Good morning, Miss Spira,” and I smiled a hello.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ve just come to get some breakfast for Samuel.”

Mr. Basilio motioned to the table. “Help yourself. In fact, I believe this is all for him.”

I felt the gazes of the others, and I tried not to meet them as I stepped forward to see what was on the table that would be appropriate for Samuel. The Nardi brother said something, and Giulia snapped something back—obviously not complimentary—and the brother’s gaze swept me with impudence. He ran his fingers over his mouth suggestively before he muttered something that made Giulia laugh and Zuan smirk.

Mr. Basilio set the cup he held on the table with an audible thud, speaking with a clipped, hard tone. Whatever he said wiped the insolence from the Nardi brother’s face. Giulia’s mouth tightened, and Zuan’s chin dipped nearly into his chest.

Nero Basilio smiled grimly and said to me, “Would you like some coffee? I’ve made it, so at least it’s palatable.”

“
You
made it?”

“It was either learn how or be subjected to Giulia’s,” he said. “Which I believe you’ve tasted.”

Giulia’s dislike of me seemed to corrupt the very air. But with Mr. Basilio standing there, that slight smile on his lips—not grim now—I felt in no hurry to leave.

He said in a low voice, “Is he waiting for you?”

“He’s not awake yet,” I told him.

“So you’ve time to have a coffee with me?”

I hesitated. I remembered too well Samuel’s warning. He would not be pleased. But Mr. Basilio’s expression was so hopeful I could not disappoint him, and I found myself nodding and smiling. “Yes, but I don’t have long.”

That slight smile grew. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me, and then stole two sugar-dusted fritters from the table while the Nardis watched, and it was as if they’d disappeared, so well did he ignore them. He gestured me to the door, and we went out, but now the cool air felt good upon my skin. The little boy was still there, but his eyes lit when he saw Mr. Basilio, who gave him a small salute.

Nero Basilio’s coat flapped about his legs as he led me into the courtyard, the coffee steam curling in a thin wisp above his cup and my own. “Have you been to the cupola yet?”

“The cupola?”

He glanced upward, and then I remembered the cupola on the roof settled among missing tiles. I shook my head, and he motioned for me to follow him up the stairs. I paused at the third floor, feeling guilty at the thought of Samuel waking to find me gone, remembering yesterday. I should
not
be leaving him alone, but Mr. Basilio said, “No, no, no, cara. No changing your mind,” and I followed him up the last flight, very narrow and steep, the stones slick with moss as if it had been some time since they’d been used.

They ended at a slate walkway at the flat part of the roof that skirted the edge, the canal gurgling threateningly below, a dizzyingly long way down. Nero Basilio negotiated it as if he had done so a hundred times, without hesitation or pause, not seeming even to notice the drop, nor the loosened red tiles that skittered from the vibration of our steps. The slate walkway broadened into a kind of terrace surrounding the cupola. He pushed on one of the windowed doors, which didn’t budge, not until he handed me his coffee to hold and braced his shoulder against it. It squealed open, making me wince as he shoved it far enough for us to enter. If Samuel had not yet been awake, he would be now.

Mr. Basilio stepped back to allow me to come in, apologetic as I handed him his coffee. “It’s been years since I came up here, and I doubt Aunt Valeria has ever stepped foot in it.”

When I was inside, he closed the door again, more squealing, sounding even louder than before. The cupola was bigger than it looked from the outside. All four sides were windowed, with fanlights styled as the rising sun symbol of the Basilios; three walls were lined with padded benches with cabinets beneath. The cushions had once been pale blue, but were now stained with mildew, stuffing spilling from where they’d been gnawed at by mice or rats, droppings scattered about the floor. There was a table in the middle of the room, a settee—water-or-piss-stained, again with gnawed-at cushions—against the other wall. It stank of wet and neglect and rodents.

“It’s worse than I remember it,” Mr. Basilio said with a grimace. “But it’s worth it for the view.”

He was right; the view was stunning. It was the one I’d longed for. Hard to believe only a single floor made such a difference. From the front, tiled roofs and campaniles reached against the expanse of the pied Venetian sky. On one side, in the distance, you could see the train station, the deep blue water beyond; on the other, tiled roofs and a misty blue horizon that must be the lagoon. I spun around, taking it all in, stopping short at the sight of the gothic brick and pilastered church across the canal, the whole of it now before me. Arched, mullioned windows, a domed campanile, a campo of stone in red and gray before it, and the water beyond, breathlessly lovely.

He came up behind me. I felt the warmth of his breath against my neck as he spoke. “The Madonna dell’ Orto. Tintoretto’s church. His paintings grace the altar. His tomb is there as well. I’ll take you to see them sometime, if you like. If you can pull yourself away from your patient for an hour. It’s only just across the bridge.” He pointed to the left. “And over there the Sant’ Alvise. Not so pretty from the outside, but inside . . .”

Oh, it was everything I’d hoped for. Tintoretto’s church! “It’s beautiful,” I breathed. “If I’d known this was the view I would have been up here every day.”

“You sound like my cousin. She would sit up here for hours when she was young. Reading. Staring. A daydreamer.”

“It would be easy to get lost in daydreams here.”

“It’s not as old as the rest of the house,” he said. “Quite new, in fact. They built it to watch the Austrian bombs during the Revolution.”

“They came up here to watch
bombing
? Weren’t they afraid?”

“Not until one of the bombs took out the wall,” he said, disdainfully amused. “Then I understand that my grandfather forbade the women the view.”

“But the men took the risk themselves.”

“It was something Venice had never seen, and what Venetian doesn’t love novelty?” He handed me a fritter, still warm from his hand. “Try it. Tomas is a fritterer by trade.”

“Tomas?”

“Giulia and Zuan’s older brother. The one who couldn’t take his eyes from you.”

“Oh.” I remembered now; Zuan had mentioned his name before. I took the fritter, biting into it. Crisp outside, chewy inside, sugar clinging to my lips.

“He’s married, but as I said, Venetians like novelty. I think he’s never seen an American woman before.”

“This is very good,” I said, taking the last bite. “But if Tomas didn’t come around again, I wouldn’t mind it.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about. He won’t trouble you now.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That you were my guest, and one to be treated with respect,” he said.

“Giulia didn’t like you defending me,” I noted.

“I don’t care about Giulia.” He sat down. The cushion expelled dust and more stuffing. “Or my aunt. Or anyone in this place.”

I sat down on a cushion against another wall, keeping a respectable distance. “Do you miss your cousin very much?”

He laughed. “Do you know what I like about Americans?”

“What?”

“How forthright they are. Just asking questions outright that are none of their business.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not offended. It’s refreshing. Venetians are just as curious, but they’d never think of asking. They’d rather sneak about, spying, gossiping”—he made a sound of disparagement—“everything out of sight, so you can’t grasp it. It’s our history, you know. The Council of Ten, the
bocca di leone
for people to drop anonymous notes about their neighbors . . . no one in Venice actually tells you what they’re thinking. Everyone lies constantly. You have to parse everything. But Americans . . . you wear your curiosity like a badge of pride. Samuel’s like that too. It’s why we’ve been friends for so long. He keeps no secrets. He always says exactly what he thinks.”

I felt suddenly uncomfortable. I wondered what he would say if he knew exactly how big a secret Samuel and I kept. Nero Basilio seemed the kind of man who
could
keep a secret like that. It suddenly seemed absurd that Samuel had not told him.

But it wasn’t my place to say anything. To resist temptation, I changed the subject. “You’ve nicely deflected my question, I notice. But I’ll understand if you have no wish to answer it. You’re right; it’s none of my concern.”

He set his cup on the table. “Yes, I miss her. She was everything to me. We’d been betrothed since we were children. The world is uncertain, but the fact that Laura would be my wife, that was something constant. Something I always knew waited for me. Nothing else might go as I wished, but there was always Laura.” He sat back against the window. “There’s a very wise saying:
I morti verze i oci ai vivi.
The dead open the eyes of the living. I didn’t realize until she was gone just how much I took her for granted. I was out traveling the world, trying to make something of myself, while she became a pretty wrapped package awaiting my dispensation. I could go anywhere, while she must stay here, where the history of despair is in the very walls.”

Trapped. I understood too well how she must have felt. “A history of despair. How poetic. And sad.”

“It’s the truth. My father inherited a ruined palazzo and nothing else. He sold every painting or pilaster he could, but he could not bring himself to touch the piano nobile. Not even to keep it from ruin. The worry that the noble house of Basilio might be reduced to one of
poverinos
. . . his pride couldn’t bear it. It drove him to suicide. My mother drank herself into oblivion.” He stopped suddenly, as if he’d surprised himself. “I never tell anyone those things. What are you, cara, a witch to pull my secrets from me?”

The marveling way he looked at me was exhilarating. “Not a witch, no, but it does seem to be a talent of mine. It used to happen with my father’s patients all the time. He would send me in to talk to them when they were reluctant to say the truth of what ailed them. They would tell me anything.”
And I would believe it.
“He said I had a calming presence.”

“I don’t think I would call it calming, exactly.” His voice was bewitchingly soft and deep. “There’s something about you that makes me wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?”

“Ah, perhaps nothing. In my heart, I’m too Venetian; I see mysteries and tragedy in everyone. I come from a long line of troubled souls. You should take care. This house is full of ghosts. Truthfully, I should have taken Laura away long ago. Perhaps she would still be alive if I had. But it never occurred to me. Not until it was too late. Then again, it would have required money, and as you see”—he spread his hands—“
Conte che non conta, non conta niente
.”

I recognized it. “A count who doesn’t count, counts for nothing,” I translated quietly. “Zuan said it too. I’m so sorry.”

Nero Basilio shrugged again. “Every Venetian has a similar story. Hopelessness is in the air. Don’t you feel it? It’s almost as if God
wants
us to abandon the city. I’d like to accommodate him.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Lack of funds—what else? And obligation. This place is all that remains of the Basilio fortune. Do you see how proudly I hold it?” His tone dripped sarcasm. “I don’t think I would care if it fell. It would be good to have all reminders of the past gone. All encumbrances.”

“Yes,” I agreed, thinking of my own encumbrances. “I understand that. The past can be a burden.”

“Spoken as one who bears burdens of her own,” he said. “How can it be so? You’re so young—”