The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (9 page)

“Tomorrow,” Papa said.

“You’ll give me instructions, and—”

“And medications, yes. We’ll go over everything. If you follow my directions exactly, there should be no need to fear. You’ve had experience with the female epileptics, so this will be familiar enough. You can do this, Elena. You are our best hope.”

I felt Fate’s hand on my shoulder, pulling me gently back, whispering in my ear,
Do not fall
.

Nerone Basilio’s words brought it all back. Everything I stood to lose. A return in shame and humiliation, my father without a position, being sent off to my cousin to start my future as a farmer’s wife. Without even memories of other places to treasure, without anything to tell me I’d ever lived. As forgotten as the Lockwoods wanted me to be. I did not know how to tell them how sorry I was, that their son haunted me even in my waking hours, that when I closed my eyes I saw him, that I heard his voice.

But in spite of all that, I didn’t want to accept the punishment they laid out for me. How much did a single mistake require, even one so big as mine? What was fair restitution? My life in return for Joshua Lockwood’s? Should my part in it require a lifetime of repentance? Must I bury myself in manure and mud? Be a broodmare to a cousin I had not laid eyes on for years?

Whether I deserved it or not, I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

I did not miss the irony that the Farbers wanted me to put Samuel in the same situation I was so anxious to escape. I was sorry for it; I understood how much he hated the idea, because I hated it too. But I had no other choice. I could sympathize and be sorry all I wanted, but in the end, one of us would be making an unwanted marriage, and I did not wish for it to be me. I needed that six months. My parents didn’t know it, but I harbored a secret hope of finding a way not to return, not to marry my cousin. In six months, surely I could discover a remedy?

Marriage would not mean a living death for Samuel Farber. He was a man; he was free to find happiness anywhere. He could do whatever he liked, take whatever mistresses he wanted, travel the world without his wife, as long as he provided for her. My future would be quite different. I could consign him to his without guilt. Was it so wrong to wish for something more?

No, it was not. Nerone Basilio could protest all he liked, but I could not afford to allow Samuel Farber any latitude. Which meant I must watch Mr. Basilio as intently as I did Giulia. Not only because I suspected he might sneak Samuel a bottle or two, but because I must keep him from discovering Samuel’s true ailment.

But now, my task seemed harder than ever, too many pieces to move about, and the worst of them Samuel himself. That kiss, his violence . . . what was I to do with that? He’d been drunk, I reassured myself. I would make certain he was not again. And as for what I’d felt—that twinge of something I didn’t want to look at too closely, that unwelcome, nebulous stirring—I simply would not think about it.

I glanced over my shoulder at his closed door, wanting to leave him alone, but better to check on him one last time, to be sure he’d suffered no other ill effects from the brandy. I turned the knob on his door as quietly as I could, and eased it open, peering around the corner.

He was sitting up, staring into the darkness, his eyes glittering.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to look in and make certain you were all right.”

“Do you see her?” he whispered. “Tell me you see her.”

That strange smell in the room—vanilla and rotting canal and algae—was strong enough to sting. The perfume of those handkerchiefs seemed to have permeated everything since that drawer had been opened.

“See who, Samuel?” I asked.

He said, a dreamy voice now, singsong and slow, “
Chi comincia mal, finisse pezo
.”

The air in the room seemed to whisper; I felt the brush of hostility over my skin that made me draw back. Samuel did not move from the bed. There was nothing physically there, nothing to be afraid of. Only my imagination, his drunkenness.

But like a coward, I stepped back into the hall, closing the door, leaving him to himself.

Chapter 10

Samuel and I discussed neither the kiss nor his drunkenness, which was what I preferred, though the specter of the incident remained stubbornly—and silently—between us. He atoned by being well behaved over the next few days, though his despondency was evident, and I tried to remain cheerful in its face, though I had to admit I felt as if I were holding on to things with just the barest control.

There was something more deeply wrong here than I understood. I couldn’t put it into words; I could hardly order my thoughts. It all sounded so ridiculous and absurd. How was I to seriously say that the air had been hostile that night? How could I explain how avidly Samuel had watched nothing, or how profoundly his gaze had disturbed me? Reason told me I was imagining things. I wanted to believe I could explain it away as a side effect of the bromide. His epilepsy. Drunkenness. But I couldn’t quite.

In that time, I only saw Nero Basilio in passing, or from the window of my bedroom, where I found myself standing a bit too often, watching him laugh with one of the Nardi children or unloading barrels with Zuan. He was not like any man I’d ever seen. While Samuel reminded me of Glen Echo, Mr. Basilio seemed of a different world entirely, one romantic and dashing and full of life. Not that I knew him well enough to know anything about him. The most conversation I had with him was one afternoon, as I drew water from the well.

“Miss Spira!” he’d called, and when I straightened, his smile was quick and wide and blindingly alluring. “I’ve missed you and Samuel. Too many duties to attend, but I’ll be up soon,
ai
? As soon as I can.”

He said it in a way that made me think it was not really Samuel he was hoping to see. He’d made a face at the bundles he carried and hurried off, leaving me feeling warm at his attention, brief as it was.

I should have been thankful. Given Samuel’s condition, it was better if Nero Basilio kept his distance. I could not risk him seeing a seizure, though I wished . . . well, I sensed Mr. Basilio would be a good distraction for both Samuel and me, and one we both sorely needed.

The third morning after Mr. Basilio’s arrival, I went in search of breakfast, and hoped for diversion. The air smelled of snow, and the clouds were heavy and a pale whitish gray. The two little Nardi girls were playing in the courtyard, chasing each other and laughing.

When they saw me, they stopped abruptly. I smiled at them, but they didn’t smile back, only watched me with big wary eyes as I went to the kitchen. When I pulled the door open, the gust of warm air scented with fish and spices and toasted corn nearly blew me back.

The first thing I saw was Giulia, bustling at the stove, her hips twitching as she stirred something in a great heavy pot. And there, lounging on the bench at the table as if it were a chaise, his back against the wall while he tossed raisins into his mouth, was Nero Basilio. His eyes were sparkling; he was laughing at something she’d said. He was in his shirtsleeves, no tie and no vest, with an overcoat abandoned in a slump on the bench beside him.

“Miss Spira!” he scrambled to sit up, clearing a spot for me to sit down.

His enthusiasm was an antidote to my agitation. He said something quickly to Giulia, and she glared at me over her shoulder and ladled cornmeal porridge into a bowl, sliding it across the table to me, along with a plate of roasted chestnuts.

Mr. Basilio said something else to her, and her glare turned into a smile for him, and one so brilliant I was momentarily taken aback. She shifted her hips and gave him a suggestive look that told me better than words just what Giulia wished to do to Nero Basilio. Or perhaps she already had.

I felt a prick of irritation and sat down, reaching for the bowl.

“Not yet!” He swooped in, grabbing the plate of peeled and roasted chestnuts. He took his knife, which lay on the table by his elbow, a shining blade with a handle of ebony inlaid with ivory in what I now recognized must be the Basilio symbol—the rising, rayed sun that decorated the doors and fanlights, as well as the handkerchiefs in the dresser in Samuel’s room. Nero cut the chestnut into pieces, dropping them into my bowl. “Try it with this.”

Giulia made a comment, and he laughed shortly and said something back, and I felt suddenly out of place, as if I’d intruded.

I glanced at Giulia. “Am I interrupting?”

He raised a brow. “Interrupting what? Giulia berating me for offering you chestnuts?”

“Is that what she was saying?”

“Among other things.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward with that charming smile. “I’ve told her polenta with chestnuts is your favorite, so don’t make me a liar.”

Tentatively, I took a bite. The polenta was warm and delicious, salty with cheese, and the chestnuts were sweet and nutty, a rich, deep flavor. It was one of the best things I’d ever tasted, and I told him so.

“You see?” He spoke to Giulia in a quick barrage of dialect. She regarded me as if I were a chicken being considered for the pot, and then dismissed me and spoke to him. The only word I understood—or thought I did—was
mericàn
, which could have meant either me or Samuel, or perhaps wasn’t what I thought at all. Nero grinned wickedly when he answered. They were obviously very familiar with each other.

I looked down at my bowl and tried to ignore them.

“I’ve just told her it’s very rude to speak Venetian in front of our guest,” he translated. “She thinks it rude that we speak English in front of her.”

I felt as if he’d only told me part of it. It didn’t explain either the way she’d looked at him or his teasing wickedness, but neither did I have any interest in their flirtation. “You speak English very well. Where did you learn it?”

“School in London,” he said. “My father felt Venice’s future lay with the English—don’t ask me why, it makes no sense to me. I think it was only that he still blamed France for the Austrians. In any event, I was glad to go. Better than moping about a house slowly falling into the lagoon. It’s where I met Samuel, in fact.”

“At school?”

“In a tavern. Where did you meet him?”

I swallowed another bite of the polenta. “Here. When I arrived from New York.”

He sat back in surprise. “You came all the way to Venice to mind a patient you’d never met?”

“I knew his parents. My father is Samuel’s physician. He sent me as a favor to the Farbers.”

“Why not just hire a nurse who was already in Rome? Surely there was one who could care for him well enough.”

Carefully, I said, “The Farbers have known my father for a long time. They trust his opinion. Samuel is their only child, and they’re very protective.” I glanced at Giulia. “He was right to send me, it seems.”

He eyed Giulia thoughtfully. “She is my aunt’s creature completely. Aunt Valeria took her in—and Zuan too—when they were children. They were beggars in the Rialto. She moved about in society a great deal then, and she needed servants whose loyalty was unquestioned. She taught them French so they could report to her all the gossip. Trust her to always see the angles. To them, she’s a savior, and neither will lift a finger against her. Fine for her, but it meant that when my father died, and my mother asked Aunt Valeria to move in, she just took over. My mother didn’t have a chance against a housekeeper who would not follow her orders and a gondolier who refused to take her anywhere without Aunt Valeria’s permission. But by then Mama was in no condition to care.”

The words hinted at tragedy, and I had no idea what I should say and was afraid to pry.

He went on as if it were of no moment. “My aunt has been a Basilio a long time. She feels this all belongs to her. It’s good to remind her every now and then that she’s only here by my leave, so I try to show up periodically, as much as she despises it. She’s doing me a favor though, really. As long as she’s living here, I don’t have to. We tend to avoid each other.”

“I did notice that she seemed unhappy with you.”

“Does it trouble you?” A quick laugh. “Don’t worry for me,
cara
. It matters little.”

“But you said she”—I gestured to Giulia, not wanting to risk her attention by saying her name—“was your aunt’s servant in all things, and yet she seems to like you, despite your aunt.”

Again that suggestive wickedness in his eyes. “Oh, she’s simple when it comes to some things. She likes what makes her happy.”

I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t help myself. “And you make her happy?”

“I have in the past,” he said honestly. “And sometimes I still do.”

His frankness shocked me. How prudish and silly, but I couldn’t help it. Here was Nero Basilio admitting unapologetically to bedding his aunt’s housekeeper—still bedding her—with a cocky smile that dared me to object. I was blushing, which must tell him exactly how unworldly I was.
Mericàn
, Giulia had said disdainfully, along with something else to make him laugh, and I wondered if she’d told him how I’d rushed into Samuel’s room like an avenging shrew to find them entwined, their conspiring exchange of glances that made me feel young and foolish, too tightly laced, as I ordered her to leave and lectured Samuel. I wondered if Mr. Basilio had spent the night with her after he’d left me at my bedroom door, if she’d made him laugh as she told him about Samuel’s virginal little nurse.

I pushed the bowl away and rose, saying stiffly, “I should check on Samuel.”

“I’ve embarrassed you.”

“No. No, of course not.” Though of course he had. “I’ve lingered long enough. I’ll just take him breakfast . . .” I grabbed an orange and reached for the bread.

He stopped me with a hand. “At least bring him something warm. It’s cold up there, and the stoves don’t work worth a damn.” He said something to Giulia, who had stopped her stirring at the stove to look at us, and with a long-suffering sigh, she spooned more polenta into a bowl.

Nero Basilio took it, and sheathed his knife, shoving it into his pocket with a handful of chestnuts. “I’ll go with you.”

“I checked on him this morning before I came down,” I lied. “He’s perfectly fine. He’ll be hungry, though, so if you’ll just give me the polenta—”

“Just to the stairs, then,” he said with a quick glance at Giulia, who was still watching us. “The courtyard is slippery. And I want to show you something first.”

He shrugged into his coat, grabbing the bowl and motioning me to the door. Together, we went out into the courtyard. The little girls were gone, and it was snowing again, fat flakes, wet and slushy and slow.

“What did you want to show me?” I asked.

He smiled and jerked his head toward the gate. “This way.”

“I’ve told you I can’t leave him—”

“This will only take a moment. And we’re not actually leaving.” He led me toward the gate, dodging the fallen stones littering the courtyard. A gesture toward the waterfall of rock tumbling from the destroyed wall.

“Lovely, isn’t it? My father insisted it stay as it is. He wanted us never to forget the Austrian bombardment of ’49,” he explained. “Not that there were the funds to fix it, either, so his anger was all very convenient. Ah well.
Sempre crolla ma non cade.
Venice is always collapsing, but it never falls down.”

He flipped the lever on the gate with a clang; the swollen wood shrieked against the courtyard pavement as he opened it. We slipped into the very narrow triangle of the campo, so empty and derelict it looked as if no one had been there in years.

At the narrowest end of the campo was a bridge leading over the canal with the church on the other side, and for a moment, I thought that here at last was the chance to go inside, but he turned the other direction, to another bridge at the broad end of the campo. This bridge too he ignored, turning instead onto the stone walkway along the front of the palazzo. Bits of garbage bobbed in the gray Rio de la Sensa. The slushy snow was growing wetter, soaking the shoulders of my gown, and I was cold without my cloak. I had not planned to be outside for longer than it took to get to the kitchen. Nero Basilio stopped at the edge of the palazzo, where the small, muddy, and rank rio separated it from the two buildings on the other side. He gestured to the water with a smile.

“If I can’t convince you to come with me to see the beauties of Venice, I can at least show you something beautiful here. Look.”

The water wasn’t muddy olive now. It was the most extraordinary color. It looked like shot purple silk with a green weft, shifting color with the movement of current and light. It was beautiful, shockingly so. I struggled for words. “Oh . . . but, how? Why has it changed? I’d thought it full of sewage.”

“A dyehouse,” he said, nodding toward the building farther down, a huge copper pot upended on the sinking water steps. “Haven’t you smelled it?”

The source of that acrid, steamy stink, the tang underlying the cold scent of snow.

“It’s worse in the summer. Unbearable sometimes. But it’s worth it for the colors.” He grinned at me. “Though it’s brown quite often. I think it’s a color he specializes in. Sometimes it’s brown for days.”

His gaze became distant and dreamy as he looked at the water. “Samuel’s balcony overlooks it. It used to be my cousin’s room. She and I often left the day’s fortunes to the whim of the dyer. Mass or a café . . . is the rio green or blue?”

The falling snow, the purple water, the dreamcast of his voice. I felt shivery, but now I wasn’t cold. Snow melted in his curling hair, darkening the shoulders of his overcoat. His expression was wistful. I thought he was remembering something sad, and I waited for him to volunteer it.

He didn’t. He said only, “I’m not certain which color I like best. Sometimes I think the scarlet, but then . . . this purple is amazing. But no, I think it must be the blue. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

“I would like to see that sometime.”

“Perhaps it will happen while you’re here.” A flicker of a smile, a mere ghost of the ones he’d given me before. “Now we should go back. I imagine you’re worried about your patient, and I’m afraid his polenta has grown cold.”

I glanced at the bowl still in his hands, the thick skin that had formed over the mush. It seemed impossible that I had forgotten about Samuel, but for a few moments I had. “I suppose I’ll have to get him another.”