They Were Counted (102 page)

For a long time they lay together in each other’s arms, and from outside the room could be heard a faint rustling sound, which might have been the night breeze in the trees of some distant
garden
or the soft movements of the waters of the lagoon but which to them sounded like the beating of the wings of fate, that fate which had now and for all time chained them to one another.

 

From far away in the distance could be heard the soft notes of a tenor voice singing a late-night serenade to his beloved. The white folds of the voluminous net curtains moved in the early morning breeze, and outside the sky began to lighten with the
approach
of dawn. Adrienne, who had been lying wide-awake in Balint’s arms, said: ‘It’s time for you to go!’

‘Already? But it’s still dark!’

‘It’s time, and I want to be alone. I have to think.’ Adrienne’s amber-coloured eyes were serious. She was asking, beseeching, but she was also giving an order.

‘We’ll meet this afternoon? At the same place as yesterday? We’ll meet there again?’

‘Yes. But be there at six, I shall be free by then.’

 

This time Balint waited in the gondola to be sure that no one
witnessed
their meeting. Before him on the bench lay a huge bouquet of dark red roses, but when Adrienne had arrived he did not give them to her, indeed he did not even mention them. As she stepped into the boat he rose and kissed her hand as he always did, but
today
with even a touch more formality and respect than before: and when she sat down beside him his first words were not of love but were a simple question, spoken softly, asking if she would like to visit the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. He explained that it was very close to where they were now, and was a miracle of beauty made out of white marble by Pietro Lombardi. He spoke so quietly and in such a matter-of-fact way, allowing no trace of triumph of possession to colour his voice or manner, that there was nothing to remind Addy of what had passed between them only a few hours before. In this way he helped her to pass through what could have been for her an awkward moment after holding him off for so long. Even later on Balint did not speak of their night together: only the bunch of red roses spoke for him. There it lay, almost at her feet, paying homage to her with that great splash of red, the colour of passion, the huge blossoms wide open to symbolize the ripeness of fulfilment.

Only later, as they floated gently back, did he murmur in her ear: ‘May I … like yesterday?’

 

And so the days passed, each as dreamlike as the last. Sometimes they visited a church, or looked for a little-known picture that hung halfconcealed on the dark walls of some neglected
Scuola
, but mostly, unlike the tourists who never tired of sight-seeing, they
remained
in their gondola, floating down obscure canals and always, in the end, out on to the great expanse of the lagoon, lying there in each others arms in sweet exhaustion, fingers entwined while they were still in town, kissing with joy and abandon as soon as they were away from the shore. They always had the same gondolier. From his post behind their cabin, their faithful Riccardo plied his oar so slowly and silently that it seemed that the gondola was
propelled
by no human hand. Each day, they would go even further from the city, until it seemed that they were the only two people in the whole wide world and that they would float on for all eternity, surrounded only by the mother-of-pearl waters of the lagoon and the faint rainbow iridescence of the late afternoon sky. Time stood still and nothing was real except their love, only their love.

Never again had either of them made the slightest allusion to what they had so long discussed on their first day together. Both were aware, all too aware, of what the future might hold, but by tacit mutual understanding, they pushed aside such thoughts as if they never had been and never would be.

 

Adrienne passed her mornings on the Lido beach where the sun beat down ferociously, very different from the soft radiance of the afternoon light over the lagoon. She and her sisters used to swim for hours together as all of them had been strong swimmers since the days they had splashed about in the great lake at home and been taught to swim when still young children. They felt quite at home in the water and now, in Venice, they bathed separately, Adrienne consciously taking herself a little way off from her sisters for she had noticed that Judith’s face still hardened if she came near. It was quite enough to be with them at lunch or sit with them in the hotel lounge in the early afternoon when Mlle Morin went upstairs to take a nap. In the mornings she swam alone,
energetically
and with great long strokes and almost savage
pleasure
, just as she did when she walked, or skated or danced.

Often Adrienne swam a long way out to sea, where the waters were dark and deep and far bluer than closer inshore. When she
returned
after swimming far out she would often stop for a moment as soon as she arrived in shallow water where she could stand with the little waves just below her knees. Sometimes she would stand there for a long time, quite motionless, and then, the water
running
off the black swimsuit which clung wet and shining to the lines of her body, she was like some polished marble statue.

She stood there, oblivious of the many men who eyed her from the shore. She never even noticed their looks. For her only one man existed, and he would be waiting for her later in the gondola by the quay under the Ponte Canonica. So she would stand there just gazing out to sea, looking towards the far horizon, head held high, brows knitted as if she were thinking hard.

Where she stood, the waves flowed over her feet and legs and were yellowy-green in colour, for here it was shallow and the golden sand beneath could be seen through the translucent water. Only farther out, where the deep waters started, did the sea
become
dark and mysterious.

There were no ships to be seen except, very occasionally in the far distance, they could glimpse the sails of fishing boats going towards the shores of Istria where the catches were unusually rich for the Adriatic. One little boat was always there, riding at
anchor
. It was the boat of the life-guard placed there by the
authorities
to make sure no one swam out too far or got into difficulties out of reach of the shore. Outside the limits of where most people swam there were dangerous currents against which even the most experienced of swimmers were powerless. Once taken by one of these no one could get back without help. Adrienne often looked out towards that little boat, anchored there so far from the shore.

She seemed thoughtful, as if weighing up something in her mind …

O
N THE SECOND SATURDAY IN JULY
, Riccardo Lobetti, the gondolier, who had hardly ever opened his mouth when he was with them as if he knew and understood that they wanted to be alone with their love, suddenly made them a proposition, volubly and excitedly crying: ‘
Domani
sera,
la festa
del
Redentore.
Una
bellissima festa.
Magnifica
!
Aaah
…
magnifica
…’

The great feast of the Redeemer, the most famous of the
Venetian
Carnivals, was to take place the following evening. Riccardo wanted them to see it from his gondola.

‘
Bisogna
vederla!
Bisogna
vederla!
Gran’ festa!
– You must see it, it’s a great festival’ he said, waving his hands in the air to emphasize what an important occasion this was. They accepted at once.

About ten o’clock Riccardo arrived at the Palazzo Dandolo, where he picked up Adrienne and rowed her to the Piazzetta where Balint was waiting. Lobetti, who normally wore a grey linen garment, none too clean and much worn, was now clad in all his finery; a bright red silk shirt, white and yellow striped
cotton
trousers, and round his waist a magnificent broad green
cummerbund
with golden tassels. He was resplendent, and his gondola was the same. In the place of the canvas-covered cabin he had constructed a great sea-shell of basket-work covered all over with flowers, and flowers also decorated the length of the gunwales right up to the high curved prow from whose top hung a lighted oil-lamp.

‘
Per
la
donna
– for the lady!’ repeated Lobetti several times, bowing deeply when they congratulated him. They moved off slowly towards the Giudecca.

There were some lights visible in the distance, but the moment that they had rounded the point of the Dogana they were greeted by a marvellous and unexpected sight.

The great stretch of water, three hundred yards across,
between
the Zattere and the three islands of the Giudecca, was spanned by a temporary bridge festooned with electrical bulbs in the form of arches and pillars of fire. On one side the great
Palladian
church of the Redentore was a blaze of light and everywhere there were boats, thousands of them, covering the water as far as they could see. The state barges of the old patrician families had been brought out; every gondola in Venice seemed to be there and all were covered with flowers glowing in the light of baroque lanterns. Here also were the long barges normally used for
transporting
seaweed or wood or reeds across lagoons, the broad
market
boats that supplied the markets all through the week, little
sandali
and other rowing boats, all packed with people in festive clothes. Everyone mingled together, the richest beside the
poorest
, the lavish beside the meagre. One thing they had in common: all were decorated and everywhere people were laughing and happy. Some of the smaller craft, like Riccardo’s gondola, carried a bower of flowers, while the large barges had tables laid with food and drink and were peopled with handsome young men and pretty girls. The boys played guitars and mouth-organs and
caressed
the girls, who in their turn laughed and sang and giggled and kissed the boys and hid their faces in their brightly coloured shawls, those
scialli
which were an essential part of Venice’s
traditional
costume. Every boat was packed with as many people as could crowd aboard and everywhere was laughter and happiness.

In the centre of this vast crowd of boats was the largest of them all, the ‘Serenata’, which rose in the water high above all the others and was hung with delicate paper lanterns. On board all the singers were in theatrical costume and on the deck Balint and Adrienne could just see the faces of Harlequin and Columbine dancing a pantomime, though they could not get close enough to make out what the others were doing.

Behind them many other gondolas were being rowed as swiftly as their gondoliers were able, everyone wanting to be right at the heart of this great concourse of boats. In front of them there were so many craft that Balint and Adrienne could not see the surface of the water and, looking back to the Dogana, they saw that it was now the same behind them as well. It was a world of boats, nothing but boats, stretching across the waters as if the world were made of nothing else.

Then, from behind the gleaming temporary bridge, the
fireworks
began.

To Balint and Adrienne this was almost more dreamlike and unreal than had been their solitary excursions across the lagoon each evening. In the sky the myriad stars of exploding flame made the night sky seem even darker and more remote and, though the spectators were nearly blinded by the brightness of these lightning flashes of brilliance, to those standing behind, everyone in front of them became mere shadows, dark silhouettes rather than real living people. So it happened that for Balint and Adrienne, though they were surrounded by life and light and noise and the whole pulsating festive crown, it was still as if they alone existed and were real.

It was their last carefree evening together.

 

The next morning, as on every other of their stay on the Lido, the younger Miloth girls went swimming while Mlle Morin
remained
in the shade of the beach cabin.

A little later, Margit, who was coming in from a long swim, heard shouting, not as might be expected from the shore but farther out to sea. She put her feet to the ground and stood up. She could not see much as the sea came up to her shoulders. All she could make out was that the noise came from the loud-hailer on the guard-boat. Margit realized at once that someone must be in
difficulties
as the guard-boat was no longer at anchor and stationary, but was being rowed frenziedly out to sea by the two guards.

Margit looked around, her eyes searching for Judith, who should have been close behind her: she was nowhere to be seen.

Instinctively, she knew the alarm was for her sister, who must have swum too far out to sea, to the undertow and the fatal
offshore
currents. From where she was standing on tiptoe, the sea coming up to her shoulders, all Margit could see was a tiny speck that from time appeared above the waves. She was certain it was Judith and at once struck out as fast as she could towards that little speck, her strong young arms cutting the water in a powerful crawl. She thought of nothing but how to save Judith and, as her head was half under water, she head nothing more of the
commotion
on the beach and did not see that a motor-launch was being hurriedly pushed out into the shallow water.

Margit had to work hard to make headway against the waves. Water splashed over her but she battled on, using all her strength so as to get there as quickly as possible. She never heard the launch race past her and it was already returning to shore when she suddenly found herself being hauled on board. It was just in time, for she was now so tired that she too was at breaking point and had to be lifted out of the water by the strong arms of the beach guards.

Judith was lying like a corpse in the middle of the boat. Margit crouched by her, panting. At this moment the ambulance boat
arrived
alongside and Judith was lifted into it. Artificial respiration was started at once as the hospital launch sped towards the shore.

Judith was still not breathing when she was carried onto the beach. They laid her down and once again tried to pump life into her unconscious body.

At this moment Adrienne arrived on the beach. Seeing the
tumult
and confusion in front of the hotel beach cabins she asked someone what had happened.

‘
Una
donna
ungherese
e
morta!
’
was the reply.

She thought of Judith immediately and ran towards the crowd, pushing people aside in urgent haste.

There, on the golden sand, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers eager to gaze at the detail of disaster, lay Judith, quite naked, for her swimming costume had been ripped off her, her little
girlish
breasts bare to the sky, her ribs and pelvis bones pathetically outlined through the naked flesh of her young body. Three burly life-guards were still desperately trying to bring her back to life.

Just as Adrienne got near, Judith opened her eyes; but in them there was no expression, no sign that she knew where she was or what had happened to her. Then she closed them again, but
already
her breathing was regular and so the guards flung a wrap over her, put her on a stretcher and carried her to the hotel. There Judith fell into a deep sleep.

Young Margit too was still a little confused and had to be helped to her room. Though she protested vigorously, her legs would not carry her and she had unwillingly to agree. Mlle Morin, who, at the sight of Judith’s unconscious form, had cried: ‘
Oh,
mon
dieu!
Oh,
cette
pauvre
enfant!
’
and collapsed in a faint to the ground, was picked up by the largest of the beach guards, thrown across his hefty shoulders like some broken old doll, and carried upstairs.

Margit was soon herself again. After lunch she started to search among Judith’s things and found hidden in her underclothes a bulky envelope which, she could tell from the postmark, had been forwarded from Mezo-Varjas and must have arrived the previous day. In the envelope was a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon and with it a letter in an unknown hand which read: