Chapter 3
3
Natalie leant on the deep stone balustrade of the Rialto Bridge. She was back, in the heart of Venice. It was early in the morning but the Grand Canal was very much alive. A barge delivering fruit and vegetables was heading towards her, three mahogany-brown Venetians, sleeves rolled up, standing amongst the crates and pallets. A private taxi sped under the bridge, a woman in a greige, linen suit sitting amongst her piles of luggage, hair blowing in the breeze.
Last night, Natalie had arrived by waterbus, gliding slowly through the dark lagoon. She hadn’t come that way on their school trip, had vague memoires of being herded onto a two-storey coach, PVC seats and a strong aroma of cheese and onion crisps. She would have been too excited and giggly to remember much of the journey anyway, singing along to Britney Spears’ ‘Baby One More Time’, one earphone bud of her Sony Walkman clamped in her ear, one in Cathy’s. But she did remember that first glimpse of the Grand Canal all those years ago.
Today, it had barely changed. Grand palazzi stood on either side, the soft pink, yellow and white buildings making a pretty contrast to the pale-green water. Natalie tried to pick out the different styles she’d swotted up on: the elegant Istrian stone arches and pointed windows of the Gothic period, the later baroque buildings festooned with swags and cherubs, as elaborate as a wedding cake envisaged by the most demanding bridezilla. Not that she knew anything about wedding cakes. She was never going to get married. How could anyone promise life-long commitment? People changed.
The next day, she was meeting Lucia, the Italian fixer, before the rest of the film crew arrived. The team wasn’t just going to film around St Mark’s Square, The Bridge of Sighs and all the well-known sights. Viewers of Luxe Life Swap would want to experience another side of the city: the secret places and hidden gems born and bred Venetians like the count and his wife would know about. The places where they shopped, ate, worked and played. Grand and intimate, fancy and simple, light and dark: the programme would showcase every facet of the unique floating city. It was going to be a heck of a challenge getting the camera equipment around Venice; she was glad the organisation fell to someone else.
But now Natalie had a whole day to wander the city they called La Serenissima – the serene one – and get a feel of the place, thanks to Mandy’s insistence that settling-in time was always built into her presenting schedule. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from the ever-changing scene. There was a lot of Venice to see; she couldn’t lean on the bridge all morning.
She took a side street by the vaporetto station past stands of souvenirs to a campo overlooked by two large churches. Strains of opera – singers rehearsing, perhaps – came from one; a poster outside advertised a forthcoming concert. Checking her map, she followed the route to the foot of a low bridge, stepping to one side to let a man clatter his trolley down the steps. A gondola drifted silently by, the gondolier ducking low under the bridge and replacing his be-ribboned boater as he emerged on the other side.
A yellow sign high on the wall pointed the way to the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo. It led her to a narrow alleyway between two high brick walls. A prickly sensation crept down her spine. It felt as though the breath had been sucked from her chest. Don’t be ridiculous, Nat. It was broad daylight. She had to get a grip; she would never survive the filming if she let the fears of the past rush in.
She hurried down the calle into the courtyard where the palazzo stood. The distinctive red brick and white stone building with its external spiral staircase was perfect: just the unexpected, quirky place the viewers would love. She’d get Phil and Cate to climb the eighty-odd stairs to the top; they’d get great shots of them oohing and aahing at the views across the terracotta rooftops as Natalie asked a few questions on camera. She made a mental note to wear her peacock-blue dress that morning, leaving her chestnut hair loose to flow in whatever breeze there might be at the top.
Natalie would need to consult with Cate – when they finally met – to go through the outfits they’d be wearing each day to make sure they worked well against the various backdrops. Luxe Life Swap peddled a fantasy; beautiful clothes were an integral part of the whole viewer experience. She pulled out her phone and sent Bettany a reminder to send over the contestants’ photographs and CVs; it was the one file Flo’s PA had omitted in the rush to bring Natalie up to date.
Leaving the spiral staircase behind, she negotiated a maze of streets until she reached the entrance to La Fenice, the grand opera house where the contestants would get to enjoy a performance of La Traviata . Natalie caught her breath. The sweeping steps, soaring pillars and blue silk curtains were going to look fabulous on camera. She thought of introducing herself to the man on the desk and taking a look inside, but exactly where Cate and Phil would sit and how the camera angles would work didn’t fall within her remit. Besides, she wanted to head to St Mark’s Square to refresh her memory of the grand basilica and the Doge’s Palace. But first, she had a parcel to deliver.
She undid the catch on her tan shoulder bag, one of the three she’d packed in order to ring the changes on screen, her fingers searching for the small, padded envelope Floella had entrusted to her. Of course, it was still there. There was no rational reason for it not to be but she was so nervous of losing the precious watch parts, she’d checked she was carrying the package umpteen times. She’d be glad to drop it off at Eraldo’s premises and be shot of it.
She consulted the email Floella had sent her: Eraldo’s workshop could be found on the upper floor of a souvenir shop opposite an artisan perfumery in the Dorsoduro, a quiet area of the city on the other side of the Grand Canal. She’d assumed she’d need to cross a bridge but Flo’s directions led her to a wooden platform where people were boarding a large gondola. It was lacquered plain black without the leather seats and fancy trims of the smaller, more elegant versions she’d spotted from the Rialto Bridge.
Natalie rummaged for some change; a roughened hand helped her aboard. The sway beneath her feet almost pitched her into an elderly woman’s lap, erasing any thought she had of copying the smartly dressed Venetians who stood up for the crossing. She perched on the wooden ledge; the craft tilted as others stepped aboard. Two oarsmen conveyed them across the canal with the minimum of fuss. She stepped off on the far bank, the paving beneath her feet strangely wobbly. It took her a few moments to feel normal again.
She followed a shop-lined calle , walked over a bridge and crossed through a courtyard arriving on a quiet fondamenta . The sweet aroma of vanilla and orange wafting from the perfumery confirmed she was in the right place. On the other side of a small humpback bridge, a round metal sign, shaped like a clock face high up on the wall advertised watch repairs. But below Eraldo’s premises, the windows at street level weren’t full of the Murano glass and marbled paper Natalie was expecting. Row upon row of Venetian masks stared out at her.
For a moment, she was propelled back in time: sixteen teenage girls creating mayhem in an explosion of papier maché, feathers, sequins and glue, the teachers wishing they’d had the sense to choose a pasta-making workshop or a sketching class for the hands-on creative component some bright spark in the staffroom had decided to weave into their school trip.
She rested a hand on the bridge’s balustrade to steady herself, forced herself to cross to the other side.
‘May I help?’ The voice came from the mask maker’s doorway. A man standing in the entrance peered at her over half-moon glasses; his white hair and brown apron reminded her of a story-book drawing of Pinocchio’s wood-carver father. He gestured to a diamond-pattern mask in royal blue and white. ‘In the window, you can see mainly the carnival masks, such as the harlequin, but we have many more masks inside. Or perhaps you are here for a watch repair? It is through the shop up the stairs.’
She stood, feet rooted to the pavement. Maybe if she flattered this man a little, he would fetch Eraldo down from his workshop to meet her in the street so that she did not have to step inside.
She nodded towards the window. ‘The masks are beautiful. Do you make them yourself?’
‘Of course.’ He spread his paint-stained hands. ‘All my life… well, as long as I can remember. Come in, come in.’
She took a step back. ‘I am looking for Eraldo, the watch restorer. I have a parcel for him, from London.’
‘You are Floella? You are not how I imagined you.’
‘No, I’m Natalie her, umm, friend.’ She undid the catch on her bag.
‘I am Pietro, piacere , pleased to meet you! Come in.’
Natalie hesitated. Pietro’s eyes were kind, his welcome genuine; how could she tell him the very thought of walking into his shop was making her sweat?
Keeping her eyes focused straight ahead, she allowed him to lead her past a workbench piled with half-made masks, jars of brushes and pots of glitter and paint to the foot of a spiral staircase.
‘Eraldo! A visitor! A friend of Floella’s.’
A voice came from the floor above. ‘ Avanti ! Come up!’
Her eyes fell on a set of white bauta masks fixed high on the wall, eyes empty hollows. She hurried up the stairs.
Eraldo was bending over a wooden bench; a tangle of dark, curly hair concealed his face. He looked up at her approach, laid down his microscope and put on a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell frames. Treacle-dark eyes met hers, flooding her body with a warm feeling that had nothing to do with her hasty ascent of the spiral stairs.
‘You must be Natalie.’ His rich accent turned her everyday name into something sensuous.
‘Yes, I am Natalie.’
He stood looking at her expectantly. ‘You have something for me? From Floella?’
‘Oh, of course!’ She’d almost forgotten why she’d come. What an idiot she must look, standing there gawping at him.
‘Please do sit down, it is not so comfortable but…’ He gestured to a simple ladder-back chair on the other side of his workbench.
She sat down, taking in the cluttered workbench, the half-open wooden drawers, the overflowing cardboard boxes. ‘What are you repairing?’
He turned a bracelet over in his hand. ‘A secret watch. The face of the watch is concealed until the lady – for these are usually designed for ladies – chooses to reveal it. This type of watch has fascinated me since I was a young boy. They originated when it was considered rude for a woman to consult the time in public, revealing she might be bored. I love the idea of this little secret between the watchmaker and his customer.’ He smiled. Behind his glasses, his eyes were shining. ‘These watches are rather an obsession for me. Perhaps that is odd, but we all have our passions.’
Natalie smiled back. Did she have a passion? She hadn’t really thought about it. She resisted the urge to reach out and remove a small, white thread clinging to his dove-grey shirt, instead retrieving Floella’s envelope from her shoulder bag. Eraldo took it from her, carefully prizing off the sticky tape.
‘ Grazie ! Ruby friction jewels, winders and tourbillons – and what other parts, I can only guess! But I will look through all this later; if I start now, you will not get a word of sense out of me.’
‘Well, I will leave you to your work.’ Natalie reluctantly made to get up.
‘Please, do not go yet. I cannot believe I have not yet offered you a cold drink after you are so kind to bring this to me. It is such a warm day, especially up here. I would have a ceiling fan but I cannot risk having tiny springs and collets being blown all over the room.’
‘Thank you. I would like that very much.’ The glories of St Mark’s Square could wait a little longer.
‘I have a small fridge in the back; is lemon iced tea okay? Or perhaps mineral water?’
‘The iced tea would be nice, thank you.’
‘Please make yourself comfortable on that old couch in the corner.’
Natalie moved a paint-stained apron and a folded-up copy of La Repubblica onto a low coffee table and sank down onto a three-seater settee tucked against the far wall. She nudged a cushion out of the way, her fingers making contact with something beneath it. Her hand wrapped around an ivory-coloured, empty-eyed mask, its long, curved nose shaped like a parrot’s beak. She leapt from her seat, letting out a scream before she could stop herself.
Eraldo dropped the two glasses onto the coffee table, brown liquid sloshing over the sides. ‘Natalie, what is it? Are you all right?’
‘It’s that… thing. That mask, it was under the cushion. It gave me quite a fright.’ How silly she must seem. She sat back down gingerly.
He dried off the bottom of one of the glasses with the edge of the blue apron and handed it to her. ‘That is the mask of the Plague doctor; it is rather sinister. Do you know the history of these things? Originally, the beak was stuffed with medicinal herbs to protect the wearer against the noxious fumes of the Plague but it must have been very frightening when a man turned up at your door cloaked and masked like that.’ Eraldo took the offending object from the couch, positioning it halfway down the table.
Natalie shifted slightly so that the hideous mask was no longer in her line of sight.
‘Tell me how you know Flo,’ she said. Anything to change the subject.
‘Ah, Floella.’ His face broke into a smile.
She sipped her drink, trying to concentrate on what he was telling her, but she could only process a fraction of what he was saying. He’d met Flo on a design course at London’s Goldsmiths College. They’d both been involved in an amateur dramatics performance – Floella in a starring role of course – but what the show was called or what part Flo had played went straight over her head. Whilst reaching for the iced tea, Eraldo had inadvertently knocked the mask further towards her. Despite the cold drink, her face was hot, sweat running down her neck. The memories were closing in.
‘I’m sorry… I can’t…’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I can’t stay.’
‘Natalie?’
She bolted for the spiral staircase, clattering down the metal rungs, her bag banging against her side. ‘Thank you for the drink,’ she shouted upwards, half-tripping over the last step.
The mask maker looked up from his cash desk. ‘ Che c’è ? What’s happening?’
She blundered through the shop, past a woman holding a harlequin mask to her face, past a table piled high with cat-featured Gnaga masks, out onto the street.
She took the steps up and over the bridge two at a time.