Chapter 63
Hotel Proserpina
The Midnight Train had arrived beside the Grand Canal in Venice.
The Ghost looked around him.
He saw gondolas on the water, and tourists and pigeons on the ground.
A water taxi was heading to shore.
Behind him he saw a ramshackle terracotta-fronted hotel. Above the door was a hand-painted, elegantly lettered navy and white sign: Hotel Proserpina.
So here he was.
Friday 9 August 1974.
He looked back at the canal. Of course, the couple in the back of the water taxi were himself and Maggie.
It was the day he had been most truly himself, which was why he looked exactly like he did as a ghost. And even his first ever experience of air travel hadn’t dented his smile.
His expression was one of wild wonder and curiosity. And it was no surprise.
Maggie had an expression of wonder too as she stepped out of the water taxi, the heavy Pentax camera hanging around her neck.
For both of them, this was the furthest away from home they’d ever been. Wilbur had never even been to London. Arriving in Venice was like arriving on another planet.
‘Oh, bloody hell, it’s amazing,’ said Maggie.
Wilbur agreed. ‘It looks better than in the brochure.’
And the Ghost followed them as they walked under the chandeliers of the Proserpina’s narrow lobby, passing old paintings and bookcases and marvelling at a vase bursting full of white roses.
Maggie gave Wilbur a look. The look said I like this place.
Oh, thought the Ghost, studying himself as he squeezed Maggie’s hand. A thought that was as close to a sigh as a thought can be. I miss you, Maggie.
Seeing them, the receptionist rushed out from behind her desk with an eager smile.
‘Benvenuti! Ciao! Hello! Is it Mr and Mrs Budd?’
Mr and Mrs Budd.
‘It is,’ said Maggie. ‘Since last Saturday!’
‘Ahh. Congratulations! I am Gabriella. Pleased to meet you. And this is your first time in Venice?’
‘Yes, it is,’ they said in unison.
‘My first time anywhere,’ added the Ghost.
Gabriella smiled. ‘Have you got things you want to do? Doge’s Palace? St Mark’s? A gondola? Art?’
‘Oh, all of that,’ Wilbur said. ‘Maggie – my wife – has made an itinerary.’
Gabriella was admiring the camera. Maggie explained it was a wedding present from her dad.
‘Along with the salt and pepper shakers. Don’t forget the salt and pepper shakers.’ Wilbur turned back to Gabriella. ‘But any recommendations would be welcome.’
‘Actually, yes,’ said Maggie. ‘We don’t have anywhere to eat tonight. Would you be able to suggest somewhere?’
Gabriella nodded, with the accentuated concern of someone who was committed to her job. ‘Yes, of course. There is a lovely little place that we recommend called La Zucca. Beautiful food.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
Back then, in 1974, Wilbur and Maggie had only ever eaten Italian food when they went to Mama’s Restaurant in the centre of Sheffield. And then it had only been pizza or spaghetti. When it came to the world, they were still novices.
It was so strange, the past. How close and distant it was at the same time. How the familiar was exotic and the exotic was familiar. And how the hardest thing to remember about the old was the sense of the new.
‘I will reserve it for you,’ said Gabriella. ‘Tonight at eight.’
And as they headed over to the desk with Gabriella to check in, Wilbur took a quick look behind him. Maybe he was having another look at the flowers. Or maybe he was sensing the Ghost.
The Ghost that was standing looking back at him, not with nostalgia now, but a sense of emerging anger.
‘You really didn’t realise what you had,’ he said.
But Wilbur heard nothing, and turned back to the reception desk without a second thought.