Chapter 67
Titian
Maggie had always loved art. Her inspirations were the great living artists, but she had a thing for the Renaissance. At thirteen in the library she had found a book called The Lives of the Artists.
In that tome she had learned that Leonardo da Vinci had designed parachutes and diving suits, that Michelangelo never had a bath, and that Caravaggio killed a man over a game of tennis.
In the book there had been a print of Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne and she had been so mesmerised by its colours and composition it affected her breathing and made her skin prickle.
Her dad had told her that art was for posh people, but she liked how she felt staring at art and wanted more of it. More of that feeling.
‘Just standing in front of big old paintings calms me down,’ she told Wilbur now, as they were about to enter the medieval church. ‘That’s why I used to go to the National Gallery, back when I was miserable in London. It’s the closest thing to time travel.’
‘How?’
‘Well, you stand in front of a Leonardo from, I don’t know, 1498, and it’s powerful because the painting is as it was then.
The emotions and feelings of it are fresh.
It hasn’t gone off. It is 1498 right there in front of you.
The world grows old around art. But the art is still as powerful and fresh as it always was … if that makes any sense …’
The Ghost was right behind them as they entered the church. They found the painting of St John and stared up at it.
‘It’s a bit spooky,’ said Wilbur.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s spooky about it?’
‘It’s a dark painting, in a sombre and empty church, by someone who died four hundred years ago.’
‘Of the plague.’
‘What?’
‘Titian. Poor lad died of the plague. Then his son died of the plague.’
‘This isn’t making it less spooky.’
‘There was a lot of plague back then. In Venice.’
She smiled, consoled by awe.
Wilbur turned away from the bald saint in the painting. Looked around, as if someone was standing there. But he couldn’t see anyone. He thought of the hallucination he’d had in the heat, on the Rialto Bridge. The doppelganger. The words in his ear. The sound of a train.
He’d read Daphne du Maurier’s and Thomas Mann’s stories set in Venice, and knew it was a city that could conjure darkness. A city of labyrinths.
Yes, he told himself, it must have been hallucinations.
But if so, the doppelganger was one he’d seen before, now he thought about it.
He remembered tripping with Charlie and seeing him there in his flat.
He remembered voices in his ear too. Not Venice, but Sheffield.
And as far as he knew, Daphne du Maurier had never written a story set in Sheffield.
He looked at his watch. ‘Mags, I think we should probably get back to the hotel …’
‘All right, love. Are you okay?’
‘It’s just that we don’t want to be in a rush for the meal.’
‘No. You’re right.’
He felt bad taking her away from her favourite painter, but at the same time he wanted to get out of the church and into the light because his unease was growing.
So the honeymooners walked out of the church and the Ghost went to follow.
They wove a different way back to the hotel, through the labyrinthine streets, crossing little bridges and turning down ever-narrower paths.
Maggie read out the name of a street sign. ‘Calle … dei … Stagneri … o de la Fava.’
‘That was a mouthful.’
‘A very wide name for a very narrow street.’
They held hands.
The Ghost watched as he walked behind. How he missed that. Being able to just hold her hand. Back then he hardly even thought about it.
They came to a small bookshop with a table full of Italian paperbacks nearly blocking the path. A youngish man – about his own age – was inside the shop, casually reading a magazine as he sat behind the till.
Wilbur tutted when they’d passed. ‘Well, he’s not going to get much business lazing around like that, is he?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to get much business.’
They walked further along the street in silence until Wilbur stopped, quite dramatically, to announce something.
‘I’m going to do it.’
Maggie gave him a curious look. ‘Do what?’
‘I’m going to ask Geoffrey Baxter for the loan.’
‘Who’s Geoffrey Baxter?’
‘Manager at the Yorkshire Bank. The one I’ve got an appointment with a week Tuesday.
Good bloke. No nonsense. I’m going to go for the loan.
For the second shop. He’s already offered a lot of money.
I’m going to do it, Maggie. I’m going to phone him the day we get back and tell him I want to accept. ’
He smiled broadly. It was a genuine smile with just a dash of uncertainty.
Maggie’s face was expressionless for a little moment. ‘It’s a big undertaking.’
‘It’s a big opportunity. The opportunity of a lifetime, in fact.’
‘Aye, it is. It is.’ She seemed to be repeating herself in order to believe it. ‘If it’s what you really want to do …’
He detected her concern. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I mean, you were just talking about moving to Venice.’
‘That was just a joke, Maggie. A flight of fancy.’
‘I know. I know it was, love. I just, well, I just don’t want it to take us away from each other.’
‘It won’t.’
The Ghost sighed. ‘You are a fool and a liar, Wilbur.’
‘If anything,’ Wilbur went on, ‘it’ll be the opposite. At the moment, I’m working long hours at Bagdale’s. If I accept this offer, we’ll have financial resources.’
‘Financial resources,’ echoed the Ghost. ‘Such a romantic phrase for your honeymoon.’
Wilbur looked around as if he had heard this mockery. But then he turned back to Maggie.
‘We’ll be able to grow, and hire more staff …
and become a proper operation across two shops …
Set up a template and let the shops run themselves …
The same principle … Books for everyone …
Children’s section … More fiction than non- …
White walls and big lights … Seats for people to sit and read …
I can give a blueprint to other managers … I will end up doing less …’
The Ghost was confused for a moment. Did I sincerely believe that?
‘Look, Maggie, most of my life I was poor. My entire childhood I was poor. I had holes in my shoes and I was hungry and I saw my mam counting out farthings on the kitchen table to pay Mr Parkin the rent … If I go for this, it means we’ll never have to have those worries.’
The Ghost was despairing by this point. ‘Jesus, Wilbur. You’re running the most successful bookshop in the country. You’re paying off your own house. This is not a Mr Parkin situation.’
Wilbur stared towards where his ghost was, squinting a little. Had he heard him? It was hard to tell.
‘Well,’ said Maggie, with a doubtful tone Wilbur wasn’t choosing to hear, ‘if you think it’s the right thing, then you have to do it.’
They walked back to the hotel to get ready for the evening. Behind them was a ghost, and in front of them was a future about to change.