Chapter 11 #3
Beth giggled and Marco looked down at her. His face softened again as though the mask of professionalism had fallen away for a moment. They continued on, discussing artists old and new, the architecture of the city and the places Beth had and hadn’t been.
They’d already been walking for ten minutes, when they turned down a cobbled street and over a bridge till they came to the artists’ quarter.
The buildings surrounded them on all sides, so close together it looked like you could lean from the window of one house and shake hands with someone on the opposite side of the street.
They walked down winding calle until Marco stopped in front of a dark red house.
The door and windows were flung wide open despite the chill of the day, and the tinny sounds of a radio blasted out.
Beth glanced at him, and he signalled for her to go first. She knocked on the open door that was splattered in paint and stepped over the threshold.
‘Signor Zambelli? Signor Zambelli?’ She glanced behind her and with Marco’s nod of encouragement, made her way further inside.
The hallway was dark, and she passed a small living room heading towards the back of the house.
Through an open doorway she could see a light airy kitchen and as she stepped further forwards, she called his name one more time.
‘Sì?’ He appeared in the doorway in a giant paint-smattered smock like a painter from the Middle Ages would have worn.
He carried a loaded palette in one hand and a long-handled paintbrush in the other.
One was also stuck in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear.
‘Buongiorno!’ He smiled as he saw Marco behind her.
‘Marco, my friend! Come in, come in!’ He spoke in Italian as he ushered them forwards, waving the paintbrush enthusiastically.
Beth hoped she wasn’t about to get covered in paint. ‘And who is this?’
‘This,’ Marco said in English, ‘is the lady I told you about who is opening the book barge.’
That he hadn’t referred to her as a friend or even a colleague or business partner caught her attention, but she didn’t say anything. If anything, it simply reiterated she was right to be keeping her friend’s secret as she was nothing to Marco and he was nothing to her.
‘Ah, yes,’ Signor Zambelli said. ‘Shall I show you my work? Marco has told me all about the book barge. It sounds like an interesting place.’
‘It is. It has a lot of potential. We should be opening in time for Carnevale too. At least inside. I should be clear that the top deck will need some work still.’
‘I am grateful for all the opportunities to sell I can find,’ he replied with a grin. ‘But not everyone will be. We Venetians, we love our traditions.’
‘But everything must move forward,’ Marco added.
‘Exactly!’ Signor Zambelli burst out loudly, the paintbrush once more being waved about.
Beth felt a smattering of dampness on her cheek and wiped, hoping there weren’t now smears of acrylic paint on her face.
She tried to check her fingers for spots of colour as he ushered them inside.
She glanced at Marco to see who should go in first and found his hand gently reaching up.
‘There is a little—’ His fingertips almost touched her face, then he pulled back. ‘Just there.’ He pointed and Beth wiped, heat radiating through her veins.
‘Come and see my work,’ Signor Zambelli said, stepping aside so they could walk into the light and airy space.
The back of his house had been turned into a kitchen-cum-workshop.
At one end was a small kitchenette with a breakfast bar separating it from what would, under normal circumstances, have been a dining room, but was in fact his studio.
Paintings were lined up against the wall and hung on every available surface.
An easel was set up with his current work in progress.
For all Signor Zambelli’s eccentricities, he was indeed a talented portrait artist. Beth noticed some sketches on the breakfast bar and found herself wandering towards them.
They were like something Leonardo da Vinci would have done: gentle, soft line drawings on what looked like parchment.
She had to resist tracing her fingers over the delicate pencil strokes, her appreciation for talent moving her.
‘These are beautiful,’ she said, turning to see Marco watching her, a strange look on his face. How long had he been doing that? Did he think she was silly for reacting to them in that way? As a fellow lover of art, she hoped not, but it was always difficult to tell with him.
‘You’re very talented, Signor Zambelli,’ she said, leaving the sketches and taking a step back towards him.
‘You like those?’ he said with a shrug, as if they were doodles he’d done in his spare time.
‘I do, very much. I don’t have much space at the moment, but if you had anything like this you wanted to sell, I could definitely see book lovers also being attracted to these.’
There weren’t just portraits of people but of animals too. He’d drawn some still life with charcoal shading.
‘You do not want my real art?’ he asked sadly, motioning to the easel where a huge portrait of a woman and her parrot sat half painted.
‘Umm …’ She looked at Marco for help, not wanting to upset him, but she couldn’t see fellow bookworms like her nipping into the floating bookshop for a new thriller and picking an enormous canvas of someone they’ve never met (and their parrot).
‘It’s a space issue,’ Marco replied.
‘But perhaps once I’ve got the upper deck sorted we could hold an exhibition of all your work,’ Beth added, feeling guilty at his downcast expression.
‘Yes!’ Marco added. ‘During the height of the tourist season. They may seek you out for commissions.’
Signor Zambelli’s eyes flicked between Marco and Beth for so long she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, then all of a sudden, a huge smile grew on his face. ‘Sì, sì! I like that idea! I will paint you, Signorina Beth. You are very beautiful. Isn’t she beautiful Marco?’
Marco’s face froze and Beth’s lungs seemed to spasm. A deep redness was just visible above the collar of his shirt, as he adjusted his scarf but didn’t actually answer.
Beth waited, both wanting his answer and wishing she was somewhere else.
Was it a particularly hard question? She didn’t think of herself as either pretty or un-pretty, really.
She’d always been content with her looks and though she knew her face could seem harsh when she was thinking or concentrating (she had the original resting bitch face) she felt like she’d been smiling a lot more recently, and she was certainly smiling now, or at least had been until Signor Zambelli threw a verbal hand grenade into the room.
The silence grew uncomfortable, and Beth felt a similar redness creeping into her own face. Her skin was prickling, and she could feel sweat forming under her arms.
Eventually, after what felt like a millennium, Marco muttered something in Italian.
Though fluent, it was harder to make out with his inarticulate murmuring and the ruffling of his coat as he reached up and scrunched the hair on the back of his head, but she thought it was something like: ‘Yes, she is very beautiful.’
He wouldn’t meet her eye so was obviously just being polite, and Beth felt like she’d been punched.
‘So,’ Marco said in English, overly loudly. ‘Do you want to pick say six small pieces for Beth? Is that enough, Beth?’
She nodded dumbly. She wasn’t even sure if she had room for six, but right now it was hard to focus on anything except his begrudgingly calling her beautiful and the way he’d clearly now rather be anywhere else than with her.
She’d find room for them all somehow. To be honest, she just wanted to get away too.
‘And commission will be ten per cent, yes? Standard gallery rate.’ Marco was looking between her and Signor Zambelli.
The businesslike, professional side of him back to the fore.
Again Beth nodded dumbly. She hadn’t had time to even think about commission rates, and supposed a standard gallery rate was fair.
‘Sì, sì.’ Signor Zambelli threw his hand out as he walked back to his easel and began painting. His patience for boring business things had run out and he began wielding his paintbrush, filling in the parrot’s feathers with expert skill.
Marco turned and smiled at Beth, the deal done, and she did her best to respond in a way that showed her genuine gratitude, though she worried her grin was strained. It felt strained, like her mouth just didn’t want to move into any kind of smile right now.
Together, they made their way out of the house and back into the chill February air.
‘That was a good result, yes?’ Marco asked, catching up with her as she marched along.
‘Yes, great. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded professional and clipped, and she began to overcompensate, feeling guilty.
The fact was, this was a great result, and it would help her earnings once the boat was open properly.
‘I couldn’t have done it without your help.
I really am grateful for the introductions. ’
‘And the negotiations,’ he added.
‘There wasn’t much negotiation,’ she replied, unable to stop herself.
‘Standard rate. We can negotiate next time when we know how sales have been.’
‘I suppose so.’
She began to slow her pace as her cheeks cooled in the air, the humiliation fading the further they got from Signor Zambelli’s workshop.
She turned to Marco, putting the mumbled compliment that he clearly didn’t mean behind her.
‘I better get back to the boat and see if Cesca needs me. And of course I need to find the bloody cat and take him home too.’
‘I think you secretly enjoy having him around.’
‘Maybe.’ She gave a teasing smile.
‘You don’t want a celebratory drink first?’
The request shocked her. She just couldn’t figure out how the two different sides of Marco existed or what made each one come out.
In that instant, she decided that if he was going to be so businesslike one minute and friendly the next, blowing hot and cold, the easiest thing to do was to remain super professional.
Especially as she was also hiding Cesca’s secret from him, which given the way her heart burst into life whenever he was near was only going to complicate matters further.
‘Maybe another time,’ she said and headed away. He didn’t move and as guilt threatened to prick at her, she called back, ‘Thanks again though. Let me know when the next appointment is and I’ll be there.’
It took every drop of self-control she had, but she didn’t look back again, and for some reason, an image of his handsome, shocked face remained burned into her eyeballs.