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“Oh, yes!” She looked at him with wide brown eyes. “He seemed to be doing so well.”
“You saw him?”
“No, I didn’t. But Rolf did. He said he was a lot better. He couldn’t move much, but he was sitting up and talking, and said he felt much better.”
“Well enough to think of returning home?”
“Oh!” She dragged out the syllable with understanding. “You think Rolf was there to persuade him, and Gisela overheard it and thought Friedrich would go? I’m quite certain you are wrong.” She leaned back a little against the railing. It was a gently provocative pose showing the curves of her body. “No one who knew them really thought he would go without her.” The laughter died and there was a faintly wistful look in her face. “People who love like that cannot ever be parted. He wouldn’t have survived without her, nor she without him.” She was half profile to Monk. He could see her delicate nose, a little turned up, and the shadow of her lashes on the smoothness of her cheek. She stared over the hubbub of noise from scores of people chattering, the music of violins and woodwind instruments.
“I remember when one of Giuseppe Verdi’s new operas was performed at the Fenice here,” she said with a rueful smile. “It was about politics in Genoa. The scenery was all rather like this. Lots of water. That was ten years ago.” She shrugged. “Of course, the theater is closed now. I don’t suppose you have noticed it yet, but there are no carnivals anymore, and Venetian aristocracy has all moved to the mainland. They don’t attend the official parties the Austrian government gives. I don’t know whether that’s because they hate the Austrians so much or because they are afraid of nationalist reprisals if they do.”
“Nationalist reprisals?” he said curiously, still watching the light on her face. “You mean there is a nationalist movement here so strong they would actually victimize people who openly accept the occupation?”
“Oh, yes!” She shook her head in a gesture of resignation. “Of course, it doesn’t matter to us, who are expatriates anyway, but to the Venetians it’s terribly important. Marshal Radetzky, he’s the governor, said
that he would give balls and masques and dinners, and if the ladies would not come, then his officers would waltz with each other.” She gave a rueful little laugh and glanced at him quickly, then away again. “When the Austrian royal family came here, they went in procession down the Grand Canal, and no one even came to the windows or balconies to look! Can you imagine that?”
He tried, visualizing the sadness, the oppression and resentment, the dignified, rather pathetic figures of the royalty in exile keeping up their pretense of ceremony, and the real royalty, carrying all its power of empire, sailing down those glittering waters in silence as they were totally ignored. And all the while the real Venetians busy elsewhere, planning and fighting and dreaming. No wonder the city had an air of desolation unlike any other.
But he was here to learn about Friedrich and Gisela, and why Zorah had made her charge. He was standing very close to Evelyn. He could feel the warmth of her body. Her soft hair was faintly tickling his face, and the perfume of her seemed to be everywhere. The noise and the glitter swirled around him, but he was islanded alone with her in the shadows. It was hard to focus his attention back to the issue.
“You were going to tell me something about Friedrich,” he prompted her.
“Oh, yes!” she agreed, glancing at him for a moment. “It was the opera. Gisela wanted to go. It was to be a special performance. All sorts of old Venetian nobility were to be there. As it turned out, they were not. It wasn’t really a success. Poor Verdi! Gisela was determined, and Friedrich refused. He felt he owed it to some Venetian prince or other not to go, because of the Austrian occupation. After all, Venice was his home after so many years here. A sort of loyalty, I suppose.”
“But Gisela didn’t care?” he questioned.
“She wasn’t very political …”
Or very loyal either, he thought, or grateful to a people who had made her welcome. It was suddenly an ugly tone in a picture up to then in totally romantic colors. But he did not interrupt.
From the ballroom the music floated up to them, and a woman’s sudden laughter. He glimpsed Klaus in conversation with a white-bearded man in military uniform.
“She dressed in a new gown,” Evelyn went on. “I remember because it was one of the best I had ever seen, even on her. It was the shade of crushed mulberries, with gold braid and beaded embroidery, and the skirt was absolutely enormous. She was always slender, and she walked with her head very high. She wore a gold ornament in her hair, and a necklace with amethysts and pearls.”
“And Friedrich didn’t go? Who escorted her?” he asked, trying to picture it but seeing in his mind’s eye only Evelyn.
“Yes, he did go,” she said quickly. “That is, she went with Count Baldassare, but they had barely sat down when Friedrich arrived. To anyone else it could have looked merely as if he was late. It was only by chance I knew the truth. I don’t think Friedrich even knew what the opera was about. He couldn’t have told you whether the soprano was dark or fair. He watched Gisela all night.”
“And she was pleased to have won?” He tried to understand whether it had been a battle of wills, a jealousy, or simply a domestic tiff. And why had Evelyn elected to tell him this?
“She didn’t seem so. And yet I know perfectly well she had no interest in Count Baldassare, nor he in her. He was merely being courteous.”
“He was one of the Venetian aristocracy who remained?” he assumed.
“No. Actually, he’s gone too now.” She sounded curious and surprised. “The fight for independence has cost a lot of people far more than I used to think. Count Baldassare’s son was killed by the Austrians. His wife has become an invalid. She lost a brother too, I think. He died in prison.” She looked rueful and puzzled. “I’m not sure how much it is all worth. The Austrians aren’t bad, you know. They are very efficient, and they are one of the few governments in Europe who are not corrupt. At least that is what Florent says, and he’s half Venetian, so he wouldn’t say it if it were not true. He loathes them.”
Monk did not reply. He was thinking of Gisela. She was an unclear picture in his mind. He had never seen her face. He had been told she was not beautiful, but his vision always saw her with wide eyes and a turbulent, passionate kind of loveliness. Evelyn had marred it with the story of the opera. It was a very slight thing, only an ungraciousness in insisting on attending a function her husband had considered dishonor to their hosts, a form of ingratitude he had forbidden, and she had defied him for the pleasure of an evening’s entertainment.
But in the end Friedrich had gone too, rather than endure her displeasure. Monk did not admire that either.
Evelyn held out her hand, smiling again.
He took it immediately; it was warm and delicately boned, almost like a child’s.
“Come,” she urged. “May I call you William? Such a very proper English name. I adore it. It suits you perfectly. You look so dark and brooding, and you behave with such gravity, you are quite delightful.” He felt himself blush, but it was with pleasure. “I shall make it my task to teach you to unbend a little and enjoy yourself like a Venetian,” she went on happily. “Do you dance? I don’t care whether you do or not. If you don’t, then I shall teach you. First you must have some wine.” She started to lead him towards the steps down into the ballroom again. “It will warm your stomach and your heart … then you will forget London and think only of me!”
Her effort was unnecessary; he was already thinking only of her anyway.
