I stand on the prow of the black boat that traverses the Grand Canal to catch the full opulence and majesty of the white domes of the church in the bright sunlight. Such decoration, such grandeur. A funereal gondola passes us. I shiver and touch the blue ribbon that Blake has put in my hair. Here even decay and death are beautiful. Rotting houses stand next to glorious palaces.
Blake extends a strong arm down to me at the Piazza San Marco stop. He is dressed in a black denim shirt rolled up at the sleeves, blue jeans and lumberjack boots, and is head and shoulders taller than most of the locals. Devilishly sexy dark sunglasses do not allow me to see his eyes. I look up at him with that same sense of awe that he is with me. He helps me off the boat and keeps my hand as we walk up to the piazza.
I immediately fall in love with the regiments of arches that surround the impossibly splendid square. The great flocks of pigeons that roost in the stupendous roofs fly down to interact amiably with the tourists clutching guidebooks and cameras. They flutter around us and make me smile.
We stop for coffee. The waiter brings biscotti with our coffee. Blake pushes his sunglasses over his head, stretches his long legs out in front of him, and closing his eyes turns his face up to the sun. I dip a biscotti into my cappuccino. The dunked biscotti reminds me of the tide marks on the stained, crumbling walls.
‘The lagoon is eating the city alive,’ I say.
Blake looks at me. ‘It submits with pleasure to the tide. It’s a willing consummation. The way I have been crumbling into you from the first night I laid eyes on you.’
For a moment we are both lost in each other’s gaze. And then I simply can’t leave it; I whisper, ‘But what happens after the 42 days are up?’
A strange emotion crosses his eyes. Pain? Sorrow? ‘I don’t ever want to lie to you. The truth is I don’t know. There are powerful forces at play, predictable only in their ruthless ability to accumulate and re-create the world in their image. And I am part of that image.’
I frown. These riddles. What does he mean? ‘What forces?’
‘Forces that are unaccountable, unprincipled, and extremely dangerous. The less you know the safer you will be. I may never tell you about them. I take them on willingly for you, but I might lose. The only way you can help me is to keep your promise. No matter what you hear, see or whatever anyone tells you, do not forget your promise.’ Then his mouth stretches into a brilliant smile. And that smile takes my breath away. ‘Will you trust me that even if I lose, I will ensure that you will be taken care of for life?’
Money! I don’t want his money. I want to know what he knows. I want to have him, forever.
I let my gaze drop and he reaches forward and covers my hand with his. His hand radiates warmth. I turn my palm upwards and entwine my fingers with his. I realize that this is a moment of great import. I look up. I am looking into the eyes of a man who almost appears to be drowning and I am the straw that he has found to clutch onto. For the first time I realize that beneath the cold, aloof exterior there is so much, so much more depth. I smile suddenly.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘Let’s live as if all we have left are thirty-seven days. Let’s not waste a second.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he says, and standing up tugs my hand. ‘Come on,’ he urges. ‘To know Venice one must wander its narrow bridges and bewildering alleys on foot.’
We leave the winding alleys to stop for lunch in an old ostaira that apparently has been around since the nineteenth century. Blake and I both order the pasta in squid ink to start, followed by baked swordfish and polenta, which the waiter tells us are the house specialty. Pasta in squid ink is something I have never tried before, and I enjoy it very much, but the portions are very large and I leave nearly half of my main course behind.
Blake frowns. ‘Your appetite was better before. You have lost so much weight. Why?’
I shrug. ‘I’m sorry. The food is delicious, but I really can’t have any more.
‘He looks at me, his fork neatly laid at the four o’clock position on his plate, waiting for an explanation.
I glance down at my hands. They are clenched tight. ‘For weeks after what happened to Mum, I couldn’t eat at all. Every time I thought about food I saw that breakfast table again. It is almost as if my stomach has shrunk and I can only eat small amounts.’
‘What breakfast table?’
I unclench my hands and flex my fingers. I haven’t spoken to anyone, not even Billie, about that day when I opened the front door and even the walls were silently screaming for my mother. I look up.
‘I had an appointment with the doctor that day. My mother wanted to come, but I said to her, “No, I’ll be fine.” God, I wish I had never said those words. If only I’d kept my mouth shut and let her come with me, she might be alive today.’
I shake my head with regret. ‘I can still see her face. “Are you sure?” she asked. Even then I could have said, “All right, come. You can keep me company.” But I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Absolutely. Stay at home and have a rest. Hospitals are full of germs.”
‘When I came back, I opened the front door and called to her. She did not answer so I went into the kitchen, and I knew immediately that something was very wrong when I saw the kitchen table. It should have been ready for lunch, but it was full of leftovers from our breakfast. Sliced tomatoes, pita bread, olives, oil. And…flies.’ I cover my mouth. ‘Flies were buzzing around the congealed fried eggs.’
The startlingly clear image makes me feel nauseated again and I push the plate of food away from me and take a deep, steadying breath. I do not tell him that that day too my milk dried up. Not a drop was left for Sorab. A kindly woman, two doors away became his wet nurse until the day I left Iran.
I look up into his eyes and they are soft and pained. In his world of unlimited funds almost everything can be made better with a little application and cunning. This one cannot. Even he is helpless in the face of death.
‘She was such an incredibly clean person. I knew something terrible had happened. My mother had gone out to the shop opposite to buy some sugar for her coffee and had been run over while crossing the road outside our house. For many weeks I would wake up having dreamt of flies in my food. Perhaps it was the shock of how quickly they had taken over my mother’s kitchen, after her relentless efforts of keeping them away.’
My chest seizes up. A small sob escapes. Oh no, surely I’m not going to bawl again. I swallow while the tears run down my cheeks. I feel the waiter’s eyes on me. Blake reaches for my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologize, squeezing his hand. ‘I know, this too will pass, and all that, but I just can’t seem to get over my loss.’
After lunch we return to the palazzo that belongs to Blake’s family. Iced with a filigree of white stone and built on three floors it reminds me of a wedding cake. Inside, it is as beautiful as any palace with glittering mosaic, marble statues of human beings, golden statues of beasts, detailed frescos, decorated ceilings, priceless antiques, bell pulls made of rich gold and red braids, and liveried servants
Gerry is sitting on the balcony under an umbrella. Sorab squeals with delight at my appearance. The afternoon is spent on the balcony with Sorab. Pleasant. Rare. I won’t ever forget it.
That evening I go to the top floor. A strange place. Smooth marble steps right in the middle of the huge space lead to an antique clawed bath with gold taps. I take my dressing gown off and step into the scented water. Here the servants are light-footed and like ghosts. Secretive and almost unseen. I rest my head against the warm marble.
High above my head looming out of the dark of the vaulted roof space is an iron chain from which a glass chandelier of unsurpassed beauty is suspended. Its many glass arms twist and turn into delicate cristallo cups that hold real candles. Blake told me that it was once made for the Church of Santa Maria della Pieta, but one of his more flamboyant ancestors acquired it for himself. He wanted to look up at the work of art as he bathed. At the hundreds of diamond fruits and crystal teardrops.
I gaze at them with awe. Each droplet, because of its position on the chandelier and its distance from each candle, has been blown a slightly different shape in order to transmit the same luminescence from every angle as they capture the flickering flames inside their prisms.
Blake appears at the door. He stands in the enormous shadows cast by the candles. Silent, full of some wild emotion that makes my cheeks burn.
‘I’ve dreamed of seeing you in this bath under this chandelier,’ he says huskily, and, coming forward into the light, takes the washcloth out of my hands and proceeds to wash my back.
I feel his mouth on the back of my neck; the evening stubble of his unshaved face rasps my skin. Goose pimples rise on my exposed skin. Instantly my head arches back exposing my entire throat to him. He kisses my neck softly, delicately. His large hands catch my breasts. Immediately, the desire for him grows in my being. I want him inside me, but he shakes his head lightly.
‘No, no, I have other plans for you.’ He stands up and brings the towel. I stand, soapsuds running down my body. Hoping he will change his mind. His eyes darken, but he wraps the towel around me carefully and turns me around in his arms.
‘I love you,’ I say.
He stills. Something indescribably beautiful comes into his eyes. ‘I know,’ he says gently. ‘It is what keeps me going.’ But he does not say I love you back. Instead he helps me into my dressing gown. ‘Fabiola is waiting outside to do your hair.’
‘Oh.’
Someone outside to do my hair. I look at him in wonder, at the precision of his plans. Is there anything he has not thought of? Fabiola enters with a rosewood box. In its compartmentalized interior she keeps all her accoutrements. She is young, keeps her dark eyes lowered for most of her time with me, and does not speak English, but she is nothing short of a hair genius. She twines blood-red rosebuds into my hair. It is the kind of hairdo that you see on Oscar night. I will be sorry to see it come down.
When she is gone I dress in the black gown. There is only one yellowing bruise that shows through the net on my lower back. I twist up the scarlet lipstick and apply it to my lips. I get into my tall shoes and in the mirror a woman looks back, highly colored, wild-eyed, and more than a little wanton, but at the same time, rather beautiful. I am still looking at my reflection when Blake comes into the room. My breath catches. He is dressed in a black tux. I have never seen him look so vital and handsome. His hair gleams. With that aristocratic nose…he looks like he has just stepped out from a painting.
He is carrying two packages in his hands. He comes and stands behind me. Inside the looking glass we make a stunning couple. I don’t make any sudden movements; I don’t want to spoil it for the woman in the parallel universe. Perhaps she will get her man. All day long, people have been staring at us. Now I know why. He opens the first package and takes out a necklace. It is stunningly simple. A band made of rubies with an oval black centerpiece.
‘It’s a black diamond,’ he says.
‘It is beautiful,’ I breathe, raising my eyes to meet his.
‘Something for you to remember Venice by.’ He sets it around my neck. The red stones encircle my throat like ribbons of fire. He stands back and looks at me. There is a glint of possessive pride in his eyes. And I feel owned.
Then he opens the next box.
I tilt my head forward curiously. ‘What are they?’ I ask. I cannot make them out. On a bed of black material are some colorful gadgets made of plastic or silicon.
His answer is succinct. ‘Spread your legs.’
My body’s reaction is immediate. A wave of sexual arousal. Those things fit into my body. I obey. He bends and, lifting the long dress, inserts one of them into me, adjusts it so the cup-like end fits snugly around my clitoris, and pulls my knickers up over it. It feels strange and smooth inside me. From his trouser pocket he takes out a small device. It is no bigger than a remote control car key. He presses it and the thing inside me starts vibrating.
‘Oooo,’ I giggle. As he turns the dial the vibrations become more violent until I squeal, ‘Hey.’
He turns it right down.
‘Venetian music in its original setting and the latest vibrator,’ I tease, but I am fascinated with the idea of putting total control of my sensations into his hands.
‘It is the perfect touch,’ he says softly. ‘Music is passion. We are going to watch L’Incoranazione di Poppea. The coronation of Poppea is a Venetian opera of unbearable sensuousness, and the frissons you will experience on the outside will be reflected inside your body.’