At two o’clock, having had a glass of beer and a pizza, Lina was in the hall of the Hotel Lord Byron, urging upon the reception clerk her claim to be called from the lounge the moment a call came through for her. The clerk, looking at Lina’s unprosperous clothes, was tentatively obstructive; he did not want to provoke a possible student protest, as might well happen these days by refusing to take a call for someone who looked like Lina; at the same time, she looked unlikely to give him a tip, had made no move to do so, and besides, the reputation of the hotel had to be kept up. He muttered something about the manager’s orders. He said he had no authority to put through calls to anybody but clients of the hotel.
‘Do you realise,’ said Lina, ‘who I am? Call the manager. My father was once a regular patron of this hotel.’ She felt sure this was true, and anyway, it worked. The clerk agreed to leave her name with the telephone operator and to inform her when and if her call came through. He indicated a darkish corner of the lobby where she could wait. He suggested she order something to drink in the meantime, or even a coffee. On enquiring the price of a coffee at the Lord Byron, Lina declined this suggestion. She took herself off to her corner table, snatching up a glossy magazine from another table on the way.
It was at about two-thirty that Arnold Leaver came up to her. He said, ‘Good afternoon, windy, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Professor Leaver, good afternoon.’
‘I’m not a professor. As a matter of fact, I’m entitled to doctor but you realise in England only a medico uses “doctor”. May I take a chair? That’s why nobody else wants to be “doctor” in England, is my belief. The profession has gone down, down, down.’
He put on an expression of expectant gloom as if waiting for her to cap his statement with something worse. He had a brown woollen scarf tied round his neck although the hotel was centrally heated. He wore a rough but not old brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows and well-pressed grey flannel trousers. To Lina, all this was a comforting sign; his neatness, his little yellow moustache, his seemly old-fashioned spectacles, the big freckle-marks on his hairy hands, and his well-kept finger-nails took her back to her safe childhood, probably reminding her of some good, sound uncle. She told him she had seen a Venetian doctor the night before, having slipped into the canal, and that the doctor had given her antibiotics. They make me feel awful,’ she said.
‘He must be a criminal,’ said Arnold. ‘What have antibiotics to do with a drenching? I should have said an aspirin with hot lemon.’
‘Well, the canal water is infectious.’
‘What rot!’ said Arnold. ‘Doctors and their antibiotics. Fortunately I have a doctor in England who knows his job. No nonsense about him. He was the school doctor when I was head of Ambrose, and that’s why he knows what’s what. He ordered me to take this holiday. That’s why I’m taking it. And he gave a strong recommendation that I should come without my wife Anthea.’ He was looking intently into Lina’s face as he spoke. Antibiotics and canal water regardless she looked in the best of health and no man, he noted, who could call himself a man could fail to appreciate that she was a bright-eyed, a full-fledged and juicy young woman. ‘My wife Anthea,’ he said, ‘threatened to sue the doctor. Just imagine. … We’ve never been separated before, all our married life. My wife Anthea is a great anxiety to me, my dear. Anything the matter?’
She had half-risen in her chair because from where they were sitting the ring of the incoming telephone calls could be faintly heard, and apparently one of these calls was for somebody for whom the desk clerk was now looking round the lobby. From afar he noticed Lina’s movement, but shook his head when she pointed to her chest and formed the words ‘For me?’ Lina sat down again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m waiting for a definite call. You were telling me about your wife. You know it is all right for you to enjoy your holiday without a wife, but Mrs Tiller should not have come with you.’
‘In a way,’ he said, ‘you’re right. In another way, you’re wrong. When a man is in need of a change, a cheerful and generous companion like Mary Tiller is not to be sneezed at.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest one should always sneeze or spit over a woman who takes to her bed a married man,’ said Lina. ‘But I can also see the point of view of the good and faded wife. In my country where I come from, there is two points of view, and we are taught to look upon both of them.’
‘We, too, attempt to see the other side, objectively,’ said Arnold. ‘So you and I have a point in common, there. However, I must say, my holiday so far has been a disappointment on the whole.’
A waiter now put in an appearance, needlessly shifting ash-trays and the small flower-vases on the other tables nearby. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ said Arnold to bright-cheeked Lina.
‘I’ll have a cup of coffee, thanks.’
‘One coffee, one whisky and soda no ice,’ Arnold said to the waiter. ‘First,’ he said to Lina, ‘there is the problem of my wife Anthea in Birmingham very discontented about my holiday, and second, who should I meet when I set foot in Venice but my son, Robert. Let me tell you at once, my dear, that I know you’re a friend of Robert’s. I don’t want to spoil anything between you. But I must say, speaking for myself, that I was very glad indeed when I heard that Robert had left Venice. I hope he’s gone back to Paris to his studies, but his gentleman-friend, gentleman so-called, Curran is still here.’
Lina wanted very much to tell Arnold about the message that had come with the roses. But she remembered that she was to ‘tell nobody’ and was intrigued by the mystery of the phone call to come, and decided to wait, even though she was annoyed that the message had come at second-hand.
She said, ‘Robert should have told me he was going away. He should get in touch with me. He owes it to me. He was to have helped me to move my belongings when I moved into my new job.’
‘If you’re thinking that my son is reliable, said Arnold, ‘my dear, you can think again. I say no more.’ His whisky and her coffee arrived. He drank his whisky quickly while she was still stirring her coffee, and ordered another. He said to Lina, ‘Mary Tiller is a fine woman but she’s bossy. Today she was in a terrible state, I don’t know why. She went off immediately after lunch, on her own. Not much company for me, you know. I’m supposed to be on holiday. If she can go off on her own, then I can go off on my own. What are you doing tonight, my dear? Would you like to dine with me at some restaurant of your choice?’
Lina thought that would be the loveliest thing in the world and said so. She half-expected that the phone call she was awaiting would be from Robert himself, telling her he was returning to Venice. It would be good for him if she had another date. Especially with Robert’s father.
Arnold’s second whisky arrived at the same time as Lina was called to the telephone. She took it in the box she was ushered to. A woman spoke. She sounded young.
‘Miss Lina Pancev?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a message for you from Robert Leaver.’
‘Where is Robert?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a friend of Robert. Robert is not here at present. You are to tell nobody. Robert is in difficulties. It is not possible for you to see him. Tell nobody. Be in the garden of the Pensione Sofia at midnight tonight. Be in the garden. You can enter by the gate at the garden entrance. If you have any difficulty you can climb over. Then keep close to the wall at the side of the Rio.’
‘Rio? What—’
‘The side-canal. Keep close to the wall. You will receive a message there from Robert. Tell nobody. Robert wants you to do this for him. You are in no danger.’
‘Where’s Robert?’
‘Robert wants you to be there, for him.’
‘Will I see Robert tonight?’
‘No. He will see you. At midnight in the garden of the Pensione Sofia you will have a message.’
‘I’d be afraid to do that. What’s the mystery?’
‘Tell nobody.’ The woman rang off.<
br />
Lina went off to the ladies’ room before returning to Arnold. She felt sure Robert was mocking her, somewhere. She was furious with Robert for sending messages through other people, and especially through this young woman with her officious tone.
When she got back to Arnold she said, ‘Well, that’s that job done. When will you call for me tonight?’
At the Pensione Sofia Curran said, ‘Still no message?’
‘Half an hour ago,’ said Katerina, sulkily, ‘a certain man rang up. He said, “Did Curran get the message?” I said, “Who’s speaking?” He said, “Tell Curran he’s got a week to act.” That’s all. He hung up.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’ Curran said.
‘How could I not recognise the voice when we’ve been paying that voice all these years. The Butcher’s assistant who’s become the Butcher since his master died. It can’t be anyone else, can it?’
They were in the small office that led from the hall. Eufemia came in. ‘We’ve just heard from the Butcher,’ she said.
‘I was telling him about it,’ Katerina said.
Eufemia said to Curran, ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Why me?’ Curran said. ‘What has it got to do with me?’
‘Well, didn’t you kill Pancev?’ said Eufemia.
‘No. And you know I didn’t.’
Katerina said, ‘Nothing would have happened after all these years if it were not for you and your money and your boy. It’s your money they’re after, that’s all.’
‘I know,’ said Curran.
‘Well, give them the money and let us remain in peace.’
‘With your man cut in two in the garden,’ Curran said.
‘Now we can see the mean side of him,’ Katerina said to Eufemia. ‘Always so courteous, so condescending. Now he’s going to turn on us rather than pay.’
‘Really, we should stick together,’ Curran said. ‘It’s a moral issue. We need courage.’
‘You’ll need more courage than we do,’ said Eufemia. ‘How do we know you didn’t kill Pancev?’
‘You know quite well,’ Curran said, and hurriedly left the place.
Violet, he thought, is the only friend I can share this trouble with. She’s the only person I can count on. It was getting on for evening as he turned into the square of the Santa Maria Formosa. The church was closed. He walked all round it, then suddenly saw the man he was looking for. He recognised, sure enough, the middle-aged man who, with the young woman, had been following Robert and Lina, and who Curran had imagined was some foreign agent trailing Lina. That had been, in fact, when Curran had himself followed the young people about Venice, obsessed as to what his Robert was doing with the girl.
Now, the man, stocky and bald, standing at the side entrance to the church, simply stared at Curran. The man wore a dark blue windjammer. He looked poor in his dress, but his expression was sophisticated, not that of a poor man. He looked at Curran as if the look alone were a message. Curran looked away and walked on into the dusk, increasing his pace as he walked, making up his mind to acquire a gun to protect himself. The newspapers of Italy were fed by continual kidnappings. Curran thought: Why should I be spared? And he thought again, as he made his way across the bridges and down the small alleys, to Violet’s house: If this were a dream, then I would wake abruptly with fear. But it isn’t a dream. A water-taxi arrived at Violet’s landing-stage as Curran came round the narrow footpath that led to it from the streets behind the house. In the lamplight Curran saw a stout, youngish man coming down the steps from the hall and as he entered the motor-boat the man looked at Curran with a smile. Curran didn’t recognise him at all. But then he noticed the man was smiling at the driver and smiling to himself, and, in fact, it was a built-in expression that Curran had noticed, not a smile at all.
Arnold sat opposite Lina at nine o’clock that night at Harry’s Bar. He felt great satisfaction. Mary had put up no opposition to his going out to dine ‘on his own’; in fact, she had positively encouraged him to do so; she wanted an early night herself, she had said, for she felt a cold coming on. Now, Lina, with a snow-white shawl replacing her everyday brown one, was proving to be an excellent companion. He had already told her that he gave her full marks, and as she had misunderstood this compliment ‘What kind of a mark? A mark on my face?’ he had exuberantly explained that she went to the top of the class. ‘Like Mary Tiller?’ she said. ‘Well I give Mary six out of ten.’
He then pointed out that Lina herself got ten out of ten, for which she thanked him, and she toasted him in the last of the champagne.
Arnold said, ‘I bet you can’t spell “psychedelic”.’
To his amazement and joy she not only could spell it but she knew what it meant. He ordered another bottle of champagne.
Lina told him about the impending loss of her grant from the refugee fund: ‘… because they say I don’t suffer and fight. Those dissidents who stay at home are the ones who suffer. What have we here got to suffer about?’
He quite agreed. He unburdened himself on the subject of his wife Anthea until Lina announced that it was past eleven.
‘Must you go home so early?’ Arnold said.
‘Not at all,’ said Lina, and made up her mind triumphantly to a course of action which had been struggling in her thoughts since she had received that telephone message from the unknown woman and those roses with that message also at second hand. She was now full of champagne and courage as she said, ‘I have an idea!’
‘Let’s hear it,’ he said, hopefully.
‘We’ll go for a walk in a garden by moonlight. It’s a beautiful, clear night and we’re alone in Venice, the two of us.’
‘A garden? Won’t that be rather chilly?’
She sipped her champagne. ‘If it’s chilly, Arnold, we’ll run, we’ll dance.’
She laughed a lot as he paid the bill, which itself for a few moments spoiled the smile on Arnold’s face, he being unused to the going rate for champagne at the best restaurants. However, he paid with a half-smile which, when that was done, soon turned eager again.
‘It’s years,’ he said, ‘and years, my dear, since I walked with a lovely lady in a garden. Where is this garden of yours? Is it near your home? Perhaps, afterwards, we could slip indoors. …’
To cool him down a little, as they walked through the alleys she told him the sad story of her father’s death and burial in Venice all those years ago, and how she had looked in vain for his grave. At last they came to the wall that ran along beside the Pensione Sofia, with the canal gleaming by its side. She led him along the footpath till they came to the wooden side-gate. ‘Here’s the garden,’ she said.
The gate was locked. She lifted her skirts and started to climb over. ‘This is the Pensione Sofia, isn’t it?’ said Arnold.
‘That’s right. Don’t worry. The two old ladies have gone to bed. It’s nearly midnight.’ She landed on the other side of the gate. ‘Come on’ she said.
‘I wonder if my old bones can manage. …’ He managed fairly well with the steadying help of her hand. Someone shouted from a barge. Arnold started and looked guiltily over the gate towards the shouter but the shout was evidently meant to carry up the canal to another barge which returned the unintelligible cry.
‘How lovely it is here. Look at the roses,’ Lina said. She was walking up the path towards the dark house with its shuttered windows. Only a few of the guests were still up, faint creaks of light showing between their shutters. The ground floor was in darkness except for a dim light penetrating the back of the long room from the porter’s place.
‘We’re quite alone,’ said Lina, pulling her white shawl about her. The sound of a paddle from a rowing-boat or gondola came from the canal, as if approaching the gate.
Arnold said, ‘This is quite an adventure, I must say.’ He had an overcoat buttoned up. He sniffed in the chilly air and looked up at the stars.
‘I wonder,’ said Lina, ‘if there’s anyone watching us from the
house.’ She ran down the path to peer in through the ironwork which protected the large glass door into the house. Arnold followed her. The night porter could not be seen; only the dim light from his room.
They set off again down the path. Suddenly Lina said, ‘Quiet! I can hear someone coming by the canal. Perhaps they’re coming home to the Pensione by the back gate.’
She ran to the wall beside the water-gate, leaving Arnold on the path. The boat paddled gently in to the side of the canal and stopped. ‘Are you there?’ said a woman’s voice in Italian. She answered, in Italian, ‘Yes, it’s me, Lina.’
‘But you’re not alone’
‘No. Why should I be? I’ve got my man with me.’
The voice said, ‘Your friend wants you to dance for him. He wants you to dance in those centre rose-beds, the special enclosed ones. Dance on the far one and then on the near one.’
‘Where is Roberto?’
‘Not far away’
‘I want to speak to him.’
She jumped to see over the wall.
She saw a long heavy boat with a makeshift tarpaulin hood at the prow under which someone darkly disappeared with a scurry as Lina’s head bobbed up. A woman in dark trousers with long blonde hair was bending to rest one of the oars. Lina went to the gate to have a better look, but this time the woman was sitting in the boat with a scarf over the lower part of her face.
‘Do as he says,’ the woman muttered from under the scarf, in a way that sounded as if she were impatient with the business.
‘All right. I’ll dance with my man-friend,’ Lina said out loud.
By this time Arnold was beside her, peering at the boat, unable to follow this exchange of Italian. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Are they guests at the Pensione?’
‘No, they’re just nobodies,’ she said. ‘They’re looking for somewhere to tie up their boat.’ She took his hand and started to guide him back to the path.
‘What are they going to do?’
‘What do you think?’ said Lina. ‘Forget them.’ She started to skip. ‘Do you know, I feel cold and you look cold, Arnold. I’m going to dance. Let’s dance together.’