‘Oh, he’s left Paris. He’s in Venice.’
‘Then he’s with you.’
‘No, he’s not with me. He’s staying at the Sofia.’
‘Oh, there! Why?’
‘He found a room there,’ Curran said, ‘that’s why.’
‘Oh, he found a room there. Am I stupid,’ said Violet, ‘or am I right in thinking he left you and came to Venice on his own?’
‘Well, you’re right,’ Curran said. ‘He’s interested in a girl he met in Paris. She came to Venice.’
‘Is he interested in girls?’ Violet said, rather coldly, and as if the whole idea of a young man of Curran’s being interested in girls was too much to ask her intelligence to take.
Curran said quietly, ‘Girl or rather a young woman. Over thirty. I should say ten years older than Robert. But still a girl, you know.’
‘And what about her?’ said Violet next.
‘Her name is Lina Pancev,’ said Curran. ‘A refugee from Bulgaria.’
‘Pancev, Pancev. …’ Violet’s eyes consulted the carpet and the window-curtains in apparent search for enlightenment. ‘Pancev,’ she said. That rings a bell. Pancev. …’ She stared in front of her. ‘The name rings a bell,’ she said. And so saying, she actually reached to the wall behind her shoulder and pressed the button-bell, so that her manservant came in with a dish of canapés and a ‘Good evening’ for Curran.
‘We need some ice,’ Violet said, and when he had gone she said, ‘Pancev, Pancev. …’
‘Stop it, Violet,’ Curran said.
‘If I recall—’
‘You do recall,’ Curran said. ‘And, what’s more, this Lina Pancev is the same Pancev, same family; she’s the infant daughter that was. She’s looking for her father’s grave and that’s why she’s in Venice. Robert has come to help her.’
‘Oh God!’ said Violet. ‘Oh God!’ Then she started to laugh, in little bursts, looking all the time at Curran as if to force him by her laughter to acknowledge the cause of it. But Curran did not respond. He looked at the drink he held in his hand, embarrassed and shocked. Violet said, ‘Looking for her father’s grave …’ and laughed again. Curran smiled towards her. ‘That’s enough, Violet’ he said.
‘She must be sentimental,’ Violet said.
‘I dare say,’ said Curran. ‘It’s very probable.’
‘You haven’t met her?’
‘No. But I want to get her a job. I expect you need a secretary-help, someone capable, to look after your files, let’s say, for your fashion shows and so on, or to do a bit of shopping. Keep you company.’
‘No, thank you,’ Violet said as the manservant came in with the ice, and when he had left Violet said of him, ‘He’s leaving. Somebody’s offered him better pay. It’s always the same. You train them, then they get ideas.’
Curran said, ‘If you want to keep servants there’s only one way. Pay them double what anyone else will pay.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t do that,’ Violet said. ‘I’d think it immoral. Besides, I couldn’t afford it.’
‘Lina Pancev might help you out,’ Curran said. ‘She might make a good au pair girl.’
‘No, thank you,’ Violet said.
‘I just thought you might do me a favour by taking her on,’ Curran said.
‘Oh, well, if it’s a favour. But I don’t think I’d like her. I don’t like her already.’
‘I can see that,’ Curran said. ‘And I haven’t met her myself. But it would be doing her a good turn. You see she’s pretty thick with Robert—’
‘Oh, you want to get her away from Robert, or Robert away from her? How could I do that?’ The doorbell rang downstairs and Violet went to the window where she parted the curtains to peer down at the landing-stage. The gale shook the panes and the water lapped greedily. She let the curtain fall, changing the climate back again.
‘That was the wine arriving,’ she said. ‘It’s Tuscan wine. It doesn’t do it much good tossing around in this rough weather.’
‘Robert,’ said Curran, as if anxious not to lose the drawing-room climate again, ‘is a not very nice young man. Rather nasty, in fact.’
‘Well, drop him, Curran,’ Violet said. She took away Curran’s glass and refilled it with ice and whisky.
‘I intend to set him on his way. I don’t drop people, as you know. But I want to make it easy for him to go on his own way independent of me. I’ve rather monopolised him the last two years. A mistake. One does make mistakes, you know, and—’ He stopped to allow Violet the opportunity of denying that he made many mistakes. She said nothing, so he went on, ‘Robert. He’s a nasty young man in his way, is Robert Leaver.’
‘Leaver?’ Violet said.
‘That’s his name,’ Curran said.
Violet took cognizance of the lampshade, the drinks-tray and the carpet. ‘Leaver … Leaver …’ she repeated.
‘Don’t tell me that rings a bell, too,’ Curran said. ‘It’s quite an ordinary name. His father’s at the Lord Byron just now—’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I must say—’ But Violet did not say anything more on this subject. Sometimes, in the past, she had confided in Curran the names of the people she tracked for GESS and he had even made helpful suggestions, although she had never gone so far as to explain the persuasion part of the job. But this time she said nothing about the Leaver who was cited in her message from GESS the day before. She merely laughed again, as she had at the mention of Victor Pancev’s grave, and left Curran quite irritated.
But now, unexpectedly, she said, ‘Bring Lina Pancev along to see me. I’ll try to find some use for her.’
‘I won’t bring her; I’ll send her,’ Curran said. ‘If you need some help with her pay, depend on me. I’ll send her one of these days.’
‘No, tomorrow. I want her tomorrow morning,’ Violet said.
‘You don’t have to launch her in Venice society or anything,’ Curran said cautiously, seeing that she had in the past taken on this service for him with some of his American friends’ daughters, and one of his own nieces. ‘Just give her a job.’
‘Leave her to me,’ Violet said.
Chapter Six
IT WAS TO THE Pensione Sofia that Grace Gregory and Leo made their way from the airport by water-bus. Leo had used the telephone at his travel agency in England liberally and cheerfully, after office hours, to find out the whereabouts of a Mr Leaver. Having made five calls to the most likely hotels and pensioni, Leo had been rewarded at the sixth: ‘Leaver, yes, hold on. I will call Mr Leāver,’ said the voice from the Pensione Sofia. At this, Leo hung up, secure in his belief that he had located Arnold. Later that day he arranged to take a week’s holiday that was still due to him for that year. By studied overlapping of weekends the week was extended to eleven days; then he promptly had rooms booked for himself and Grace at the Pensione Sofia. He arrived home that night with this good news and two air tickets for Venice at reduced prices.
‘Did they say Leaver, Mr and Mrs, or only Mr?’ Grace said.
‘I only asked for Mr Leaver. But I didn’t talk to him of course. He’s there all right. You’ll soon find out all you want to know, Grace.’
‘That Mary Tiller!’
Here they were, then, at the water-gate of the Pensione Sofia.
Leo was the son of a Cockney Jewish mother and an Italian father from Trieste who had settled in Britain during the war, become a naturalised Briton, and a prosperous dealer in foreign stamps. Leo was in his first job. He was stocky and strong with a head of Afro-frizzed hair and beard, both achieved by permanent wave. From amongst this dark woolly cloud his two bright eyes peered out and his sharp nose ventured forth. He was comfortable in his lodgings with Grace Gregory. She had always liked him when she was matron, and for his part he found her company relaxing after his parents’ efforts to push him up a social scale which largely existed in their minds only.
Grace, for the journey abroad, had dressed in an outfit which she felt was more suitable for Leo’s travellin
g companion than her usual sensible clothes for Birmingham daily life; she wore blue jeans in a large men’s size but still fairly tight, and a shaggy grey and white short fur coat. She wore a pair of large unnecessary glasses. At short notice she really had got ready for the trip as if she had looked forward to it all her life.
She came into the long reception hall at the Pensione Sofia with Leo a short way behind her; she went straight to the desk and looked round for service. Katerina and Eufemia sprang up together from their seats nearby; a few visitors who were sitting there or passing looked startled for an instant, then stared. There was a feeling of alarm in the room. The porter dumped the bags on the floor, waiting till the new guests should be allotted a key. Katerina went behind the desk, and Eufemia, with a surprised question on her face, joined her.
‘We have two rooms booked,’ said Leo in his almost-native Adriatic Italian.
‘In the name of Gregory,’ Grace declared. ‘I pay the bill, that is. My young friend here is Leo. Separate rooms. Naturally.’
‘Are you the two English who made reservations?’ enquired Katerina, staring at the booking-ledger in a stunned way.
Leo’s eyes were wandering to the staircase. There’s old Leaver,’ he said, perceiving Robert Leaver slouchingly descend.
‘That’s young Leaver, not old Leaver,’ Grace asserted in a voice which caused Robert to look straight over to the spot where Leo, his junior by six long years, stood bearded at the desk beside his amazingly befurred former matron.
‘Well, Robert,’ said Grace across the room. ‘Why aren’t you in Paris? I hope nothing untoward has happened. When did you last see your father?’
‘Grace,’ said Leo. ‘They need your passport at the desk.’
‘I’ve come to see your father,’ Grace went on. ‘I believe he’s staying here.’
Robert walked over slowly.
‘Welcome to Venice, Mrs Gregory,’ he said. He looked with enquiring hostility at Leo, who had handed in the passports and collected the room-keys from the bewildered proprietors.
‘Don’t you remember Leo?’ said Grace.
‘No, I don’t.’
Leo said, ‘I was in the first form at Ambrose when you were in the sixth, I’m afraid.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ Robert said;
‘Nasty as ever,’ Grace said, turning to include Katerina and Eufemia in the conversation. Their English was not up to all this. Katerina bade the porter take the couple to their rooms. Leo took up one of his bits of luggage, a huge blue-denim knapsack, and followed the porter.
‘Your father?’ Grace said over her shoulder to Robert. ‘I’ve come here to find him. He’s staying here, I understand with his cook.’
‘They’re not here,’ Robert said, ‘but if you’re keen you’ll find him at the Lord Byron.’
‘See you later,’ said Grace.
‘Are you sure?’ said Robert.
‘Well,’ said Grace, ‘I suppose so, I’m afraid.’
Leo grinned back triumphantly at Robert.
‘Hello, Anthea, is that you?’ said Grace Gregory into the telephone. ‘This is Grace.’
‘Where are you?’ said Anthea Leaver.
‘I’m in Venice, of course. Leo and I arrived safely. A lovely little hotel called the Sofia. Beautiful rooms. It’s run by the two sweetest ladies you could ever hope to meet.’
‘Grace, this is costing money.’
‘I won’t charge you for this call, Anthea. Money’s no object when I’m having a good time like this. I’ve been waiting for it all my life. Besides, the phone’s cheaper at night. You should travel, Anthea. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you, sitting there in that dreary little room when we’re all abroad and having a lovely time. Food and wine, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘What do you mean, “we’re all abroad”? Who’s “we”?’
‘Well, Leo and I and everyone around. Would you believe it, Anthea, that the first person we bumped into was Robert.’
‘My son, Robert? He’s in Paris.’
‘No, he isn’t. He’s in Venice staying at this hotel. And you wouldn’t believe, I saw him again this morning with a girl looking at pictures in a church. The pictures are very much low-cut dresses and so on, but that’s Italy, Anthea. You have to see it for yourself on the spot. I said—’
‘Who was Robert with?’
‘A girl. A girl about ten years older but still a young lady, you know. She looked a bit free, of course. He didn’t introduce. I saw Arnold, Anthea, in St Mark’s Square. He didn’t see me as I ducked out of sight but Leo said he looked bad-tempered. Then Mary Tiller came along and they went into a café where the music was playing “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” outside. Tiller all dressed up. Of course I haven’t had time to start finding out, but trust me to find out, Anthea. Not a word to that detective agency. Don’t pay them anything whatever you do. You should see the Doges’ Palace; you could put fifty drill-halls inside. I’ll ring you again. There’s Leo at the door waiting for me. I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of your interests, Anthea.’
‘He looked bad-tempered?’ Anthea said.
‘So Leo says. I didn’t see him very close. Leo says Arnold didn’t recognise him with his beard but. …’
When Grace had rung off Anthea got up and straightened the hang of the curtains; she then kicked a chair; she turned on the television news and watched it without taking it in. Then she dialled Robert’s number in Paris. No reply. Usually there was someone in the place where Robert lived in Paris, care of Curran, but tonight the telephone fluted into great emptiness, rhythmically like an old barn-owl until it stopped and clicked over to the quicker hysteria of the engaged signal. Now she thought of getting back to the Sofia hotel in Venice which Grace had mentioned. It was altogether possible for her to do this through patient contact of Continental Enquiries, but no sooner had Anthea thought of it than it seemed too much; she knew it was her destiny, or she thought it was her destiny, which was the same thing, that she shouldn’t know what her son was doing in Venice, or ever find out for herself. GESS was at work for her. Grace had arisen and gone abroad for her. Dizzy with this reasoning Anthea made herself some tea; she fumed at the thought of everyone having a good time, seeing the palace of the Doges and sleeping with each other in Italy while she was carrying on, keeping the home tidy, watching the electricity so that the bill wouldn’t be too high, thinking of the cost of living here in the British Isles where people ought to be. But the moment of truth would surely come within the week. Mr B. of GESS would surely. … She took up her novel:
Matt looked enquiringly at Beryl with raised eyebrow. Since he and Joyce had been married he had not somehow felt so relaxed as he did tonight. Could it be the effect of the slow unwinding that preceded this hour, this moment? That process of inhaling, eyes closed, and knowing everything was going to be alright. Inhalation made you open up like a flower. He asked Beryl to marry him, to his own surprise. She lifted Mark from his cot. The child was coughing. Her arms were rounded, brown, beautiful.
‘What about Joyce?’
‘I’ll talk to Joyce,’ he told her. ‘I think she’ll understand.’
‘And our children ?’
‘Well … I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get a job. …’
Anthea’s eyes drooped. And so to bed.
Chapter Seven
VIOLET HAD OPENED THE curtains of her study to the clear bright morning.
‘You look every inch an artist,’ she said to Lina.
‘It isn’t what you look, for an artist, it’s what you do,’ said Lina.
‘Oh, I know that! My goodness, I’ve known enough artists. … But there’s something about you—I would have said right away, seeing you in the street, “That young woman is an artist.” You know, when a woman is an artist, she is an artist in many other ways than in practising the actual art.’
Lina sat in a deep chair drinking her coffee and sizing Violet up. Violet was in another deep chair, opposite her, lolling.
Lina had come about the job.
‘As to your father’s grave,’ Violet said, ‘I admire you for coming to Venice to find it. That’s what I mean by an artist. I’ve lived in Venice many, many years. I know the Venetians. I know Venice. I’m a bit of an artist myself, in many ways. I’m sure, in fact, I could help you to trace your father’s grave. You need someone who knows the place, who knows the past. I’m sure we can help each other.’
‘What sort of work?’ Lina said. ‘I can cook, Countess de Winter, but not fine cooking. I’m not French. I can do housework, but you have a spacious establishment to maintain in cleanliness.’ Lina looked up at the high ceiling ready to defend her right not to climb up and clean it.
‘Goodness!’ said Violet. There’s a woman who comes to clean. I’m losing my butler soon, but that’s something else. To me au pair means equal and I would regard you as a friend if you want to come to help. In fact, in my sort of work, the need for domestic assistance takes second place. I was thinking of starting you off with an outside job. You see, I do a certain amount of research. For organisations. For a book. …Tourist research. That sort of thing. You might call it sociology. Would you like to see the room at the top of the house that I thought you would like to have for a studio? Curran told me you would probably like to have a studio.’
Lina followed Violet out of the flat on to the landing of the wide public marble staircase. Violet led her to a small lift, but Lina stopped to look out of the window on the landing.
‘You get a better view from upstairs,’ Violet coaxed. But Lina’s shiny black head was pressed to the window, watching some special thing, so that Violet looked over her shoulder to see what it was. A number of people were crossing the bridge on a side-canal outside the Ca’ Winter. ‘Anything special?’ Violet said. Lina raised her hand. Then Violet saw a tall young man with curly brown hair lift his hand to wave back. He had been standing on the bridge, looking up.