Chapter Nine
THE ATTIC STUDIO IN Ca’ Winter was such that Lina had dreamed of sometimes, before she left Bulgaria, when Serge had been recounting his stories of life in the western countries. She had since actually seen grand and spacious attics like this, with adequate windows, northern lights, in Paris and in London, and had seen their pictures in films. These wonderful studios were always in the hands of expensive-living people, sometimes of an arty turn, sometimes not. Poor artists, she had found all her life, were no longer able to afford these attics of character atmosphere as Lina described it to Violet as she looked round her new studio the day after she had moved in. The vast space available to Lina’s tattered belongings swallowed them up so that they looked nothing like so desperate as they had on arrival. Violet had put in a divan bed, completely overcome by Lina’s determination to exist in these surroundings. This is a good attic apartment,’ Lina told her. ‘You must have money to throw away, that you haven’t rented it before, but I commend you for handing it over to me. The bed is too narrow, it is a single person’s bed only. I hope I can help you in your jobs and your sociology in return for all this atmosphere.’
‘I already told you,’ Violet said as she looked round the room, ‘that I could get money for this attic.’
‘But you don’t care for money,’ Lina said, agreeably.
‘I have to care. But this big room has memories. Personal ones. I like to keep it available for myself. You can only have it temporarily.’
‘First I make some memories for myself,’ Lina said.
Lina had already, the previous night, shown herself eager to be of service in Violet’s establishment; the only thing she would not hear of was that she should not have her attic. Last night, Lina had descended from her attic to the kitchen where she not only mended an electric iron but cooked a good meal made up of rice and pieces of fish, which she had served and eaten with Violet, who had thereupon made up her mind to make the best use she could of Lina.
Now, in the morning, she stood surveying what Lina had done to the attic. ‘I wouldn’t bring your boy-friend up here to sleep,’ she advised.
‘Why? Are you jealous?’
‘My dear, what would I want with that boy?’
‘I mean, jealous for me. There must be some reason you wanted me so much to come here. You want me?’
‘No, thanks,’ Violet said. That’s not my way of things.’
‘Just as well,’ said Lina, ‘because my boy-friend wants me. I have to call him. Where did he go? He should have helped me to move in here.’
‘Maybe he’s left Venice.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, if you say he didn’t sleep in the pensione the night before last, well, perhaps he’s just gone off. Young men do go off.’
‘But he left his clothes. Only he didn’t sleep there. He must have spent the night somewhere else. Could be, with Curran.’
‘Could be, with Curran,’ Violet said. ‘Would you mind doing some shopping for me? Are you a good shopper?’
‘What shopping?’
‘Well, the grocer, and mainly, this morning, the butcher. People coming to dinner.’
‘I know good butchery when I see it,’ Lina said. ‘So you give me the orders and the money, and I can go across to the Pensione Sofia to find Robert, too. I have told him he must be a man of vision and I can make him one.’
Grace Gregory found Arnold, that morning, sitting gloomy and solitary in the lobby of the Hotel Lord Byron. ‘At last!’ she said, sitting down heavily in the chair beside him.
‘What are you doing out here?’ said Arnold, who, in his younger days, had spent some time as a teacher in Kenya.
‘Quite a fancy place, this,’ said Grace, looking round the hotel lobby. ‘It must be expensive.’
‘I’m on a holiday,’ said Arnold. ‘Did Anthea, or did Anthea not, send you to spy on me?’
‘Anthea knows where you are. It’s hardly for me to spy on you. Anthea just wants to know your future plans. Do you intend to have a permanent liaison with the cook?’
‘You’re jealous, Grace.’
‘Ah, that’s what they all say. At least I protected you. Anthea knows nothing about us. She knows all about Mary Tiller. I saw Anthea, beginning of the week. Her nerves are at—’
‘Breaking-point, I know, I know,’ he said. ‘So are mine. And I come here for a holiday. … What do I find? First thing, Robert hanging round the reception desk, looking like a male tart and poking his nose into our business. Second comes Robert’s rich friend Curran, insulting me in my own bedroom. Number three, along you come, all the way out here to Venice, where I’m on my holiday, and you bring up Birmingham. I want to forget Birmingham. I’m under orders.’
‘Whose orders?’ Grace said.
‘My doctor’s orders.’
‘Oh, I thought you meant the cook’s.’
‘And you must please not call Mrs Tiller the cook. Cookery is chemistry. Mrs Tiller is a very intelligent companion.’
‘Well, Arnold,’ said Grace, ‘I can’t say you look as if you’re enjoying her company. You’ve lost your twinkle. You used to have one.’
‘A what?’ said Arnold.
‘A twinkle in your eye. It’s a lovely day and you’re in Venice. Nice and brisk. You should see the art-work in the galleries!’
‘I’ve been to the galleries.’
‘When you had Anthea to go home to at nights you used to make the most of your days. You look like a long draught of pump water. I wonder what Anthea married you for. Here’s Leo.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Leo.
‘Who are you?’ said Arnold.
‘Leopold Leopoldi,’ said Leo.
‘A former pupil of Ambrose,’ said Grace.
‘I recall the name but I wouldn’t have recognised you,’ said Arnold looking with some distaste at Leo’s two eyes and nose which were all that presented themselves for recognition amidst the frizzed foliage of black hair surrounding them.
Leo sat down. ‘Robert seems to have cleared off,’ he said.
‘Back to Paris?’ said Grace.
‘Good,’ said Arnold. ‘Wherever he’s gone, that’s one of you the less.’
‘I don’t feel we’re welcome,’ Leo said, settling himself further in his chair. He had a bunch of picture postcards in his hands, and now started to write to his friends.
‘Well, Grace, you might as well have a drink,’ Arnold said, having softened a little at the news that Robert had left Venice. He even included Leo in the invitation. Leo accepted without looking up from his card-writing.
‘Tomorrow, Sunday, I’m going to ring Anthea again. You get it cheaper, Sunday. Have you any message to send?’ Grace asked him when they had been served their drinks.
‘Why do you ring Anthea?’
‘To keep her advised as to her state of wedlock,’ Grace said. Leo looked up for a moment with bright eyes, then went back to his card-writing.
‘This is persecution,’ Arnold said, looking round the room.
‘Mary Tiller’s in the hairdresser having her roots done,’ said Grace. ‘So I shouldn’t think she’ll be back for some time if that’s who you’re looking for.’
‘If I want to tell my wife Anthea anything,’ Arnold said, ‘I can ring her myself. In fact, I might do. Now, suppose we agree that you spend the rest of your holiday with this young man and enjoy yourselves, and leave me alone to enjoy my holiday, too?’
‘Venice is a small place,’ said Grace.
‘Well, Mary and I will be moving on somewhere else. That’s all I can say to you.’
Leo made one of his rare comments; he had looked up from his postcards to sip his beer. ‘Oh, good!’ he said. But it was immediately apparent that he was referring to Lina who had come into the hotel laden with plastic shopping-bags.
‘I come to you,’ said Lina, ‘with my grocery and flesh, because I had to do my shopping for the Countess. You know, I had to walk to the other end of the island
as I am acquainted with the cheap shops there. I know an old butcher, he makes me up my lard since I was in Venice. The Countess Violet likes cheap, it will make her pleased. But I took the vaporetto back as quick as possible to see you.’ She sat down beside Leo and dumped her shopping on the table and the floor. ‘And I must tell you that I went also to the Pensione Sofia to find Robert. Two nights now, he hasn’t been to his room, and his belongings are there still. He’s missing since Thursday and the ladies at the Pensione say that they haven’t heard. Curran was there, too, looking for him. Curran says it’s typical of Robert just to walk away and leave everything, and not to worry. But I say we tell the police.’
‘I agree with Curran,’ said Arnold. ‘My son is irresponsible.’
‘Thoroughly irresponsible,’ said Leo placing a comforting hand on Lina’s.
‘While I’m here,’ said Lina, ‘I ought to snoop. It’s part of my job.’
Arnold looked round the room. ‘Mary should be back soon,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting an hour.’
‘I don’t need to snoop on you,’ Lina assured him. I know all about you already.’
‘No’, said Violet on the telephone, ‘he hasn’t been here. Lina was expecting him to call or phone. I expect she’s gone off with him. She should have been back with the shopping.’
Curran said, ‘Yes, I saw her at the Sofia. But she hasn’t found him. He’s not there. He hasn’t been back for two nights.’
‘Are you anxious?’
‘No, only curious.’
‘See you tonight at dinner. Eight o’clock.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ said Curran.
Chapter Ten
WHEN THE WEEKEND PASSED without any sign of Robert, nothing at all, no message, nothing, Curran went around the vicinity of the Pensione Sofia making a few enquiries. ‘It is not,’ he explained to Violet on the telephone, ‘that I am responsible for Robert. I am not condemned to take care of him. Only the girls, I mean Katerina and Eufemia, say it’s their duty to inform the police, it’s the law and so on.’
‘Has he got his passport with him?’
‘Oh, yes. He always carries his passport when abroad. He could have gone anywhere. It’s all rather typical. …Draw attention to himself. … A real damn nuisance. … Lina and who? Lina and Leo. Who’s Leo? Oh, well, I haven’t time to think about their affairs. Let them sleep with each other all day, all night; I only want to know if she’s had any message. Typical of the young, they don’t care what happens to their friends, they just fall into bed with someone else. … Yes, Violet. I know we were young once ourselves but we had some sense of behaviour, and we had feelings. I’m not going to be condemned to spend my time looking for Robert. No, he isn’t in my flat in Paris; my man there hasn’t seen or heard from him. There are a few bars here in Venice where they might know something, near the Sofia. He used to hang around. …’
The prospect of going around the bars alone asking for Robert did not appeal to him after the first try. ‘I’m looking for a young student; he was here last week. Name, Robert Leaver. Tall and thin, twenty-four, brown curly hair and a moustache, nice-looking.’ The bartenders and the groups of multi-national students looked at him, some replying with cynical indifference, some with plain resentment and with amusement, too. It was not a good idea. Curran went to the Hotel Lord Byron and claimed Mary Tiller from under Arnold’s eyes just as the couple were about to set off for their morning coffee at Florian’s in St Mark’s Square, like so many others.
‘I’ll come, too, if you insist on taking Mary. I’ll make enquiries everywhere. I’m the father,’ Arnold said. ‘I don’t know why I should do it, but I will.’
‘That would be the worst thing you could do,’ Curran said. There would be a lot of gossip and nothing accomplished. If he’s made friends in Venice they certainly won’t tell his father where he’s gone. Then the police are always hanging around these bars, you know, in plain clothes, dressed like students. They’ll imagine he’s on the run.’
‘Well, he is on the run.’
‘No doubt,’ said Curran. ‘Then let him run and don’t antagonize him. He’s free to do what he likes.’
‘He has no money,’ Arnold said.
‘Oh, yes, he has. I gave him some,’ said Mary.
‘Look, Arnold,’ said Curran, ‘you take a trip to one of the small islands. They’re very picturesque. Torcello, for instance. Mary and I can just go around on Robert’s usual beat, explaining that we’re tourists, we’ve come to Venice and we’re looking for a young friend.’
‘He might have gone back to Paris,’ Arnold said.
‘I know that. He might be in Turkey, anywhere.’
‘Arnold, don’t fuss,’ said Mary.
‘If you’re going to spoil our holiday like this, Mary,’ Arnold said, ‘I shall return to England.’
Oh, no,’ said Mary. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon. There’s nothing, really, to be anxious about, but it’s only that Curran wants to know, and the people at that Pensione want to know, naturally.’
Arnold finally let himself be put on a boat to Murano, with instructions to buy some small glass objects as presents to take home.
‘It would have been too bad, too unfair to Robert, to let him start making enquiries,’ Curran said. ‘A lot of these students are English-speaking and so are the Venetians. Robert would be furious when he came back to know that his father—’
‘If he does come back,’ said Mary. ‘In my opinion he’s left for good.’
‘Did you give him much money?’
‘No, I’ve only got my travellers’ cheques with me. I gave him seventy pounds. I’m sorry I did, now.’
‘He won’t go far on that,’ Curran said. He himself had given Robert a great deal more, only last week.
‘He didn’t ask for it, either,’ Mary said. ‘I just thought he might like it, to take his girl out to dinner, you know.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Curran said, ‘Robert isn’t short of money. He could always go where he liked, all the time.’
They made a rough radius of the Pensione Sofia, trekking through the narrow, crowded streets, the alleys, round a few squares and across bridges, enquiring for Robert wherever they found a group of young people. Many of these groups were of mixed nationalities. Curran and Mary together managed to make known their quest. Generally, the Venetians in the streets and in the bars were fairly obliging. They hesitated, took time, made suggestions, or wished the older couple good luck in finding their friend.
Curran, after two hours, four drinks and two espresso coffees at various bars, began to show his irritation at the lack of results; he was used to a fairly quick response to his demands; ideally, one pressed a bell and something began to happen; he began to feel appalled at the total nullity of the quest so far, and the probability that the two hours could be extended to eternity. It occurred to him to wonder if, should he catch sight of Robert himself standing on a bridge or leaning on a counter in a bar, he would not prefer to walk on, ignoring him. To Mary, he said, ‘We’ve been at it for two hours.’
‘Over two hours,’ said Mary. ‘If I’d known, I would have put on different shoes. My heels are a bit high for walking.’
‘I hate to be defeated,’ Curran said. ‘We should at least go to the University and fish around there.’
‘You know,’ said Mary, ‘you and I, Curran, are very much alike. I was just thinking we should go to the University, and I also hate to be defeated.’
Curran knew that her mind was not really set to the purpose when, on the way to the University, she said, vaguely, ‘We could, of course, try the hospitals. You know, he could have been run over, or something. …’
‘What by? A gondola?’ said Curran.
‘Or he could have been taken ill.’
‘He’s in the best of health,’ said Curran, ‘wherever he is. You can be sure of that.’
They took the water-bus to the nearest stop for the University and walked around for some time without seeing many studen
ts. Those whom they approached knew nothing of Robert Leaver.
‘My feet are tired,’ Mary said. ‘Why didn’t you bring Lina? He must have been seen with her. Someone might remember her by sight.’
‘I thought of Lina,’ said Curran, ‘but to be quite honest I don’t feel I should draw her into this at the moment. There’s nothing to be absolutely alarmed about, you know.’
‘Do you really want to find Robert?’ Mary said.
‘No, not particularly,’ Curran said. ‘You’re a clever woman, aren’t you?’
‘But you just want to make quite sure he’s gone.’
‘Something like that,’ Curran said. ‘It would be a damn nuisance, too, if the police started making enquiries. It isn’t a police affair.’
At a students’ eating-house, they found an American girl who seemed to remember Robert; at least, he was called Robert and fitted the description. She had met him in the library just off the Santa Maria Formosa, but that had been sort of last week. They had left the library together, walked around the church. ‘I think he was studying the church of Santa Maria Formosa.’
‘That’s right,’ Curran said.
‘Well, I think he was sort of thinking of writing a novel.’
‘A novel!’ said Curran.
‘Yes, I think so. Kind of, with that part of the city as a background.’
‘It’s quite probable,’ said Mary. ‘They all write novels.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Curran, ‘quite typical of Robert,’ and he looked at the American girl, a lumpy girl with an open shiny face, and asked her, ‘What next?’
‘Oh, nothing. I had a date and I just said, you know, good luck with your book. I didn’t see him around since.’
‘Thank you,’ said Curran. ‘Well, I expect we’ve missed our friend; he must have moved on.’
‘I guess so,’ said the girl.
Mary and Curran decided to go back to the Pensione Sofia. ‘Maybe we could question some of the guests,’ Mary said.
The two women have already done so. Nobody remembers him very much, and many of the guests who were there last week left at the week-end; new ones came.’
On the way back they stopped for lunch at Curran’s favourite restaurant near the Pensione Sofia. There, without prompting, the waiter said to Curran, ‘Where’s your young friend?’ It occurred to Curran that in any other circumstances this would have been indiscreet. But now he responded eagerly, ‘We’re looking for him. You haven’t seen him by chance? Has he been in here lately? The last few days?’