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Miss Garnet’s Angel
Salley Vickers
Salley Vicker’s sensational debut novel, ‘Miss Garnet’s Angel’, is a voyage of discovery; a novel about Venice but also the rich story of the explosive possibilities of change in all of us at any time.Julia Garnet is a teacher. Just retired, she is left a legacy which she uses by leaving her orderly life and going to live – in winter – in an apartment in Venice. Its beauty, its secret corners and treasures, and its people overwhelm a lifetime of reserve and caution. Above all, she’s touched by the all-prevalent spirit of the Angel, Raphael.The ancient tale of Tobias, who travels to Media unaware he is accompanied by the Archangel Raphael, unfolds alongside Julia Garnet’s contemporary journey.The two stories interweave with parents and landladies, restorers and priests, American tourists and ancient travellers abounding.The result is an enormously satisfying journey of the spirit – and Julia Garnet is a character to treasure.



Miss Garnet’s Angel
Salley Vickers




COPYRIGHT (#ulink_4de4ed34-914e-558e-92b1-2f9c4fe142a0)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Fourth Estate
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Copyright © Salley Vickers 2000

www.salleyvickers.com (http://www.salleyvickers.com)
Salley Vickers asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content or written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780006514213
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 9780007364336
Version: 2016-09-19

DEDICATION (#ulink_b966d9af-54a8-55b9-9ffb-8c76264cc927)
For Grace Fredericks, with love and gratitude

EPIGRAPH (#ulink_7f996741-0de3-5cf0-a293-82ab534b9dbb)
‘If some people really see angels, where others see empty space, let them paint the angels…’
JOHN RUSKIN


TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover Page (#ua9a46c78-5553-5eb4-9529-4de3e8e74b78)
Title Page (#u8e94d0a4-92cd-560c-8e7c-3e332ec328a9)
Copyright (#uf8bbfdb8-8212-5802-a3d1-33d0963198df)
Dedication (#udc6c0d2e-58ec-55a6-b508-c336be21c113)
Epigraph (#u41af9425-fe4d-5e18-ad5e-1d1af6621e72)
Maps (#u67edd84a-4156-537d-9d7b-01a18e845e70)
An Introduction To Miss Garnet’s Angel (#ueac0e5ee-c362-588c-a001-f60e75d2c28a)
I Epiphany (#u637378c3-5622-5601-8555-292a37d51267)
1 (#u24d22572-75b4-5406-9832-d7c9dfd78e62)
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3 (#u4ff8fd81-ab96-5ef5-9e16-1d626580aeec)
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II Passover (#litres_trial_promo)
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III Visitation (#litres_trial_promo)
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IV The Feast Of Raphael (#litres_trial_promo)
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Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Mr Golightly’s Holiday (#litres_trial_promo)
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Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgement (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

MAPS (#ulink_0cd51dbf-ee8c-5144-9fba-2904939a653c)





AN INTRODUCTION TO MISS GARNET’S ANGEL (#ulink_c465ac86-79c5-52c0-8e89-23e16e5c2a27)
An introduction to one’s own book is an odd thing to write because, inevitably, it must be written after finishing the book–in this case some time after. So, in a sense, although this appears at the start of this book it is not an ‘introduction’ at all, more of an afterword. But if you are anything like me you won’t be reading this till you have finished the book, anyway–if at all!
‘Miss Garnet’s Angel’ has been out in the world for some time now and has its own life, which often feels to have precious little to do with me, its author. I’m not even sure if an author is the best authority on her own work–many people write to me with questions, but also people write and tell me (in effect) that I am wrong about certain things they have heard me say, or read I have said about the book.
I must admit this last tendency, the correcting me on my own work, amuses me. But it also delights me because it proves something I have always believed: that a book is a meeting place between author and reader and that the reader brings almost as much creative power to bear on the book as the person who has written it. Certainly, we authors need readers, not merely to buy and read our books, essential as that is–after all, if you don’t buy our books we can’t get to write and publish more, so you, the readers, have in fact a great power in your hands and can influence what is or isn’t published which, in turn, affects public taste. But authors also need readers to understand what they write, and in the act of being, variously, comprehended a book can grow–even grow wings, which this one certainly has.
I’ve been charmed by the widespread communications I’ve received from round the world: from a Parsi librarian in Bombay, from a monastery in the Australian outback, from a hut in Hawaii, a remote island in Greece, an office in Argentina, a croft in Scotland, a boat on the Adriatic Sea. People sometimes apologise for ‘bothering’ me when they write but goodness knows why–for nothing is more interesting and valuable to a writer than hearing how a book has gone down. Hearing from, and talking with, my readers has expanded my own thinking and understanding.
And along the way, another prejudice of mine has been confirmed, which is that readers’ intelligence is often woefully underrated. Aspects of the book which literary critics–positive as they have been–and even my vigilant editor missed have been picked up by sharp-witted readers. For example, the novel is composed of two stories which parallel and reflect each other but, I hoped, not so obviously as to be intrusive and distract from the simple enjoyment of an unfolding story of one woman’s life. In the old tale of Tobias and the Angel, the Archangel Raphael appears in disguise–this occurs in the contemporary story, but more obliquely, unannounced or commented upon, and readers, I’m happy to say, often spot this hidden theme. The ancients believed that ‘higher’, or ‘lower’, beings revealed themselves to humankind in human form–they didn’t necessarily expect visions or visitations; but the acts of exceptional kindness, or mercy, or forgiveness, as well as their opposites, which humans beings are capable of are perhaps the contemporary equivalent of the old belief in intervening supernatural powers, both malign and benign.
Readers also pose thoughtful questions. Two common questions are asked, which I am not going to answer here, not because it might spoil the book but because there genuinely are no answers. I believe that a book, like a human being, should never quite have everything about it explained but retain some of its mystery. The questions are: What happened to the other part of the diptych? and what happens to Miss Garnet at the novel’s close? The ending, in particular, causes debate–but I think ambiguity is probably one of the elements in the book which makes it distinctive. It’s not that you can choose your ending exactly, but that how you respond to the whole book, and the unravelling of the events of its heroine’s life, will colour how you perceive the end.
People sometimes suggest that the book has had an impact on their own lives–leading them to cast off caution, break out, try new things, and be brave. I don’t think this kind of effect is, or should be, the purpose of a book but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t please me that a book about an elderly tight-lipped atheist spinster virgin, who falls unsuitably in love, gets clobbered for it and only then begins to live fully, should have this seemingly strengthening impact. If it does have some such influence, then I don’t want to take credit for it–my guess is that this kind of development is already nascent in the reader, who may even have alighted on this very book because of some unconscious pre-formed identification with its heroine’s predicament–or with the old story of the hard journey which we must travel if we would overcome the fear and find the love hidden in our own hearts.
How readers choose books is also a mystery, one which the word-of-mouth success of ‘Miss Garnet’s Angel’ suggests defies all prudent modern accounting or clever marketing. Now that’s something we all of us–reader and author–alike might fairly be proud of. For much as I reject the idea of any “philosophy” behind a book, if this book were to reflect any one definable philosophy it might be this: that life is not ours to predict or control, that it resists all such attempts but that, ultimately, individuals know what is good for them–which is not necessarily what others (or even they themselves) might believe is what they want or need–and are, immeasurably–gloriously, even–the stronger and the richer thereby.
Salley Vickers
2003

I EPIPHANY (#ulink_da79ba15-e161-55cd-bc73-c11928ee7acf)

1 (#ulink_4f41d901-2ac8-5797-a997-c118cf65e237)
Death is outside life but it alters it: it leaves a hole in the fabric of things which those who are left behind try to repair. Perhaps it is because of this we are minded to feast at funerals and it is said that certain children are conceived on the eve of a departure, lest the separation of the partners be permanent. When in ancient stories heroes die, the first thing their comrades do, having made due observances to the gods, is sit and eat. Then they travel on, challenging, with their frail vitality, the large enigma of non-being.
When Miss Garnet’s friend Harriet died, Miss Garnet decided to spend six months abroad. For Miss Garnet, who was certainly past child-bearing years and had lost the only person she ever ate with, the decision to travel was a bold one. Her expeditions abroad had been few and for the most part tinged with apprehension. As a young woman straight from college she had volunteered, while teaching the Hundred Years’ War, to take a school party to Crécy. On that occasion she had become flustered when, behind her back but audibly, the boys had mocked her accent and had intimated (none too subtly) that she had brought them to France in order to forge a liaison with the large, sweating, white-faced coach driver.
‘Mademoiselle from Armentières,’ they had sung hilariously in the back of the coach. ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières. Hasn’t had sex for forty years!’ And as she had attempted to convey to the coach driver the time she considered it prudent to start back for Calais, wildly and suggestively they had chorused, ‘Inky pinky parley vous!’
The experience had left its mark on Miss Garnet’s teaching as well as on her memory. Essentially a shy person, her impulses towards cordiality with her pupils, never strong in the first place, were dealt a blow. She withdrew, acquired a reputation for strictness, even severity, and in time became the kind of teacher who, if not loved, was at least respected. Even latterly, when in terms of pupils’ taunts Mademoiselle From Armentières would be considered very small beer, no member of Miss Garnet’s classes ever thought publicly to express a view about her intimate life.
Julia Garnet and Harriet Josephs had lived together for more than thirty years. Harriet had answered Julia’s advertisement in the National Union of Teachers’ monthly journal. ‘Quiet, professional female sought to share small West London flat. No smokers. No pets.’
Harriet had been, in fact, the only person to respond to the advertisement, which had not prevented Julia from giving her what her friend later described as ‘a toughish interview’. ‘Honestly,’ Harriet had used to say, on the few occasions when together they had entertained friends, ‘it was worse than the time I tried to get into the Civil Service!’
Generally Harriet had laughed loudly at this point in a way her flat-mate had found irritating. Now Miss Garnet found she missed the laugh just as she missed Stella, Harriet’s cat. The prohibition against pets had been relaxed seven years earlier when late one night after choir-practice Harriet had been followed from the station by Stella. Stella, then an anonymous black kitten with a white-starred throat, had waited all night on the stairs outside the front door of their fourth-floor flat, whereupon, on finding her, the soft-hearted Harriet had fed the kitten milk. After that, as Julia had observed, there was ‘no getting rid of the animal’.
Alongside the two school teachers Stella had grown into an elderly and affectionate creature but it was Harriet to whom the cat had remained attached. Two days after they had both retired (they had arranged the events to coincide in order, Harriet had suggested, that the New Year could see them setting off on ‘new feet’) Julia returned from the shops to find her companion, apparently asleep, stretched out upon the sofa, her romantic novel face down on the carpet. Later, after the doctor and then the undertaker had been, Stella disappeared. Julia had placed milk outside first the flat door and then, worry making her brave the neighbours’ ridicule, downstairs by the main entrance to the block. The milk she left outside was certainly drunk but after a few days she was forced to accept that it was not Stella drinking the milk but, more likely, the urban fox who had been seen rootling in the communal dustbins.
Perhaps it was not just the loss of Stella, but also her incompetence in the face of it–so soon after losing Harriet–which finally determined Miss Garnet’s abrupt decision. She and Harriet had made plans–or rather Harriet had–for it must be said that, of the two, she was the more given to planning. (‘Flighty’ was sometimes her companion’s name for Harriet’s tendency to cut out advertisements from the Observer for trips to faraway and exotic places.) Harriet’s (now permanent) flight had rendered the plans pointless; a kind of numbness had dulled Miss Garnet’s usual caution and she found herself, before she was quite aware what was happening, calling in on one of the numerous local estate agents which had sprung up in her locality.
‘No worries, Mrs Garnet, we’ll be able to rent this, easy,’ the young man with the too-short haircut and the fluorescent mobile phone had said.
‘Miss Garnet, it’s Miss,’ she had explained, anxious not to accept a title to which she felt she had never managed to rise. (There had never been any question of Miss Garnet being a Ms: her great-aunt had had some association with Christabel Pankhurst and the connection, however loose, with the famous suffragette had strengthened Miss Garnet’s views on the misplaced priorities of modern feminism.)
‘Miss, I’m sorry,’ the young man had said, trying not to laugh at the poor old bird. He’d heard from Mrs Barry, the caretaker, that there had been another old girl living with her who had just died. Probably lezzies, he thought.
Miss Garnet was not a lesbian, any more than Harriet Josephs had been, although both women had grown aware that that is what people sometimes assumed of them.
‘It is very vexing,’ Harriet had said once, when a widowed friend had opined that Jane Austen might have been gay, ‘to be considered homosexual just because one hasn’t been lucky enough to marry.’
‘Or foolish enough,’ Julia had added. But privately she believed Harriet was right. It would have been a piece of luck to have been loved by a man enough to have been his wife. She had been asked once for a kiss, at the end-of-term party at the school where she had taught History for thirty-five years. The request had come from a man who, late in life, had felt it was his vocation to teach and had come, for his probationary year, to St Barnabas and St James, where Miss Garnet had risen to the position of Head of the History Department. But he had been asked to leave after he had been observed hanging around the fifth-form girls’ lockers after Games. Julia, who had regretted not obliging with the kiss, wept secretly into her handkerchief on hearing of Mr Kenton’s departure. Later she plucked up courage to write to him, with news about the radical modern play he had been directing. Mr Maguire, Head of English, had had to take over–and in Miss Garnet’s view the play had suffered as a consequence. Timidly, she had communicated this thought to the departed Mr Kenton but the letter had been returned with ‘NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS’ printed on the outside. Miss Garnet had found herself rather relieved and had silently shredded her single attempt at seduction into the rubbish bin.
‘Where you off to then?’ the young estate agent had asked, after they had agreed the terms on which the flat was to be let (no smoking, and no pets–out of respect to Stella).
Perhaps it was the young man’s obvious indifference which acted as a catalyst to the surprising form she found her answer taking–for she had not, in fact, yet formulated in her mind where she might go, should the flat prove acceptable for letting to Messrs Brown & Noble.
Across Miss Garnet’s memory paraded the several coloured advertisements for far-flung places which, along with some magazine cuttings concerning unsuitable hair dye, she had cleared from Harriet’s oak bureau and which (steeling herself a little) she had recently placed in the dustbin. One advertisement had been for a cruise around the Adriatic Sea, visiting cities of historical interest. The most famous of these now flashed savingly into her mind.
‘Venice,’ she announced firmly. ‘I shall be taking six months in Venice.’ And then, because it is rarely possible, at a stroke, to throw off the habits of a lifetime, ‘I believe it is cheaper at this time of year.’
It was cold when Miss Garnet landed at Marco Polo airport. Uncertain of all that she was likely to encounter on her exotic adventure she had at least had the foresight to equip herself with good boots. The well-soled boots provided a small counter to her sense of being somewhat insubstantial when, having collected her single suitcase with the stout leather strap which had been her mother’s, she followed the other arrivals outside to where a man with a clipboard shouted and gestured.
Before her spread a pearl-grey, shimmering, quite alien waste of water.
‘Zattere,’ Miss Garnet enunciated. She had, through an agency found in the Guardian’s Holiday Section, taken an appartamento in one of the cheaper areas of Venice. And then, more distinctly, because the man with the clipboard appeared to pay no attention, ‘Zattere!’
‘Si, si, Signora, momento, momento.’ He gestured at a water-taxi and then at a well-dressed couple who had pushed ahead of Miss Garnet in the shambling queue. ‘Prego?’
‘Hotel Gritti Palace?’ The man, a tall American with a spade-cut beard, spoke with the authority of money. Even Miss Garnet knew that the Gritti was one of the more exclusive of Venice’s many expensive hotels. She had been disappointed to learn that a Socialist playwright, one whom she admired, was in the habit of taking rooms there each spring. Years ago, as a student teacher, Miss Garnet had, rather diffidently, joined the Labour Party. Over the years she had found the policies of succeeding leaders inadequately representative of her idea of socialism. Readings of first Marx and then Lenin had led her, less diffidently, to leave the Labour Party to join the Communists instead. Despite all that had happened in Europe over the years she saw no reason now to alter her allegiance to the ideology which had sustained her for so long. Indeed, it was partly Venice’s reputation for left-wing activity which had underpinned her novel notion to reside there for six months. Now the long plane flight, the extreme cold rising off the grey-green lagoon waters and the extremer fear, rising from what seemed more and more like her own foolhardiness, joined force with political prejudice.
‘Excuse me,’ Miss Garnet raised her voice towards the polished couple, ‘but I was first.’ As she spoke she lost her footing, grazing her leg against a bollard.
The woman of the couple turned to examine the person from whom these commanding words had issued. She saw a thin woman of medium height wearing a long tweed coat and a hat with a veil caught back against the crown. The hat had belonged to Harriet and although Miss Garnet, when she had seen it on Harriet, had considered it overdramatic, she had found herself reluctant to relegate it to the Oxfam box. The hat represented, she recognised, a side to Harriet which she had disregarded when her friend was alive. As a kind of impulsive late gesture to her friend’s sense of the theatrical, she had placed the hat onto her head in the last minutes before leaving for the airport.
Perhaps it was the hat or perhaps it was the tone of voice but the couple responded as if Miss Garnet was a ‘somebody’. Maybe, they thought, she is one of the English aristocracy who consider it bad form to dress showily. Certainly the little woman with the delicately angular features spoke with the diction of a duchess.
‘Excuse us,’ the man spoke in a deep New England accent, ‘we would be honoured if you would share our taxi.’
Miss Garnet paused. She was unaccustomed to accepting favours, especially from tall, urbane-mannered men. But she was tired and, she had to own, rather scared. Her knee hurt where she had stupidly bashed it. And there remained the fact that they had, after all, pushed in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ she spoke more loudly than usual so as to distract attention from the blood she feared was now seeping observably through her thick stocking, ‘I should be glad to share with you.’
The American couple, concerned to undo any unintentional impoliteness, insisted the water-taxi take Miss Garnet to the Campo Angelo Raffaele, where the apartment she had rented was located. Miss Garnet had chosen the address, out of many similar possibilities, on account of the name. Devout Communist as she was, there was something reassuring about the Angel Raphael. She found the numerous other saintly figures, whose names attach to Venice’s streets and monuments, unfamiliar and off-putting. The Angel Raphael she knew about. Of the Archangels of her Baptist childhood, Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, the latter had the most appeal.
The water-taxi drew up at shallow broad stone steps, covered in a dangerous-looking green slime. Miss Garnet, holding back the long skirts of her coat, carefully stepped out of the boat.
‘Oh, but you have hurt yourself!’ cried the American woman, whose name, Miss Garnet had learned, was Cynthia.
But Miss Garnet, who was looking up, had caught the benevolent gaze of an angel. He was standing with a protective arm around what appeared to be a small boy carrying a large fish. On the other side of the angel was a hound.
‘Thank you,’ she said, slightly dazed, ‘I shall be fine.’ Then, ‘Oh, but I must pay you,’ she shouted as the boat moved off down the rio. But the Americans only waved smiling and shouted back that it could wait and she could pay what she owed when they all met again. ‘Look after that leg, now,’ urged the woman, and, ‘Come to our hotel,’ boomed the man, so loudly that three small boys on the other side of the canal called out and waved too at the departing boat.
Miss Garnet found that the departure of the newly met Americans left her feeling forlorn. Impatient with what seemed a silly show of sentimentality in herself, she caught up her suitcase and her hand luggage and looked about to get her bearings. Above her the angel winked down again and she now took in that this was the frontage of the Chiesa dell’Angelo Raffaele itself, which lent its name not only to the campo but also, most graciously, to the waterfront before it.
‘Scusi,’ said Miss Garnet to the boys who had crossed the brick bridge to inspect the new visitor, ‘Campo Angelo Raffaele?’ She was rather proud and at the same time shy of the ‘Scusi’.
‘Si, si,’ cried the boys grabbing at her luggage. Just in time Miss Garnet managed to discern that their intentions were not sinister but they wished merely to earn a few lire by carrying her bags to her destination. She produced the paper on which she had written the address and proffered it to the tallest and most intelligent-looking boy.
‘Si, si!’ he exclaimed pointing across the square and a smaller boy, who had commandeered the suitcase, almost ran with it towards a flaking rose-red house with green shutters and washing hanging from a balcony.
The journey was no more than thirty metres and Miss Garnet, concerned not to seem stingy, became confused as to what she should tip the boys for their ‘help’. She hardly needed help: the suitcase was packed with a deliberate economy and the years of independence had made her physically strong. Nevertheless it seemed churlish not to reward such a welcome from these attractive boys. Despite her thirty-five years of school teaching Miss Garnet was unused to receiving attentions from youth.
‘Thank you,’ she said as they clustered around the front door but before she had settled the problem of how to register her thanks properly the door opened and a middle-aged, dark-haired woman was there greeting her and apparently sending the boys packing.
‘They were kind.’ Miss Garnet spoke regretfully watching them running and caterwauling across the campo.
‘Si, si, Signora, they are the boys of my cousin. They must help you, of course. Come in, please, I wait here for you to show you the apartment.’
Signora Mignelli had acquired her English from her years of letting to visitors. Her command of Miss Garnet’s mother tongue made Miss Garnet rather ashamed of her own inadequacies in Signora Mignelli’s. The Signora showed Miss Garnet to a small apartment with a bedroom, a kitchen-living room, a bathroom and a green wrought-iron balcony. ‘No sole,’ Signora Mignelli waved at the white sky, ‘but when there is…ah!’ she unfolded her hands to indicate the blessings of warmth awaiting her tenant.
The balcony overlooked the chiesa but to the back of the building where the angel with the boy and the dog were not visible. Still, there was something lovely in the tawny brick and the general air of plant-encroaching dilapidation. Miss Garnet wanted to ask if the church was ever open–it had a kind of air as if it had been shut up for good–but she did not known how to broach such a topic as ‘church’ with Signora Mignelli.
Instead, her landlady told her where to shop, where she might do her laundry, how to travel about Venice by the vaporetti, the water buses which make their ways through the watery thoroughfares. The apartment’s fridge already contained milk and butter. Also, half a bottle of syrop, coloured an alarming orange, presumably left by a former occupant. In the bread bin the Signora pointed out a long end of a crusty loaf and in a bowl a pyramid of green-leafed clementines. A blue glass vase on a sideboard held a clutch of dark pink anemones.
‘Oh, how pretty,’ said Miss Garnet, thinking how like some painting it all looked, and blushed.
‘It is good, no?’ said the Signora, pleased at the effect of her apartment. And then commandingly, ‘You have a hurt? Let me see!’

Miss Garnet, her knee washed and dressed by a remonstrating Signora Mignelli, spent the afternoon unpacking and rearranging the few movable pieces in the rooms. In the sitting room she removed some of the numerous lace mats, stacked together the scattered nest of small tables and relocated the antiquated telephone–for, surely, she would hardly be needing it–to an out-of-the-way marble-topped sideboard.
The bedroom was narrow, so narrow that the bed with its carved wooden headboard and pearl-white crocheted coverlet almost filled it. On the wall over the bed hung a picture of the Virgin and Christ Child.
‘Can’t be doing with that,’ said Miss Garnet to herself, and unhooking the picture from the wall she looked about for a place to store it. There were other pictures of religious subjects and, after consideration, the top of the ornately fronted wardrobe in the hallway seemed a safe spot to deposit all the holy pictures.
Going to wash her hands (in spite of the high cleanliness of the rooms the pictures were dusty) she found no soap and made that a reason for her first shopping expedition.
And really it was quite easy, she thought to herself, coming out of the farmacia with strawberry-scented soap, because Italian sounds made sense: farmacia, when you heard it, sounded like pharmacy, after all.
After three days Miss Garnet had become, surprisingly (for she was unused to forming new habits), familiar with the neighbourhood. She shopped at one of the local greengrocers who spoke English, where the stacked piles of bright fruits and vegetables appeared, to an imagination nourished among the shops of Ealing, minor miracles of texture and colour. At the husband and wife grocers, the parmigiano cheese and the wafer-sliced prosciutto made her stomach rumble in anticipation of lunch and at the bakers she dithered almost frivolously over whether to buy one of the long crusty loaves which must be consumed within a day’s span or the olive-bread, doughy and moist, which lasted if wrapped tight in a polythene bag.
Miss Garnet had not, so far, done more than wander around the neighbourhood and sleep. Before her departure she had gone to Stanfords of Covent Garden where she had purchased a learned-looking book, Venice for Historians by the Reverend Martin Crystal, MA (Oxon.). A brief survey suggested the content was sensibly historical and in view of the MA (Oxon.) she was prepared to overlook the title of ‘Reverend’. But when with a sense of sober preparation she opened the Reverend Crystal, on more than one occasion she found herself falling asleep. She was rather ashamed of this new tendency for sleeping: nine or ten hours a night and, in addition, often a doze in the early afternoon, but nothing worked to abate it. In an effort to rise at eight, she set her alarm and woke at ten to find, defiant in half-sleep, she had depressed the switch to turn the ringer off. After that she succumbed to the narcolepsy and allowed it to overtake her.
It was after one such heavy afternoon doze that Miss Garnet woke to voices in the campo outside. Pulling on a cardigan she went to the window. A procession. Children running, singing, blowing squeakers like rude tongues and toy trumpets; mothers with babies in their arms and older children in pushchairs. Amid them, magnificent in scarlet, blue and gold, walked three crowned kings.
One of the kings turned back towards her window and she recognised him. It was the tallest of the three boys who had helped her on the first day. She had half looked for the boys since. Seeing one of them now gave her her first sense of belonging. The boy-king smiled and waved up at her and she tried to open the window to the balcony. But, oh how maddening, it was stuck. She wrestled with the catch, pulled and wrenched, swore quite violently and had torn her thumbnail before she heaved her way outside and onto the balcony.
But the procession had left the campo and the last edges of it were already trailing over the brick bridge which crossed the Rio dell’Angelo Raffaele.
‘Damn, damn, damn.’ Miss Garnet was almost in tears at the disappointment of having missed the spectacle. She wondered if she ran downstairs at once and across the square after them all whether she could perhaps catch up with the colourful parade. But she felt fearful of making a fool of herself.
The loss of the procession produced a sudden drop in Miss Garnet’s mood. She had been proud of her acquisition of local information which had produced a competence she had not foreseen. The regular, easy trips to the shops had begun already to create for her a stability, a base which had taken thirty-five years to build in Ealing. But now, the image of the smiling scarlet-robed boy, who had conducted her so courteously to Signora Mignelli’s, threatened that security. Miss Garnet was not given to fancifulness but she felt almost as if the boy had picked up a stone from the dusty floor of the campo and hurled it deliberately at her. The laughing and chattering of the locals had about it the sharp ring of exclusion. It was not, she was sure, that they intended to exclude her–the few days Miss Garnet had already spent were sufficient to establish that these were not excluding people–but that she was entirely ignorant of what was of real importance to them. The event that had passed so vividly over the bridge had some meaning, to be sure, but what that meaning was remained a blank to her.
There was no refuge in a return to the soft, sagging bed from which she had recently awakened. She had slept too much already and the heavy-limbed lethargy, which had become familiar and acceptable, was replaced by a different quality of heaviness. Unpractised at introspection Miss Garnet nevertheless began to suspect she might be missing Harriet. The faint insight stirred a desire for physical activity.
Miss Garnet, who had been enjoying what Harriet would have called ‘pottering about’, had so far not ventured beyond the area around the Campo Angelo Raffaele. But now she felt it was time to assert her position as visitor. It was naive to pretend, as she had been doing, that in so short a space of time she had somehow ‘fitted in’. She was a foreigner, after all, and here principally to see and learn about the historic sights of Venice.
The light afternoon was filled with mist, and Miss Garnet hesitated a moment before taking down Harriet’s hat. ‘A third of body heat is lost through the head,’ her father, a fund of proverbial wisdoms, had used to say. It was cold and Harriet’s hat, with its veil, might, after all, prove serviceable. Glancing at the looking-glass in the tall yellow wardrobe she gained a fleet impression of someone unknown: the blackspotted veil falling from the sleek crown acted as a kind of tonic to her herringbone tweed. The once unfashionably long coat, bridging the gap between one well-booted and one veiled extremity, had somehow acquired a sense of the stylish rather than the haphazard.
Miss Garnet was the reverse of vain but the sight of herself framed in the speckled looking-glass boosted her spirits. She felt more fortified against the sudden sweeping sense of strangeness which had assailed her. Taking from the bureau drawer the map of Venice she had purchased along with the Reverend Crystal, she unfolded it to plot a route.
But where to start? The glint of introspection which had just been ignited began to illuminate an insecurity: her parochial tendencies had been born of timidity, rather than a natural aptitude with the new locality. For all its apparent clarity she found the map bewildering. One location alone had any resonance for her: the Piazza San Marco, Venice’s focal point. At least she knew about that from her teaching of history. She would go to the Piazza, from where the doges had once set out to wed the seas with rings.

Miss Garnet had chosen one of the further reaches of the almost-island-which-is-Venice to stay in and from this remoter quarter the walk to the Piazza San Marco takes time. Despite Signora Mignelli’s instructions Miss Garnet did not yet feel equal to experimenting with the vaporetti and besides, exercise, she felt, was what was called for. She walked purposefully along the narrow calle which led down to the Accademia (where, the Reverend Crystal promised, a wealth of artistic treasure awaited her). At the wooden Accademia bridge she halted. Ahead of her, like a vast soap bubble formed out of the circling, dove-coloured mists, stood Santa Maria della Salute, the church which breasts the entrance to Venice’s Grand Canal.
‘Oh!’ cried Miss Garnet. She caught at her throat and then at Harriet’s veil, scrabbling it back from her eyes to see more clearly. And oh, the light! ‘Lord, Lord,’ sighed Julia Garnet.
She did not know why she had used those words as she moved off, frightened to stay longer lest the unfamiliar beauty so captivate her that she turn to stone, as she later amusingly phrased it to herself. But it was true it was a kind of fear she felt, almost as if she was fleeing some harrowing spectre who stalked her progress. Across another campo, then over bridges, along further alleys, past astonishing pastries piled high in gleaming windows, past shops filled with bottled liquor, alarming knives, swathes of patterned paper. Once she passed an artists’ suppliers where, in spite of the spectre, she stopped to admire the window packed with square dishes heaped with brilliant coloured powders: oro, oro pallido, argento, lacca rossa–gold, silver, red, the colours of alchemy, thought Miss Garnet, hurrying on, for she had read about alchemy when she was teaching the Renaissance to the fifth form.
At the edge of the Piazza she halted. Let the spectre do its worst, for here was the culmination of her quest. Before her stood the campanile, the tall bell-tower, and behind it, in glimmering heaps and folds, in gilded wings and waved encrustations, emerged the outline of St Mark’s. People might speak of St Mark’s as a kind of dream but Miss Garnet had never known such dreams. Once, as a child, she dreamed she had become a mermaid; that was the closest she had ever come to this.
Measuring each step she walked across the Piazza. Although still afternoon the sky was beginning to darken and already a pearl fingernail clipping of moon was appearing, like an inspired throwaway gesture designed to point up the whole effect of the basilica’s sheen. Reaching the arched portals Miss Garnet stopped, wondering if it was all right to go on. But it must be, look there were other tourists–how silly she was, of course one didn’t have to be a Christian to enter and inspect a renowned example of Byzantine architecture.
Inside the great cathedral before her a line of people shuffled forward. Above her, and on all sides, light played and danced from a million tiny surfaces of refracted gold. A dull smell of onions disconcertingly filled her nostrils. What was it? Years of sweat, perhaps, perfusing the much-visited old air.
There appeared to be a restriction on where one might walk, for barriers and ropes were prohibiting entrances here, blocking ingress there. ‘But why are those people allowed?’ queried Miss Garnet. For there were men and women but mostly, it must be said, the latter, moving into the great interior space from which the swaying line of visitors was debarred. She stopped before an official in navy uniform. ‘Vespero?’ he enquired and ‘Si, si,’ she found herself replying for whatever it was she was not going to be shut out a second time that day.
The official detached the wine-coloured rope from its catch and ushered the Signora in the black veil through. ‘Look, it’s our little duchess,’ Cynthia Cutforth exclaimed to her husband. ‘She’s joining the service, she must be a Roman Catholic. See how cute she looks in her veil.’
But Miss Garnet was oblivious to all but the extraordinary surroundings in which she now found herself. Silver lamps burned dimly in the recesses. Above her and on all sides loomed strange glittering mosaic figures, in a background of unremitting gold. A succession of images–lions, lambs, flowers, thorns, eagles, serpents, dragons, doves–wove before her startled eyes a shimmering vision, awful and benign. Like blood forcing a route through long-constricted arteries a kind of wild rejoicing began to cascade through her. Stumbling slightly she made her way to a seat on the main aisle.
There was a thin stapled book of paper on the seat and picking it up she saw ‘Vespero Epifania’. Of course! Epiphany. How stupid she had been. January the sixth was the English Twelfth Night when the Lord of Misrule was traditionally abroad and one took down one’s Christmas decorations to avert ill luck. But here, in a Catholic country, the journey of the Magi, who followed the star with their gifts for the baby who was born in the manger, was still celebrated. That was the meaning of the three kings who had graced the Campo Angelo Raffaele that afternoon.
Later, as Miss Garnet emerged from the service the crescent moon had vanished from the sky and instead a lighted tree was shining at the far end of the Piazza. Along the colonnades, which framed the square, hung lavish swags of evergreen, threaded and bound with gold and scarlet ribbon. They do not bother to avert ill luck here, thought Miss Garnet as she retraced her way home. There was a peace in her heart which she did not quite understand. But, as she paced unafraid towards the Campo Angelo Raffaele she understood enough not to ask the meaning of it.
When she had returned to Signora Mignelli’s apartment, Miss Garnet, who had never in her life gone to bed without first hanging up her clothes, had simply stepped out of them, shoes, coat, hat, blouse, skirt, petticoat, underwear, all, and left them, an untidy pool, in the middle of the marble floor. They were the first thing she found the following morning. Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe to put away Harriet’s hat, her hand knocked against something and the picture of the Virgin and Child crashed to the ground.
The picture itself seemed unharmed but the glass was broken. Dismayed, Miss Garnet examined it. The Virgin’s calm visage stared out through shards of glass. I will have to find a glass-cutter, determined Miss Garnet.
Outside some boys were kicking a football and among them she recognised the tallest Magi. ‘Scusi,’ called Miss Garnet from the balcony and the boy ran across and stood politely below. She held up the fractured glass. ‘Scusi. Broken.’
Surprisingly, the boy appeared to comprehend. He beckoned vigorously, indicating that she should join him. Miss Garnet bundled herself back into her coat and hat. Shoving the Virgin and Child into a polythene bag she hurried down the stairs. Some letters on the mat caught her attention; two had British stamps and she pushed them into her pocket, adjusting Harriet’s veil with her other hand.
Outside, in the cold sunlight, the boy was waiting.
‘You want glass?’ he asked.
Miss Garnet was astonished. ‘You speak English!’ she cried and then, thinking this sounded too like an accusation, ‘you speak very well.’
‘Thank you.’ The boy lowered his eyelashes in appreciation. ‘My father say if I speak English good he send me to Londra.’
‘Oh, then perhaps you would like to speak it with me?’
She spoke slowly but the boy did not immediately understand. Then he favoured her with a perfect smile. ‘Si, Signora, I speak with you. My name is Nicco.’
Miss Garnet, unused to such physical charm, blushed. ‘Hello, Nicco, my name is…’ but how was the child going to manage ‘Miss Garnet’? So, ‘Julia,’ she concluded and blushed again.
Nicco smiled showing stunning teeth. ‘You want glass, Giulia?’
With a child’s acceptance he did not ask her how the accident had occurred but simply led her over bridges and along a calle until they reached a shop on the fondamenta where a man with a workman’s rubber apron and a red woollen hat sat over a wide sheet of brilliant blue glass. Nicco turned to his companion. ‘Here,’ he said, proudly, ‘glass.’
Miss Garnet offered the broken Virgin awkwardly to the man in the hat to whom Nicco was speaking rapidly. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘can you mend?’
Seeing the picture the man smiled broadly. Miss Garnet was relieved to notice that his teeth, unlike Nicco’s, were in a state of bad repair. ‘Bellini!’ he exclaimed, ‘Bellissimo Bellini,’ and he kissed his fingers in a way that Miss Garnet had seen only in films or on TV.
‘He likes very much,’ Nicco gravely explained.
‘But he can do it, he will mend the glass?’
In reply the man with the woolly hat held up a thick forefinger. ‘Si, Signora, in wan ower, OK?’ He spoke with exaggerated enunciation, displaying his tarry teeth.
What a relief, Miss Garnet said to herself and then, because she was jubilant that she had negotiated her first Venetian disaster, ‘Nicco, may I buy you lunch?’

Nicco, who did not at first understand her suggestion, became enthusiastic when the penny dropped. He led her to a Trattoria-Bar where he ordered a toasted cheese and ham sandwich and a Coke. Miss Garnet, daringly, chose gnocchi. The gnocchi came in a pale green sauce and was the most delicious thing she thought she had ever tasted. ‘Carciofi,’ Nicco said, when asked for the name of the green ingredient and cupped his hands in an effort to mimic an artichoke. She did not understand and then became distracted by the sudden appearance of a large glass of what appeared to be brandy.
‘For you,’ Nicco said proudly. ‘Is my cousin.’ He pointed at the young man who had produced the drink. ‘He say “Hi!”.’
‘Freddo!’ Nicco’s cousin clapped his arms around himself to indicate cold.
Miss Garnet was not a teetotaller but she rarely drank. A lifetime of abstemiousness had bred in her a poor head for alcohol. Nevertheless it seemed impolite to decline the courtesy. And really the brandy was most acceptable, she thought, as she sipped the contents of the big-bellied glass.
‘My cousin say, you like another?’
‘No, please, it was delicious. Please thank him, Nicco, just the bill.’
Miss Garnet felt unusually jolly as she and Nicco walked single file along the side of the green canal back to the glass-cutter. The light, refracting off the water on to the shabby brick frontages of the houses, bathed her eyes. The brandy had warmed her and a sense of wellbeing suffused her body.
Re-entering the glass-cutter’s Miss Garnet nearly knocked into a man on his way out and almost dropped the purse she had ready, so eager was she to complete the transaction which would restore Signora Mignelli’s picture. The glass-cutter had the repaired Virgin out on his bench but when Miss Garnet began to count the notes from her purse Nicco, who had been exchanging some banter with the departing customer, stopped her.
‘Is free,’ he explained.
Miss Garnet did not comprehend. ‘Three what, Nicco? Thousand, million?’ She prided herself on her mental arithmetic but the huge denominations of Italian currency still tripped her up.
‘No, no, is free.’
‘Oh, but I can’t…’
The glass-cutter was holding up the picture, excitedly stabbing at the Virgin’s face. ‘Bellissimo,’ he insisted, ‘per niente–is now charge. I give yow.’
Following Nicco back along the fondamenta Miss Garnet felt both subdued and elated. The refusal of the glass-cutter to accept a fee troubled her; and yet his powerful assertion of his own autonomy was also exhilarating. Karl Marx, she couldn’t help thinking, would have approved even if he would have deplored the glass-cutter’s motive. A love of the Virgin Mary would have struck Marx as a sign of subjection and yet one could not, really one could not, Miss Garnet mused, trying to keep up with Nicco’s pace, describe the man she had met as subject to anyone.
‘He like this artist,’ Nicco had explained. But Miss Garnet, in whom insight, like an incipient forest fire, was beginning to catch and creep, sensed suddenly there was more to it than that. The glass-cutter, she guessed, also liked the subject of Bellini’s painting and his love of Mary, and the bambino in her arms, was stronger than his love of money. How would Marx or even Lenin have explained that, she wondered as they arrived on the fondamenta alongside the Chiesa dell’Angelo Raffaele.
The Archangel smiled down at her and she remembered she had questions about the boy with the fish and the hound.
‘Nicco, who is the boy up there with the dog?’ She pointed to the stone effigies which were lodged two-thirds up the church’s façade.
But Nicco had other appointments. His pride in his new role as translator and guide was now giving way to peer anxiety. There was a football fixture he could not afford to miss. He shrugged.
‘Tobiolo?’ he said, uncertainly. ‘I see you again. Ciao, Giulia!’
And, ‘Ciao!’ Julia Garnet called after him watching his young shoulders as he ran across the bridge and disappeared behind the church.
The sun was a pale gold disc in the sky. Some words filtered into memory.
When the Sun rises, do you not see a round disk of fire, somewhat like a Guinea? O no, no, I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy!’…I question not my Corporeal Eye any more than I would Question a Window…I look thro’ it and not with it.
William Blake. Years ago she had been invited to contribute a chapter on Blake for a book on Radical Thinkers but somehow the project had never got off the ground. William Blake had been a revolutionary but had he not also been whipped by his father for seeing angels in the trees? Oro pallido, she thought to herself, crossing, in the lowering light, the bridge where Nicco had sped before her. This was not a morning sun on fire, like Blake’s, but pale wintery gold–oro pallido.
The letters which had been delivered from England were from Brown & Noble, the estate agents who had let the flat, and her friend, Vera Kessel. Vera, a fellow member of the Communist Party, had been at Cambridge with Julia Garnet. They had not been close as students but a few years later had recognised each other at a Party meeting and, thereafter, had occasionally gone on holidays to Dubrovnik or to the Black Sea together. The holidays had been bleak affairs, nothing like the trips Harriet had planned for their retirement.
The letters had been, in fact, forgotten until looking for her left glove she found them stuffed into the pocket of her coat. She opened them while the kettle boiled for tea.

Dear Miss Garnet,
This letter confirms a tenancy of six months to Mr A. D. Akbar at a rental of £1,200 p.c.m. We remind you of our terms of 12% to include insurance and collection fees. £1,006.00 (plus one month’s deposit) has been transferred to your account today and thereafter £1,006.00 until 3 June. Trusting in your continued satisfaction.
Yours etc.
‘To the eye of a Miser a Guinea is more beautiful than the Sun,’ murmured Miss Garnet, recalling some more of the words of the visionary poet which had come to her by the canal, and she opened the other envelope.
Dear Julia,
Just a brief card to wish you well in benighted Italy! How are you getting along with the RC God squad? Pretty oppressive I should imagine but I hope the history makes up for it.
We had a disappointing meeting about the unions last week. Ted spoke well as usual but much of the life has gone out of the comrades. All send greetings and solidarity.
Best, Vera.
For a moment Julia Garnet remembered the impoverished little ceremony with which she had bidden Harriet a final farewell, and the utilitarian stone with the severely practical information carved upon its stony face, with which she had chosen to mark the passing of her closest friend’s life. She wished now she had paid the funeral more attention. Harriet’s large, mild face hovered before her–somehow she could not quite get used to the idea that Harriet was no more.
She turned down the flame beneath the saucepan of water and added two tea bags. The kitchen was equipped with neither kettle nor teapot. At first she had minded, her cup of tea being a regular point in her routine, but now she enjoyed the slightly Bohemian feel to her saucepan tea-making. No ‘love’ in Vera’s letter. After nearly forty-five years’ acquaintance ‘Best’ was all Vera could manage.
The following morning Julia Garnet, this time with the Rev. Crystal in the pocket of her tweed coat (‘For really I must,’ she insisted to herself, ‘find out about this city’), returned to the basilica of St Mark. She entered not by the main door but by a less frequented doorway on the north side. It did not deter her that this side-slip into the cathedral was marked ‘Per Pregare’–‘For Prayer’.
Inside, by long, hanging red and silver lamps, a door was open onto a side chapel. With no special thought in her mind she entered.
About a dozen people sat, in the vaulted, ancient-looking surroundings, listening to a priest reading from a leather book. Julia Garnet looked around. At one end of the chapel a blue mosaic of a huge Madonna gazed down; at the other, a tomb on which rested an inclined marmoreal figure observed by an angel. Twelve candles burned on the table before the tomb.
The priest came to the end of his reading and sat down. There was a pause during which Julia Garnet waited for something to happen. After a while it became apparent that nothing was going to happen, except the silence.
Her first response was annoyance. The Vespers in St Mark’s had been dramatic: the flute voices of the clerics, the melodic bells, the incense, the enthralling rhythmic passing and return of the litany-chant thrown between priest and congregation–compared with the threnodic splendour of all that, this abrupt nothingness felt like a cheat. But after a while she began to enjoy the silence. She looked round at the mosaics which seemed to depict some awful martyrdom–certainly there was a body and a tomb and, yes, surely that was the same body being removed from the tomb, and here how eagerly it was being hauled away. There was a kind of ebullience in the narrative which she made out on the chapel walls as if the dead man had, if not enjoyed, at least participated energetically in his own persecution.
She twisted her neck to look back at the blue Madonna and found a man in a serge suit staring beadily at her, as if his was the task of checking her credentials to be present at the ceremony and was hopeful of finding them wanting. Abashed, she turned from the Madonna to examine the other attenders.
All were women and one, two, three, four, five, six–no seven of them in furs. Now there was a thing! Feeling in the pocket of her own tweed she remembered Vera’s letter and almost she started to laugh. What would Vera make of her sitting here in church among seven furs? And which would Vera abhor most? The chapel or the wealth? All the furs were elderly save one: a woman with a long daffodil pony-tail and high gold heels. ‘Tarty,’ Harriet would have called her. (Vera very likely would not have known how to use the word.) But Mary Magdalene had been a tart, hadn’t she? It was surprising how much you remembered of your school scriptures, thought Julia Garnet.
There was a disturbance now at the door and three nuns dressed in white robes entered. They looked like an African order with their smooth brown skins–but so young! The nuns, and really they were no more than children, heavily crossing themselves knelt, so that Julia Garnet could see their thick-soled boots. Now one of them was elaborately prostrating herself and kissing the ground while the grave fur-clad ladies sat decorously in impeccable silence. How irritating the young nuns were, and how out of place the kissing and the boots amid the unspeaking elegance. She was relieved to see them depart, noisily snatching at the water in a carved high stoup by the door. Around the bowl more angels.
One of the silent furred ones was wearing a wide-brimmed emerald hat. The woman was no younger than herself and Julia Garnet found she wanted just such a hat too. But surely this was not what the silence was for? Designing a wardrobe! Gently, like dripping honey, the quiet filled her pores, comforting as the dreamless sleeps she had fallen prey to. The angel over the inclining man gestured at the heavens; beneath him, another angel on the tomb looked with all-seeing, sightless eyes towards the angels on the holy-water stoup…I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy!’…The silence was holy. What did ‘holy’ mean? Did it mean the chance to be whole again? But when had one ever been whole? Silently, silently the priest sat and in the nameless peace Julia Garnet sat too, thinking no thoughts.
A slight stir on her right and someone had entered and was wanting to take the place beside her. A man crossing himself, but discreetly, thank God. Removing the Rev. Crystal from the seat she smelled tobacco and instantly her father was there, not in the days when he would remind her that cleanliness was next to godliness but in those last days when he was losing his mind and could smoke only under supervision. She had had to apologise to the nurses. ‘I am so sorry, he doesn’t know what he is saying,’ she had said, hearing with shame her self-righteous father’s demonic curses. And they would smile and tell her not to worry, it was all in a day’s work. But he did know what he was saying, Julia Garnet thought. And the nurses knew he knew.
And now the priest had risen to his feet and they were all on their feet a little after him and a man with a bell had arrived and incense. Fervently, praise was given to ‘Signore’, (how nice that God should be a humble mister!) and there was singing and the amen. And then the furs were chatting to each other while she stood and drank in the blue Madonna and her stiff, truthful baby.
‘You like our treasures?’
It was the man who had sat beside her.
‘How did you know I was English?’
As if it were a reply the man said, ‘I have friends in England.’ Then, nodding at the mosaics, ‘Do you know the story?’ and enlivened for her the story of the removal of the saint’s remains. ‘We Venetians always take what we want,’ he laughed, and his eyes crinkled; a tall man, with white hair and a moustache.
Coming down the steps beside her into the darkening Piazzetta he said, ‘Look, another example of our looting,’ pointing to the two high columns. ‘St Theodore with his crocodile was once our patron saint. But in fact this is not St Theodore at all–it is a Hellenistic statue which we have taken for our own. And opposite, you see, the lion of St Mark is not a lion at all–a chimera from the Levant we stuck wings on. All stolen! The columns too. Would you honour me by taking a glass of prosecco, perhaps?’ and he smiled, so that she omitted to say she had suddenly remembered she had left the Rev. Crystal behind on the chapel floor.
Instead, why not? she decided, for no one waited for her return but aloud she said merely, ‘Thank you very much. That would be delightful.’ and felt proud of herself that she had added no objection.
‘Good. I take you to Florian’s.’

‘But is this not very expensive?’ she could not prevent herself saying ten minutes later, as they sat, all gilt fruit and mirrored warmth, under the wreathed colonnades surrounding the Piazza.
‘But of course!’ The man who had introduced himself as Carlo crinkled his eyes again. ‘Next time I shall take you to the bar where the gondoliers meet. But for a first meeting it must be Florian’s.’
Julia Garnet felt something she had felt previously only under pressure or fear. It was as if the bubbles in the pale gold glass had passed through her stomach up into her heart. ‘Oro pallido,’ she said speaking the words aloud.
Her companion frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I was trying to say the words for pale gold–the drink. It is delicious.’
‘Ah! Oro pallido, I did not understand. Prosecco is our Italian secret. I think it is nicer than champagne but my French friends will kill me if they hear this!’
‘Your English is very good.’
He was, he explained, an art historian, who had worked at the Courtauld Institute in London for several years. Now he was a private art dealer, buying and selling mainly in Rome, a little in London, sometimes Amsterdam. But Venice was his home. His mother was dead but he had kept on her old appartamento–he returned when he could–he had cousins, an aunt.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘You have a husband, children?’ and she was grateful for she felt sure he could see that she did not. ‘But what a shame!’ He spoke lightly. ‘You are such a pretty woman,’ and she hardly blushed at all but said, ‘Thank you very much,’ gravely, as if he had opened a door for her, or gathered up a dropped parcel. And she did not ask if he were married.
Carlo asked where she was staying and she explained about Signora Mignelli and the Campo Angelo Raffaele. Perhaps it was his enquiry about the husband and children she did not have which found her telling him also about Nicco. ‘I seem to have acquired a young pupil here,’ unaware of the covert pride in her voice. And when he nodded and smiled encouragingly, ‘I am teaching him English,’ she explained, conscious of some exaggeration in this claim, for Nicco so far showed little enthusiasm for learning her language.
Carlo, however, listened with polite attention. He gave her his card, and insisted on escorting her home by the vaporetto which dropped them at S. Basilio, the stop nearest to her new home.
‘I won’t ask you in.’ Julia Garnet spoke carefully. The combination of the water-journey and the prosecco had gone to her head (that was twice in two days she had been tipsy). ‘I have nothing to offer you but tea and I am sure you have a supper to go to.’
‘Another day I should be charmed. You stay in one of the most beautiful campi in Venezia!’
Easy, murmured Julia Garnet inwardly, and she thanked her handsome host and hurried across the bridge past Veronese’s church where they were too poor to have a sacristan. ‘Easy, girl,’ she said aloud later, taking off her stockings. It was a manner of address the rag-and-bone man, who had driven about Ealing when she was still a young teacher, had used to his horse. A white horse, called Lily, she seemed to think, as she stood, barefoot on the cold floor, running a bath.

The following morning, passing the side-door of the chiesa, she saw a man with an oversized key unlocking the church.
In reply to her finger pointing questioningly at the interior, he indicated that she should enter. ‘Prego!’ He shuffled ahead of her, attending to duties in the dimness of the interior.
One by one small pools of illumination flicked on and Julia Garnet stood amid the gathered half-light. She turned around. It was the first time she had been in a proper church (you couldn’t really count St Mark’s) since she didn’t know when. The funeral of a colleague at school in an ugly C. of E. church in Acton; that must have been the last time. And how cold it had been then, and how she had resented the Actonish odour of bourgeois sanctity. But why was this different? For a second her mind flickered guiltily to the Reverend Crystal. He, to be sure, would have had safe and solid information to convey on such points.
She sniffed the hazy air. The odour here was dry and musty too but there was a fragrance about it. How sensible to scent your place of worship. The incense, of course, it was the incense, like the frankincense brought by one of the kings. Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Were there reasons for the gifts? She couldn’t remember.
The sacristan came forward now, pointing to an organ above the door which opened on to the water-front and then at an assortment of leaflets on a small table. To please him she picked one up from the pile marked ‘English’. ‘Tobiolo and the Angel Raffael.’ Looking up, painted on the organ loft, she saw an angel with azure wings.
Despite his wings the angel seemed to be marching forward, grasping the hand of a young man who, in turn, was looking back, his hand stretched beseechingly after an old man who stood staring after the departing pair. Beside him, her head averted, a woman–perhaps his wife? And look! Before them all a small black and white spotted dog. She followed the story round.
Now the boy Tobiolo appeared to have caught a giant fish in his handkerchief while the dog looks on admiringly. And the angel, this time wearing a handsome and surely anachronistic blue waistcoat, stands rather like a proud parent at speech day in the background.
Here was another scene: the young man kneeling with a young woman now, she dressed in gauzy clothes. And now the young pair are kneeling before the angel by a bed, a mysterious fire burning in a pan while the dog huddles as if scared in a far corner.
In the next scene the young man is back with the older man, who lies back as if in astonishment, and now the young woman is there too. Over them the angel broods with azure wings.
In the final scene the angel seems to be taking his leave: unfurled and aloft, a cloud of pink and blue; his lovely limbs and sturdy feet are displayed in glory, as the young and the old man marvel and the dog looks longingly after him.
Something rusty and hard shifted deep inside Julia Garnet as she stood absorbing the vivid, dewy painting, the joyfulness of the conception and the unmistakable compassion in the angel’s bright glance. Her eyes filled. The door of the church opened and light streamed into the interior, bringing with it a tall figure. To her horror she saw that it was the man she had met the previous day at St Mark’s and hastily she pushed away tears.
‘My friend!’ He was smiling again and for a second she was irked: it wasn’t, well, manly to smile quite so often. Then, ashamed of her xenophobic instincts, she tried to smile back herself.
‘I was looking at these.’ Such feeble language to describe the treasures she had stumbled on.
‘Ah! The Guardis!’
‘You know them?’ But why should she be surprised? He was an art historian and probably everyone in Venice knew of the paintings. Julia Garnet was annoyed to find herself possessive of her new discovery.
‘Oh, indeed. They are famous. There exists a famous quarrel, also, about their authorship. There are two Guardis, you see, an elder by many years, Giannantonio, and a younger, Francesco, who never did any known painting of a religious nature. Some authorities, because of the superb style, ascribe it to the younger, better-known brother. But others, of whom I am one, are passionate for the elder. It is a great dispute!’
‘And the story?’ She did not so much care who painted the angel–it was the fact that he had been painted that was so miraculous.
‘It is from the Jewish Scriptures–you call it, I think, Tobias and the Angel?’
He took the crook of her arm and they walked about the tall, theatrical, shabby church while he recounted the story of the young Tobias who travels, unaware he is accompanied by the Archangel Raphael, seeking a cure for his father’s blindness.
‘The cure is found in a great fish but before this Tobiolo has married and saved a young woman, cursed by a demon. The demon rests inside her, killing, on their wedding night, the young men who try her virginity. Seven men have died before Tobiolo arrives but, of course, he has the Angel Raphael to help him.’
‘And does he help?’
‘Certainly. He instructs Tobiolo how he must burn the heart and the liver of the fish and so’–like a conjuror, Carlo waved a hand–‘the demon is driven out, cursing.’ He grimaced, imitating the departing spirit.
‘And this is in the Old Testament?’ Surely this was some racy Catholic version of the Bible. His sudden impersonation of the demon slightly disconcerted her.
‘Oh, indeed, I assure you. It is a tale of wonder, is it not?’
‘More like magic, I should think. Why does the angel help?’
But Carlo gave a little shrug as if he had become bored with the topic. He had called, he explained, to find out how she was and to invite her, if it would amuse her, to a concert that evening. Julia Garnet could think of no reason why she should not accept the invitation. The Reverend Crystal could never have instructed her so entertainingly–nor, perhaps, with such authority. Later, as she stood before the sparse collection which made up her wardrobe, exercised by what to wear for the evening’s entertainment, she allowed herself to wonder what so personable a man wanted with so dowdy a companion as herself?


I am an old man near the end of my life–although my son lies and protests this is not so. (He is a good son, in spite of the lies.) You may ask what an old man of one hundred and eighty-five years can have to say to interest you? The secret of my longevity, perhaps? Well, it may be that our years are not reckoned as you reckon yours. But even allowing for differences I would say we live close to the cycle of the sun and moon, we rise and go to bed with the birds, labour hard, eat frugally and these things conspire towards longevity; but I will hazard there is another thing more important than these: it may be we may live long because there is something we value above human life–I shall not give it a name!
Among our people the old are respected for their wisdom–I hope it may be the same with yours. However it is with you, if you are young now you might hold it in your mind that one day you too will be old and may find yourself glad then to be heard; if you are already old, perhaps like me you already have a story to tell (for all lives, I think, have some sort of a story in them)? Yet I do not tell my own because I wish it, or because I wish to instruct you in how to live, though I’ll admit that might once have been my purpose. No, I tell you this because I was told to tell it–by what you might call ‘a higher authority’–and truth is, the thought of how to tell it has taxed me for many years.
I promised so long ago to set all this down but you know how it is when you make a promise? There is that small serpent voice inside which says, ‘No need to bother about it now,’ or ‘Later will do better,’ or (most true in my case) ‘Give me time to understand.’ Thinking leads to a kind of weighing of words which holds back action. But now I feel the shadow of the Angel of Death upon me and I do not think I have much more time.
At first it was not only that I did not understand but that I did not even know how to begin to understand. What happened to me and my family was so remarkable that I believed I should bungle the telling of it. But I was only a third through my life when these events took place. Nowadays I have come to see that bungling is what all of us do; perhaps bungling is what we are here for?
I would like to begin at the beginning if I only knew when the ‘beginning’ starts. Some might say it was when we were first fashioned out of the mud of the great River Tigris, before our wives were pulled out of our ribs to create a source of perpetual reproof to us! (That is my little joke: I call my wife, Anna, ‘Rib’; I have an idea this oft-repeated joke of mine annoys her but she is a generous woman and mostly puts up with her husband’s trying ways.)
Or maybe the ‘beginning’ was later, when our first parents lost their paradise (which some say was here between the two rivers, which the traders still call ‘garden’ on account of its great fertileness) and had to make their way in the world? From the time of our first parents our people were wanderers–until the patriarch Abram came from Ur into the land which was then called Canaan. Later our people found their way into Egypt–and out again, through the vision of Moses, who we call ‘Liberator’, by a path through the Sea-of-Reeds. In time we returned to the land which was promised us, provided we did not ‘play the harlot’ with other gods.
In those days the twelve tribes inhabited two kingdoms and there was bad feeling between the northern country and the south. Perhaps northerners will always be slow to toe the line where the south is concerned? Among the northern tribes there were many who did play the harlot. In my own young days already my own tribe of Naphtali had begun to sacrifice in secret to the old gods (more persuadable than our own with gifts of oil or barley) and I alone travelled to the kingdom in the south, to Jerusalem, the holy city, to the temple with the brazen pillars, the ornaments of gold and ivory and lapis lazuli, and the walls lined in cedar-wood from Lebanon by Solomon, son of David, who ruled over both our kingdoms. I alone kept faith and went with my first fruits and firstlings and the first shearings of sheep and one tithe of all my corn and wine and oil and pomegranates; but my kin openly gave their tithes to the heifer Baal, and in the end my own tribe was led captive, to Nineveh, in the land of Assyria, and the other tribes were scattered among the far cities of Media, a proverb of reproach to all the nations among whom we are dispersed. But you see, from the first it was our way to be sojourners and strangers!

2 (#ulink_af2eac83-23d1-55b6-ad7e-fa03137a0d88)
When Julia Garnet looked back on this period of her life she remembered it as a time in which she discovered excitement. The concert to which Carlo took her, that first evening, was in an old scuola, with dark, painted ceilings, coffered, gilded and carved. She sat listening to Vivaldi, Albinoni, Corelli–triumphant musical spirits of Venice–played by a quintet of pretty girls in long frocks and wild-haired young men.
The musicians looked too young to understand the gaiety of the music they played. Yet when they attacked their fiddles, their violas and their cellos they communicated an energetic vibrancy which sent the blood around the body leaving one, Julia Garnet reflected, positively tingling. Thinking of the dismally picked out hymns of her childhood piano lessons she became humble. ‘I could never have played like that!’ She stood, slightly chilly, in the marble hall during the interval. Beside them, around white Venetian necks, luxuriated copious fur tippets and wraps.
‘This I do not believe.’ Carlo took off his jacket and whisked it, with the adroitness of a matador, around her shoulders and when she tried to demur: ‘No, no,’ smiling as ever, ‘this is our Venetian way. The woman is for cherishing!’
This was the first of many outings–more than she could ever have believed anyone would want to take with her, let alone this tall, cultivated man who–though nearing seventy, he assured her–was, in the old-fashioned style, undeniably handsome. Sometimes they would go to a concert and afterwards they would dine at one of many out-of-the-way restaurants where he was greeted like a long-lost son; or he would suggest a visit to a church where in rich glooms he pointed out altarpieces with obscure stories from the Catholic scriptures, unknown to Protestant histories; or he steered her, always charmingly holding the crook of her arm, through rooms of the Accademia, where she learned to look at painters whose names were formerly not even names to her, Bassano, Longhi, Vivarini. Their reds and golds and blues, in tones she had been used to deriding as ‘showy’ (for the paintings of Lowry had formerly been her highest notion of art), somewhat dazed her eyes. In one room she stopped, overcome by the eight great canvases which lined the four walls. ‘Carpaccio,’ he said, amused at her evident delight. ‘Carpaccio, I always say, is the prosecco among painters–he is another of our Venetian secrets!’
One of the canvases in particular held her attention: a high, square room infiltrated with a quiet dawn light; on one side of the painting a simple bed, with a woman tranquilly asleep–opposite, at the threshold of a lighted door, an angel in blue with dusky wings, just standing. Looking at the angel waiting with such stillness, Julia Garnet felt something like a small shudder pass through her.
On another occasion, at the Peggy Guggenheim museum, he had made her blush horribly by pointing out the tumescent angel who exposes his proud member in all its glory to the passing watercraft. (‘Oh, I assure you, it unscrews when visitors from the church come!’) Afterwards he had bought her marigolds from a narrow shop crammed with flowers, and she knew it was by way of apology for having embarrassed her. That night she lay awake, hating herself for her damnable strait-laced upbringing, so that by morning she had schooled herself not to expect him (for how could so urbane a man put up with such unsophistication in a grown woman?). But he had appeared, as usual, across the campo, smiling as if nothing had happened, and her heart had turned over and over in joy as she stood waving from the balcony.
Once she had succumbed to a fit of sneezing and he had pressed his handkerchief upon her, warm from his trouser pocket. She had tried not to use it, trusting to his impeccable manners not to ask for its return, aware already that later she would put it away unwashed in her drawer beside the book which pressed one of the embarrassing marigolds.
Although she kept his card in her handbag, she held back, unwilling to put his desire to see her to the test, from ever initiating their meetings. And yet he gave ample proofs of seeking out the friendship.
Usually it was the afternoons when Carlo would come by looking for her. Signora Mignelli, made familiar by the leveller of sex, got to teasing her about her ‘friend’.
In Carlo’s company Julia Garnet felt herself become more feminine: she bought a black skirt and a daringly wide-lapelled cream silk blouse–to wear at the concerts. She even patrolled the back streets, half-looking for an emerald hat such as she had seen on the woman in the little chapel in St Mark’s, but found nothing she liked well enough to fuel the courage necessary for the purchase.
One day, returning home after such a search (she had hovered over a red hat but prudence finally had overruled her) Julia Garnet paused outside a shop which sold linen and embroidered tablecloths. The tablecloths reminded her of her mother, whose only acts of rebellion against her husband had been expressed in an obsessive purchase of linen. Julia Garnet had stood, rather yearningly, gazing at the flowers picked out in coloured silks, until the proprietor, sensing a sale, had come out and pestered her and she had hurried on down a small alley which ran beside the shop.

It was many years since Julia Garnet had risked taking a short cut (short cuts she associated with laziness) and she felt a slight agitation at having left her familiar route. And yet there was that sense of exploration too, which had been developing since her arrival in Venice.
The first month had almost passed, accelerated by the novelty of her new companion. And he had aided that adventurousness which the loss of Harriet had first sparked. Almost, Julia Garnet thought as she hurried down the dark alley (as if the tablecloths had taken off and were in ghostly pursuit), almost it was as if Harriet’s soul had poured down Harriet’s own meagre stock of boldness upon her, a last gift to the friend she was leaving for ever.
Goodness, how fanciful she was getting! And yet the idea of possessing a soul no longer seemed quaint. And, to be sure, if one had a soul how much nicer to let it wander here in Venice. As she ruminated upon the desirability of a good environment for one’s afterlife, the alley turned into a narrow campo, one which she had never penetrated before.
One of the old stone-carved wellheads with which Venice is endowed was situated slightly off the centre of the area and to its left stood a small, rounded Romanesque building half-covered in scaffolding.
Miss Garnet, moved by her new spirit of adventure, walked slowly round seeking some clue to the building’s function. It was unclear whether it was a church, although the general shape of the architecture indicated that it was built for some devotional purpose.
Moving closer to determine the purpose of the building better, Julia Garnet was startled by a shout.
‘Hey, watch it! Mind out!’
The voice came from above her head and for a second it flashed across her startled mind that the archangel himself had addressed her, before a blue-clad pair of legs brought a distinctly human shape into sight.
‘Didn’t you see the notice?’
‘Notice?’ Julia Garnet’s first reaction was one of annoyance. For the second time she had been ‘found out’ as English: the stranger who had descended in so surprising a way from the scaffold above had instinctively addressed her in her own tongue–but with none of the courtly civility of Carlo. Who was this person in the dirty overalls? It was not even possible to discern their sex, for whoever it was wore goggles and the woolly hat beloved of Venetian workmen.
‘Look! See!’ The blue-clad person pointed at a yellow sign indicating falling stones hanging on the scaffolding which Julia Garnet had failed to take in. ‘If you get hurt there’s hell to pay. We’re working here.’ The person pulled down the goggles to reveal indignant pale blue eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’ Though in truth she wasn’t. ‘I didn’t see the notice.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ A second voice, lighter than the first. A figure also wearing goggles swung down. Pulling off an almost identical hat and pushing down the goggles it revealed itself as a fair-haired young woman. ‘What’s up, Tobes?’
‘I fear I am trespassing.’ Julia spoke coldly.
‘Don’t worry,’ the girl spoke soothingly. ‘He was just worried we might drop something on your head. We were breaking for lunch anyway. I’m Sarah, by the way. This is Toby.’ She gestured at the other figure and then as Julia Garnet made no remark, ‘We work together.’
The tone was propitiating and Julia unbent. ‘It was silly of me. I didn’t think.’ Really she wanted to scuttle away from the aggressive young man but the girl seemed pleasant enough. She struggled to find an answering politeness. ‘What is your work?’ She found, as she asked the question, she indeed wished to know.
‘We’re restorers. This is one of the English restorations.’
‘And do you work always together?’ How exhilarating it might be to work high up. One could look out over the city, like a bird–or an angel.
‘We’re twins,’ said the girl as if in explanation and indeed her eyes were the self-same pale blue as her brother’s.
Julia Garnet had taught twins and the experience had not been comfortable. For the whole of one fraught year the Stevens twins had reduced a class to chaos by answering in unison when either was asked a question or (worse) singing in a peculiar toneless syncopation when neither was. There was a brazenness and self-sufficiency about twins which challenged her composure. Instinctively, she made as if to depart.
‘Would you like to see round?’ Again it was the girl who spoke while her brother only watched silently. His lashes, Miss Garnet noticed, were long and fair.
‘How kind of you but I must–’
‘If you want, you can come up on the platform and see Himself.’ It was the young man speaking and he had also pulled off his woolly hat to reveal long blond locks and an earring.
‘Himself?’ Julia Garnet found her face was reddening. How provoking that she should blush so easily before these young people.
But the young man, who appeared to have forgotten his former discontent, was not looking at her face but was extending a gloved hand. ‘Here, it’s quite safe.’ And to her own surprise Julia Garnet found herself being gripped by the elbow and swung up and onto a wooden-planked platform along the building’s side. ‘Look,’ said the young man, and then as if by way of introduction, ‘the Angel Raphael.’
Surrounded by scaffolding a serene face cut into stone smiled out at her. Whatever did one do when faced with the smile of an angel?
‘He’s great, isn’t he?’ The young man spoke with enthusiasm; his earlier antagonism had apparently melted away.
Reassured, Julia Garnet asked, ‘How do you know he’s a he?’
‘It’s a convention.’ It was the young woman, Sarah she had called herself, who had swung her own way up and had now joined them on the platform. ‘They’re sexless, angels. Look, see the face is quite androgynous.’ And inwardly Julia Garnet observed that the young woman herself, and her brother, were, like the angels, also somewhat androgynous in their appearance.
It was a strange encounter, she thought a little later, as she left the twins eating ciabatta with tomatoes and the elongated rubinous onions she had seen on the street market stalls. Their legs had dangled over the edge of the platform. But a feeling like the warmth of Nicco’s cousin’s brandy crept through her: she was pleased with herself. She had made another acquaintance.

‘Two, really,’ she said that evening. ‘Though somehow one thinks of twins as one.’
Carlo and she were eating near the Arsenale. Julia’s previous diet had consisted of the plainest fare. On the rare occasions they had entertained, Harriet had cooked a chicken using a spoonful of dry sherry in the gravy. After Harriet’s death Julia had shopped at Marks and Spencer–dinners for one, compartmented as to meat or vegetables and encased in cardboard and foil. The experience of coming to Venice had not only opened her eyes–it had challenged her appetite. She was learning to enjoy food–especially with Carlo.
‘And they are restorers? I must go and look.’ A jug of prosecco was smacked down on the table. ‘Some prosecco? They serve it quite flat here without the sparkle, but very refreshing.’
Later, after they had eaten tiny clams and slabs of polenta cooked in sage and garlic, she asked, ‘It’s a chapel they are restoring?’
Carlo had taken a silver toothpick from his wallet. Watching him Julia thought, How funny that I am not revolted!
As if he had read her thoughts Carlo put the toothpick away. ‘Yes. It was known as the Chapel-of-the-Plague because it was built for a child–though others say it was for a mistress–dying of the plague.’
‘Is that why the angel is there?’ She remembered from the leaflet in the church his name in Hebrew meant ‘God’s healing’.
‘I guess so–he is around Venice.’
‘I like him.’ How odd that she was already so sure of this.
‘Oh, yes–he is nicer, with the smile, than the fierce Michael or the virtuous Gabriel!’ He pulled a long face, then laughed. Julia who could not quite rid herself of the belief that it was bad form to laugh at one’s own utterances, laughed too, a trifle uneasily. ‘But you know, they must be exceptional at their craft, your twins, to be employed on this project. It is unusual for the Soprintendenti to employ foreigners. I must visit–poke my nose in! Now, there are crayfish or there is lobster. Which shall we try?’
A few days later Julia Garnet, walking her habitual route down the Calle Lunga, remembered the short cut. She felt, in making a detour past the little brick edifice which bristled with scaffold poles, she was doing something slightly eccentric, if not intrusive, but in fact there was no sign of the twins.
That the twins were not there made Julia Garnet aware that she was disappointed. Without acknowledging it she had been looking forward to renewing acquaintance with the androgynous pair. There was something about the way they swung with easy confidence among the scaffolding (rather like the gibbons she had once seen in a tree at Whipsnade Zoo) which stirred her. And they had trounced her experience with the Stevens twins by being unexpectedly friendly–letting her up there to see the face of the Archangel. Perhaps, she thought, becoming fanciful, it was some form of ‘angelic’ communication that had prompted Toby’s suggestion? For it was he and not the more approachable girl who had made the offer which had led to her meeting with the smiling Raphael.
On the way home she passed two small girls taking something from a basket which hung suspended by a rope from an upper storey. ‘Grazie, Nana!’ the girls called, and looking up Julia Garnet saw the face of an elderly woman at an open window. The woman blew a kiss at the girls and, with elaborate pantomime, they returned the blessing.
The episode left Julia Garnet rather low. The elderlywoman had grandchildren–to whom she could send down sweets or pocket money in a basket–who loved her. Whatever other drawbacks age had brought the old Venetian lady, she had a family to be attached to–a reflection which contributed, back at the apartment, to a general feeling of being at a loose end. There were letters to write and books she had brought to read but these activities felt uninviting: it was company she wanted and she was grateful when Signora Mignelli called by with an enamel teapot.
‘For to make tea in!’ said the Signora, pointing at the teapot. ‘Sorry, I forget it.’
Julia herself had forgotten that she had ever felt the lack of such a thing. Signora Mignelli stayed and talked, resting her behind on the arm of the sofa. Her husband had had an operation for a ruptured hernia and dramatically the Signora enacted how he had been carried off in the ambulance boat in the dead of night to the hospital. She refused tea but stayed to recount a war between the fishmonger and the local priest. The fishmonger, Julia inferred, had a reputation for favouring other men’s wives and the priest had attempted to discuss the matter with him. ‘He is a Communist–so he not like,’ the Signora explained. ‘He say he go to another church.’
‘But if he is a Communist why is he going to church at all?’
‘Of course he go to church,’ the Signora said, dismissive at the suggestion of other possibilities.
Concerned lest she had affronted her landlady Julia diverted the conversation. ‘Do you know the Chapel-of-the-Plague?’
Signora Mignelli nodded approvingly. ‘Very old,’ she said, ‘and very holy. Much miracles there once. Now, no more.’ She shrugged. ‘It is the TV, I think.’

Nicco was not making much progress with his English. Carlo, who had called to tell her he had been as good as his word, and been by the chapel and spoken with the twins, narrowly missed one of the English lessons.
‘Do excuse me.’ Julia Garnet hastily cleared away a pile of books. One of them, The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck, made her feel embarrassed: it betrayed the fact that she had bothered to bring it with her from England. She had not quite got over her tendency to become unnerved by Carlo’s presence and the children’s book added to the feeling of immaturity. ‘It’s the boy I give lessons to.’ She shoved Jemima Puddle-duck under a copy of Hello magazine donated by the Signora.
Carlo’s manners were exemplary. If he had spotted the story about the credulous duck and the predatory fox, which Julia had preserved since childhood, he gave no sign. He seemed to want to ask questions about Nicco but she was more interested in hearing what he had to say about the restoration.
‘So, I have met your friends.’
But this she felt she must correct. ‘Hardly friends!’
‘It is fascinating,’ ignoring her protests. ‘As always the problem is the salt. Venice has its feet for ever in water, you see, and they must refashion the floor. The boy is doing this, on his knees, while the girl is perched above him, working as stone mason. Modern youth, eh? They were most charming, I should say. They allowed me to look.’
‘Did they show you Himself?’ Julia felt slightly jealous. It had felt free up on the scaffolding.
‘Himself?’ Carlo looked puzzled.
‘The Archangel. Raphael.’ More than the humans she had met at the chapel, the angel seemed her friend.
‘Oh indeed. This is where the restoration must be most delicate. The girl is trained by a most marvellous man from your V & A who came over in ‘66 after the great floods. I know him a little. There is nothing to match you English with the chisel.’
‘Such a beatific smile.’ Julia was thinking of the angel.
‘Indeed. She is most charming, your young friend,’ said Carlo, politely misunderstanding.

Julia Garnet, calling to collect a parcel of linen, met Sarah outside the launderers. Sarah was not wearing her goggles or her woolly hat–but she still wore the blue overalls.
‘Hi! Isn’t it absolutely glorious?’
And indeed the day had turned into a painting of apricot and blue. Brilliant pillars of light were almost tangibly striking the enclosed corner where they stood.
‘Glorious.’ Julia Garnet agreed, weighing the brown parcel. (She wanted to offer some reciprocal hospitality and was simultaneously weighing in her mind how to accomplish this.) ‘I don’t suppose you would like a cup of tea?’
‘That’s sweet of you. I get dry with the stone dust and if you breathe near a café here it costs an arm and a leg.’
‘Don’t you take a flask?’
‘Too lazy!’
The girl had a seductive giggle. Julia, as the two of them made their way towards Signora Mignelli’s, speculated that with a laugh like that one might get away with murder. So it turned out to be quite easy, she reflected further, Sarah chattering away at her side: you asked someone to tea and they answered; as simple as that. She thought of the years through which she had asked no one (except occasionally Harriet–whom, she now saw, she had tended too much to consider in the light of ‘only’ Harriet) anything at all. Fearful of rejection she had presented to the world a face of independence which was a sham. Had she been capable of formulating the words to herself during those dull years she would probably have opined that she was too unattractive for anyone to want to be friends with her. Yet nothing in her appearance had, in fact, altered: any difference in Julia Garnet’s demeanour was a consequence of other changes.
In honour of the apricot-fingered sun Julia served tea on the balcony. Although the temperature was within a hair’s-breadth of being too cold she took a pride in being equal to it. The blue enamel teapot which had superseded the saucepan was brought out and christened. Julia, in fact, rather missed the saucepan which had given substance to her own sense of a daring relaxation of standards. Her father could have made no objection to the teapot which burned her hand and was hard to pour from.
‘Sugar? Milk?’ she asked, and was pleased when her guest requested lemon for it provided just that slight extra trouble with which to prove herself the part of hostess. They sat looking over towards the church.
‘So that’s the Angelo Raffaele. D’you know, it’s awful, but although I can see the towers from the scaffolding this is the first time I’ve seen it properly. By the end of the day I’m pretty sick of churches–say it not in Gath!’
‘Tell it not…’
‘Eh?’ Sarah had screwed up her eyes, which made her look less attractive. What is it, Julia wondered, which makes one woman attractive, another not? Sarah’s face when you analysed it was rather weasel-like, yet one knew for certain she was attractive to men.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, it’s being a teacher!’ Julia, blushing at the unthinking correction, hurried to explain. ‘I was brought up, unfortunately, on the Bible, which sticks when all kinds of other things don’t. I believe the quotation is Tell it not in Gath…Most people get it wrong.’ This would never do–it was socially inept, as well as impolite, to correct one’s guest. Trying to bring the conversation to safer ground she said, returning to the subject of the Angelo Raffaele, ‘It has some rather lovely Guardis,’ then felt abashed at her own cheek, for until lately she had never even heard the name ‘Guardi’.
If Sarah had minded being corrected she did not show it. ‘Oh yes, the disputed organ panels. I should really look at those.’
Frustrated in a chance to show off her freshly acquired knowledge Julia tried to think of some new topic but her visitor, perhaps picking up her hostess’s disappointment, said, ‘Remind me what’s on the Guardis. I ought to know…’
‘It’s an Old Testament story. There I go again–you’ll be imagining I’m an expert on the Bible but actually I’m stupidly ignorant. (Would you like some more tea?) My friend calls the story “Tobiolo”. I think we call it “Tobias and the Angel”.’
‘No more tea, thanks. Your friend?’ Sarah shaded her eyes. Her funny hostess appeared to be blushing.
‘You met him. He’s called Carlo. He came to see your work.’
‘Oh yes! The art historian with the moustache’–peering a little too hard at Julia’s face; and then, as her hostess seemed really very engrossed with the teapot, ‘Go on about Thingy and the angel. I expect I should know the story but if I ever did I’ve forgotten.’
Julia disliked Tobias being referred to as ‘Thingy’. ‘I’m afraid I don’t really know it myself.’ Confusion made her bend further over the teapot. ‘My friend told it to me. But you can work most of the narrative out from the paintings. There’s a dog.’
Sarah helped again. ‘A dog?’
‘Yes. That’s what caught my attention–rather a contrast, it seemed to me, a dog and an angel. It’s a Dalmatian dog.’
‘We had a Dalmatian at home.’ The girl’s face–and really it was quite changeable–looked almost sad.
‘At home?’
‘Yes–it was my father’s dog. Hey, talking of angels, I must fly!’ looking at her watch, ‘Listen, it’s so nice of you to invite me.’
‘You must come again.’ How odd that the thought of the girl’s departure felt like a loss.
‘Course I will. May I use your bathroom?’ She was up and inside the apartment before Julia had answered.
Coming out again rubbing her hands together Sarah said, ‘I used your hand-cream, my hands get like sandpaper, I hope you don’t mind?’
Julia, who had bought the scented hand-cream for Carlo, struggled to suppress a sense of invasion. She was thrown by such familiarity so soon. But this must be the modern way and she wanted to be friends with the girl. ‘I got it in the farmacia by the launderers–it wasn’t expensive.’ For goodness’ sake, though, why was she apologising? Trying to recover she said, ‘Bring your brother, next time.’ And then, suddenly minding that the boy came, ‘Bring Toby to tea, won’t you?’
‘I will if he’ll come.’
Two at a time the girl jumped down the stairs. There was something engagingly childish in her exuberance. From the balcony Julia Garnet watched her wave and walk across the campo (quite as if she owned the world) until the boyish shape turned across the bridge and out of sight.
No doubt it was the partial success of this foray into socialising that prompted Julia Garnet to take an evening stroll towards the quarter of the city where the Hotel Gritti Palace was located. She did not go with any fully formed purpose–but the invitation of the departing Americans, issued from the bows of the water taxi, remained guiltily at the back of her mind. She had been remiss in not responding sooner; and besides, she owed them still for the taxi fare.
Maybe it was the opulence of the interior of the hotel, or the subconscious wish not to be reminded of anything which connected her with what she increasingly was coming to regard as her old life, but at the reception desk she found that her memory had played her false: by no wise was she able to recall the Americans’ name.
‘They are friends, no?’ asked the porter. He was bald and not much interested.
‘Not friends, no,’ said Julia Garnet, flustered.
The porter evinced a lazy surprise. ‘So if not friends, please, what is it?’ His expression verged on the insolent.
‘Acquaintances,’ said Julia Garnet, annoyed that her efforts at social intercourse were being thwarted. ‘I met them on my way here. In a taxi,’ she added unnecessarily.
‘A taxi?’ The man lifted his eyebrows as if hinting at an impropriety peculiar to foreigners. But as he spoke the situation was remedied for the voice of Cynthia Cutforth came distinctly down the stairway.
Julia Garnet, turning from the porter’s disbelief prepared for blank looks, was pleasantly surprised when Cynthia cried out, ‘Why hello! We saw you in St Mark’s but you know we didn’t like to…’
Julia explained, rather sheepishly, about the fare she had come to repay but the tall pair wouldn’t hear of it.
‘We took your place,’ Charles said. ‘It was so rude of us. We have hoped to meet with you again and apologise.’
‘Do let us make up for it now,’ his wife said. ‘Please won’t you dine with us? The food here is quite reasonable. And how is your leg? I was horrified when I saw how you had hurt it.’
The dining room of the Gritti was all marble grandeur. Soundless waiters pulled back chairs and whisked linen napkins dramatically from table to lap. But Julia Garnet, in spite of being unprepared for the occasion, found that something had changed within her. She had ceased to be inhibited–at least in these present surroundings. Maybe it was because she did not mind what these people thought of her. Rich and groomed as they were they had no power to disturb her. In any event she became something of the life and soul for the evening.
‘No, really!’ she exclaimed as the waiter brought silverdomed dishes under which lay inky cuttlefish, stout portions of turbot and serried ranks of tiny exotic vegetables, ‘I had to resort to walloping. It was him or me!’
She was describing her relationship with Michael Morrell, a pupil whose naughtiness had so plagued her that one day–driven to distraction by his refusal to sit still in class–she had chased him into the corridor and whacked him hard on the behind.
The Cutforths listened apparently fascinated to this piece of British anthropology. Cynthia vaguely indicated that in Philadelphia they had other ways of doing things, but their demeanour was respectful, even deferential. And Charles ventured, ‘I was whacked good and often as a kid. I can’t say it did me harm. I wonder sometimes if we are too liberal in our educational policies?’
Julia Garnet no longer knew if hers was a behaviour she herself could now endorse. Michael Morrell, it is true, had responded to the episode with surly respect. And he had ceased to be so disruptive a force in the classroom. Maybe she had done the boy no harm? She couldn’t tell. What was apparent was that she had made a hit with the Americans. He, she learned, was an academic whose subject was Venetian trade with the Levant. He described a house with a picture of a camel raised in relief on the outside. A twelfth-century merchant from the Levant travelled to Venice to set up a trading business. His fortunes having prospered he built a house and sent for his young wife to join him. Through a scribe she wrote: But how shall I find you when I arrive in Venice?–I cannot read. Her husband wrote back to her: When you arrive in Venice ask for the camel–everyone will know it and therefore where our house is.
‘Not very liberated,’ Cynthia laughed.
‘Or perhaps very?’ Julia countered, thinking it might have been fun to be the Levantine merchant’s wife and have a camel waiting for her, a landmark of home, as she set out on her own to a strange environment.
In return for the camel she told them about the Chapel-of-the-Plague. Charles, who had lighted a series of little cheroots (‘I’m afraid I’ve given up trying to get him to stop!’ his wife interjected as he lit the second), was intrigued. ‘I don’t know it but I must look it up. That would be the Black Death, I guess, which wiped out half of Europe. Giuseppe will know all about it, I’ll ask him.’
‘Charles has made terrific friends with a dubious Catholic priest,’ Cynthia laughed.
Listening to their banter Julia realised that prejudice had led her to an assumption that the rich were stupid. The Cutforths were, in fact, highly cultivated. They told her where to find the camel in the region of Tintoretto’s parish church. ‘That has also been restored by your Venice in Peril people.’ Charles was enthusiastic. ‘They’ve done a fabulous job. You should go. Tintoretto’s buried there and there was a Bellini once. An early one but a beaut nonetheless. Some hooligan stole it. I’d sentence those guys to the electric chair!’
The Cutforths were amused–delighted, even?–to discover that their guest was a Communist sympathiser. (‘And there I was,’ cried Cynthia, ‘imagining you were a duchess. I was going to write to all my friends!’ ‘Didn’t I always say it–scratch a Democrat and you get to find a snob!’ her husband had remarked, rubbing his wife’s knee affectionately.)
‘Which only goes to show,’ Julia said to herself on leaving the hotel to walk home, ‘that it is possible to have spent a lifetime being wrong.’
Politely, she had declined Charles’s offer to go with her. ‘No, no, it is quite safe and I enjoy the walk!’–for it was her private luxury that there was only one tall man she wished to have accompany her.
Walking home, she actually laughed aloud, recalling her faithlessness to the Reverend Crystal. Before coming to Venice she could never have imagined such an evening.

The next day Signora Mignelli said something incomprehensible and when it became apparent she had not been understood went and fetched a tall bees-wax candle and pointed to the Angelo Raffaele. ‘For Our Lady,’ she said, working her lips in an effort to make herself understood. ‘It is to clean?’
Some ritual to cleanse the church, perhaps? The ochre candle looked enticing, and later that afternoon Julia walked round to the fondamenta where the Archangel had first smiled down upon her. Looking up at him again, on his shelf above the chiesa door, she saw the sculptor had given him wrinkled stockings. What a comforting sort Raphael was! Somehow the stockings made her think of the Levantine merchant’s wife travelling across the seas to find her husband.
The dark green water-weathered doors lay open back. Stepping through the vestibule she made out a procession of candles punctuating the fine gloom with little swaying hollows of light. As she stood the notes of a chant started up. What a world she had entered coming to Venice; a world of strange ritual, penumbras, rapture. Timidity crept over her, the old insidious sense of not belonging, and she stepped back out of the wax-laden smell into the harshness of the foggy air.
Outside Nicco was dribbling a football across the campo.
‘Ciao, Giulia!’
‘Ciao, Nicco. Nicco, the chiesa. What is happening? What are the candles for?’
Nicco frowned. His father’s promise to send him to London was proving an inadequate spur to his mastery of English. ‘For Maria,’ he explained.
‘But the candles…?’
Nicco smiled. ‘I visit tomorrow.’ He scuffed at the football, too polite actually to run off.
Sensing his impatience she let him go. ‘All right, Nicco. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

It was Carlo when he called by who enlightened her. ‘It is the
feast of the purification of the Blessed Virgin,’ he explained. ‘Candlemas, if you prefer.’
Julia did prefer. ‘Why ever does she need purifying? Isn’t she dripping with holiness already?’
‘It was the custom after childbirth. Six weeks after the birth the woman must undergo the rites of purification. How is the boy you are teaching? I never see him here. You see him often?’ For the first time in their acquaintance Carlo’s face seemed to her to have an unfriendly aspect.
‘How very chauvinist,’ said Julia, more tartly than she felt, worried that she had maybe shocked him. ‘Nicco is extremely lazy, thank you for asking. I’m wondering whether I should really bother to go on teaching him.’ She began to tell him of her visit to the Cutforths but the evening which had gone so swingingly became boring in the recounting. For some reason there was none of the usual flow between them and he left more abruptly than usual.
I suppose they’re all touchy about their faith, even if they don’t make a song and dance about it, she thought, undressing for her bath. Waiting for it to fill (you could not hurry Signora Mignelli’s bath–the water pressure was low and the water arrived in trickles) she examined herself in the wardrobe looking-glass. Her body stared out at her, stringy, like a plucked fowl.
The water when she climbed in was hot and watching the heat turn her skin red she felt more than ever like ‘an old boiler’. Observing the limbs floating before her–almost as if they did not belong to her at all–she pondered on the unpredictability of human relationship.
She had spent her life avoiding people, afraid, as she now saw, of their dislike or disapproval. With her firm mind and her astringent views she had provided herself with the means to confound intimacy. If people had wanted to know her–and really she couldn’t tell whether they had or not–she had found ways of ensuring that they never approached too far. Carlo had been an exception–a delightful one–for if he had noticed any attempt at ‘confounding’ he had given no sign but had simply advanced, with long-legged aplomb, into relationship with her. And in so doing he had made out a way for others to follow.
And it was the case she had begun to take his good opinion for granted. Surprise at his seeming to want to go on seeing her–even to see more of her–had given way to the pleasures of anticipating his next appearance and the planning of their next expedition. And yet, today, something had, if not exactly gone wrong, certainly not been right between them. As if by some invisible and malignant presence she felt pulled down. The superstitious part of her related the small reversal in her relationship with Carlo to her pride in it the evening she spent with the Cutforths. Even to yourself, she thought, it wasn’t safe to boast.
Lying in the small bathroom the peeling yellow walls suddenly appeared drab and ugly. The book–she had made such slow progress with it, a book on Garibaldi about whom she found she did not much care–which she had taken to read while bathing, had got wet and she laid it down and began to think about her pupil, Michael Morrell. Where was he now? Had he become a crook or a bank manager? (Either seemed equally possible.) If he had not prospered no doubt it was in part due to her: she had been an indifferent teacher. It was evident that Nicco, polite as he was, found her so. And she had been so cocky about teaching him. After a while she nodded off and woke, knees bent, to feel her mouth beneath cold water.
Now that was unwise, she said to herself as, half covered in a towel, she poured some of the brandy from the square bottle which she had purchased after her lunch at Nicco’s cousin’s. The experience of sliding so easily towards death frightened her. Somehow she associated it with Carlo and her unclear sense of his possible displeasure with her.


Let us speak of exile. There are two ways with exile: you can fit in, lie low, ‘do as the Chaldeans do’, as we say–or you can stick out like a lone crow. No prizes for guessing which my renegade kinsfolk chose!
But I must own in the early days of exile I was glad enough to be in Nineveh once the shame of conquest was over. I missed the rolling hills and the pleasant pastures of Galilee. But I had a piece of luck early on in my time in Nineveh: the king took a fancy to me and made me his Purveyor of Goods, so that in those first years of exile I got to travel far over the mountains to the country of Media, bartering and purchasing for the king of Assyria, and often I met the children of Israel there. We are a shrewd people and our swift reasoning and inventive minds proved useful to our captors. Therefore, many found themselves, as I did, well settled in the new life into positions which commanded respect.
But the king of Assyria died, as kings do, and not long after I lost my place at the old court. The old king had had a great new palace built by many slaves with gardens of sweet herbs and tulip trees and broad, high walls built around the city by the River Tigris. In the old days I had lived within these walls with my wife and had walked in the gardens with my son among the monkeys and the peacocks. When the old king died the tribes of Judah made wars against the new king so that when he returned from battle, defeated, he took his rage out on those of us who had been settled in Nineveh. One day, in his chariot, he drove past me walking in the gardens and lashed at me with his whip. It had become dangerous to be one of the chosen people.
Brutal purges began, with the bodies of our people left unburied to stink on the city walls for scavenging dogs to devour. I hated those dogs. I still recall a certain yellow brute; head of a pack he was and I called him Khan after one of the devils in these regions who is reputed to relish dead flesh. This yellow canine devil got scent of what I did and would follow me around snuffing out corpses. Then it was often a struggle between him and me–whether I would get to bury the body or he would grab it for his pack. He bit me once and the Rib had me bound up with flax and crocodile dung for a month against the foaming sickness. She was a follower of the local medicine man’s magic–I couldn’t have stopped her consulting him even if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t want to; she needed every prop she could find.
With the death of the old king my heart began to dwell on Jerusalem and the days I had travelled there to offer tithes. It came to my mind then that we had been punished by the Lord God for our failure to do as He had commanded: we had not kept faith with the law, the rituals and the rites–therefore we had been taken into exile. Yet all around me I watched our people forgetting the law of the book, the prayers, the observances, the dietary requirements, alms-giving, the warning words of the prophets. And for us the observances of death are strict; it is sacrilegious that one of our own should lie breeding maggot-flies in the sun. Therefore, when I came across one of my kin murdered by the king or his officers, I would make it my business to take the corpse into our own house until sundown, away from the mouths of the yellow dog pack. When the sun dropped, lone-handed I would bury the body.
It is a business, digging the ground in these parts. The dragging and the heaving are enough to tire you out. And then the flies, and the vile stink if the corpse has been exposed long. No, it was not a task to take on lightly, especially since the royal guard were on alert to catch the corpse-snatcher. And in the end a certain one of our tribe in Nineveh, doubtless seeking advancement or immunity for his own family, went and informed on me. With the news that I was a wanted man and that I would be hunted to be put to death I left the city in haste and went into hiding. My house was entered, my possessions stripped from me, all that we had worked to acquire, the chased silverware I had bought from the Aramaean traders, the linen from Egypt, the bolts of dyed cloth from Tyre, the carved boxes and furniture of sandal- and cedar-wood from the caravan traders, even the worked crimson slippers my wife wore on feast days, were all seized; there was nothing which was not taken off to the Royal Treasury; only the lives of my wife, Anna, and my son were spared.
But before long this king got himself killed by two of his sons–I praise the Lord for my own son, Tobias, for surely there can be no worse sorrow than to have a son turn against his father, as Absalom did against his father David. There came a time when I recalled the words of King David as he wept for his son. ‘O my son Absalom, O Absalom my son, my son!’

3 (#ulink_c5292165-967b-5c8a-9eae-6fc48fe618c5)
The Wednesday after her alarming slide into the bath Julia met Nicco on his way home from school. He smiled appeasingly and the thought came to her: He has been trying to find some excuse for not visiting me.
‘I go for my cousin to glass…’ he flapped his hands, ‘to make the glass fit.’
After the disaster Julia Garnet had replaced the red-robed Virgin Mary back on the bedroom wall. ‘The glass-cutters, Nicco?’ Julia made the consonants explicit for him. ‘Cutters.’
‘I see you later?’ Nicco was looking anxious.
Thinking of her words about him to Carlo, Julia felt remorse. She should reassure the boy–she did not want him to feel that to study English with her was so horrible. Their visit to the man with the red hat and the lunch afterwards rested warmly in her thoughts. Nicco had helped her then. ‘May I come with you?’ she volunteered.
‘Please,’ Nicco gave one of his smiles. Not for the first time it reminded her of Carlo and her heart jumped. And there, as if on cue, was Carlo, all smiles too and waving at her.
‘Ciao!’ she called across the rio, relief flooding through her that she had not, after all, alienated him. And what if Nicco were there? She was not ashamed of her friendship with the boy. ‘We’re off for a walk, come and join us!’ And he came across the bridge with his long stride.
Gravely, Carlo bowed at the pair of them, the slight grey-haired woman and the gold-skinned youth at her side.
‘This is my friend Nicco,’ Julia Garnet explained, proud that she was the one whose position demanded introductions, ‘and this,’ she turned towards the tall, silver-haired man, ‘is my friend Carlo.’
Julia Garnet’s natural diffidence had not fostered in her habits of perspicacity but now, looking at Nicco. she saw that he had an awkward look on his face. And looking back at Carlo she observed that he also looked different.
‘The glass-cutters,’ she explained brightly, ‘we are off to the glass-cutters, Nicco and I,’ and not knowing why she flushed.
But Nicco surprised her. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I go later,’ and pushing behind her, rather rudely she couldn’t help feeling, he ran off along the water-side.
‘Well, whatever was that about?’ Julia Garnet turned to her friend, ready to share an adult’s humorous incomprehension at the doings of a quixotic child; but Carlo was watching the boy intently as he ran over the bridge.
When intuition finally strikes the unintuitive it can be blinding: Julia Garnet had been taken, during one of her visits to the Accademia, by a painting from one of the many minor masters whose works fill the art collections of Italy. The painting was of St Paul on the road to Damascus and what had forced itself onto her newly awakened sensibilities was the look of puzzlement and fear on the savagely enlightened face of the tentmaker. Had she been in a position to observe herself, she might have seen just such a look on her own face now. But only the Angel Raphael, looking down from his position on the chiesa, could have seen the corresponding flash of terror across her heart.
Intuition is also a prompt of memory. Out of her memory, clear and unprocessed, came the recollection of the day she had gone with Nicco to the glass-cutters. A man. A man had come out as she had been worrying about paying for the picture, fussing with the Italian currency. The man and Nicco had collided and there had been a moment when Nicco had spoken with agitation, as she heard it now in memory, before the man had walked away. The man, tall and silver-haired, she suddenly perceived was Carlo, and in a moment of painful understanding she saw, watching his hungry, yearning look after the retreating Nicco, that she had been the unwitting dupe of his wish to find the boy who had accompanied her that day. It was not her whom Carlo had wanted to befriend–it was Nicco.
She stood, dumbly unprepared by anything in her previous life for the awful moment of negative intimacy which the recognition brought. And Carlo stood too, aware, as the high red spots on his cheekbones signalled, that something momentous had occurred to his companion. But they were civilised people, Carlo and Julia Garnet, and the sharp rent which had appeared in the fabric of their acquaintance was left unremarked between them.
Carlo spoke first. ‘A concert tonight…they are playing Albinoni?’ His eyes did not look at her directly.
‘Thanks, I think I’ll stay in. I’m a bit tired.’ So lame the words came out; it was all she could do to refrain from crying aloud.
He walked back with her to the apartment, full of the usual courtesies. But his smile was strained. At the door of the apartment he dropped her with a pleasantry–his eyes cold and repelling; she had to stop herself from calling after him.
She did not, however, call after him. Instead she sat at the kitchen table until it grew dark.

Many years ago Julia Garnet, who was blessed with a retentive memory, read somewhere these lines.
Remember this: those who give you life may take it back, and in the taking take from you more than they gave.
She did not recall the source but she recalled, quite distinctly, the sensation with which she read the words. She had known that she did not understand them but, obscurely, they had frightened her.
During the days after what she termed to herself ‘the discovery’ the forgotten author’s words came back to her, relentlessly keeping pace with her steps as she walked the streets of Venice.
She had lived most of her life alone. Her mother had borne her late in life and Julia believed that that, and the strain of trying to please her tyrannical father, had probably contributed to her mother’s early death. When her mother died, a few weeks after her sixtieth birthday, Julia was not quite fifteen.
She had escaped from her father as soon as she could, going to Girton College, Cambridge on a scholarship. Although he had tried to make her departure from the family home as unpleasant as possible, there was not much he could do to prevent it and once away from him a part of her had felt she could never again face living with another man. There had been female friends, such as Vera, and there had been Harriet whom, she now concluded, pounding the streets, she had not treated as well as she could have done. Harriet had been more than a friend; but, blindly, she had taken Harriet for granted. Yet she had loved Harriet, she now knew, and she knew it because she had learned to love someone else.
If you spend most of your life alone often you do not know that you are lonely. It was not until ‘the discovery’ that Julia Garnet knew that she was lonely and that she had been so for most of her life. She had known Carlo for less than five weeks and yet it was as if he acted as a major artery to her heart.
It was the mystery of this which partly forced her out onto the streets as if the puzzle of her swift and intense involvement with this man might be solved by the most thoroughgoing of external explorations. She woke early and walked, avoiding any area where she might encounter anyone she knew, until she found some anonymous-seeming bar, where she drank coffee amid men in woollen hats who reminded her of the glass-cutter, the man with the red hat who, like a figure in some child’s tale, seemed to be gate-keeper to new experience.
The reminder of the first meeting with Carlo did not bother her; even, she found, she began to hanker after it. She strained to recover what he had been wearing. Was it his dark grey coat? (She could almost swear to his red scarf–or had the red of the glass-cutter’s hat become transposed in her mind?) Driven by a hungry desire to garner every scrap of time spent with him, she combed her memory for forgotten moments: the time he bought her an ice cream; the aspirin he had offered her when she had complained of a mild headache; the water-taxi home when she was tired. Had all the trouble then been merely towards establishing a connection with Nicco? For the discovery that her friend’s proclivities were not for women had not detracted one jot from her own feelings.
At first she had been horrified, revolted even. ‘Disgusting!’ she had spat angrily when finally she had dully shifted her weight off to bed that first night. And she had lain, fully clothed, in the dark holding her sides. But love is notorious for its refusal to observe prejudice and gradually the eyes of Carlo, as she had last seen him, reinstated themselves. They no longer seemed cold. Sad, yes, she was sure that what she had seen was sadness, sadness and dismay. Did he miss her at all? Her heart hurt when she thought of him and she thought of him most minutes of most hours of most days.
Once on her wanderings she had caught sight of the Cutforths, arm in arm, Cynthia looking in a furrier’s window–he comfortably lighting one of his perpetual little cheroots–and she had drawn back into the shadow of an alley. To witness such linked and homely familiarity (for the strongest impression she had carried with her from the Gritti was of the Cutforths’ close and, somehow, practical intimacy) was starkly painful. Seeing them so unquestioningly together, it was as if the polite pair had put their hands on their spare hips and jeered at her uncoupled state.
In an effort to avoid all known contacts she roamed far from her usual patch. One day, penetrating to the Arsenale, the fortified area where Venice built its ships, forgetting that this is where she and Carlo had drunk the flat prosecco, she encountered a middle-aged woman sitting beside one of the lions which guard the entrance of the old archway. Caught by something in the woman’s expression Julia stopped by the lion. ‘Do you speak English?’

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