< back

Through a Glass, Darkly

Venice had been a mistake. Callie knew that, without a shade of doubt, before the boat from the airport even reached the Piazza San Marco. Had been a mistake, was a mistake, would be a mistake. Past, present, and future.

It hadn’t seemed a mistake just a few hours ago, early that morning when she’d left her flat. Then it had seemed like utterly the right thing to do, for so many reasons. A welcome escape from the untidy chaos of tea chests, the demands of unpacking. An escape, an adventure. And apart from that, it was the culmination of a lifetime’s dream. Venice. Beautiful, magical Venice.

And indeed it was beautiful, and even more magical than she had imagined. On the horizon, across the lagoon, it shimmered like a mirage, insubstantial and ephemeral, as though she might close her eyes and, opening them again, find that it had vanished. The spray of the boat, the mist on the lagoon, veiled it slightly, as though it existed in a different dimension from the concrete world in which Callie usually moved.

Beautiful, yes. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. In her dreams of Venice, she had not been alone. For years it had been a shadowy, faceless figure at her side, and then it had been Adam. Adam of the laughing brown eyes, of the sweet, self– mocking smile. She and Adam, approaching Venice together for the first time: their honeymoon, perhaps.

Across the aisle from her sat a young couple who were almost certainly on honeymoon, the ghosts of wedding confetti still clinging to them as they sat close together, their fingers entwined, starry–eyed. And another couple in front of them, older but clearly in love. Everywhere on the boat they sat, two by two. All couples. All seeing Venice together.

On the seat next to Callie was her handbag: her sensible black handbag. Not Adam.

Venice had been a mistake.

Half an hour later, Callie was feeling slightly better, as the excitement of being in Venice gripped her in spite of herself. Agog with the sights, with the sounds and the smells of the city, she wheeled her case from the airport boat’s terminus along to the nearest stop for the vaporetto – the water bus. If she hadn’t been hampered with luggage, she would have just started walking, heedless of destination, and willingly lost herself in the twisting streets and byways. But good sense dictated that first she should find her hotel, get rid of the case, and then find a bite to eat somewhere. The hotel where she would be staying had been described as being on the Grand Canal, just a few steps from the vaporetto stop. Callie had looked at the map in the guide book, poring over it on the flight, and had located the street, at the top end of the backwards S of the Grand Canal. As the book suggested, she purchased a three–day ticket for unlimited use of the vaporetti. The woman in the ticket office spoke no English, so this was achieved through a rather painful process of gestures, and involved proffering a wad of lire notes of impossible denominations – thousands of lire, which she had to keep telling herself amounted to only a few pounds – but it would save her from further such ordeals. That accomplished, she waited no more than a moment on the swaying ‘bus stop’ before the vaporetto arrived, then dragged her case on board in the midst of a shoving mob: no orderly queues like she was accustomed to in England, Callie observed ruefully.

She managed to find a seat, then settled back to enjoy the boat’s stately progress along the Grand Canal. It was just as she’d thought it would be, except that it was even more beautiful, shimmering in the autumn sunlight. The opaque water of the canal, reflecting the color of the sky. The majestic palazzi – Byzantine, Gothic, Rococo all cheek–by–jowl, the mellow houses with their crumbling plaster–work and peeling paint, the gondolas with their cargoes of blissful couples…

Adam again, intruding into her thoughts. Spoiling her pleasure.

Callie found the hotel without any difficulty. After the dazzling sunlight outside, the lobby seemed a dark cave. But the man behind the desk gave her a charming smile. “Buon giorno,” he said; then, it seemed to her, he sized her up with an expert glance. What was it he was seeing? she wondered. She was alone, she was relatively young, she was wearing no wedding ring. Could he tell from her face, from her clothing, that she was English? “Signorina?” he said, pulling the register towards him.

“Miss … ?”

“Caroline Anson. Miss.” Callie smiled back at him self-consciously. “Reverend, actually,” she added, unable to resist the temptation to use her brand new title. “The Reverend Caroline Anson.”

Now he stared at her. “You are a priest?”

She felt that she needed to explain. “Not a priest, no. Not yet, anyway. I’m a deacon. In the Church of England. Anglican.” She didn’t tell him, though, that she had been ordained for just over twenty–four hours.

“We do not have women priests in our church here.” His voice was carefully neutral.

“Yes, I know.” Callie’s hand went to her neck in an unconscious gesture. His reaction was what she had expected, and it was the main reason why she had not worn her new dog collar: Italians, she suspected, were not used to seeing women in clerical dress – apart from nuns, which were a different kettle of fish altogether – and she didn’t really want to be stared at in the streets.

The temptation to wear the collar had been great: after all, it was new, and she had worked hard for the right to wear it. She was not ashamed of her calling; on the contrary, she was proud, and wanted everyone to know that she was now in Holy Orders.

But she was on holiday, after all, and she knew that – apart from the fact that this was a Catholic country, and she was a woman – wearing a dog collar somehow set people apart.

Callie preferred to fade into the background, and that is what she did for the rest of the day. She walked the streets of Venice, down to the Rialto and over to San Marco, across little bridges and down tiny alleys, not caring where she was or worrying about getting lost, but just drinking in the flavour of the place. Trying to avoid thinking about all of the happy couples who surrounded her, trying to escape from the inevitable memory of Adam.

Eventually, footsore, she returned to her room and made herself a cup of tea. The room was adequate: immaculately clean, but quite small, furnished with a single bed. Its window, though, overlooked the Grand Canal, and that was worth a great deal. The crisp ironed sheets of the bed beckoned to her, and, succumbing, she laid down for what she told herself would be a few minutes of rest before venturing back out again.

Nearly two hours later, she woke in the semi–darkness of an autumn twilight. Time for dinner, then. Dinner, as well as breakfast, was provided at the hotel as part of the package price, so it was just a matter of tidying herself up, brushing her hair, applying a bit of lipstick, and going downstairs.

Callie hovered at the door of the restaurant and waited for someone to notice her and find her a table. The room, although it wasn’t large, seemed quite full. Two by two they sat, at every table.

A young man appeared at her elbow. “Signorina?” he said anxiously, then continued in accented but serviceable English. “If you would not mind sitting with the other lady? The lady on her own?” He gestured towards the corner table. She hadn’t noticed the middle–aged woman, sitting alone in the shadows.

“Yes, all right,” Callie agreed, reluctant to intrude on the woman’s solitude, but even more reluctant to insist on a table of her own, especially as there did not seem to be one available. “If she doesn’t mind, that is.”

“No, she will not mind.” He grinned. “She is English, too. And alone like you.” Callie allowed herself a moment of bitterness as he led her to the table: to be lumped together with another inconvenient English spinster, and one with more than a few years on her, seemed the final indignity, scarcely to be tolerated. But the woman welcomed her with a smile. “Please, do sit down,” she invited, indicating the empty chair across from her. Her voice was soft, her accent genteel and not readily identifiable as from any particular region beyond the Home Counties. Callie sat, warmed out of her bitterness by the smile. “I’m sorry to intrude like this,” she apologised.

“Not at all. It’s good to have the company. I’m Imogen,” the woman added.

“Callie.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“Short for Caroline. My little brother had trouble saying his Rs.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said that; she wasn’t usually in the habit of sharing such information with total strangers.

Imogen didn’t really seem like a stranger, though, as she nodded in understanding. She possessed an ordinary face: unmemorable, undistinguished, and yet not without character. Her eyes spoke of a warm intelligence, and her smile was sweet. It was not the sort of face to attract notice, but it was comfortable, and Callie liked its owner instinctively.

“Is this your first day here?” Imogen asked.

Callie nodded. “I flew in at mid–day.”

“And how do you like it so far?”

“Venice is wonderful,” Callie stated. “The most beautiful place I’ve ever been. But,” she added impulsively, her eyes sweeping around the restaurant, “it isn’t a very good place to be on your own. I think it might have been a mistake to come.”

Imogen smiled, then seemed to choose her words carefully. “Being on one’s own has its compensations,” she said. “I love to watch people. A single woman on her own – no one notices me, so I can stare quite openly at people and get away with it. And this restaurant is an ideal place for people–watching.”

“People–watching?”

Her smile turned into a conspiratorial grin. “I have names for them all,” she said. “Those two over there, for instance. The ones looking so soulfully at each other. I call them Romeo and Juliet.”

Callie cast a surreptitious glance in their direction, then realising that Imogen was right about not being noticed, she turned and looked at them more closely.

“Yes,” she agreed. “They are a bit like that.”

“Italian, I think. Or maybe French. Honeymooners.”

“What about the two at the next table?” Callie studied them: a middle–aged couple, the woman well–upholstered and talking volubly, the man thinner and listening with a long–suffering, almost glazed look on his face.

“English, of course. Probably from somewhere like Tunbridge Wells. And I call them Mr and Mrs Bennet.”

Callie laughed in spite of herself. “That’s perfect.”

“You see those two over in the far corner?”

They were an oddly–matched couple, the man some years older than the woman, and in this case it was the man who was doing the talking. He seemed to be lecturing his companion, who was trying her best to be attentive. “They’re English,” Callie guessed.

“Oh, yes.” Imogen nodded. “What do you think, then?”

Before Callie could reply, the waiter, who had been hovering inconspicuously nearby, appeared beside their table, pad and pencil in hand. “The ladies are ready to order?”

She hadn’t even looked at the menu, Callie realized. She opened it now: all in Italian, of course, and rather too many choices to take on board. “Do you have any recommendations?” she appealed to her companion.

“I usually order the set meal, the daily special,” Imogen said. “It’s good value, and always tasty, whatever it happens to be. That’s what I’ll have,” she addressed the waiter. “And a glass of the house red.”

“Make that two.” Callie shut the menu, and thus relieved of decision–making, returned her attention to the couple in the corner. The identification teased at her mind, just eluding her grasp, then suddenly she had it. “Dorothea and Mr. Casaubon.” Imogen gave a delighted laugh. “Exactly. You know your Middlemarch, then. As well as your Jane Austen.”

“And what about the next table?” Callie lowered her voice, in case she were overheard, but the young couple in question didn’t seem to be paying any attention; they were bickering good–naturedly and without pause.

“They’re new – I haven’t seen them before. Any ideas?”

“Beatrice and Benedick,” Callie said promptly.

Imogen’s smile expressed her pleasure. “Brilliant. You’re good at this game. Are you sure you haven’t played it before?”

The waiter arrived with the two glasses of wine. Callie took a sip, then looked around. “What about the others, then?”

Imogen nodded towards a dark recess, where an expensively–dressed but paunchy man leaned across the table towards a curvaceous young woman in a clingy frock. “American. They’re not married – at least not to each other. She’s probably his secretary, and his wife undoubtedly thinks he’s at a conference or business meeting somewhere.” She paused. “Bill and Monica, of course.”

Callie covered her mouth with her napkin to stifle a snort.

“And in the same vein,” Imogen continued, indicating another table, “we have Ron and Nancy. Definitely married, this time.”

In this case, Callie observed, the middle–aged couple were of around an equal age, though the man, as is so often the way, was better preserved. He possessed wavy dark hair and a trim figure, while his wife had a web of fine lines marking the thin, almost transparent skin of her face. She was attractive enough, and had the sort of bone structure which indicated that she might have been beautiful once – but now she seemed faded, like a rose off the bloom. What identified them with the former President and First Lady was the look of rapt adoration which the woman bestowed upon her husband. She never took her eyes from him, though he seemed to pay her merely desultory attention. He refilled his wine glass and drank from it; he applied himself to his food. His wife gazed at him lovingly, proudly.

“And the two over there,” said Imogen, lifting her glass in their direction. “Take a look.”

Instinctively, Callie had up till now avoided looking at the pair who sat side by side on a banquette. They were young, and they were in love. Food was inconsequential to them. Heedless of everyone else in the room, they sat entwined, nibbling on one another. It verged on the indecent, and Callie found it almost painful to watch.

“The Bunnies,” said Imogen dryly. “I call them the Bunnies.”

A giggle bubbled up into Callie’s throat, dissolving the lump of pain. Callie enjoyed the meal more than she imagined she would; Imogen, in her quiet way, was good company, and the food was excellent. It wasn’t until they’d finished the pasta course, and moved on to the chicken, that Imogen asked, “So, what brings you to Venice, all by yourself?” She gave a wry smile, adding, “I can say that, since I’m by myself as well. But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

To her surprise, Callie discovered that she did want to answer. She opened her mouth and it came out: how she had always dreamed of visiting Venice, how she had found herself with a few days to spare between her ordination and the assuming of duties as a curate in a London parish, how she had also found herself in possession of an unexpected sum of money – a generous ordination gift from the congregation where she’d done her parish placement. “I got a great last–minute package deal,” she concluded, feeling somehow flat. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“And now?” Imogen had listened carefully, continuing to eat. “Now I don’t know. As soon as I arrived, and saw everyone so … so coupled, if there’s such a word, I realized that I probably shouldn’t have come.” Imogen paused, put her fork down, and gave Callie a searching look. “Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

She hadn’t planned to tell her this part; she hadn’t planned to utter Adam’s name ever again, let alone expose her pain to anyone’s scrutiny. But somehow it came out in spite of her resolution. “Adam,” she said haltingly. “We were at theological college together. Three years. We were going to get married. Next year, as soon as we were established in our curacies. We were going to be a team.” She stopped. “And?”

“He met someone else. On his parish placement. He told me a fortnight ago.” The bald words brought it flooding back. They’d sat in a pub and he’d told her, his brown eyes alight with joy. All of the usual clichés had risen so easily to his lips: a wonderful girl. You’ll love her, Callie. I want you to be friends. I want us to be friends.

There had been no ring to give back; at least she had been spared that. Adam was a poor student, who couldn’t afford the sort of ring he’d wanted to give her; the ring was to have come after ordination, after he started getting his stipend. Now – soon – someone else would be wearing the ring that should have been hers.

And it wasn’t even as if she could expunge him from her life and resolve never to see him again. Their paths would cross often: they were in the same diocese, even in the same deanery. She would see him, would have to be polite to him. Eventually, she would have to meet her, the wonderful girl. She didn’t know how she would bear it.

To her credit, Imogen didn’t resort to cliché herself. She didn’t say, “You’re better off without him”, or “At least you’ve found out what sort of chap he is now, before you married him”, or “You’ll meet someone else, just you wait and see”. She just listened sympathetically, and nodded.

Amazingly, Callie discovered that she felt better for having told her. Back in her room, Callie spent some time at the window. The Grand Canal, which during the day had mirrored the blue of the sky, was now as black and opaque as ink, but it was a live blackness: undulating, in constant motion. Reflected lights of passing boats and the buildings on either side moved on its surface like colored, animated graffiti.

Callie had not been sleeping well; it wasn’t surprising, with the disruptions to her life of late, not least her heartache over Adam. She was not expecting to sleep well that night, especially in a strange bed, and having napped earlier. But she’d scarcely slipped between the crisp, sweet–smelling sheets before she was asleep. And the next morning, when she awoke, her room bathed in warm Venetian sunlight, it was with anticipation for the day ahead. She spared a moment to lean out of the window and contemplate the scene: already the Grand Canal hummed with activity, with supply boats and water taxis and vaporetti and a few gondolas. Then she showered quickly and went down to breakfast.

She hoped to find Imogen already there, but the table they had occupied the night before was empty, the cutlery and crockery pristine and unused. Throughout breakfast Callie watched and waited for her to appear, but though most of the others put in an appearance – with the exception of the Bunnies, who, Callie surmised, were probably still in their room, breakfasting on each other – there was no sign of Imogen.

On her own, Callie got through breakfast quickly and was soon ready for a full day of sightseeing. She decided to start with San Marco, at the very heart of Venice; she chose to catch a vaporetto rather than walk and risk being distracted by a multitude of other temptations along the way. Some of her fellow guests at the hotel seemed to be bound in the same direction, if not to the same destination: on one side of the boat, Mr. Casaubon lectured Dorothea, pointing out the palazzi as they passed and favouring her with a brief history of each one, while on the other side, Beatrice and Benedick squabbled amicably over their guide book. And a short time later, crossing the expanse of the Piazza San Marco, Callie glimpsed Bill and Monica sipping tiny cups of coffee at a table outside of Florian’s, while Romeo and Juliet were among the throngs of people feeding the pigeons in the square.

What a balm for the spirit San Marco proved to be. It dazzled, it enchanted. Callie had never seen so much gold, such perfection in the melding of soaring dome and majestic marble pillar. And yet it seemed smaller than she had expected, somehow intimate in its concentration of lavish beauty. She wandered around happily for what might have been minutes or might have been hours, so unaware was she of the passing of time.

And she was only dimly aware of the other people, though there were many tourists and sightseers milling about. They seemed somehow inconsequential, insubstantial, in that little heaven between the intricate pictorial mosaics suspended in gold above her head and the equally intricate, but abstract, mosaic patterns of the multicolored marble floor. Then she discovered the gold altarpiece, ablaze with thousands of jewels and precious enamels, and stayed in front of it until she was crowded out by more impatient sightseers.

In the south transept, Callie came upon the entrance to the Treasury and decided to go in. There was an admission fee, which to her pride she managed to count out from her stash of lire without any help from the man at the ticket desk. Once inside, she was confronted with such a collection of reliquaries – fashioned of precious metals and shaped like various body parts – that, overwhelmed, she moved straightaway into the main room of the Treasury, where glass cases housed items of great rarity and beauty, many of them looted from Constantinople. Few people had penetrated this far, perhaps loath to pay the extra fee, and for that Callie was grateful; it meant that she could take her time without being rushed along. Callie studied a bowl hewn from rock crystal many centuries ago, and while her eyes travelled over the intricacies of its decoration, she somehow became aware of the people on the opposite side of the freestanding glass case. Perhaps it was something in the intensity of the voices that caught her attention, but whatever it was, she looked through to the other side of the case, and recognised the man: it was Ron, he of the adoring wife.

But the woman with him was not his wife. There was no mistake about that, even through the glass. This woman was much younger, vibrant and beautiful. She had dark hair and full red lips, and was dressed stylishly in a short dress which displayed long legs to advantage.

She was standing very close to Ron. She was touching his hand, covering it with her own.

Callie strained to hear what they were saying.

“When?” whispered the woman. “When is it going to happen?” Her accent, in keeping with her appearance, was Italian.

“It will,” said Ron, his vowels those of an upper–class Englishman.

“You say that, but…”

“It will,” he repeated, more forcefully. “Don’t you understand, Gabriela? The timing has to be right. Not too soon.”

Gabriela removed her hand and seemed to withdraw from him slightly. “How did you get away from her today?”

“She had a headache. Went back to the hotel.”

“But what if she had not had a headache? You have to plan these things.”

“Torcello,” he said. “It's planned.”

Fascinated, but suddenly ashamed of her eavesdropping, Callie moved towards the door, out of the Treasury and back into the body of the basilica. She tried to put the overheard conversation out of her mind, but the word 'Torcello’ reverberated: an intriguing, resonant word. Who, or what, was Torcello? Was it perhaps a variety of pasta? An exotic dessert? A local wine? An arcane musical instrument? Finding a seat in the transept, she got out her little Italian dictionary and looked the word up. Torcello, she discovered, was an island in the lagoon, a few miles from Venice. That sent her to her guide book, which informed her that Torcello was once a thriving centre of population but was now in great decline. Its main glory was its splendid Byzantine cathedral, said the book, and that alone made it worth a visit.

On impulse, Callie checked the map which showed the vaporetto routes, and realized that she could be on Torcello within an hour.

Why not? she told herself. The guide book said that it was well worth a visit, and this would be a beautiful day to spend some time on the water – and make good use of her three–day vaporetto pass. She emerged into the sunshine and walked the few yards to the vaporetto stop, studying the more detailed map posted there for the route and the timings.

From the Fondamente Nuovo, the boat would call at several islands, of which Torcello was not quite the last. Then it would double back and reverse its journey. That, Callie calculated, would give her an hour on Torcello, before the boat returned. If an hour wasn’t long enough, she could catch the next boat.

It was indeed a lovely afternoon on the lagoon, the sun striking sparks off the water and just a few low clouds scudding on the horizon. Quite a few people had boarded the vaporetto at the Fondamente Nuovo, so seats were at a premium; Callie took the opportunity to go outside of the enclosed cabin and look over the prow as it cut through the water. But most of the passengers got off at Murano or Burano, so by the time the boat reached the stop for Torcello, Callie was nearly alone. She was the only one who disembarked there, and just two people got on.

To her surprise, the cathedral was at some distance from the vaporetto stop, about a quarter of an hour’s walk along a stagnant–looking canal with improbably green water. Walking along, Callie realized that she was hungry: she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and it was now well past lunch time. But any hopes she had of finding a bite to eat were dashed by the ‘closed’ signs hanging on the two restaurants she passed.

The rumblings of her stomach were forgotten as soon as she reached the cathedral. It was very different from the gorgeous exterior of San Marco, built of weathered red brick and looking rather unprepossessing from the outside. Inside, though, were splendours which made the trip all worthwhile. A soaring curved apse at the east end, with an attenuated and serenely beautiful Madonna and Child mosaic hovering amidst the pale gold, dominated the vast interior space. There were other fine mosaics as well, and a vivid depiction of the Last Judgement filled the west wall.

After some thirty minutes of exploration, Callie looked at her watch with the realization that if she didn’t make a move quickly, she would be in danger of missing the vaporetto. Emerging from the cathedral, she discovered that the weather had altered during her time inside: the few scudding clouds had moved in, multiplied, and now filled the sky, appearing to press down on the tower of the cathedral, oppressive and chill. The green of the canal had taken on a dark opacity which seemed somehow sinister, and Callie hurried along beside it, anxious now to leave Torcello behind her.

The boat was approaching as she reached the landing, and she boarded gratefully. Only a handful of people were on the boat, none of whom paid her any attention.

Callie shivered. What, she thought, if she had lost her footing and slipped into the mossy green water of the canal? There would have been no witness, no one to help, and no one to miss her.

The lagoon now seemed an inhospitable place, its choppy water mirroring the sky, transformed to the color of tarnished pewter. All Callie wanted was to get back to the hotel, to a nice hot cup of tea.

Callie had looked forward to seeing Imogen at dinner that night, but the other woman was not there. “Gone,” said the waiter with a shrug. “Gone home today.” She was unexpectedly dismayed by this news, but she resolved to enjoy her meal and follow Imogen’s practice of people–watching. Surveying the couples at the other tables, she surmised that Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had also departed – back to Tunbridge Wells, or wherever it was that they came from – to be replaced by a well–groomed and even glamorous middle–aged woman in the company of a much younger man. Her toy boy, Callie decided, mentally naming them Mrs. Robinson and Benjamin.

Apart from that change, everyone else was the same as the night before. The Bunnies still nibbled, Beatrice and Benedick continued their bickering, and Mr. Casaubon lectured on. Callie, from the security of her virtual invisibility as a solitary woman, and her interest piqued by what she had accidentally observed and overheard earlier in the day, paid special attention to Ron and Nancy.

Nancy looked, if anything, rather more drawn than she had before, with dark smudges under her eyes and a certain tightness in the corners of her mouth. That, Callie supposed, was attributable to the headache. But still she gazed at her husband, following his every move with her eyes, speaking little.

Ron wasn’t doing much talking either, Callie observed. He concentrated on his food, chewing each bite carefully, and was rather knocking the wine back. Callie finished before they did, and passed by their table on her way out, taking her time.

As she went by, Ron spoke. He took a sip of wine, and without looking at his wife, said casually, “By the way, I thought that we might do Torcello tomorrow.” By the time Nancy replied, Callie was out of earshot. But somehow she doubted that Nancy would have disagreed.

The weather on the next day – Callie’s last full day in Venice – had worsened from the afternoon before, with a chilly fog now sitting firmly on the city. From her window that morning Callie could scarcely see the Grand Canal, the boats disappearing in and out of tiny clear patches between the shreds of mist.

Outside she found that everything seemed muffled, the cheerful clamour of the streets now stilled beneath the grey blanket of fog. If she were here on her honeymoon, or with a lover, Callie reflected, it would seem terribly romantic and beautiful. But she wasn’t, and it didn’t.

Dispirited, she decided to visit the church nearest to the hotel, the one whose dome she could see from her window.

It proved to be the church of San Geremia and Santa Lucia. St. Lucy, the patron saint of eyes – and according to Callie’s guide book, the relics of St. Lucy herself were on view in the church. Anglicans are not, as a whole, into relics, so Callie wasn’t quite sure what to expect. She certainly wasn’t expecting the electric candles which burned cheerily in front of various statues, their bulbs switched on by means of dropping money into a slot. Evidently then, someone – faithful and devout – had been here before her, though there was no sign of anyone else in the church. She passed through the shadowy building, starting when a spotlight sprang to life and illuminated a vast and murky canvas on the wall, and she paused to read a sign – in several languages, including English – which promised her a partial indulgence from her sins through the blessing bestowed by viewing the relics of St. Lucy. She wondered whether the relics had anything to do with eyes: Lucy had supposedly had her eyes torn out rather than lose her virginity, and she was often depicted proffering a plate on which reposed a pair of eyes, like two gruesome marbles.

But the relics were even stranger than that, and certainly not the sort of thing one would have found in an Anglican church of any description. Stretched out in a free–standing glass case, almost like a crystal coffin, was the emaciated figure of a very small woman, swathed in splendid damask vestments, her face covered by a heavy silver mask. Through the glass, Callie could make out the only thing remotely human about the figure: the tiny withered feet poking out from the bottom of the vestments, the skin shrivelled like ancient leather on their bird–like bones. Callie found it depressing, and worse: inexpressibly sad.

“He who has eyes …”, she said softly to herself.

Suddenly she realized how cold the empty church was, and with a shiver, she retraced her steps and made for the door. On the way, she discovered that the church wasn’t in fact empty, as she passed a figure kneeling in prayer before a statue in a dim corner. A young woman, dark–haired. For just an instant, Callie thought that it was the woman she’d seen in the Treasury at San Marco – the woman called Gabriela. But of course it wasn’t, and she shook her head at her own fancifulness. ‘She who has eyes,’ she chided herself.

Callie, glad that she’d seen San Marco in the sunshine, passed much of the day indoors, looking at Renaissance paintings in the Accademia and the Ca’ d’Oro. Then she browsed along the Rialto, searching for one or two suitable souvenirs to take back with her. Venice’s most popular souvenir, the carnival mask, was available everywhere, in every imaginable style and color, bejewelled and beribboned, suitable for hanging on a wall, but they left Callie cold. She found them hideous and even faintly sinister, especially the plague doctor, with his black tricornered hat above a beaked and bird–like white face. Adam would probably like one, she thought with a small pang: his parents had been missionaries, and he had had several African tribal masks on the walls of his room at theological college.

Second only to the masks was the proliferation of blown glass items from Murano, and for her mother, who collected china cats, Callie selected a suitable feline specimen. She wanted something for herself as well; after considerable deliberation, she chose a small notebook covered in marbled paper, its blank pages thick and creamy. And in an out–of–the–way shop she fell in love with a tiny etching of the city, seen from the lagoon, mirage–like, just as she had first experienced it. It was expensive, but she had a bit of money which she’d been given as an ordination present from her mother, and she struggled with her conscience only briefly before succumbing to temptation.

That evening she went down to dinner early, one of the first to arrive in the restaurant. But she took her new notebook with her and began to write down her observations of Venice. She tried to find the words to describe San Marco, looking up in time to see Ron entering the restaurant on his own, without his wife. The waiter showed him to his table, then listened gravely to him and shook his head. Callie couldn’t quite hear what was said, but few minutes later when the waiter brought her pasta, she inclined her head towards Ron’s table and remarked casually, “He’s on his own tonight?”

The waiter nodded. “His wife is not well. She suffers from very bad headaches, he says. Tonight she will rest, as they leave in the morning.”

“So do I,” said Callie, as much to herself as to him. “So do I.”

By morning the fog had lifted, and Venice was once again bathed in a golden glow, making it all the more difficult for Callie to leave. She packed her suitcase, took a last look out of her window at the Grand Canal, and went down to the reception desk to check out.

Ron was there in front of her, signing his credit card receipt. “Grazie. Thank you, Mr. Hawkins,” said the desk clerk. “You have enjoyed your stay with us, I trust?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And Mrs. Hawkins?” The clerk looked over his shoulder, as though expecting to see Nancy rather than Callie, who hovered close enough to hear the conversation.

“Oh, yes indeed.” Ron shrugged, then added, “She’s meeting me at the airport. She had some last–minute shopping that she just had to do, something she didn’t think about until this morning.” He gave a brusque little laugh. “You know how women are. I told her it would be a rush, but…”

The clerk waved his hand and shared in the joke. “Yes, my wife is the same. I just hope that your wife does not miss the plane.”

Ron put away his credit card, picked up two bags, and departed. A few minutes behind him, Callie headed for the bus station and was soon on her way to the airport. Ron was not on the bus, she observed: he had probably taken a water taxi. She wondered whether he and Nancy would be on her flight. Though she kept her eyes open at the airport, she didn’t see anything of them until she was boarding the plane, at which time she had a glimpse of what she was sure was Ron’s wavy hair, somewhere in the queue to board. Not a sign of Nancy, though she told herself that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Once on the plane, she didn’t see either one of them: they were probably travelling first class, she concluded.

It was a full flight. Callie had a window seat, hoping for a final view of Venice as they took off, but to her disappointment she was on the wrong side of the plane.

A young man occupied the seat beside her. Young, she observed, but not too young – around her age, in fact. Curly black hair. And when he turned to her, smiling, passing her a bag of peanuts from the flight attendant, she saw that he had lovely brown eyes.

Callie got out her marbled notebook and began to write. But instead of describing the joys of Venice, she found herself enumerating:
1. Nancy adores Ron.
2. Ron talked to a young woman called Gabriela in San Marco.
3. Nancy has not been seen (by me) since yesterday morning.

It was not a lot to go on, she concluded ruefully. Suspicious, perhaps, but scarcely conclusive. She should just let it go. Callie shut the book and stuck it in her handbag.

The young man beside her opened a newspaper. It was in Italian, she saw. He must be Italian, then.

But a few minutes later, when the flight attendant brought their drinks, he folded up his newspaper and spoke to Callie in an accent as English as her own. “Did you enjoy Venice, then?”

“I loved it,” she responded honestly. “It’s wonderful. Not like anywhere else on earth.”

“I love it, too,” he said, then introduced himself. “I’m Mark.”

“The patron saint of Venice. San Marco.”

She’d blurted the first thing that came into her head, and it sounded pretty fatuous to her. But he turned a bit in his seat and gave her a warm smile. “Well, actually my name is Marco, though in England I’m usually known as Mark. My parents were born in Italy, you see. They’re Venetian. My grandmother still lives in Venice. I visit her whenever I have a chance.”

“Hence the Italian newspaper,” said Callie. “You speak Italian, I mean.”

Marco laughed ruefully. “I’m not fluent, much to my parents’ disappointment. But I get by well enough.”

Over the next few minutes she learned more about Marco: that he’d lived in London all of his life, that he was a policeman. Those were the things he told her. She learned, also, that he was a very good conversationalist, and had the knack of making her feel that she was as well. He drew her out, got past her initial shyness; she found herself telling him about her impressions of Venice, about her favourite books, even about her calling to the ordained ministry.

As the plane neared Gatwick, circling for landing, Callie had a moment of regret that the journey was over so quickly, then was overcome immediately with embarrassment and a huge wave of shyness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been talking, and I’ve kept you from your newspaper.”

“Oh, that.” Marco laughed, securing his tray table and putting the paper on his lap. “Talking to you has been much more interesting than struggling through an Italian newspaper.”

Unwilling to meet his eyes, Callie looked at the folded paper. A word in a small headline at the bottom of the page leapt out at her: Torcello.

“Oh, what does that say?” She pointed at the story, little more than a paragraph. Marco scrutinised it, his brow creased. “Well, it’s about a body being found. In a canal on Torcello.”

“A body?” Callie could hear her voice rising in pitch.

“Apparently it was found last night. A woman’s body. Not identified.”

She leaned back in her seat, pushed back by the gravitational force as the plane descended. No, she thought. It couldn’t be. She was letting her imagination run away with her again.

But she couldn’t help remembering how she had felt on that deserted stretch of pathway beside the green water of the canal. How easy it would be: just one little push, a splash, and it would be over. No one to hear, no one to help.

And they – Ron and Nancy – had been going to Torcello.

It was the missing piece of the puzzle that she’d been searching for.

How, though, she asked herself, could he hope to get away with it? The body had been found; sooner or later it would be identified. Even if it wasn’t, how could he explain his wife’s disappearance?

That wouldn’t be impossible, she argued with herself. The desk clerk at the hotel had seen him leave with his wife’s suitcase, had heard the explanation of her absence. Perhaps he could tell people at home, wherever home was, that his wife had left him, had run away with another man. They might believe it.

She was being fanciful, Callie said to herself sternly. The man was probably, at this moment, sitting with his wife in the first class compartment. Suddenly it became very important to find out. She needed to see Nancy, to assure herself that the woman was all right.

The instant that the seatbelt light went out, Callie scrambled over Marco’s legs with an embarrassed apology, slung her handbag over her shoulder and rushed up the aisle towards the first class compartment.

But others, equally eager to disembark, blocked her way, standing in the aisles to retrieve their carry–ons from the overhead bins, then making slow progress up the aisle. By the time Callie reached the first class section at the front of the plane, it was empty of passengers.

She moved swiftly out of the gate and down the corridors towards Immigration, following the signs and the people, still determined but losing hope as she arrived at the huge Immigration hall where people queued to have their passports examined. The queues snaked back and forth, but there was no sign of Ron and Nancy; if, indeed, they’d been in first class, they were probably already through into the baggage hall. Their luggage would come through first, and they’d be through Customs and out of the airport before she’d even cleared Immigration.

The woman in front of her in the queue stepped up to the desk when her turn came. She was, Callie noticed, wearing a headscarf and a large pair of dark glasses. The Immigration Officer flipped open the passport, gave it no more than a cursory look, then stamped it handed it back to her. “There you are, Mrs. Hawkins,’ he said, waving her through.

Callie gasped and stared at the rapidly retreating back. The woman was definitely not Nancy: she was tall, leggy, young.

It was Gabriela, without any doubt this time.

Perversely, the Immigration Officer lingered over Callie’s passport, scrutinizing first her photo and then her face, before taking his time in finding a page and stamping it. When eventually he proffered the passport, she snatched it from his hand and took off in the direction in which Gabriela had gone, towards the baggage hall.

Callie found the carousel which was designated for the Venice flight; there was no sign of Gabriela, and the luggage was disgorging with frustrating slowness. Across the carousel she saw Marco, waiting expectantly for his luggage, but she looked away quickly. It wouldn’t do for him to catch her staring at him. And besides, there were other, more important, things to think about.

Gabriela, travelling on Mrs. Hawkins’ – Nancy’s – passport. What did it mean? What could it mean, other than the obvious?

Her bag came gliding by on the conveyor belt; she grabbed it, threw it on a trolley, and headed for the Blue Channel.

She would never know now, she told herself as she emerged into the crowded terminal. If Ron had pushed Nancy into the green water of the canal on Torcello, he would very likely get away with it. There was nothing she could do about it now. She could scarcely go to the police and tell them of her suspicions, with nothing more to go on than a few overheard conversations, a tiny item in a newspaper, and the name Hawkins – she didn’t even know his real first name, and it almost certainly wasn’t Ron. The police would laugh her out of the station.

And then she saw them. They were behind a smoked glass panel which screened a fast food restaurant–cum–coffee bar from the terminal. Gabriela had shed her headscarf and her dark glasses. Ron held her close in an intimate embrace, their bodies and their lips pressed together, his hands entwined in her black hair. For an instant Callie watched them. “She who has eyes,’ she whispered to herself. Then she spun around, just as Marco – Marco, a member of the Metropolitan Police – came through from the baggage hall into the terminal, pushing a trolley. Without giving herself so much as an instant to think about it, she rushed up to him, registering at the back of her mind his delighted smile just before she spoke. She would think about that later; now there were more urgent matters to deal with. “There’s something I want to tell you about,” she gasped. “Something you might not believe …”

< back

Copyright 2008 Kate Charles. All rights reserved.