sympathy, and then into a look of utter dumbfounded amazement.
Which was maybe not surprising, if she felt the shock of recognition that Marco was feeling. Because even if he'd never seen her before, he knew her; knew how the corners of her eyes would crinkle when she laughed, knew how she'd twist a lock of hair around one finger when she was thinking hard, knew how her hand would feel, warm and strong, and calloused with work, in his.
In that moment he forgot Angelina Dorma, forgot his aching head, forgot his humiliation. He stretched out his hand without realizing he'd done so--saw she was doing the same, like an image in a mirror.
And then his eyes blurred, and vision deserted him. When his eyes cleared, she was gone, and there was no sign that she'd ever even been there. And he was left staring at the crowded canal, not even knowing who she could be.
Before he could gather his wits, they were pulling up to the tie-up in Castello. He managed to crawl under his own power onto the landing, but when he stood up, he didn't gray out, he blacked out for a minute.
When he came to, he had Maria on the one side of him, and Caesare on the other, with Benito scrambling up the stairs ahead of them. They got him up the stairs, Lord and Saints, that was a job--he was so dizzy he could hardly help them at all. Aldanto had to all but carry him the last few feet. Then he vanished, while Marco leaned against the wall in the hallway and panted with pain.
Maria, it was, who got him into the kitchen; ignoring his feeble attempts to stop her, she stripped him down to his pants with complete disregard for his embarrassment. She cleaned the ugly slash along his ribs, poured raw grappa in it. That burned and brought tears to his eyes. Then she bandaged him up; then cleaned the marsh-muck off of him as best she could without getting him into water. Then she handed him a pair of clean breeches and waited with her back turned and her arms crossed for him to strip off the dirty ones and finally bundled him up into bed, stopping his protests with a glass of unwatered wine.
He was so cold, so cold all the way through, that he couldn't even shiver anymore. And his thoughts kept going around like rats in a cage. Only one stayed any length of time--
'Maria--' he said, trying to get her attention more than once, 'Maria--'
Until finally she gave an exasperated sigh and answered, 'What now?'
'Maria--' he groped after words, not certain he hadn't hallucinated the whole thing. 'On the Grand Canal-- there was this girl, in a boat--a gondola. Maria, please, I got to find out who she is!'
She stared at him then, stared, and then started a grin that looked fit to break her face in half. 'A girl. In a boat.' She started to laugh, like she'd never stop. 'A girl in a boat. Saint Zaccharia! Oh, all the Saints! Damn, it's almost worth the mess you've got us into!'
She leaned on the doorframe, tears coming to her eyes, she was laughing so hard.
Then she left him, without an answer.
Left him to turn over and stare at the wall, and hurt, inside and out. Left him to think about how he'd lost everything that really meant anything--especially Aldanto's respect. About how the whole town knew what a fool he was. About how he'd never live that down.
And to think about how everything he'd meant to turn out right had gone so profoundly wrong; how he owed Caesare more than ever. Left him to brood and try to figure a way out of this mire of debt, until his head went around in circles--
He was going into the reaction that follows injury. Sophia had told him . . . He tried desperately to recapture her words. . . . It was all vague. He knew about that somewhere deep down, but he didn't much care anymore. He wouldn't ask for any more help, not if he died of it. Maybe if he died, if they found him quiet and cold in a couple of hours, maybe they'd all forgive him then.
He entertained the bleak fantasy of their reaction to his demise for a few minutes before he dropped off to sleep.
Chapter 38 ==========
Francesca looked out of her window onto the Grand Canal. 'It will be nice here in spring. Not as nice as on the Ligurian coast, but still pretty.' She spoke calmly, conversationally--as if Erik had not come bursting in here three minutes back, looking for Manfred.
Now he was sitting here, being as polite as if in any Venetian lady's salon. And feeling utterly ill at ease.
Erik swallowed. Francesca always left him not really sure of his ground. She was so . . . alien to him. Different from his expectations, especially after that first meeting. By the time the second one occurred, he was floundering. Francesca's new residence could, he supposed, be technically referred to as a 'bordello.' But it was like no bordello Erik had ever seen. There was no salon downstairs where half-naked women lounged for the inspection of the customers. In fact--other than, presumably, in the privacy of their own very spacious and luxurious apartments--the women were always extremely well dressed. And not flirtatious in the least, in the blatant manner that Erik expected from 'whores.'
