forties Michele Morgan.
It became a game with him: Could he choose a church or museum at random, go there, and not run into her? There were other tourists trekking their way through Venice, but she seemed the only one on the same track as himself. How were they connected? Were their consciousnesses linked? Perhaps they should sit down and discuss it. But first she would have to recognize him and acknowledge the humor of their meetings.
For a while he was certain she didn't notice him, or else, he decided, she was the coolest woman in Venice. Then, while eating lunch alone in Harry's Bar, he saw her enter, pause, peruse the room, smile (or did he merely imagine that she did?) as she sighted him, then quickly turn away. He smiled back but was too late; she was on her way to a table at the opposite end. He watched to see if she was joining a companion, was relieved to see her sit down alone.
Relieved. What right had he to feel that way? The answer came to him almost at once. She was so damn attractive! Everything about her, her gestures, the way she moved… he knew he had to meet her. And the first step was to find out who she was.
In New York there would be no problem. He would simply follow her to her hotel, flash his shield at the clerk, and ask. But here in Venice he had no status, was but one of five thousand end-of-the-season stragglers in a centuries-long parade.
However, after three days of fortuitous encounters, he decided that he would follow her. A crazy idea, a little too close, perhaps, to Aschenbach's pursuit of the boy. But the notion appealed to him. He was a detective; he had the skills and also great curiosity. She certainly interested him more than any lifeless work of art. Let the tarted-up old whore of a city offer her meretricious charms to someone else. The lonely middle-aged detective from North America would track the live young beauty through her streets.
He picked her up outside Palazzo Ca' d'Oro. How amazing, he thought, that I knew she'd come here! He hung back, waiting, and then, as she wandered the galleries, began carefully to stalk her. She paused a long while before Mantegna's painting of St. Sebastian. Perhaps the naked, limp, pierced body of the executed saint excited her. Or else (and he hoped this was true) it aroused her compassion.
She boarded the No. I vaporetto. No difficulty following her onto the crowded ferry; he had only to linger among the workers to remain unseen. She disembarked at Pontile Saint' Angelo, and there he almost missed her; he nearly didn't make it off.
She began to walk down narrow alleyways and to cross little bridges, as if wandering irregularly without a plan. As he followed, he tried to stay a building's distance back. Once, when she stopped, he stopped as well. Then he watched as she consulted her map.
She entered an elegant women's store. Beautiful shoes and fine silk dresses were displayed in the window. She reappeared after fifteen minutes, and he was gratified that she carried no packages. Then she went into a tiny boutique that sold marbled papers and hand-bound notebooks. When she came out, she carried a shopping bag embellished with a golden lion.
Look at what I'm doing: making up a personality for her, just the way I would for a criminal! He was tempted to stop right there, leave her alone, retreat. But it was too late. He was fascinated. The game was on, and now he must play it out.
Seeing that she was following a narrow street that would dead-end on the Grand Canal and thus force her to return and meet him face-to-face, he cleverly moved to a parallel alley, then walked beside her, invisible though only a few feet away. Trying to match his steps to the soft thud of her boots upon the stones, he could not deny to himself that he was thrilled.
She carried a camera, a viewfinder Leica, but he didn't see her use it until she paused before a tiny violin shop near the Fenice Theater. Then she stepped back onto a delicately scaled footbridge and carefully composed a shot. After she moved on, he stood where she had stood and saw what she had seen: three fiddles hanging in the shop doorway reflected in the canal beneath the shadow of the bridge. It would make a fine picture, he thought. And then: Perhaps I am beginning to know her a little bit.
She looked more at home when she reached the Piazza San Marco. She paused at its entrance, peered ahead, then crossed it with brisk, athletic strides. She paused again, to look up at the campanile, then moved rapidly into the Doges' Palace.
The Bridge of Straw; the Bridge of Sighs: he crossed them both close behind her, employing a small French speaking group as his shield.
He followed her across the vast marble floor of the Sala del Maggior Consiglio and was surprised that she did not give even a glance to the huge Tintoretto on the wall.
Something was different about her. She seemed impatient, annoyed.
Her forehead was creased, her stride anxious. She glanced at her watch. Did she have a date? was she apprehensive about it? was she meeting a man?
She backtracked to Santa Maria Formosa, then paused to study the stone head of a monster. Slowly he was learning more about her. Now, it seemed, she was interested in the grotesque.
Surely something was bothering her, for she abruptly turned again, and this time it was hopeless to avoid her. He walked straight past her, refusing to meet her eyes, circled, and deftly picked her up again as she headed rapidly back through the Piazzetta, then along the wide expanse that follows St. Mark's Canal. Along the Riva degii Schiavoni, then, very briskly, tensely, across the Bridge of Wine and the Bridge of Piety to the open portion of the waterfront where old Venetians huddled on wooden benches trying to catch the faint heat cast by the brilliant October sun.
She was out of the labyrinth, in the open, and suddenly he knew why.
She's made me! Damn! Too late now to retreat. A queasy feeling as he understood she was going to confront him. Damn!
Nothing I can do. He would have to try to brave it out.
But when she finally turned on him, as he knew she would, she did not show an angry face. Rather, she smiled teasingly as she raised her camera and began to take his picture. Once, twice, then rapidly five more times, moving closer at each exposure, until, when she finally lowered the Leica, she was but three yards from his face.
'Do you speak English?' she asked with a German accent. He nodded. 'I believe you're following me. You will please explain?'
She smiled as she waited for his response, and again he was struck by the beauty of her eyes. Also by her confidence. She's got me, and she knows it. No choice. I'll have to own up.
'I'm embarrassed… He grinned foolishly, feeling himself tongue-tied.
'American?' He nodded. 'Do you know me? Have we met?' He shook his head. 'I must interest you very, much,' she said, rolling her eyes in mock wonderment.
He grinned again, then caught himself. She was making him feel like a boy. 'to tell the truth-'
'The truth! Yes, we must definitely have the truth!' she puffed.
'Because, you must know this, it is very rude to follow a woman through the streets. Adolescent Italian males do it, but a mature man and an American-that's quite unexpected. Frankly I would not have thought an American gentleman capable of such a thing.'
She stared at him, levelly, waiting for his reply. And this time, he knew, she would wait until he gave her satisfaction.
'Yes,' he admitted, 'I was following you. I apologize. It was stupid of me and very rude. But please believe me, I intended no harm. I hope you won't call the police.'
'Why should I want to do that?' she asked with a slight smirk. She was amused now, enjoying his discomfort.
Fine with me, he thought. Keeps it between us. I'll take any humiliation so long as she doesn't bring in the cops.
'You took my picture,' he said. 'If you felt harassed, then I understand you might want-'
'But I didn't feel harassed. I was flattered. You have a kind face. I knew you wouldn't bother me. If I ask you now, you will leave me alone. Correct?'
'That is certainly correct,' he agreed.
She paused, then introduced herself. 'My name is Dr. Daskai.'
A doctor! He would never have guessed it. 'Mine's Janek,' he replied, again feeling dumb.
