Vincenzo nodded, understanding the code by which Piero and those like him lived. He was used to dropping into his empty home to find various squatters sheltering there.
He knew that a sensible man would have driven them out, but, despite his grim aspect, he lacked the heart. He looked in occasionally to keep an eye on the place, but he'd found that Piero was better than any caretaker, and the building was safe with him. Now his visits were as much to check on the old man's welfare as for any other reason.
Julia stirred again, settling into a position where more of her face was visible.
Moving quietly, Vincenzo dropped to his knees beside her and studied her. He supposed he shouldn't be doing that while she was unknowing and defenceless, but something about her drew him so that he could not turn away.
Her face spoke of mysteries and denied them in the same moment. She wasn't a girl, he thought, probably somewhere in her thirties, marked by grief and with a withdrawn look so intense that it was there even in sleep.
Her mouth was wide, generous, designed to be mobile and expressive. He had known women with lips like that. They laughed easily, talked well, and kissed urgently with warm, sweet breath.
But this woman looked as if she seldom smiled, except as a polite mask. And she had forgotten how to kiss. She had forgotten love and pleasure and happiness. This was a face from which tenderness had been driven by sheer force. Its owner was capable of anything.
But it hadn't always been true. She had started life differently. Traces of vulnerability were still there, al-though perhaps not for long. Something had brought her to the point where life would harden her quickly.
Then a strange feeling came over him, as though the very air had moved, and the ground beneath him had trembled. He blinked, shaking his head, and the feeling vanished. Quickly he moved away.
'What's the matter?' Piero asked, handing him a cup of coffee.
'Nothing. It's just that for a moment I felt I'd seen her before. But where-?' He sighed. 'I must be imagining it.'
He drank his coffee and turned to go. At the door he stopped and handed Piero some money.
'Look after her,' he said quietly.
When Vincenzo had gone Piero wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the other sofa. After a while he slept.
Doors clanged again and again. It was a dreadful, hollow sound, and it soon became agonising.
She flung herself against one of those iron doors, pounding and shrieking that she should not be here. But there was no response, no help. Only stony, cold indifference.
There were bars at the windows. She pulled herself up to them, looking through at the world from which she was shut out.
She could see a wedding. It did not seem strange to find such a scene in this dreary place, for she knew instinctively that they were connected.
There was the groom, young and handsome, smiling on his day of triumph. Was there something about his smile that wasn't quite right, as though he was far from being the man his bride thought?
She knew nothing of that. The poor little fool thought he loved her. She was young, innocent, and stupid.
Here she came, glowing with love triumphant. Julia gripped the bars in horror as that naive girl threw back her veil, revealing the face beneath-
Her own face.
'Don't,' she said hoarsely. 'Don't do it. Don't marry him, for pity's sake don't marry him.'
The last words were a scream, and suddenly she was sitting up, tortured into wakefulness, tears streaming down her face, and Piero kneeling beside her, his arms about her, trying vainly to offer comfort for a wrong that could never be put right.
For breakfast next morning Piero laid on a feast.
'Where did these come from?' Julia asked, looking at the rolls stuffed with meat.
'From my friend from the restaurant who dropped in last night, the one I told you about.'
'He sounds like a really good friend. Is he one of us?'
'In what sense?'
'You know-stranded.'
'Well, he's got a roof over his head, but you might call him stranded in other ways. He's lost everyone he ever loved.'
Over breakfast she produced some money. 'It's only a little but it might help. You'll know where the bargains are.'
'Splendid. We'll go out together.'
She wrapped up thickly and followed him out into the day. He led her through a labyrinth of tiny
Suddenly they were in the open, and the Rialto Bridge reared up over them, straight ahead. She'd been here the night before and gone to frozen sleep at one end, where the shore railings curved towards the water.
She'd come to this place searching for someone…
Now she looked around, but all the faces seemed to converge, making her giddy. And perhaps he had never been here after all.
Venice was bustling with life. Barges made their way through the canals, stopping to seize the bags of rubbish that had been dumped by the water's edge. More barges, filled with supplies, arrived at the open air market at the base of the Rialto.
Piero stocked up with fiendish efficiency, buying more produce with less money than she would have thought possible.
'That's a good morning's work,' he said. 'Now we- you're shivering. I guess you took a chill from those stones last night. Let's get you into the warm.'
She tried to smile but she was feeling worse by the minute, and was glad to turn back.
When they reached home Piero tended her like a mother, building up the stove and making her some hot coffee.
'You've got a nasty cold there,' he said when she started to cough.
'Yes,' she snuffled miserably.
'I've got to go out for a while. Stay close to the stove while I'm gone.'
He left quickly, and she was alone in the rapidly darkening building. There was something blessed in the silence.
She went to the window overlooking the Grand Canal. Just outside was a tiny garden, bordered by tall wrought iron railings, right next to the water.
By craning her neck she could make out the Rialto Bridge, and the bank lined with outdoor tables on the far side of the canal. The cafes were filled with people, determined not to be put off by the time of year.
She wandered back to the stove and sat on the floor, beside it, dozing on and off.
Then something made her eyes open sharply. The last of the light had gone, and she could hear footsteps in the corridor. It didn't sound like Piero, but somebody younger.
The sound drew close and halted. Then the door handle turned. It was enough to make her leap up and hurry into the shadows where the intruder could not see her. Inwardly she was screaming, Go away! Leave me alone!
She stood still, her heart thumping wildly, as the door opened and a man came in. He set the bag he was carrying on the floor, and looked around as though expecting to see somebody.
She told herself not to be foolish. This was probably Piero's friend. But still she couldn't make herself move. Nobody was a friend to her.
The man came into a shaft of light from a large window. It was soft, almost gloomy light, but she could make out that he was tall, with a rangy build and a lean face that suggested a man in his thirties.
Suddenly he grew alert, as though realising that he was not alone. 'Who is it?' he called, looking around.
She tried to force herself to speak, but a frozen hand seemed to be grasping her throat.
'I know you're somewhere,' he said. 'There's no need to hide from me.'
