‘Have them on me,’ Pietro said, producing a wad of notes and tossing them into the air where they were eagerly seized. ‘Now be off.’
‘But you haven’t kissed the lady,’ cried the jester, aghast.
The others took up the refrain, dancing around them, crying, ‘Kiss, kiss!’
Pietro looked daggers, but Ruth could no longer contain her mirth. Watching her explode with laughter, feeling the vibration of her whole body against his, he felt her smile invade him, take him over, join him to her. The next moment he was joined to her in body as well as in spirit, his arm beneath her neck, his mouth on hers.
Ruth closed her eyes, not sure that this was happening, and only now understanding how much she’d wanted it to happen. The kiss she’d given him on the first night was still with her, reawakened now, a thousand times more intense.
She would have known his mouth of all others, no matter where or when. It was wide and firm, and it moved against hers with a combination of subtlety and power that was devastating. When she’d forced the first embrace on him he’d accepted it reluctantly, waiting until she was finished. But this was his kiss, coming fiercely from him to her, defying her not to return it.
It would have been beyond her power to resist the challenge, even if she’d wanted to. As it was, she was no longer stranded in a desert. Something within her was being set free, ready to soar.
Now she could submerge herself, knowing truly who was the man in her arms, wanting him there, trying to tell him so without words. When she felt his arms loosening about her she agreed, reluctantly, wanting to cling to him but knowing this wasn’t the moment. But later, she promised herself.
Drawing away slightly, she saw his face as she’d never seen it before, full of a joy that matched her own, momentarily obliterating the world and all its problems. But there was something else too, a confusion that made him struggle and speak awkwardly.
‘Well, we found a way to silence them,’ he said.
‘I hope so.’ She looked around, ready to challenge their well-meaning tormentors.
They were alone.
‘Where have they gone?’ she said, baffled. ‘Even the train’s left.’
‘I guess we took a little longer than we thought,’ he said slowly.
‘Ruth-’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Everything’s all right.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Everything’s all right.’
As they began the walk back along the platform to the exit he pondered, ‘Ruth, did they really exist, or did we imagine them?’
A fantasy conjured out of the depths of their mutual need? It was a delightful thought, but she had to say, ‘I think they were a crowd of English tourists who came for Carnival. And they’re determined to see Carnival everywhere they look.’
‘Well, at least we got rid of them.’
He spoke too soon. As they emerged from the great exit fronting the Grand Canal the tourists were waiting for them in a state of high glee.
‘I said beat it,’ Pietro groaned.
‘But you haven’t gone on to the next stage,’ the jester said imploringly.
‘The next stage?’
‘The gondola ride, of course-gliding through the little darkened canals to the sound of a mandolin and a gondolier singing his heart out.’
‘Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll try to find one.’
‘No need, we’ve hired everything necessary.’
Everyone gave elaborate bows, pointing the way to the water, where a gondola was waiting. On the rear platform stood a gondolier, and beside him stood a man with a mandolin, ready to serenade them. Also ready was a large motor boat, into which the tourists were already climbing.
‘Oh, by the way,’ the jester said placatingly, ‘I said you’d be paying.’
By now the boatmen had recognised Pietro and were urgent in their apologies.
‘All right, all right,’ he growled. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ll pay you, and we’ll see this through to the end, otherwise they’ll only have a bigger laugh.’
‘And they say romance is dead!’ the jester declared to his companions, who all cheered.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he murmured to Ruth.
‘Don’t be. I’m enjoying it.’
In truth she was exhilarated. It was like being carried off by a runaway horse, not knowing where the horse was going, but sure she was going to be glad of it. She might have said a runaway gondola, but that couldn’t describe the helter-skelter glee that was sweeping her up.
She wanted to cry up to the stars that she was ready to go on for ever.
Pietro climbed into the gondola first, and handed her in beside him. Before sitting he exchanged a few words in Venetian with the gondolier, who passed them on to the man driving the motor boat.
‘What did you say?’ Ruth demanded suspiciously.
‘What do you think I said?’
‘You probably told them to drown everyone.’
‘No, I’m not as quick-witted as you. I didn’t think of it in time.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘Stop nagging me, you little harpy.’
‘I’m not little,’ she said at once. ‘I’m nearly as tall as you are. I’ll show you.’
‘They’re standing up.’
‘They’re used to it. You’ll just capsize us.’
Since he had to seize her in his arms to restrain her this provoked more cheers from their audience.
‘What did you say to them?’ she repeated through her laughter.
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he said defiantly. ‘You’ll just have to try to trust me.’
‘Well, I don’t trust you. You’re hatching some terrible plan.’
He was in the spirit of it now, his eyes gleaming, partly with humour and partly with something else that made her catch her breath in joyous anticipation.
‘You think you know me that well?’ he challenged. ‘I’m terrible?’
‘Yes, you are. Absolutely terrible.’
The gondola rocked as they set out on their journey.
‘So tell me what you said,’ Ruth insisted.
‘I forget.’ He was teasing her now. She nudged him a little further.
‘Tell me,’ she urged.
‘No. It’s a secret.’
From behind them came a burst of laughter and the gondolier called, ‘All is well, signorina. He only said that he has no money left, so we must call in the shop tomorrow to be paid.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ Pietro growled. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, ‘Remind me to double your rent.’
But the young man grinned as he said it. Evidently the idea of Pietro taking revenge was amusing.
‘Rent?’ Ruth queried.
‘I own a few small places,’ he conceded grudgingly.
Having glided a small distance down the Grand Canal, the little procession drifted into a turning, the gondola leading the way, the motor boat bringing up the rear, its occupants agog with interest.
The singer was strumming his mandolin, then bursting into song, not a romantic Italian song but a modern pop song currently in the charts.
‘I warned him to be careful what he sang,’ Pietro murmured.
But when the musician had finished there were cries for him to improve the performance. He looked uncertainly at Pietro, who glowered back.
