Veretti’s Dark Vengeance

The other part of her wanted to flee Venice, flee Salvatore, flee the joyous prospect that had opened up before her, because she was no longer sure she had the courage to confront its dangers. She was lonely, but to be lonely was to be free. To get closer to Salvatore was to risk loving him, and that would be the greatest disaster of all.

High above on the ceiling nymphs chased each other, laughing as they darted here and there, exchanging looks that were meant to tease and allure, until the moment would come when the chase ended in delight.

They make it look so simple, she sighed to herself. But it isn’t simple at all.

She wondered where Salvatore was now, and what he was thinking. She tried to picture him walking home through the dark calles, rejoicing in his easy victory, saying he’d always known she was just like the others.

But the picture didn’t fit. It faded before the memory of the concern in his voice as he’d asked if she was all right.

She reached out, to switch off the beside light, rolled over and buried her head under the clothes.

Down below, Salvatore stood by the landing stage, watching her window, trying to sort out his thoughts, but they were too much for him. Nothing in the world made any sense.

She had been like a woman experiencing passion for the first time. Helen of Troy, whose lustrous body was a byword for sexual allure and delightful sin, had made love with an air of astonishment and discovery that had stunned him. Prepared for skill and experience, he’d found instead something shockingly like innocence.

He’d always avoided innocence. It caused too many complications. Helena’s attraction had been that she seemed like himself, cynical, wary, well able to take care of herself. Her own words, ‘A woman who knows the rules and doesn’t ask for more,’ had seemed to bear that out.

But it was false. Her caresses had been eager but simple and artless, with none of the calculation he’d expected. He’d known women with those very skills, who’d taken him to the extremes of physical pleasure, but then shrugged when the time had come to part. Not one of them had inspired the concern he’d felt for Helena.

‘What mystery are you hiding?’ he murmured. ‘Who are you lying to-me or yourself? And why? ’

He stood watching for a while longer, listening to the soft lapping of the little waves, until her light went out. Only then did he walk slowly, thoughtfully, away.

Business in Milan kept Salvatore away for the next few days. When it was complete he remembered further business in Rome, and it was a week before he returned to Venice to find a large parcel waiting for him.

‘It came by special messenger the day you left,’ his grandmother told him.

She was a thin, hard-faced woman, expensively dressed. The daughter of impoverished nobility, she had married for money and borne one child, Lisetta, the daughter who had been Salvatore’s mother. Guido, her son-in- law, had been the object of her hatred, often with good reason. Now that both he and Lisetta were dead she haunted the palazzo, urging Salvatore to remember ‘his position’, and disappointed when he didn’t live up to her pompous expectations.

He opened the parcel in front of her and then wished he hadn’t. It was the devil head Helena had created.

Inside was a brief note:

‘I promised you this. Thank you for mine. It’s beautiful. Helena.’

He concealed the note quickly, but his grandmother had seen the head and exclaimed sharply, ‘So it’s true! There was a rumour that she’d insulted you but I couldn’t believe she would dare.’

‘She hasn’t insulted me,’ Salvatore said, examining the object with interest. ‘It’s a very fine piece. If I’m not much mistaken it was designed by Leo Balzini, a young designer I’ve been pursuing for months.’ He gave a grunt of laughter. ‘He’s even managed to make it look like me.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Who could think that a devil looks like you?’

‘Anyone who could see into me as far as she…’ His voice faded and he took a deep, unnerved breath.

‘What’s that you’re mumbling?’

‘Nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘Just take my word that it’s not an insult.’

‘Hmm! I find that hard to believe. A woman like that-’

‘Please don’t call her that,’ Salvatore said quickly.

‘I’ve heard you say it yourself.’

‘But she is technically part of the family and bears the Veretti name,’ he reminded her in a voice that would have warned a more sensitive person.

‘But we don’t have to accept her, surely. Have you any idea of the spectacle she’s been making of herself this last week?’

‘She’s a model. Naturally she draws admiring eyes.’

‘She’s been seen out in the company of a different man every night, including Silvio Tirani.’

Since Tirani was a buffoon who pursued one woman after another, vainly fancying that his wealth could compensate for his vulgarity, this did not elicit the reaction she’d wanted.

‘I’ll bet she sent him about his business,’ Salvatore said with a grin.

‘I know there was a scene in a restaurant, the last thing this family needs. We must ignore her, however hard that becomes.’

‘I seem to recall that you were fond of Antonio,’ Salvatore observed.

He heard her give a sharp intake of breath and recalled, too late, that these were unlucky words. Despite being fifteen years older than Antonio, the signora had become infatuated with his boyish charm, and been unable to hide it. Rumour said that was why he’d fled Venice, and it had become part of the family legend. But Salvatore had spoken innocently, and now he hastened to add, ‘How would he feel about you ignoring his widow? I think it’s time she met the whole family. It should have been done before.’

‘You mean invite her here?’ the signora almost shrieked. ‘Never. I won’t consider it.’

‘There’ll be no need for you to do so,’ Salvatore said coldly. ‘In my own house I extend the invitations.’

When he spoke like that she knew better than to argue. She walked away in a furious temper, turning at the door to hurl back the words, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’

He waited until she’d stormed out before murmuring, ‘I’m beginning to think I have.’

It was easy to be indifferent if you worked at it. Helena had discovered this in her past life, and surely, she reasoned, it was simply a matter of being strong-minded again.

The problem of what to do after her night with Salvatore had been solved by discovering that she still had the glass head she promised him. She packed it up and sent it over with a note that was friendly but not effusive, then waited for him to contact her.

As the days passed without a word from him she faced the bleak facts: Salvatore had taken what he wanted, proved his worst prejudices right to his own satisfaction, and snubbed her by way of making his point.

Day after day she went to the factory and concentrated all her might on learning the business, managing for hours on end not to think of him. It was only at night that there was no protection from memories of his body against hers, inside hers, and the humiliation of wondering what he’d been thinking all the time.

The brief moments afterwards, when he’d seemed concerned for her, had been an illusion. Since then he’d shown his true contempt by his silence.

At last she learned through the Venice grapevine that Salvatore had left the city early next morning. The trip seemed to take everyone by surprise.

‘It came out of the blue,’ Emilio said as they shared a snack at the factory. ‘Apparently his secretary had to cancel several meetings.’

‘Does anyone know when he’s coming back?’ Helena asked indifferently.

‘It seems not. He could be gone for ages. Let’s hope so, because then we’ll be safe from any action he could take against us. Always look on the bright side.’

‘Yes,’ Helena said tonelessly. ‘Let’s look on the bright side.’

She would stay late at work, stretching the day as long as possible, but eventually she had to face the evening. Her fame had grown throughout the city, and there was always someone to dine with, if she wished. But then it would be time for her to go to bed, hoping to sleep, but often lying awake, trying to blot out the picture show in her