“Don’t you dare put that violin away! No, Linda, I’m not going up until he’s agreed to stick around, even if Gerald starves. Mr Russell, you must stay for a musical afternoon. Ignore your commitments, fling your proper behaviour to the wind: I require your strings.”
The young man’s pop eyes made him resemble a puppy begging for a treat, and Holmes, amused in spite of himself, appeared to relent. “Very well, let us misbehave. Although I’ve—”
“Hah—yes, Linda, I’m gone!” And he was.
“—eaten quite recently,” Holmes finished, turning a quizzical look on Linda. The wife merely shook her head in affection, so he laid his instrument down and stepped forward—but instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he bent over it at a courtier’s nicely judged distance: to actually touch lips to fingers would be the act of a sycophant or gigolo, while too many inches’ distance carried a threat of disdain. Her quick smile as he straightened told her he’d read her correctly. She pulled a cigarette from Cole’s enamel case, allowing him to light it.
“Mr Russell, what have you and my husband been getting up to this morning? No good, I hope?” She settled decoratively onto a brocade settee, leaving him to perch at the edge of its matching chair.
“We ran through some songs that may crop up on Saturday, but he kept getting side-tracked into ideas. I understand he’s working on a Broadway revue.”
One perfectly shaped eyebrow went up. “Is he?”
Holmes made haste to back-pedal, lest he be seen as encroaching onto her sphere of influence. “Oh my, I hope I’m not giving away something he was planning for you. You’ll act surprised, I hope?”
Her ruffled feathers went down a bit. “I’ll try my best.”
“In any event, I expect that ‘working on a revue’ is an exaggeration—more like exercising his fingers. I was actually wondering if he didn’t want to try something more classical.”
This led to Linda’s deprecating story about how she’d tried to convince Cole to work with Igor Stravinsky and a description of his successes at the Schola Cantorum (placing rather more weight on the school than Porter himself had), followed by her husband’s short, politically-inspired ballet, which had been a rather greater success in Paris than it was at home.
Through her chatter, Holmes took great care not to appear that he was trying hard to please her. He countered some of her points, kept his laughter polite rather than effusive, and made it clear that when it came to Cole Porter, this visitor was interested only in a musical friendship.
Then Porter came back, shaven and sleek, and kissed his wife and took his new accompanist out to the palazzo garden for luncheon. By the end of the afternoon, Holmes had received the royal warrant of appointment to the Porter household.
The next step would be to see the Porters’ list of invitations for Saturday night.
Chapter Thirty-one
AS WE SURGED BACK ACROSS the lagoon, moving with more enthusiasm than on the way out, I covertly studied the second oarsman, young Carlo. The shirt he wore was of a sufficiently coarse weave that it retained its shape even when damp—unlike the light and clinging upper garments worn by his more preening brothers. Nonetheless, the boy had muscle. More than that, he had the knack of motion, a quick beat at the end of each stroke that powered the craft forward. A gondola was entirely different from a punt—a lithe enamelled craft rowed by long oars rather than a blunt and heavy canal boat propelled by pushing with a pole—and yet, there was a similarity in the finial gesture of expertise.
Watching Carlo brought to mind Holmes’ mention of a wager with his gondolieri Irregulars—and that gave me an idea.
I gathered myself on the cushions to look behind me at Giovanni. His position at the stern of the gondola was the command one; the second oarsman provided more power. I studied his stance, his easy steering, the positions of his arm—making him nervous indeed. His rhythm faltered as he gave me an uncertain look, then consulted wordlessly over my shoulder with his junior.
“Signora, is there a problem?”
“No no, not in the least. I’m just interested in the way the gondola is rowed. In England, we sit in the centre with two short oars. We also have long, shallow boats—you understand ‘shallow’?” I held my hands fifteen inches apart to illustrate the depth. “We call them ‘punts,’ but because we use them on rivers that are not very deep—sometimes canals—we use a pole, a long stick, to push off the bottom.”
“Ah, punt, yes, I have heard of this. Young boys take their girlfriends, yes?”
“Sometimes. And often fall in.” Both men laughed, and their strokes picked up again—until I made my request. “May I try?”
The rights of women had not made it as far as the Venice lagoon. Giovanni looked shocked. Behind me came a spluttering sound. But I had chosen my time with care: we were in the lee of Santa Maria della Grazia. There were few boats here at present, and no gondolas visible through the haze off the water. I stood, taking care not to rock the vessel in the least, and stepped over the seat-back, holding out my hand for Giovanni’s oar.
As usual with men, be they Boy Scouts or gondoliers, he had no defence against a woman who assumed command. He drew back as if I were infectious, causing me to grab for the precariously balanced oar. He seemed to be waiting—for me to admit I was kidding, or to erupt into shrill giggles, or perhaps simply to tumble with a shriek over the side, I don’t know which. Instead, I braced my feet in the same places his had stood, and positioned my hands on the long oar.
I glanced up at him. “You might want to sit.”
When he had edged past me to the cushions—Carlo, too, hastened to ship his oar and abandon the vulnerable standing position—I tried out the oar. The first stroke pushed the boat’s nose around like the hands of a clock, causing the professionals to tsk even as they looked relieved at my incompetence.
I crabbed the oar a few times before I managed to return the metal cock’s comb at the prow in the right direction. Without looking down at my bemused passengers, I presented my offer. “Let us make a wager. If I manage to get us to San Giorgio without mishap, you will tell me about the woman you know on San Clemente.”
The two exchanged a look that was a mix of uneasiness and disbelief. “And, Signora, if you do not?”
“Then I shall double the day’s fees.”
After another wordless consultation, Giovanni nodded. “Si.” Amused now, he turned to take up his regal position on the seat, mocking the attitude of a proud tourist.
And I started rowing in earnest.
It was slow, at first. The high perch was more like the Cambridge style of punting than Oxford’s, and my hands were slow to perfect the delicacy of the steering process. But the weight of two men in the gondola’s belly helped stabilise our course, and after that it was more a matter of muscle power.
In minutes, my arms were burning. The upright peg used to brace the oar for its push offered little control, turning the craft’s lithe darting into a clumsy forward shamble. The intended snap of power at the end of the stroke deteriorated as my forearms gave out, leaving the work to the less flexible but more authoritative shoulder muscles. Sweating, quivering, and parched, I plugged methodically on. San Giorgio inched slowly closer. I thanked all the gods of Italy that the tide was not on its way out, for we’d have been flushed back past San Clemente and into the Adriatic in no time at all. Onwards, aching, cramping, numb…
Finally, Giovanni took pity on me. Or perhaps he spotted the approaching gondola and dared not risk the mockery of his fellows, I don’t know, but he stood, wordlessly gesturing me to stop. I did so, my hands beyond feeling the wooden grip.
And he smiled.
He helped me back into my rightful place, dropped a stoppered bottle of warm water into my lap, and resumed his position. Carlo, too, rose to his oar. In moments, we were skimming towards Venice proper.