Only to have the sky explode overhead.
Hundreds of sweating faces craned upwards; hundreds of throats emitted a chorus of Oohs. Hundreds of masked faces turned blue and then red with the bursts of the Excelsior’s fireworks. And although they were going off right overhead, most of the dancers began to move towards the beach and gardens, so as not to have one scrap of trailing ember hidden by the hotel’s roof-lines.
The plumed head-dress was tall enough that I could glimpse it across the crowd. I kept back, not wanting to alarm Vivian’s keeper when they were a brief dash from freedom: time enough, when the fireworks ended and they came back into the cabaret, to speak to Ronnie’s aunt unmolested.
The sea of people gleamed and flared and shifted colour. Exclamations rose at any spectacular or intricate burst of light. Even the band musicians came out to watch. A few explosions later, I noticed the Hon Terry, shoulder to shoulder with a very handsome young Venetian. He caught my eye, and we traded grins above the intervening heads.
The pops and booms from overhead built to a crescendo, until the last sparks were floating down towards the Adriatic. Reluctantly, the enthralled masses lowered their chins and looked around for the next thrill. The band stamped out their cigarettes and returned to their instruments, but to my surprise, the flow of the crowd divided, with some marching back for the dance floor, while an almost equal number drifted away in the direction of the beach-side doors. For many, the sky show marked the end of an exhausting and satisfying night, leaving the Chez Vous population much diminished.
I took a step towards the hotel—and had to grab the back of a garden bench to keep from keeling over. What was this? I’d been drugged! Someone had adulterated my drink, I must…
No, my brain patiently informed me. In between a handful of glasses containing nothing more than mineral water, I’d also consumed a great deal of champagne, punch, and heaven only knew what else. Just pause a minute and breathe deeply; your feet will start working again. And your brain. Did I really want to speak with an already nervous woman while I was in this condition?
I peered into the dance-hall, and there she was, happily fox-trotting across the floor. On the far side of the dancers—with space now between them, one could see—the Elsa Maxwell table had resumed, with some of the less fit individuals sitting and talking enthusiastically about something or other.
So I, too, sat for a while, on a garden bench overlooking the water. I took off the mask, rubbing at where it had irritated my nose and temples, then laid it beside me on the bench. This was one of those times I wished I smoked, to give my hands purpose—but when I became aware of a growing disinclination to rejoin the dancers, I fitted the mask on again, got up, and directed my feet back into Chez Vous.
However, the fireworks display that had signalled an end to the day for many seemed to have had the opposite effect on those I was with—or perhaps it was the diminished state of the dance floor. It was then I learned how much of an understatement the Hon Terry’s comment was, that a Maxwell-generated affair tended to “get a bit out of hand.” An Elsa Maxwell “do” was less a planned party than a lit fuse: shape the charge, point it upwards, then stand back to watch the fireworks. Unfortunately, I was only halfway across the dance floor when this one went off.
Miss Elsa Maxwell rose grandly to her feet and swept towards the entrance, pulling with her a flood of others, giggling and guffawing and grabbing their hats, wraps, and discarded masks.
Amidst the gabble I heard an alarming series of words: Porter and Cole, Grand Canal and boats—and belatedly, figured out what was going on.
The Lido set was gate-crashing Ca’ Rezzonico.
A riot spilled from the Excelsior, washing out onto the road and stumbling with hilarity over the tram-tracks. Any faint hope I might have had that their intentions would be stymied by the lack of late-night vaporetti vanished when they headed, not for the public docks, but into the manicured gardens and down to the yacht-strewn inlet. Every boat-owner in the crowd had his own mob of best friends; money was pressed into the hands of strangers to commandeer their resting vessels into taxi service; motors started up, women shrieked, men shouted.
And I was ruthless in fighting my way to the side of the Hon Terry, whose boat was sure to be the fastest there.
Except that we were third out of the little harbour. And the Hon Terry was both safety-minded and distracted by his handsome Venetian friend.
The laguna’s speed limits are set for good reason. Between floating débris and the chance of late-night gondolas and swimming poets, outdistancing one’s front lantern is an act of murderous irresponsibility.
But the boat ahead of us held a small, blonde-headed woman and a figure with a black half-mask.
So I took a resolute breath, and elbowed Terry out of the way.
At least I had the sense not to instantly push the boat into water-skiing speed, setting off a drunken race. Instead, I veered away, maintaining our sedate progress but in the direction of the lagoon’s southern reaches. Protest rose up, voices calling for Terry to take back the wheel, that we were going wrong, that we’d never—
But the moment I’d put San Servolo between us and the others, I shouted a command to hang on, and hauled the controls all the way up.
When the two boats came back into view, we were not only at a distance, but at an unexpected angle. And since I did not immediately roar up to the front of the pack, but instead kept well to the side, I became a different boat entirely, a curiosity instead of a challenge.
I took the slim canal between the Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggiore at a marginally slower pace, then instantly resumed our breakneck speed the instant we emerged into the channel. Whoops and cries rose from my passengers, although the Hon Terry looked more and more alarmed as we approached the mouth of the Grand Canal. The sleek boat leaned on its side as I swung around la Salute. Courting couples and insomniacs propped against the railings of the Accademia Bridge leapt back in terror as we roared beneath their feet.
Only then did I pull back on the throttle, wondering which one was Ca’ Rezzonico. I expected the equivalent of the Lido noises, tumult and a blare of music, but either the Porters’ festivities had finished early, or the ballroom was back from the Canal—then at the next kink in the canal it became obvious: who but a pair of obscenely rich Americans would adorn their entrance with brilliant flaming torches and an array of Greek wrestlers?
I glanced back along the Grand Canal. When I saw no lights approaching, I let out the breath I’d been holding since San Servolo: we were here before Vivian. I came in to the palazzo a bit firmly—Terry let out an anguished protest—but the instant our rope was in the hands of the resident Greeks I waved my cohort forward, commanding, “Go! Hurry up! This party’s just getting started!”
Laughter and shrieks resumed as if a switch had been turned. The puzzled Greeks sprang to help these late arrivals, but when the man holding our rope moved to tie it, I told him not to, that I’d move the boat over myself.
Terrence made to take the wheel, but I clung on hard. “Oh, you two go ahead in. I’ll just make sure there’s room for the other boats, and be up in a minute.”