Where to read it? He wants to read in solitude. Not, then, the waterfront cafés, where people gather. He wanders across the piazza, finds a plaque that reads: ‘Spare a flower, a thought for those who died.’ Here, then, in this place of apparent serenity, are mothers still mourning their dead sons.
He walks away from the main drag. Here, tucked slightly out of sight, the less picturesque, more workaday crafts are moored: mainly small fishing boats with peeling hulls. In a patch of sun, three women are spreading nets to dry. The scent of the sea that emanates from them is so strong it seems to thicken the air. The women, he notices, don’t even glance at the photographers and stars some hundred feet away. They are absolutely intent on their task. There is something rather refreshing in this.
He finds himself drawn towards the castle that overlooks the bay, climbing through the fragrant terraced gardens that lead up to it. There is a good spot near to a cloud pine, the mass of foliage throwing a blue shadow below it. He sits, and realizes that across the ramparts he can see the curve of the coast along which they have already sailed, stretching away through the haze. But his mind feels glutted with beauty, and he looks upon it with something like complacency. He turns from it, and begins to read. At a glance, he can see how one preoccupation peppers the pages, appearing in almost every sentence. La donna. No mention now of Ottoman hordes, of Genoese glory. Only this mysterious new passenger.
Some superstition has been got about among the men that she is bad luck for us. There was a storm, which is normal for this time of year – but they are convinced that it is due to the woman. The problem with sailors is that they are born superstitious: difficult to convince them with a rational explanation if they have decided on some malevolence at work. Before I felt the need to guard her from their lust; now it is from their fear.
I cannot sleep for thought of her so little distance away. I feel that I am aflame, and would quench myself in her coolness. But I cannot read her. Sometimes, when she looks at me with those black eyes, I think I see some answer to my longing there. Then I decide that I am imagining it …
It is an absurdity, this thing that has taken control of me. It is like a fever of the mind and body. I am trying to scorch it from myself.
And yet, perhaps if I could make her mine, this thing would leave me free …
THE CAPTAIN’S LIEUTENANTS are worried about him. They have never seen him so distracted. They discuss in secret what is to be done. The bravest among them offers to go and speak with him.
The man finds his captain, as expected, jealously guarding the closed curtains that conceal the place where the woman resides. When the lieutenant asks if they may go somewhere else on the galleon – somewhere where she will not be able to overhear – he refuses. So the lieutenant is forced to whisper, hoping that the woman cannot hear him. It is not precisely that he believes she has dark powers, as some of the men do. But it would not do to throw caution to the wind entirely.
‘It’s the woman,’ he murmurs, nodding towards the drapes. ‘The men don’t like it, Captain.’ He lowers his voice further. ‘They are scared of her.’
‘Of her? That helpless creature? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘They don’t think she is helpless, though. They think …’
‘What?’
‘They think she is responsible for the storm.’
The captain scoffs. ‘These are grown men, and yet they are acting like children, worse – old women, with their superstitions. It’s so ridiculous that I cannot credit it. And what has convinced them of this?’
The lieutenant shrugs. ‘Well, sir, some of the men …’
‘Yes?’
‘Some of the men have noticed the marks around her ankles. They say – I’m not sure this is true, I don’t know about such things – but they say that one who had been meant for burning would bear such marks. They have decided that she is a witch.’
‘The Genoese do not engage in such practices.’
‘No, sire,’ says the lieutenant slowly, ‘but we are not in Genoese waters yet.’
‘And do you believe any of this?’
A pause.
‘Well?’
The man sighs. ‘It has to be said that a few strange things have happened since she came on board. I have never seen a storm simply appear in the way that one did. It was … unnatural. And where we found her, so far out to sea. A normal person – especially not a woman – wouldn’t have swum so far and survived.’
The captain shakes his head. ‘And so you condemn her, for being brave? What sort of barbaric notion is that? We live in a modern, enlightened society. The Pisans or the Venetians might believe such nonsense, but never us.’
The lieutenant tries again. ‘And she wasn’t—’ he coughs, ‘wearing any clothing. That, surely, cannot be normal in a woman of decency.’
But herein lies his mistake. He watches as his captain’s eyes glaze over at the memory of that pale nude flesh, and his gaze travels, inevitably, towards the curtains once more.