Genoa is a barnacled, salt-sprayed place. A city of astonishing contrasts, of sublime beauty and of profound ugliness. In the harbour handmade sailing boats jostle with beasts of maritime industry, and the sea – the very same sea that laps at the feet of Portofino – carries a surface scum of oil, debris and what on closer inspection might turn out to be fish guts.
The contrasts continue within the city itself. Here is a gorgeous palace, appearing in all its decadent finery: the trompe l’oeil fa?ade, the intricately carved gargoyles and seraphim. They recall Genoa as it was portrayed in the film: the gilded capital of a Renaissance state at the height of its power – a fitting rival to Venice, or Florence. But as soon as one glances down from these wonders, there in the midst of the street is a heap of refuse, the odour ripening in the heat, or a scrofulous cat stretching its thin body across a doorstep.
An excited crowd has gathered around them, hooting and cheering, pushing at one another to get to the front, brandishing autograph books. For Genoa is not like Rome, in which film stars mingle daily with the city’s populace. There is no Via Veneto here, where one may merely go and observe them like animals in a zoo, sitting at coffee tables and looking for all the world almost like ordinary people – only not quite.
‘Please, excuse,’ a young man touches Hal’s arm. ‘I was in the film.’
Hal turns to him. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ The man smiles, revealing a gap where his right incisor should be. ‘I was a sailor, on one of the ships in the battle, at the beginning.’
‘Ah, yes. An important scene.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ The man peers at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see me?’
Hal doesn’t quite know what to say. How to explain to the man that the battle sequence is only a minute long and that, in the onscreen chaos, it would be impossible to recognize one’s own brother?
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Do you know … I think I might have done. Yes – I’m almost certain.’
‘Ah!’ The man beams, and Hal is suddenly sure that he has said the right thing. ‘I won’t see it. Too expensive. I have a family, you understand. But it is good to know.’ He claps Hal on the shoulder, and disappears back into the throng.
Hal turns away. As he does, he catches Stella’s gaze. She smiles.
‘This palazzo used to be in my family,’ the Contessa tells them, as they step inside one of the wedding-cake constructions on the Via Cairoli. ‘It was rumoured that one of my ancestor’s courtesans was housed here, for a time.’
This woman could have been the one from the journal, Hal thinks, with a secret thrill. Now he knows why the street’s name sounded familiar. He has read it there.
The place is typical of Genoa: the umber paint of the fa?ade faded and stained in places, but with the beauty of the place all the more visible for these flaws, for it is a gorgeous edifice in spite of them. Inside is more finery: trompe l’oeil painted ceilings and walls, a conspicuous demonstration of once great wealth.
Gaspari leans over. ‘We filmed some of the interior scenes here at first,’ he says. ‘It is the right period.’ He grimaces. ‘But one of the frescoes got damaged by the lighting team. After that we had a replica made up for the studios.’
While a photocall takes place for the stars in a silk-lined salon, Hal is free to explore. Wandering along one of the corridors, he discovers a series of gilt-framed paintings. They are Renaissance oils, with that peculiar effect of being lit from within, the faces appearing to glow out of the darkness. He gropes for the word. Chiaroscuro. They are by different artists, Hal sees – superficially similar, but the effect in some noticeably more deft than in others. And yet none hold Hal’s attention for long: he has never had much interest in this era of art. It is caught up with religious concerns, too sombre: the women depicted as versions of the Madonna, the men after classical gods and Old Testament heroes. He passes quickly. But as he reaches the end of the corridor, something halts him in his tracks. He has an uneasy feeling; as though from the corner of his eye he has just glimpsed something terrible or impossible. And when he turns the thing he sees is indeed an impossibility. Staring down at him is the woman from his imagining, the woman he has read of in the captain’s journal. He cannot take his eyes from her.
‘She is beautiful, is she not?’
He turns, and finds the Contessa standing at the end of the corridor.
‘Who is she?’ His voice is hoarse.
‘No one is quite certain where she came from.’
‘The woman in the water.’
The Contessa nods. ‘That is one theory, yes. How interesting, though, that you should make the connection. What made you think it might be her?’
He speaks without thinking. ‘The mole, beneath her eye, there.’
She spins on her heel, and looks at him, and he realizes his mistake. ‘You’ve read the journal, haven’t you?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘How did you get it?’ Then, to his surprise, she throws her head back and laughs. When she has recovered, she says, ‘I tell him not to show anyone, and he gives it to the journalist.’
‘I promised not to mention anything of it.’
‘I suppose that he trusts you. I do not blame him for that – I do, too.’