‘Thank you.’
‘And it is a rare talent, yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You invite …’ she searches for the word, ‘rivelazione – how do I translate that?’
‘Revelations, I suppose. Or, confidences.’
‘Precisely. It is your quietness, the fact that you do not demand them of people in the way that many do – and certainly the way those of your profession do. You are … discreet. And because of this, people feel encouraged to make confidences of their own accord.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true.’ He thinks of the terrible interview with Giulietta Castiglione.
‘Ah. But I am. That is the other thing about you. You are modest.’ She smiles. ‘Would you like to see him? My ancestor? He is here too, you know. The same artist, in fact.’
‘Please.’
She leads him back to the end of the corridor. He had passed the painting without seeing it – dismissing the bearded figure as another John the Baptist. But now he stares. He has not had a clear idea in his mind of how the captain would look – other than Earl Morgan’s brawny portrayal – but now this seems exactly right. A young man verging upon gaunt, all the bones in his face very prominent. The painter has been accurate to the point of cruelty in depicting the sallowness of the man’s complexion, the haunted gaze.
‘He does not look well,’ the Contessa says.
‘No.’
They look at the painting for a time in silence. Then the Contessa leaves, telling him she is going to check in on the photocall. But Hal remains for a while longer, unable to drag his eyes away.
Afterwards he wanders into the city. Some of the medieval passageways that thread their way through the heart of the city are so slender, and the buildings that flank them so tall, that the light barely penetrates the lower reaches, even in the brightest part of the day. A few feet remain permanently steeped in blue shadow. He is reminded of the lower reaches of the ocean, those cold hidden parts of the seabed that remain in constant darkness. Here, he thinks, is history, layer upon layer of it, in all its glory and grime and intrigue.
He wanders without paying much attention to the direction in which he is walking, his mind turning over the matter of the portraits.
‘Hal?’
He glances up, and spots her through the throng. Stella. It is the first time he has seen her properly since his dream. And their conversation of yesterday has caused a shift, too. Something between them has been removed; something else has taken its place.
She is walking fast, and as she nears him, he finds himself taking a step back, surprised by her look of panic. She speaks quickly, her hand worrying the silk scarf at her throat. ‘I was walking Nina – Gaspari asked me to. He said that it would be fine to let her off the lead, because she normally stays close by – but she’s gone.’
‘We’ll find her.’
‘I can’t bear the thought of it. If he lost her …’ Her eyes are wild. He understands the worry, but her anxiety seems out of all proportion. In her, usually so collected, it is all the more marked. He finds himself wondering what else might be behind it: what fragment of memory suddenly dislodged.
‘We’ll find her,’ he says again, soothingly, ‘she can’t have gone far.’
She doesn’t appear to have heard him. ‘I don’t understand it. She was there, and I got distracted by some people pushing past. And then, when I looked down, she was gone. You don’t suppose—’
‘What?’
‘Well, that someone might have taken her? Hal, if she’s gone, I don’t know what I’d do …’
‘No,’ he says, gently, ‘I’m sure that’s not it. She’s probably followed an interesting scent.’
They begin their search, threading their way through the streets, trying to remember landmarks that will help them to find their way back to the start, should Nina return there: a shrine inlaid into the cornerstone of a house, a faded fa?ade, a grocers’ display that fills the air with the wet-earth scent of overripe tomatoes. He has to hurry to keep up with Stella at times – she seems propelled by her anxiety.
At some point the streets grow even thinner, and their surroundings less picturesque. This is a poorer, dirtier part of the city. Washing, strung across the gap above, flutters like bunting in the breeze.
A group of similarly scantily dressed women shift in the shadows like a shoal of exotic fish, murmuring and beckoning. One of them, sitting on a doorstep in little more than a stained pink pegnoir, face so lacquered with make-up that it is difficult to tell her age, leans forward and calls to Hal: ‘Your wife is beautiful, signor, but I can show you things of which she would never dream.’