The whole story is told. The first encounter, the storms, the remedies – her strange bond with the dog.
The priest listens, intent. And then he speaks. ‘My son. We live now in a more enlightened age. At least in the Republic of Genoa. We are no longer in the practice of rounding such women up and murdering them. Of course, there are people who choose to take matters into their own hands. And I would not necessarily judge them. There are villages where whole crops have failed because of the work of such women, where all the infants have sickened and died. But the Church cannot sanction such extreme measures. My advice would be to distance yourself as far from her as possible.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Excuse me?’ The priest frowns. ‘She is keeping you imprisoned in some way? But you are free to visit me here.’
‘I mean that I can’t leave her. This is what I mean when I say that she has bewitched me.’
‘Ah,’ the priest says, with something almost like a smile. ‘But this sort of attachment can occur without the work of witchcraft. We call it, then, an infatuation.’
‘Father. I can’t sleep. I can’t think of anything else.’
The priest steeples his hands. ‘My advice, my son, would be to take yourself away from the problem. Your mother’s family has lodgings near the hamlet of Cervo, I think?’
The captain nods.
‘Go there. Eat good food, drink wine, feel the sun on your face, swim in the sea. I know the priest there. I will send a letter with you, so that he may understand your predicament, and guide you.’
The captain leaves strict instructions with the housekeeper not to allow the girl to go anywhere unchaperoned. As an afterthought, he goes, too, to the studio of the painter.
‘I want you to make my likeness too.’ He names a sum.
‘Of course. Shall I come to your house tomorrow, to begin?’
‘No. You are to come with me to my residence near Cervo.’
He sees the man’s hesitation: and in this is all the proof he would need, if he did not have it already. For a poor painter to be reluctant to take such a lucrative commission shows the tie upon the man must be strong indeed. But, in the end, the money is enough: the man accedes.
The weather is fine in Cervo. But the captain can no longer appreciate the warmth of the sun on his skin: he feels cold, all the time. His nights are sleepless, and his appetite does not return. His days are spent sitting for the painter, and visiting the priest in his coral church, praying only half-heartedly for freedom from her. For this is perhaps the most insidious effect of the sickness: he does not truly want to be rid of it.
As the painter works, the captain looks at him, trying to decide what it is that has drawn her affection while he himself has failed. He is hardly a majestic example of manliness, after all. His limbs are thin, his features somewhat crooked. His manner is weak, the captain thinks, scornfully, almost timid. It is ridiculous. He would want his rival to be a worthy match for himself, at least. One day, he can stand it no longer.
‘What is it,’ he asks the man, through his teeth, ‘what is it that a puny, womanly creature such as yourself can offer a woman? Explain it to me.’
The painter looks at him, stunned. ‘I don’t understand your meaning, sire.’
‘Oh, I think that you understand me well enough.’
‘I’m sorry, sire, but—’
‘I mean that I am trying to understand why that whore would pick a rodent like you over me.’
Perhaps it is his use of ‘whore’ that does it. A change comes over the other man. He looks, suddenly, a little taller, and his eyes gleam. All of a sudden he seems to have forgotten that he is in the captain’s pay. ‘Because,’ he says, ‘you don’t understand anything of her. Because you have tried to own her, and you can’t own another human being – least of all a woman like her. You can only love her.’
Cervo. The name, when he sees it on the page, gives a thrill. Hal is certain that the town had not been on the Contessa’s original itinerary. And yet, by chance, he happened to visit the place today. He recognizes the description of the coral-hued church. He has spent the day, quite literally, in the other man’s footsteps. Ridiculous, to suppose it anything other than coincidence. And yet would it be such a step to imagine that he is being in some way influenced? He has already accepted another impossible thing: the fact that a compass, five centuries old, is moving as though driven by some internal mechanism.
He puts it down. He needs fresh air. Another walk outside. And … yes, he will go down to the swimming pool again, to make sure.