‘What will I tell people?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Will you at least call me?’
‘When I’ve found him. Not before.’
‘Can I talk you out of this?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘All right. All right, if that’s what you want.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to carry the suitcase. Get taxis, won’t you?’
‘But what will you wear?’
‘I’ve got my wallet and my toothbrush. I’ll buy myself clothes along the way.’
Her head lolled backwards; in distress, perhaps, at the thought of me buying my own clothes. ‘Okay. If you’re sure. Buy nice things. Look after yourself.’ She put her hand to her eyes. ‘Don’t fall to pieces, will you?’
‘I won’t. Connie, I’m sorry we won’t see Venice together again.’
‘I’m sorry too.’
‘I’ll send postcards, though.’
‘Please do.’
‘Kiss Mr Jones for me. Or shake his paw.’
‘I will.’
‘Don’t let him sleep on the bed.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Seriously, because if he gets into the habit—’
‘Douglas. I won’t.’
‘I love you, Connie. Did I say that?’
‘You mentioned it in passing.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve let you down.’
‘Douglas, you have never—’
‘I won’t let you down again.’
She said nothing.
‘You’d better catch your flight now,’ I said.
‘Yes. I’d better. Gate …?’
‘Gate 17.’
‘Gate 17.’ She shouldered her bag and began to walk.
‘You’ve forgotten your book,’ I said. ‘It’s on the chair.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, picked it up, then hesitated a moment. It didn’t take her long to search me out on the balcony above. She raised her hand and I raised mine back.
‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ I said.
But she had already hung up. I watched Connie walk away and then I set off to save my son, whether he needed it or not.
Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she should find herself in a difficult position, so that she might have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded.
In Venice I proposed to Connie.
Not the most original scenario, I know. In fact, there was nothing much original in our trip that February, the third anniversary of our meeting. We entered the city by water taxi on a bright, crisp day, nestling in seats of burgundy leather as we bounced across the lagoon, then standing wind-whipped on deck as the city appeared and two thoughts battled in my head: was anything in the world more beautiful, and was anything in the world more expensive? This was my Venetian state of mind; awe versus anxiety, like browsing in a wonderful antiques shop where signs constantly remind you that breakages must be paid for.
And so we did what tourists do in Venice in the winter. We sheltered from the rain and when the sun came out drank bitter hot chocolate in chilly squares of quite staggering grace and beauty, and sipped Bellinis in dim, expensive bars, bracing ourselves for the bill. ‘It’s a tax on beauty,’ said Connie, doling out the notes. ‘If it were cheap here, nobody would ever leave.’
She knew the city well, of course. The trick in Venice, she said, is to see St Mark’s once, then bounce off it to the outer edges. The trick is to be spontaneous, curious, to get lost. Instinctively, I resisted the notion of getting lost. For accomplished and enthusiastic map-readers like myself, Venice offered untold challenges and I spent a great deal of time tracing our route until Connie snatched the map, lifted my chin with her finger and commanded that I look up for once and appreciate the beautiful gloom of the place.
This was what surprised me most about Venice: just how sombre it could be; all those tourists taking snaps and thinking about death. Venice was my first experience of Italy, so where were the floury-handed mammas and tousle-headed rascals that I’d been led to expect? Instead this was a city of closed doors, its besieged citizens narrow-eyed and resentful — understandably so — of the endless waves of visitors even in winter, like house-guests who will not take the hint and go. Even the festivals were gloomy; the Venetian idea of a good time was for everyone to dress up as skeletons. Perhaps it was a legacy of the plague, the silence or the shadows, the dark canals or the absence of green spaces, but walking the deserted alleys and rainswept esplanades, I found the melancholy quite overwhelming, yet also weirdly pleasurable. I don’t think I’ve ever been as simultaneously sad and happy in my life.
