being re-strung,’ or ‘cleaned’. Or you simply claim that you’re afraid to wear them in case you lose them. Laura had known Hollywood stars who wore fake jewellery and made all those excuses about their real ones, long gone, pretending they still had them.
She came towards them, her full mouth curving into a smile as ambiguous as the smile on an Etruscan carving or on the Mona Lisa. ‘Sebastian!’ She spoke in English with a strong Italian accent. ‘This is a coincidence. A few minutes ago I rang your hotel, but they told me you had gone out. We saw you on the television news, Niccolo and I. That was when we discovered you were in Venice, and Nico said we must get in touch, invite you to the palazzo.’
‘How kind,’ Sebastian said, in that curt, harsh voice, but the Contessa did not appear to notice his tone or the frown on his face. If anything, she smiled even more.
‘It is a pleasure to see you again, and so grown up! You were only six when we saw you last. Of course, we’ve followed your career. Oh yes, we know everything you’ve done! We’ve seen all your films from the very first one, and it is such a pleasure to have you back in Venice at last. Welcome home.’
She held out her hand. Laura saw Sebastian hesitate before he took it and bowed to kiss it with a formality she had never seen him use before. The woman had invited that response by the way in which she spoke and moved. The Contessa knew who she was and her smile had a tinge of condescension, a self-assurance that expected respectful attention from everyone she met. Laura realised that both Sebastian and the Contessa were aware that Sebastian was not ‘coming home’, as she had put it. He was visiting a house where his father had been a servant, and the woman was reminding him of that with every syllable, for all her sweet smile, her well-bred voice, her queenly air.
‘How is Niccolo?’ Sebastian asked.
‘Very well, as always, thank heavens. He will be pleased to meet you again. He’s a fan of yours, he admires your films, especially the way they look. You know, the set designs, costumes, the backgrounds you choose. That’s what interests him in the cinema, not the acting or the plots. The look of things. If he wasn’t a sculptor I suspect he would love to be a theatre designer.’
‘A sculptor?’ Sebastian looked up at the house. ‘Does he work in the old studio?’
‘Of course. Where else? He went to art school in Florence and I hoped he would paint, like his father – it’s in his blood, after all – but from the beginning it was sculpture that obsessed him.’
Sebastian’s smile froze.
Why did he look like that? There was some subtext to their conversation, but Laura had no clue to its content, only that it disturbed Sebastian. ‘What sort of sculpture?’ she asked, to distract the older woman, who looked at her quickly, laughing with a shrug of those plump shoulders.
‘Don’t ask me! He says he represents the human form by what he sees in the personality. Not that I can see what he’s trying to do, but the critics seem impressed with his work, so I have learnt to say nothing. I’m old-fashioned, he tells me.’ Her voice was complacent; if her son did call her old-fashioned she seemed to take it as a compliment. ‘I expect his father would have understood what he was trying to do. I’m a strong believer in heredity. Aren’t you, Miss Erskine?’
Laura could still feel Sebastian’s tension. What on earth was all this? Something to do with the Count? Had the Count been unkind to him when he was a child? The Contessa spoke about her husband in the past tense, which indicated that he was dead, but childhood terrors could haunt you all your life.
‘I’ve never thought about it much, but no doubt you’re right.’
‘Oh, I am right,
certo!
No question.’
The Contessa had the absolute certainty of one who has never doubted her own beliefs or decisions. Laura wished she had a fraction of that
She came towards them, her full mouth curving into a smile as ambiguous as the smile on an Etruscan carving or on the Mona Lisa. ‘Sebastian!’ She spoke in English with a strong Italian accent. ‘This is a coincidence. A few minutes ago I rang your hotel, but they told me you had gone out. We saw you on the television news, Niccolo and I. That was when we discovered you were in Venice, and Nico said we must get in touch, invite you to the palazzo.’
‘How kind,’ Sebastian said, in that curt, harsh voice, but the Contessa did not appear to notice his tone or the frown on his face. If anything, she smiled even more.
‘It is a pleasure to see you again, and so grown up! You were only six when we saw you last. Of course, we’ve followed your career. Oh yes, we know everything you’ve done! We’ve seen all your films from the very first one, and it is such a pleasure to have you back in Venice at last. Welcome home.’
She held out her hand. Laura saw Sebastian hesitate before he took it and bowed to kiss it with a formality she had never seen him use before. The woman had invited that response by the way in which she spoke and moved. The Contessa knew who she was and her smile had a tinge of condescension, a self-assurance that expected respectful attention from everyone she met. Laura realised that both Sebastian and the Contessa were aware that Sebastian was not ‘coming home’, as she had put it. He was visiting a house where his father had been a servant, and the woman was reminding him of that with every syllable, for all her sweet smile, her well-bred voice, her queenly air.
‘How is Niccolo?’ Sebastian asked.
‘Very well, as always, thank heavens. He will be pleased to meet you again. He’s a fan of yours, he admires your films, especially the way they look. You know, the set designs, costumes, the backgrounds you choose. That’s what interests him in the cinema, not the acting or the plots. The look of things. If he wasn’t a sculptor I suspect he would love to be a theatre designer.’
‘A sculptor?’ Sebastian looked up at the house. ‘Does he work in the old studio?’
‘Of course. Where else? He went to art school in Florence and I hoped he would paint, like his father – it’s in his blood, after all – but from the beginning it was sculpture that obsessed him.’
Sebastian’s smile froze.
Why did he look like that? There was some subtext to their conversation, but Laura had no clue to its content, only that it disturbed Sebastian. ‘What sort of sculpture?’ she asked, to distract the older woman, who looked at her quickly, laughing with a shrug of those plump shoulders.
‘Don’t ask me! He says he represents the human form by what he sees in the personality. Not that I can see what he’s trying to do, but the critics seem impressed with his work, so I have learnt to say nothing. I’m old-fashioned, he tells me.’ Her voice was complacent; if her son did call her old-fashioned she seemed to take it as a compliment. ‘I expect his father would have understood what he was trying to do. I’m a strong believer in heredity. Aren’t you, Miss Erskine?’
Laura could still feel Sebastian’s tension. What on earth was all this? Something to do with the Count? Had the Count been unkind to him when he was a child? The Contessa spoke about her husband in the past tense, which indicated that he was dead, but childhood terrors could haunt you all your life.
‘I’ve never thought about it much, but no doubt you’re right.’
‘Oh, I am right,
certo!
No question.’
The Contessa had the absolute certainty of one who has never doubted her own beliefs or decisions. Laura wished she had a fraction of that
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