Surreptitiously, Paolina has completed all her preparations. For the
last couple of weeks Anna has been lodging with a friend and the
plan is for her to stay away the coming week, too.
Paolina glances outside in time to see the yacht arriving.
Going into the other room, she is stricken once again by the sight
of Vivaldi, slumped and broken in his chair. Taking a deep breath
she goes up to him, gently caresses his neck. ‘Antonio,’ she says
softly. Slowly he raises his head. ‘Come with me, we’re going on a
trip.’ He blinks as if not comprehending her words.
‘A trip?’ he mumbles.
‘A surprise! No questions, just come with me.’
But he is not that easily budged. ‘A trip?’ he repeats. She
looks at him, her face alight with joy.
‘Nothing could be further from my mind! Where in God’s
name are you thinking of dragging me off to? It’s summer! Do you
think I fancy swallowing a lung-full of dust and sweating like a pig
in a stinking coach? Forget it.’
Paolina is simultaneously amazed and delighted. For the
first time since Giambattista’s death Antonio is behaving as of old.
This kind of bloody-mindedness she can deal with! ‘No dust, no
sweat and we’re not even going very far. Come on, I know you’ll
love it.’ She takes him by the arm and feels him pull away.
‘I don’t want to go anywhere,’ he insists in a low voice. ‘I
never want to go away again.’ The note of hopelessness breaks her
heart.
‘Listen, if you carry on pining away like this I’ll have to
arrange another funeral in a fortnight, and that I do not plan to do!
I’ve packed everything you’ll need for our outing, so no more
whingeing!’ She drags him upright, and this time there are no
protests.
A small yacht is lying moored in front of the house. The
little vessel is clearly modelled on the fishing boats of the lagoon,
but is more slimly built. The large-windowed saloon is richly
adorned with engraved woodwork and gilt lions and offers more
than enough room for two passengers. The sail, at half-mast, flaps
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