The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (4 page)

“Most women don’t look so horrified when I undress,” he said.

“Oh dear God,” I breathed. “What did they do to you?”

“Well, they wanted my money, and no witnesses, and I was in no state to stop them, as you know.” He swayed, grabbing the lip of the tub, and I realized his knee would not hold him for so long. I hurried over.

“Let me help you.” I put his arm over my shoulders, taking most of his weight as he got into the tub, forgetting my embarrassment in compassion. He lowered himself into the water, splashing over the marblelike floor.

He shuddered. “Damn, this is cold.”

“It will help—”

“Calm my raging humors. Yes, I know.” His skin was covered with gooseflesh.

“And it will help with the swelling too. And quite possibly the pain.”

“Do you know what would really help with the pain?”

“Mr. Farber—”

“I think you should call me Samuel. Now that you’ve seen me in my natural state.”

“I had no idea they’d hurt you so badly.”

“Please tell me that means you’ve changed your mind about the laudanum.”

I shook my head. He was shivering. I felt bad about that too. “I’m sorry. I am.”

“This is only punishment.”

“It’s beneficial—”

“It’s torture. Bring me some goddamned laudanum!” He slapped his hand in the water, splashing more onto the floor, onto my gown.

“No. And acting like a child is not going to help.”

“You said yourself it looks horrific. Imagine how it
feels
.”

“I do. I can.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He said, slowly and with great restraint, “I can’t sleep for the pain. I can’t bear it when I’m awake.”

“The laudanum only makes you more sensitive. Ten more minutes in the bath. Then I’ll bring arnica. I think we’ll forget about
rubefacients today.”

“Rube—what?”

“Liniment. And rubbing. You should be familiar enough with it.”

“The burning salve, you mean.” His chin dipped to his chest, his hair coming forward to hide his face. “Please God, not that. Not today.”

The pain in his voice, the resignation . . . it made me want to do whatever he asked. How was it possible to look at such pain and not be moved?

But I’d been so moved before, and look how that had ended up.

“Not today,” I agreed. “We’ll try the arnica. What was it that made such a mess of you anyway? Did they use clubs?”

He tried to ease his bloated knee below the water, but the tub was small, and he couldn’t stretch out completely. The motion brought a rush of pained breath. “I don’t know. The seizures . . . I never remember them. Sometimes I don’t remember the time before they happen. Sometimes it’s after I don’t remember. Hours sometimes. I lost a day once.”

He was not unusual in that. “What do you remember about that night?”

“Well . . . that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s what my father wants to know. Who I was with. What they saw.”

“Have you any answers?”

“I’d been on a binge for at least a week,” he said. “Let’s just say everything’s a bit hazy.”

“A binge?”

“Drinking. Opium. Women.” A challenging gaze. “From the moment I got the letter from my father about my imminent wedding.”

“I see.”

“The last thing I remember is a brothel in Rome. A woman with hair the same color as yours and breasts like heaven.” He smiled at my discomposure. “I’d gone with a few friends. Nero and I shared the girl.”

“Nero?”

“Nerone Basilio. The owner of this palatial residence. A name that goes back five centuries, and money that disappeared a hundred years ago. Rather like my bride. A good pedigree and little else.”

“Did he see your seizure?”

“I don’t think so, but I was very drunk. I remember leaving the brothel. Nero dodged down an alley to take a piss. After that . . . nothing but a few bits and pieces until I woke up in the hospital. I could have had the seizure then or an hour later. Sometimes I hallucinate before one. I could have been seeing things that weren’t there and not know it.”

“Mr. Basilio never said anything to you about it?”

“He never mentioned it,” he said. “Or maybe he did. I was in and out of consciousness when he visited me at the hospital. I hardly remember it. He telegraphed my parents and sent for Zuan to bring me here. I suppose you’ll be able to ask Nero yourself. He’ll be here soon. He’s just tying up some loose ends we left in Rome.”

“Is he the one who brought you to the hospital?”

Samuel shook his head. “They told me I’d been found on the street.” His voice turned bitter. “None of my other friends came to see me, so . . . perhaps they did witness it.”

I heard again that resignation that told me it was no more than he expected. I wondered what it would be like, a lifetime of facing such repulsion, of friends turning away. But then, the secret had been successfully kept so far, or so the Farbers had told my father, and part of my task was to discover if it remained so. None of his friends supposedly knew, and there was no gossip of his condition in New York. But I’d seen even attendants turn in revulsion from epileptics more than once, and I wondered what Samuel had endured from his own family.

“Or perhaps they didn’t see, and they didn’t know you’d been attacked,” I suggested.

His smile was thin. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those idiots who believes the best of people.”

“Hardly that,” I said.

“Yes, I suppose it would be hard to be so optimistic when you look at madmen like me every day.”

“You’re an epileptic,” I said. “Not a madman.”

“Of course you’re right.”

I’d meant to comfort him, but I saw I’d done exactly the opposite. I picked up his nightshirt from the floor and held it out. “You can get out now. I looked for towels, but I couldn’t find them. Just put this on and go back to your room. I’ll come with the arnica.”

He rose, water sluicing off, and I kept my eyes firmly on his face, offering my shoulder for him to lean on as he came out of the tub. He stumbled, his knee giving way for one moment, falling into me, which made him gasp in pain. I grasped his arm to steady him, helping him slip the nightshirt over his head. It clung damply, doing almost nothing to conceal him. I helped him into his room, and onto the bed, and then I left him to get the arnica in my medicine case.

I had to move the bottle of laudanum to get to the ointment, and for a moment I stood there, holding the bottle in my hand, thinking of those bruises and the pain on his face.
“I can’t sleep for the pain, and I can’t bear it when I’m awake.”
What could it hurt, really? A few drops so he might sleep.

But then I remembered. Pleading blue eyes.
“You would not want me to be in such pain, would you? I can see you’re not like the others here . . .”

I put the laudanum back. I took up the arnica and closed the case with a definitive click, and then I started back to him.

I was halfway down the hall when I heard voices coming from his room. I stopped short, listening. Giulia again, damn her. I marched down the hall, furious, pushing open the door with such force it cracked against the wall. He was still sitting on the bed, exactly where I’d left him. He was alone.

“Was someone here?” I asked.

“Why would you think that?”

“I heard voices. Were you speaking to someone? Is Giulia here? Is she hiding?”

“Giulia isn’t here.” He looked pale and sick, his eyes haunted. Pain, I realized. The bath had been more rigorous than I’d thought.

I faltered. “I . . . I heard someone.”

“There’s no one here,” he said, but there was something in his voice that made me look at him more closely. “Only me.”

I didn’t quite believe him. But I saw no sign of Giulia or anyone else. I must have been imagining things.

I looked at the jar of ointment in my hands and said, “Take off your nightshirt and lie on your stomach.”

He hesitated, measuring, as if he had a question he wanted to ask but was waiting for some sign that it was safe to ask it. “It won’t work, you know. I can’t be cured, and it’s getting worse. Whatever it is you want from me . . . I can’t give it to you.”

Oh, but he could. If he only knew.

“I am just your nurse,” I said carefully. “Now, please. This will relieve some of the pain.”

Chapter 4

The next morning, when I came into his room with his bromide and more arnica, he was sitting in the chair by the windowed doors. I was pleased to see him up until I realized the air was strongly perfumed with garlic and piquant spice. He held a bowl of some kind of stew, already half-eaten. On the tea table was a cup holding what was unmistakably coffee.

In dismay, I said, “What is that? Where did you get it?”

“Good morning to you too.”

I swooped down on the coffee. “Who brought you this?”

“Wait! For God’s sake, don’t take it away.”

“You aren’t supposed to have it. I gave strict instructions. No coffee. And what’s that you’re eating?”

“
Sguassetto
,” he said. “It’s very good. Would you like a bite?”

“I don’t need a bite to know you shouldn’t have it. I can smell it. You were to eat nothing without my permission. Who gave you this?”

Calmly, he took a bite. “Giulia.”

Of course. I’d known before I asked the question. I cursed.

Samuel raised a brow.

“I told her to stay away! I told
you
to keep her away!”

“Well, she came bearing gifts. Which, as it happened, I wanted.” He set the bowl aside, swiping his hand through his hair wearily, and I saw what I hadn’t seen before, shadows that spoke of a sleepless night. I had an idea who had caused it, and I bit back another curse of pure frustration.

“I’ll move a bed in here,” I said. “As it seems I must watch over you every moment.”

His head jerked up. I was not imagining the fear in his eyes. “That’s not necessary.”

“It seems it is.” I mixed the bromide salts into a glass of water and set it before him. “How else am I to keep Giulia from this room? How often must I tell you how dangerous it is for you to indulge in such things?”

He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. “Indulging in sguassetto is that dangerous?”

“Yes, probably. But I was speaking of your . . . carnal . . . appetites. You know as well as I do that overindulging will only lead to more seizures.”

He laughed, stopping in the midst of it and putting a hand to his ribs with a moan. “I wasn’t indulging any carnal appetite, much less overindulging.”

“Don’t lie to me. You look as if you didn’t sleep at all.”

“I didn’t. But not because of Giulia.”

Then it dawned on me that his sleeplessness was because of pain. “I’ve brought more arnica.”

“It won’t help enough. What can I do to convince you to forget all this? To let me drown myself in oblivion? How much are my parents paying? I’ll double it. What is it you want? Tell me what I can give you in return for walking away and leaving me to myself.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” I said.

“Come, there must be something. Why torment yourself with this? I’m not going to get well; we both know it. I assure you that even my parents wouldn’t blame you for walking away. God knows they’ve done so often enough. I’ll send you wherever you want to go. Rome? Paris? London? Vienna’s lovely in the snow. Wouldn’t you like a life away from that cursed asylum? Just agree, and I’ll give it to you.”

My longing bloomed, just that quickly. “No,” I said, trying to pretend I wasn’t tempted.

“Perhaps you don’t understand what I’m offering. I could introduce you to my friends. With that hair of yours, and those eyes . . . They’d fall over themselves to fete you. I’m guessing you’re not augmenting your shape, though one never knows these days—ah, so I’m right? I thought so. Think of it: you’d eat at the best restaurants. Drink and play until dawn. Wouldn’t you like to see the lights of Paris? And Rome at sunrise—there’s nowhere more beautiful. No more having to give cold baths or force medicine down some poor hysteric’s throat. No more worrying about some epileptic’s diet or his sexual habits.”

“Drink the bromide, please.”

“Don’t be a fool. Take what I’m offering.”

I shook my head.

“Why? Why not? My parents can’t offer better.”

“Not everyone wants such things.”

“But you do,” he said, more perceptively than I liked.

I reached to take the bowl of stew away.

He grabbed my wrist, so hard and so unexpectedly that I dropped the bowl. It cracked on the floor, shattering, stew spreading everywhere.

“What are they holding over you?” he asked. “What are you afraid of?”

I pulled away hard. Blindly, I said, “I need a rag to clean this up.”

He sagged into the chair, surrendering. “There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the dresser.”

I hurried to the top drawer, banishing my discomfort and his wretched temptation, shuffling blindly through the dozens of handkerchiefs as if I meant to find exactly the right one until I realized what I was doing and stopped. These were not his handkerchiefs. They were of all different colors and fabrics, designed to match different gowns. Each had a delicate lace hem, and was embroidered in the corner with a rising, rayed sun in silver and the letters
LB
.

I pulled one out, staring at it, fascinated for no reason I could say. A faint scent clung to it. Cedar and iris and something sweet—vanilla. Very feminine. I was immediately suspicious. Perhaps there
had
been a woman here, someone other than Giulia. A mistress, perhaps? “Who do these belong to?”

“They were here when I arrived,” he said. “Along with the furniture.”

I felt a shift in the air with his words, a deep, sinking sadness fell over me that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where it came from; perhaps it was simply the knowledge that whoever had left these handkerchiefs was gone, and had not returned. Her presence seemed to linger in that bit of cloth, in that subtle perfume, so
present
, I felt oddly as if I might turn around to see her standing there.

I pushed the feeling away. “It’s a shame to use these. They’re beautiful.”

“They’re handkerchiefs,” Samuel said dismissively. “It’s what they’re meant for.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else, and so, resignedly, I took several of the older ones and went to the spill. Samuel scooted back, hard enough that the chair scraped over the floor, but not quite giving me enough space, instead simply spreading his legs so that I had to kneel between them to clean the floor. I tried to ignore him, but my shoulder kept brushing his thigh, my arm bumping his calf.

“The stain will never come out.”

Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold air. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously. I shivered and glanced up, looking for the source of the draft, and saw Samuel staring at the riffling reflections from the stinking canal below spilling from the ceiling to dance across the walls.

“My angel,” he whispered. His voice was strange, disembodied, distant. His hands flexed on the armrest. It was unnerving. I would have called him catatonic except for his expression, because it wasn’t blank. He was watching intently, engrossed, and I had the sense it wasn’t just the movement of the light he watched, but something within it, beyond it.

The cold seemed to pierce my bones, making me want to hug myself against it. “Samuel?” I whispered.

Not a motion. No sign that he heard. The draft felt almost . . . preternatural. Again I felt the weight of sadness, caught in time, suspended. The press of the Basilio thickened the air; suddenly I could not take a breath, everything constricting, underwater, submerged.

“What is it?” I forced the words. “What do you see?”

The spell—or whatever it was—broke, a clap in the air, and the sorrow was gone, the press, the terrible cold. I could breathe again. Samuel blinked, confusion in his eyes as if he didn’t know who I was or how I’d appeared. He jerked away from me, lurching to his feet, too quickly, all his weight on a knee that could not hold him. It failed; he fell. He made a sound of panic and tried to scramble away. He was like a wild animal, frantic with fear.

He climbed to his feet, and I grabbed his shoulder, gripping hard, and he stopped struggling, but his eyes were still unfocused. I realized what this was. He’d had a petit mal seizure. That’s what the trance had been, nothing so strange or unusual after all. And now he was confused in its aftermath.

“Samuel, it’s me. It’s Elena.”

“Elena,” he repeated, but not as if he recognized the name, or me.

I heard a “Pardon,” from the doorway, and spun to see Madame Basilio standing there. I immediately panicked. I tried to think of what to do, how to hide his confusion. But she glanced past me, to Samuel, and said in French, “M’sieur, I had a letter from Nerone this morning. He says to tell you he will be arriving in a few days.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but just then Samuel came to himself, his confusion clearing. “Thank you, Madame.”

I was relieved, but Madame Basilio’s dark gaze sharpened. “You do not look well, m’sieur.”

Samuel sighed and swiped his hand through his hair. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.”

“He is not,” I said, finding my voice. “He’s recovering, and he needs his rest, and your housekeeper is bringing him food he should not be eating.”

“The sguassetto is very nutritious.”

“Not for him. He shouldn’t have such highly flavored foods. It excites his blood. It will only inflame his . . . head injuries.”

Something flashed through her eyes—understanding, yes, but something else that confused me. Her voice, already cold, went almost brittle as she said, “You must forgive me, mademoiselle. I sent Giulia with the stew. It is well known in Venice to cure every ill.”

“Not this kind,” I said firmly.

“I see.”

She backed into the hall, and I followed her, closing the door behind me. “Madame, I thought we had reached an understanding that everything concerning Mr. Farber was to go through me. Giulia has been impossible, and now this stew—”

“Is he still dreaming?”

“Dreaming?”

She regarded me with something that looked like pity. “You mean you do not know?”

It rankled that she knew something about my patient that I did not, and that she’d said nothing of it before, when I’d first asked. But what rankled even more was the realization of
how
she must know it. Giulia. Who had quite obviously been in his room at night, despite what he’d told me.

“Everyone dreams,” I said.

“Of course you are right,” she said. “He has a fine voice, and it seems to bring him such comfort, which is a blessing for one so afflicted. So sad, is it not? Such a handsome, rich man.”

I had no idea what she spoke of, and my suspicion that she’d seen a seizure grew. “What do you mean, afflicted?”

“How brave you are, to stay with him alone. I admire such dedication, but you should not take such risks, mademoiselle. I would never forgive myself if something terrible were to happen under my roof. Let me send Zuan or Giulia to stay here with you, for your own protection.”

“Why do you say this? Why did you say nothing of it before? Has he hurt someone?”

“I am only suggesting that if you hear him singing to an angel, to
her
, I would not wake him. Nor would I discourage something that gives him peace.”

Then, before I could ask another question, before I could even formulate one to ask, she turned on her heel and left.