PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG WOMAN

By Carole Hall

 

 

 

"There is some mystery as to the identity of the dishevelled young woman in 'Portrait of a Young Woman', painted in 1485. Botticelli never revealed the names of his sitters, but she bears a strong resemblance to his Venus in 'Birth of Venus', (1484-6), arising lasciviously from the sea, and also Venus in 'Mars and Venus', (1485-6), where she has apparently managed to exhaust Mars, the god of war."

15th Century Painters -- Florence and Venice

Barsini was in agony. How could he investigate these horrible crimes, when the only person he could discuss it with was this beautiful woman - really no more than an innocent child?

Barsini stepped off the boat, took a deep breath, and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door of the palazzo. A choppy wind was blowing in from the sea, and it impudently caught in the folds of his black velvet cloak, making little bulges here and there, insolently flipping the ends of the tassels this way and that. It caught in strands of his light hair and pulled them outside his cap, and detracted from the serious image he wished to present. The very elements themselves seemed to wish to make sport with him, and he was thus feeling uncomfortable before he even stepped inside the door.

Of course, he had no real belief in the legends of the sea monsters which supposedly existed around these shores. They were said to swim silently into the city at night, often taking the form of a young maiden, to tempt strangers with their beauty. Sometimes this would lead to good fortune, sometimes illness or exhaustion, sometimes death. It depended. He believed these stories were becoming more prevalent due to the increase in prostitution in certain parts. It had been impossible to tell the difference between fine ladies and street walkers, due to the latters' predilection for donning expensive clothing and jewellery for their work.

It was certain that the two dead men had simply drifted this way on the morning current, and it was mostly curiosity alone which prompted his visit, all the other leads of the day having proved fruitless.

The door was opened by a neat little maid, and he was shown into the main room.

This was one of the spectacular rooms be had heard about. A large window ran the length of it, with cushions spread opulently on a window ledge, and outside the Venetian scenery passed by with a myriad twinkling coloured lights in the dusk.

The impression was of a certain dark, faded opulence. A musky smell lingered in the room, a rich perfume which was probably used to mask the dampness which was inevitable. The pooling reflections from the water created a strange atmosphere, providing an eerily flickering ambience in which it seemed that the very shadows themselves were moving.

He had been rushing to catch the boat, and was beginning to sweat slightly inside his warm clothing.

A strangely beautiful girl with long dark wavy hair entered the room.

He caught his breath.

#

Barsini soon realized that, supposedly, the girl was as innocent as she looked.

It was only much later that the rumours about her began to swirl around in his head like a low mist creeping over the water.

There she sat like a frightened deer, soft brown eyes over brimming with tears. Hands churning an elaborate cream lace hanky. An exquisitely beautiful porcelain doll, her fine drawn Italianate looks and helplessness like a magnet to him. He thought she looked like a classic Leonardo drawing, or a Botticelli angel.

Although he could not be sure, sometimes he thought he saw a certain cool watchfulness behind those glistening eyes. An amused glint.

At that first meeting, although distracted, he managed to ascertain that she knew nothing about the murders - in fact was profoundly shocked to hear of them. So close!

A newfound protective instinct towards her began to clash heavily with the well worn grooves of his analytical law enforcement mind.

It was only later that evening, going over the events of the day, that it struck him that everything about the palazzo had been strange. For there had been a young girl, obviously wealthy, yet apparently living alone, and with no visible means of support

It was not just unusual - it was unheard of.

#

The next time Barsini saw her, he firmly resolved to be far more businesslike in his approach. Yet he found this difficult, since the purpose of his visit was to assure her that the murderer had been apprehended, and was behind bars.

She was so grateful, and profuse in her thanks, that Barsini once more found himself falling under her spell. Yet, this time he was not too absent minded to quiz her about her missing family, and drop hints about her means of support.

Although she seemed reluctant to discuss her immediate family (obviously through some trauma), she immediately offered to introduce him to two of her uncles, one of whom was her legal guardian.

Although he was in no doubt that his once clear judgement was becoming more clouded with every minute that passed, this was enough for Barsini.

He would find out me truth once they were engaged.

#

The uncles turned out to be minor city officials - not in any professional capacity of course, as they were both far too wealthy, but rather as an amusing hobby. They very much enjoyed attending the many official dinners and banquets that went with the job.

They both found it hilariously funny that Barsini should have met Violetta, their niece, while investigating a murder, and never failed to mention it when introducing him to their many social contacts.

Barsini found himself enjoying life as never before - in fact he existed in a sparkling whirl of happiness, only slightly marred on occasion by lingering doubts about the innocence of his beloved.

He was aware that, somewhere deep inside, there was an instinctual question mark about those murders. Too many people (criminals, admittedly) had been found dead along that stretch of water. He could not begin to explain exactly in what capacity he thought that she was implicated (perhaps it was her family?). But these doubts lay heavy, like a small black stone in his heart, always ready to drag him under and drown him in sorrow.

#

He had turned up unexpectedly. The maid let him in, surprised to see him, as she knew her employer to be absent.

The beautiful girl with the long-wavy hair had been Barsini's fiancee for months now.

Yet he still knew so little about her. He insisted that the maid show him down to the cellar so that he could locate two bottles of her favourite wine.

He was sweating profusely as he followed the maid down the narrow steps. The bobbing candlelight created fantastic shadows on the moss encrusted walls.

At the first level, the maid opened the wooden door of the wine cellar with her key, handed over one set of candles, then gingerly made her way up the rough steps again. He knew she did not like coming down here. He was sorry he had made her.

The steps leading down past the cellar door were damp and slippery. They had strange black and maroon stains on them, presumably from some metal in the water.

They could not be blood.

Barsini could hear strange splashings and heavings from down below. No doubt the effect of the waves beating against the walls.

He hesitated there by the door, not knowing whether to go back, collect the wine, or continue on past the door down to the second level. Why had he come here? The murders had been solved. His beloved had never really been a suspect. He knew that. The murderer had been convicted and hanged.

He wanted nothing more than to trust her completely. Why could he not do this? Why? He felt like beating his head against the wall. He knew he should go back and forget all about this.

Instead, he slowly began to descend the steps.

#

Barsini hung on pathetically to the spindly iron hand rail as he descended the steps.

There below he could see the water, glinting in the darkness. What did he expect to see?

As he got closer and closer, his nostrils began to be assailed by that strange musky odour. It was very strong here. Was it only because of the dampness?

With beating heart, Barsini realized that he did not really want to be here. Why could he not trust? But he just wished to resolve this tiny lingering suspicion in his mind - once and for all. Just to satisfy himself, (this once, and once only) that his fiancee was truly the innocent girl she appeared to be. To have an end to it.

He supposed this inability to accept people at face value was due to his job -- or was it just his nature? It had always served him well enough.

The water was slapping against the stones energetically, and for a while Barsini kept his eyes glued to its surface. But there was nothing. Slowly he began to feel more and more foolish. After all, what had he really expected to see? A vital piece of missing evidence? A monster? The whole thing was quite ridiculous! He started to laugh at himself.

Suddenly lighthearted, he turned to go. Then he saw something.

A single long wavy hair floating on the surface. He carefully picked it up and
wrapped it in his handkerchief. His fiancee had told him that she never came down here.

Or had she just come down to get some wine?

As Barsini ascended the steps, he realised, that far from receding, his suspicions of his fiancee were likely to spin out into infinity. He reflected that this was probably due to some dark and impenetrable core of her - actually the very thing that attracted him to her. It was in his nature to endlessly analyze and probe a mystery until it was solved.

This is what made him so good at his job.

As long as he was with her, (even if it was three lifetimes) he knew he would be plagued by these terrible suspicions - he wished to trust, yet could not bring himself to trust her.

He had also made certain enquiries and found that indeed she was related by blood to one of the most powerful (and villainous) families in Venice. He was almost certain that she despised them as much as he did. Nevertheless, if he married her, his life would not be worth living.

He decided that some mysteries were better left alone -- leave the darkness to itself.

The next morning be would pack his meagre possessions into a travelling bag, and leave Venice for the mainland, never to return.

The very instant he decided this, he felt a cold hand, like death itself, reach out and grab him. It encircled his leg with a grip like cool water and iron.

A few scant seconds while he held onto the handrail, only pulling it further from the wall - until he was dragged cleanly under the water, which closed over him as though nothing had occurred. Yet his blood leaped out in a graceful fountain to join the blood of those others on the steps, painting a pretty filigree, like wine red moss on the walls.

In his very last moments, his analytical mind flailed around frantically, trying to find some logical explanation for this disaster.

Wasn't there something his mother had said........years ago?

Ah yes! Yes! About loyalty. Never speak or think ill of those you love.

And the two creatures who most value this quality?

Pretty maidens - and sea monsters.

 

 

THE END

*Previously published in 'Sutekh’s Gift' and ‘The Second BHF Book of Horror Stories’

Carole Hall My dark fantasy stories have been published in the magazines Legend,Quietus Gothic Literary Magazine, Horror Express and Electric Velocipede, and also the anthologies Sutekh’s Gift, Amazing Heroes, Dream the Dark Majestic, Animal Magnetism and The Second BHF Book of Horror Stories.

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