“Last year, in Spain,” it said, “I went to see all those pictures by Gruyиre . . . so gloomy, with lots of corpses and things. So depressing, not like these. I really do think that Cannelloni is positively my favourite Italian painter. Scrumptious!”
Now I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it was Ursula. No other woman would be capable of getting a cheese, a pasta and two painters so inextricably entwined. I shifted cautiously through the crowd until I could see her distinctive profile, the large brilliant blue eyes, the long tip-tilted nose, the end of which looked as if it had been snipped off — an enchanting effect — and her cloud-like mass of hair still, to my surprise, dark, but with streaks of silver in it. She looked as lovely as ever and the years had dealt kindly with her.
She was with a middle-aged, very bewildered-looking man, who was gazing at her in astonishment at her culinary-artistic observation. I felt, from his amazement that he must be a comparatively new acquaintance, for anyone who had known Ursula for any length of time would take her last statement in his stride.
Beautiful and enchanting though she was, I felt it would be safer for my peace of mind not to renew my acquaintance with her lest something diabolical resulted to ruin my holiday.
Reluctantly, I left the Palace, determined to come back the following day when I felt Ursula would have had her fill of pictures. I made my way back into the Piazza San Marco, found a pleasant café and sat down to a well-earned brandy and soda. All the cafés around the square were packed with people and in such a crowd I was, I felt, certain to escape observation. In any case I was sure Ursula would not recognize me, for I was several stone heavier than when she had last seen me, my hair was grey and I now sported a beard.
Feeling safe, I sat there to enjoy my drink and listen to the charming Strauss waltzes the band was playing. The sunshine, my pleasant drink and the soothing music lulled me into a sense of false security. I had forgotten Ursula’s ability — a sense well developed in most women but in her case enlarged to magical proportion — to walk into a crowded room, take one glance around in a casual way and then be able to tell you, not only who was in the room but what they were all wearing. So I shouldn’t have felt the shock and surprise I did when I suddenly heard her scream above the chatter of the crowd and the noise of the band.
“Darling, darling,” she cried, hurrying through the tables towards me. “Darling Gerry, it’s me, Ursula!”
I rose to meet my fate. Ursula rushed into my arms, fastened her mouth on mine and gave me a prolonged kiss accompanied by humming noises, of the sort that (even in this permissive day and age) were of the variety which one generally reserved for the bedroom. Presently, when I began to think that we might be arrested by the Italian police for disorderly behaviour, Ursula dragged her mouth reluctantly away from mine and stood back, holding tightly on to my hands.
“Darling,” she cooed, her huge blue eyes brimming with tears of delight, “darling . . . I can’t believe it . . . seeing you again after all these years . . . it’s a miracle . . . oh, I am so happy, darling. How scrumptious to see you again.”
“How did you know it was me?” I asked feebly.
“How did I know, darling? You are silly . . . you haven’t changed a bit,” she said untruthfully. “Besides, darling, I’ve seen you on television and your photos on the covers of your books, so naturally I would recognize you.”
“Well, it’s very nice to see you again,” I went on guardedly.
“Darling, it’s been simply an age,” she said, “far too long.”
She had, I noticed, divested herself of the bewildered-looking gentleman.
“Sit down and have a drink,” I suggested.
“Of course, sweetie, I’d love one.” She seated herself, willowy and elegant, at my table. I beckoned the waiter.
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Brandy and soda.”
“Ugh!” she cried, shuddering delicately. “How positively revolting . You shouldn’t drink it, darling, you’ll end up with halitosis of the liver.”
“Never mind my liver,” I said, long-sufferingly. “What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll have one of those Bonny Prince Charlie things.” The waiter stared at her blankly. He did not have the benefit of my early training with Ursula.
“Madam would like a Dubonnet,” I said, “and I’ll have another brandy.”
I sat down at the table and Ursula leant forward, gave me a ravishing, melting smile and seized my hand in both of hers.
“Darling, isn’t this romantic ?” she asked. “You and me meeting after all these years in Venice ? It’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard of, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, “how’s your husband?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? I’m divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” she explained. “It was better really. You see, poor dear, he was never the same after he got foot and mouth disease.”
Even my previous experience of Ursula had not prepared me for this.
“Toby got foot and mouth disease?” I asked.
“Yes . . . terribly,” she said with a sigh, “and he was never really the same again.”
“I should think not. But surely cases of humans getting it must be very rare?”
“Humans?” she said, wide-eyed. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, you said that Toby . . .” I began, when Ursula gave a shriek of laughter.
“You are silly,” she crowed. “I meant that all his cattle got it. His whole pedigree herd that had taken him years to breed. He had to kill the lot, and it seemed to affect him a lot, poor lamb. He started going about with the most curious women and getting drunk in night clubs and that sort of thing.”
“I never realized that foot and mouth disease could have such far-reaching effects,” I said. “I wonder if the Ministry of Agriculture knows?”
“D’you think they’d be interested ?” Ursula asked in astonishment. “I could write to them about it if you thought I ought to.”
“No, no,” I said, hastily, “I was only joking.”
“Well,” she said, “tell me about your marriage.”
“I’m divorced, too,” I confessed.
“You are ? Darling, I told you this meeting was romantic,” she said misty-eyed. “The two of us meeting in Venice with broken marriages. It’s just like a book, darling.”
“Well, I don’t think we ought to read too much into it.”
“What are you doing in Venice ?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, unguardedly. “I’m just here for a holiday.”
“Oh, wonderful, darling, then you can help me,” she exclaimed.
“No! ” I said hastily, “I won’t help you.”
“Darling, you don’t even know what I’m asking you to do,” she said plaintively.
“I don’t care what it is, I’m not doing it.”
“Sweetie, this is the first time we’ve met in ages and you’re being horrid to me before we even start,” she said indignantly.
“I don’t care. I know all about your machinations from bitter experience and I do not intend to spend my holiday getting mixed up with whatever awful things you are doing.”