Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice By the time they've finished making love, the coffee is undrinkable and the pastries too paltry to pacify Tom and Tina's raging hunger. They quickly shower and dress. Downstairs, in the hotel's palatial Canova Room, they persuade staff to let them catch the last of the breakfast buffet.
Tom takes in the splendour of the giant ancient oils hung on rich, oak-panelled walls as they work through fresh fruit, smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and enough fruit juice to fill the lagoon outside their window. 'So, my wonderful writer friend, what can you tell me about Venice?'
Tina looks over her coffee cup. 'You didn't read a guide book before you came?'
'Glanced at some guff.'
'Hey, travel writing isn't "guff ". It's how I earn my living.'
'Sorry. I forgot. But tell me anyway – give me the verbal tour.'
'Okay. Well, next to Rome, Venice is my favourite place on earth. La Serrenista has blessed us with so much: Marco Polo, Canaletto, Casanova, Vivaldi – the Red Priest…' She laughs. 'The list of famous Venetians is endless! This is the place that gave us wonderful words like mandolin and ciao and awful ones like ghetto and arsenal. But more than anything, I love the fact that in Venice time stands still – there are no cars on the streets, no overhead power cables and none of those ghastly cell-phone masts. Come here, and you just drift back hundreds of years.'
'Here's to drifting.' He raises a tumbler of juice to toast the fact.
'To drifting.' They clink glasses. She sips then asks him, 'You remember any of the guff?'
Tom looks thoughtful. 'Some. Way back, there was nothing here but water and marshes, rough fishing harbours and stuff. Then, old Attila the Hun appears in the middle of the first century and people scatter from his murderous wake to the islands around here.'
'How many islands?' she says, sounding like a teacher.
'Lots.'
She laughs. 'About a hundred and eighteen, maybe a hundred and twenty – even the Venetians don't always agree.'
'Like I said, lots.'
'The main area of initial settlement turned out to be Torcello. Venice itself didn't develop any real influence until malaria swept through the Torcello and people drifted down to what we now call the Rialto.'
'Seventh century?'
'Eighth. The Venetians chose their first doge – a strange sort of democratically elected quasi-religious governor – and set up their own regional government in 720-something. They went from strength to strength and never faltered until the great plague. That knocked them sideways. They got all religious, then, being typically Italian, went off into a period of massive sexual and artistic indulgence. Finally, Napoleon brought their endless partying and copulating to a rude end in the eighteenth century.'
'Impressive. You ever get bored with travel writing, you could probably bag a job as a city guide.'
'Thanks.' Tina wipes a white cotton napkin across her lips. 'Let's completely change the subject, now. And forgive me, because this is a bit personal – but do you know that you have about the worst dress sense I've ever seen?'
Tom laughs and holds up his hands in surrender. 'Mea culpa! I have no defence. I could plead that my suitcase was lost when I left LA – which is true – but the fact is, you're still right. It contained nothing that would have convinced you I could strut a catwalk.'
'You don't like clothes?'
'Sure, I like them. I like them – to feel comfortable, to fit – be clean – last a long time. Beyond that, I guess they do nothing for me.'
'Oh my God, you're a heathen! You can't walk around Italy with beliefs like that! I think you can even be deported for holding such views.'
They both laugh. The kind of relaxed laughter that inches people closer.
'Okay, listen, I'm gonna have to convert you. Make sure you see the error of your ways.'
'And can you do that on five hundred euros? Because that's about all I've got in funds to kit myself out with.'
Tina rests her hand on her chin and pretends to look thoughtful and serious. 'Hrrm, now let me think. That could buy you a beautiful Versace or Hermes tie. And I can easily picture you in that – just that. But it's not going to be any good for you once you step outside my bedroom. '
A stern-faced man in a dark suit and tie approaches their table. 'Buongiorno. Scusi, signorina.' The man looks across at Tina's guest. 'Signor – you are Tom Shaman?'
'Yes. Yes, I am. Why?'
The hotel clerk glances towards the doorway. 'Signor, there are two officers from the Carabinieri in reception. They wish to talk with you.'