‘Who are “they”, Marcus?’

Either my unexpected question had dealt him a third surprise, or perhaps he was surprised at the naivety behind the question, because he raised an eyebrow in response. ‘How many people do you think could do such a thing in a town like this?’

‘The mayor would have to approve, of course.’

‘Did more than approve. Made the whole thing happen, I’d say.’

‘But why then?’ I said, gesturing to the other paintings. ‘Why not build a bridge to celebrate the new century?’

Marcus shrugged, as if to say one might as well question the movement of celestial bodies or the whims of a lover.

I stared at the small brass plate, 1717, and something tickled the back of my throat. I coughed but it wouldn’t be moved. I coughed until water came to my eyes. 1717. Missing the mark, Marcus slapped me between the shoulders. Somehow I retained control of my glass. And then I realised, and cursed myself an ignoramus and a drunkard.

1717 was the year Olesca walked out of the forest.

*

She was waiting for me at the inn. Not out front, of course, but at the rear entrance to which I was banished. Rebecca knew that much – and much more. I was not expecting her, and we had not made plans to see each other. She was sitting on a barrel, as if she worked a river barge and had just come ashore for the usual reasons. She looked beautiful in the light of a setting sun.

‘I was starting to wonder if you were warming someone else’s bed,’ Rebecca said. Her coy smile was far from girlish. She took my hand and led me inside, up the stairs, and right to the door of my room.

‘How did you—’

‘Sshh,’ she said.

With her there the room was transformed. Everything I had come to take for granted was different. Lesser. I was embarrassed by our sparse, utilitarian living. But she made no comment, said nothing in fact as she stood before the bed in her blue dress, looking at me.

‘Something to drink?’ I said.

‘To steady the nerves?’

‘I seem to remember someone telling me I was too old for that kind of silliness.’

She helped me out of my coat and then began unbuttoning my shirt; it was happening so quickly, but I did not stop her. Her hands were cold, causing me to inhale sharply as she traced a finger down my chest. She lingered at the fading bruises and cuts. I watched her as if she were on the other side of the valley, so far away, touching someone else – an old man, with sagging purpled skin. I made to draw away, but she stopped my vanity. She pulled me down to a kiss. There was warmth there, at least.

Stepping back, she loosened the many bows and knots that made a labyrinth of a woman’s dress. Eventually it fell to the floor. Layers of white undergarments followed. Naked, no more conscious of herself than she had been sitting in the common room, or haggling in the market, or pouring another glass of wine on Marcus’ balcony. Unchanged by that moment, yet I was so very changed from when we’d first met. And she was to blame.