The Venice Sketchbook(10)

We had come to a small grassy area, surrounded by thick bushes on three sides, with the fourth side looking out on to the lagoon. Lights sparkled in the distance.

“That is the Lido over there,” he said. “Our beach and lovely villas with gardens. You must go and swim.”

“I didn’t bring a swimming costume with me,” I said. “I thought it would be all churches and art galleries. Besides,” I added, “we only have one more day.”

He nodded. “So, you will come back again. When you are an independent woman.”

“I hope so.”

He had spread a rug on the grass. “Sit,” he said.

I did so. He squatted beside me, opened the basket and took out various containers, displaying them with satisfaction.

“Cheeses,” he said. “Bel Paese, pecorino, Gorgonzola, mozzarella that you must eat with tomato.” He pointed to them as he put them on a wooden board. “And here salamis, and prosciutto, and olives. And the bread. And the wine. And peaches from our estate. See, we will not starve.”

He poured red wine into two glasses and handed me one. I took a sip. It was rich, warm and almost fruity. I had had dinner. It was the middle of the night. But I found myself tucking in as if I hadn’t eaten for days. “Mmm” was all I could say.

Leo nodded, smiling, watching me eat with satisfaction as if he were a conjurer who had just pulled off a spectacular magic trick.

A cool breeze was blowing off the Adriatic Sea now, but the wine was warming through my whole body. I took a bite of peach, and juice ran down my chin.

“Oh.” I dabbed at it in embarrassment. “I’ve never had a peach so juicy before.”

Leo was laughing. “That’s because they are fresh. Picked today.” He reached out and wiped my chin with his fingertip. It was only the lightest of brushes against my skin, but it made me feel uneasy and excited at the same time. Reluctantly, we finished eating, but Leo filled my glass again, and I took another drink.

I lay back, looking up at the stars. I couldn’t ever remember being so content.

“So tell me,” Leo said, his face appearing above mine, “have you ever been kissed?”

“Never. Apart from family members.” He was going to kiss me. A perfect ending to a perfect evening. My heart started beating rather fast.

“Then you are lucky that it is I who give you a first kiss,” he said. “I am very good at it, so I am told.”

And before I could say anything more, his lips came down to meet mine. This was no delicate brushing of a first kiss, such as I had read about in novels. I was conscious of the warmth of his mouth, the weight of his body against mine and an incredible surge of desire I had not known I possessed. I didn’t want him to stop. But he sat up suddenly.

“I think I had better be a gentleman and stop right now,” he said. “I should take you home.”

He started packing up the remains of our picnic. I sat watching him, feeling confused. Had I somehow displeased him, disappointed him, not been good enough? I didn’t want to ask.

He helped me to my feet, and we walked together in silence, this time along the edge of the lagoon rather than through the wooded paths. We reached the boat, and he helped me into it. The motor started, and we roared away, much faster than we had come, leaving a great trail of wake behind us, the wind blowing in our faces.

In no time at all, we had reached the Grand Canal. Leo slowed to a respectable pace as we negotiated among late-night gondolas.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, as we neared the entrance to my pensione. “I thought I was being kind to a young girl, a visiting tourist. Giving her her first taste of excitement. But when I kissed you—I had to stop right then, or I knew I could not have stopped. I wanted you. And I think you wanted me too, is that right?”

I felt my cheeks burning and was glad that the darkness hid my blushes. Aunt Hortensia would expect me to say that such a conversation with a man was unthinkable. But for some reason it was easy to talk to Leo. I realized, with a mixture of shame and wonder, that I hadn’t wanted him to stop.

“I had no idea such feelings existed,” I said. “I thought being kissed would be nice.”

“And it wasn’t nice?”

“It was more than nice. It was . . . overwhelming. As if nothing else mattered in the world.”

“I think you will become an interesting woman one day,” he said. “So many girls—they are afraid if a man touches them. They think they will have to confess to their priest. At least you have the Church of England to thank that you are spared that.”

We were nearing the side wall of the pensione. A realization was now taking over—I would most likely never see him again.

“Maybe I shall find the boat is free tomorrow night,” he said. “We could go dancing if you put on the right sort of dress.”

“I don’t think I own the right sort of dress,” I said. “Not for the kind of places you would go.”

“I will come anyway. I wish to see you again. This is not goodbye, is it?”

“I hope not.”

He had cut the motor and eased the boat along the wall until it was below the window. Then he stood up, opening the shutters. He helped me to stand on the side of the boat, then I climbed, in a rather undignified fashion, into the room.