The Venice Sketchbook(24)

We returned to the convent for lunch, which was a large vegetable stew this time, then a rest before we went out for gelato and sketching. The next day I took them to the Accademia. As I paid for their entry tickets, I watched a group of students going into the next-door building that housed the academy itself. They carried portfolios, and they were laughing together as if they hadn’t a care in the world. That should have been me, I thought, then reminded myself that at least I’d had one year of instruction. Better than nothing. Better than those poor people who had no job at all, who had lost all hope.

“More paintings, miss?” Sheila complained as I led them into a room of works by old masters. “This old art is all so boring. It’s all saints and things.”

“Yes, miss, when can we do some shopping?” another voice chimed in.

“It is supposed to be a cultural trip, you know,” I pointed out. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Murano, and you can buy some glass if you like. It’s very lovely.”

They liked this idea, and so we visited the island the next day. I saw the same beads I had so admired when I visited with Aunt Hortensia, and this time I bought a necklace. We were waiting for the water bus to return to the city when I noticed a poster advertising the Biennale. Of course, it was an even year—the great modern art exhibition would be taking place in the gardens.

“I think you girls might enjoy seeing some more-modern art,” I said as we disembarked and made our way back to the convent. “There is a famous exhibit of modern art from around the world held in some really lovely gardens. Maybe we’ll go there tomorrow.”

“Are you sure that modern art is suitable for the girls?” Miss Frobisher asked. “I’ve seen some of the things they call art these days.”

“It is good for them to know what is being created, rather than just relying on the past,” I replied. “They can make up their own minds whether they think modern art is equally beautiful.”

And so the next morning we headed for the Giardini on the water bus. It was cool and pleasant as we approached the exhibition on the tree-lined paths. I found myself wondering exactly where Leo’s tree with the statue had been, or the lawn where we had eaten a picnic and he had kissed me. The gardens were full of people, including a good sprinkling of Mussolini’s black shirts, the armed squads of Italian Fascists, and local police, observing the crowd as they passed. It took away the serenity of the surroundings. What could they be looking for? Everyone here seemed so relaxed and happy to be enjoying a day in the park.

We visited the main pavilion, where Miss Frobisher was suitably shocked at some of the painting and sculpture.

“Now how could you call that art? It’s just daubs. It looks as if the canvas is spattered with blood.”

“That’s what the artist wanted to achieve, I suspect,” I answered. “It’s about the Spanish Civil War.”

She approved more of the German pavilion, where the works were in keeping with Nazi propaganda, depicting happy blonde peasants in fields and impressive monuments. I realized that Jewish artists had probably fled from Germany, as would those artists whose work did not go along with party thinking.

Miss Frobisher pointed out with interest that some of the artists were Austrian. “Of course,” she said. “Germany has annexed Austria, hasn’t it? Nice to see them happily together now.”

I kept quiet and didn’t say what I was thinking. As we were about to leave, a group of German officers entered the room, talking loudly and brushing people aside with such arrogance that I had to swallow back my anger.

As they approached us, I said clearly, “Come, girls. I think we’ve seen enough of this, haven’t we? It’s all propaganda. You can’t really call it art.”

And I led them from the room. It was a small victory, but it felt good.

We wound through the grounds to other nations’ pavilions. We had just come out of the American one when a group of what were clearly important men came towards us. Men in well-cut suits walking with that air of confidence that comes with power. A foreign delegation being shown around, I suspected. Then I saw Leo. He was in the middle of the group, saying something to the other men, who were listening attentively. I recognized him instantly. He had hardly changed at all, except that he had filled out a bit and was now wearing what was clearly an expensive business suit. Also those wild dark curls were now slicked down.

I was frozen to the spot. I wanted to call out to him, but I didn’t dare. What if he had forgotten me? Walked past as if I didn’t exist? But I couldn’t just let him disappear without doing something. I took a tentative step forward, and at that moment he looked in my direction. I saw surprise and recognition in his eyes.

“Julietta? Is it really you?” he asked.

I could hardly make myself speak. “It really is.”

“I can’t believe it. You have come back. After so long.”

“That’s right.”

He turned to the men who were accompanying him. “Un momentino, per favore.” He came up to me. “I cannot talk now,” he said in a low voice. “I am showing these men around our exhibition. They are important investors, you understand. But when can we meet? Are you free for dinner tonight? You are here with your aunt again?”

I had to smile. “No, no aunt this time.”

There was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “That is good. Then we can go to dinner without getting approval, no? Where do you stay? I will pick you up at eight.”