The Venice Sketchbook(30)

“You’ve become a Mormon or something?”

“There is no need to be facetious, Josh. I’m just taking some time off.”

“How can you do that? Have you been laid off or something?”

“No. I took no summer holiday this year, remember? It didn’t seem worth it without Teddy. So I’m taking it now. Actually, I’m going to Venice.”

“You hated Venice.”

“No, you hated Venice. I never got a chance to make up my mind. And I’m going now because I’m taking Aunt Lettie’s ashes to scatter in the lagoon.”

“Aunt Lettie died? You never told me.”

“Well, she wasn’t your aunt, was she? I didn’t think you ever cared for my family. You made every excuse not to visit them.”

“Of course I cared. I just didn’t have much to say to a couple of old women.”

“Anyway, Aunt Lettie died.” There was a touch of anger in her voice. “I’m upset about it. I miss her, and I’m going to take her ashes to her favourite place.”

“Venice was her favourite place? I never knew she travelled abroad.”

“Neither did I until now.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I can’t say.” She was proud of herself. Of her efficient and distant manner, which clearly had him rattled. He wanted to think of her sitting at home, pining for him. Typical Josh.

“I’d like to speak to Teddy before I go.”

“He’s in the shower, I think.”

“Then get him out. I said I want to speak to my son.”

She heard an intake of breath, but soon a little voice came on the line. “Hi, Mummy! Guess what? I’m the only boy in the class who can already read. And I can do sums, too, and the others are just drawing baby pictures and things. The teacher said if I was staying here, she’d move me up to second grade.”

“That’s wonderful, darling. I always knew you were very smart. How are you?”

“I’m great. I can run faster than Autumn, and we may start soccer soon.”

“I hope you’ll be coming home to be with me and Granny soon,” she said. “And we can look into playing football here.”

“In the States football is different,” he said. “They wear helmets. That looks cool, too. Am I too young for that?”

“Much too young. But you can play rugby one day. It’s almost the same, isn’t it?”

“I guess. I have to go. I’ve got a towel round me and I’m cold. See ya, Mom.” And he hung up. He didn’t sound like a person who was traumatized and not wanting to fly. He sounded like a normal little boy, but now already with a bit of an American accent. She wanted him home desperately.

She tried not to let the worrying thoughts overwhelm her as she packed. She folded a few random garments and put them into a carry-on bag. She wouldn’t stay long. She added the keys and sketchbooks. Obviously, Great-Aunt Lettie had wanted her to do something with them, even if she had no idea what that was. She had taken to wearing her aunt’s ring, which fit perfectly on her ring finger. It felt good to replace the one Josh had chosen for her. And last, she put in the small vial containing some of Aunt Lettie’s ashes.

On October 8 she flew from Gatwick Airport to Marco Polo Airport in Venice. It had been a horrible day when they took off—swirling clouds, drizzling rain—and it was a joy to come out into brilliant sunshine at thirty thousand feet. But cloud had lain below them all the way across France, and they had bounced and juddered over the Alps. But then she had looked down and seen green hills below her. A long, shining lake. And the plane was making its descent.

“Please fasten your seat belts” came on the intercom. The plane dipped a wing, and there was her first view of the lagoon, although it was hardly a romantic one. Below them was some kind of fuel depot with great storage tanks and electric pylons.

They touched down, and soon she was standing in the entrance hall, trying to figure out how to get out to the island. There were water taxis, of course, if she didn’t mind paying over a hundred euros. There was a bus that cost almost nothing, or there was a boat, but it took over an hour, stopping at various points around the lagoon. Now that she was so close, she had no wish to dally and opted for the bus. It passed by smallholdings of dying maize, country cottages and new developments of flats before it turned on to the causeway and crossed the lagoon. Caroline found she was holding her breath.

In the distance she could see the campanile of St Mark’s rising above the rest of the buildings. But the area they passed was not known for its beauty: a giant parking garage, railway tracks, warehouses, cranes, large ships in a dock, and then they came to a halt in a small square where other buses were stationed. Caroline stepped into the warm sunshine and found herself wondering what to do next. Find a hotel, of course. She and Josh had stayed at an awful dump with a bathroom down the hall and a bed that squeaked when they moved, thus spoiling a good honeymoon night. She wanted better than that, but knew Venetian prices were high. There was an information booth in the square.

“Do you know of a Pensione Regina?” she asked. On the flight over, she had studied her aunt’s sketchbooks. Aunt Lettie had done a sketch of it in 1928, and it seemed fitting to stay there.

The man behind the counter checked his list and shook his head. “Nothing by that name, signora.”