The Venice Sketchbook(31)
“My aunt stayed there, long ago.”
“How long ago?”
“That was in 1928.”
This made him laugh. “Then I fear the proprietor would not still be alive.”
“It had a lovely garden, by the look of it.”
“Ah, then may I suggest the Pensione Accademia? It, too, has a lovely garden and is well situated.”
He mentioned a price that was higher than she wanted to pay, but she told herself it was only for a week at the most. And Aunt Lettie had left a thousand pounds. The man telephoned ahead for her, and she caught a water bus at the nearby stop, having been advised by the man at the tourist kiosk to get herself a weekly pass. As they pulled away from the dock and headed up the Grand Canal, she tried to remember what she could of her last time in Venice. Josh and Caroline had stayed in a pokey little place right behind St Mark’s Basilica. It had been horribly hot and muggy, with just a small fan in their room, and she and Josh had sweated as they made love. She shut off that memory rapidly, staring out of the boat. She had never travelled the length of the Grand Canal like this, watching it turning from mundane to glorious. It was late afternoon, and rosy sunlight turned the white marble to a delicate glowing pink. The Rialto Bridge appeared ahead of them, seeming to float above the water. Last time she had seen Venice, it had been crowded with tourists. Now, thanks to the time of year and the events in New York, the Grand Canal had an empty feel to it. In fact it took a while before she spotted her first gondola with two Chinese tourists taking photos. It rocked precariously as the water bus passed it, and the woman almost dropped her camera. Caroline caught snatches of the gondolier singing, slightly off-key, and found she was smiling. She was in Venice, it was lovely, and she was going to make the most of it, no matter how bad things had been lately. Then the thought crept into her head: Teddy would love to see this. I must buy him a toy gondola. He can float it on Granny’s goldfish pond. The smile faded. “If he comes back,” said the whisper in her head.
The pensione was more than perfect: a former palazzo, it had painted ceilings, there was a suit of armour in the salon, and her bedroom shutters opened on to a view of the Grand Canal. What’s more, the windows looked on to the garden with statues and a fountain and great umbrellas under which breakfast would be served if it was not too cold. Caroline unpacked and lay on her bed listening to the sounds of the city: the pop-popping of diesel motors echoing back from the high walls that bordered the canal, the cooing of pigeons in the garden outside, the screech of a seagull, a shouted exchange in Italian. Maybe Aunt Lettie wanted me to come here, she thought, because she wanted me to heal.
Caroline took out her phone and tried to ring Josh—just in case something happened to Teddy and he needed to get in touch with her. But it seemed that she could not call America on her mobile. Feeling frustrated, she rang her grandmother. “All well so far,” she said, giving her details of the pensione where she would be staying. “Would you mind telephoning Josh for me and letting him know I have arrived safely and he can call me at the hotel number? And give my love to Teddy, and tell him I’ll see him soon . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she blinked back tears.
As darkness fell, she asked the woman at the reception desk for advice on restaurants.
“You like to eat fish?” the woman said.
Caroline nodded.
“Then you come out and follow the canal to the other side of Dorsoduro. It is called the Zattere. Good fish restaurants on the waterfront there. Don’t eat near St Mark’s or Rialto. All tourist places.”
Caroline thanked her and set off, following the narrow canal until it opened on to a broad waterway on which lights sparkled. There was obviously outdoor seating in summer, but on this chilly evening she went inside the first restaurant she came to. There were only two couples at other tables, and she was greeted warmly. There she ordered an antipasto of tomato and mozzarella and followed it with spaghetti with clam sauce. A split of Prosecco washed it down well, and she walked back, hearing her footsteps echoing from across the canal.
Back at the pensione, she ordered a coffee, and the proprietress sat beside her after she served it. “You come alone to Venice, on business?” she asked.
“No. A personal mission,” Caroline answered. “My great-aunt just died. I am bringing her ashes to a place she loved.”
“Ah.” The woman smiled. “You care about famiglia . That is important.”
“Are you from Venice?” Caroline asked.
“Of course. I was born here,” she answered.
“Do you remember a pensione called Regina?”
The woman frowned. “The name sounds familiar, but no. I don’t think I ever knew of such a pensione. Certainly not now.”
Emboldened, Caroline went to her room and returned with the box. “My aunt also left me these. Do you have any idea what they might be?”
She tipped out the three keys and held them in her hand. The woman took them, one at a time, turning them over in her hand. “This big key could open any door in this city, I think. Every house has keys like this.” She took the brass key with the winged lion on it. “This one has the symbol of our city. St Mark, yes? It could be a key for a special occasion? A festival maybe? I have not seen one like it, but you will find the lion of St Mark everywhere. On souvenirs, made in China, eh?” And she laughed.