The Venice Sketchbook(33)

That made her question just how long should she stay here. It was obvious that she’d never find the locks for her keys, if they came from Venice in the first place. So should she just concentrate on a suitable site to scatter Aunt Lettie’s ashes? Was there a law against dumping ashes in a canal? Maybe she could hire a water taxi and scatter them into the lagoon. But not yet. After she realized she was hungry, she stopped to have a ham and cheese panino before resuming her quest. Aunt Lettie had sketched the market at the Rialto. Was there a place she particularly loved? It was hard to tell from the sketches. Caroline wondered about the young man in the first sketchbook. Well, no use looking for him. He wouldn’t be alive now! Probably a gondolier who rowed her around. Some of them were rather good-looking!

Eventually she gave up and went back to the pensione, had a rest, then went out for an aperitif and dinner. She returned home, feeling rather mellow after more wine than she would normally have drunk. Opening her shutters, she stood at her window, staring out into the night. From the distance came the sound of laughter, a voice singing, the splash of oars. A whole city full of life that did not include her.

“What do you want of me, Aunt Lettie?” she asked into the darkness. “Why did you bring me here?” Why hadn’t she written a simple little note before she died? She was always so calm, so practical. Dear Caroline, I should like my ashes scattered in Venice, a city I once loved. That would have been so easy. Instead she’d given an impossible quest with keys that would fit any lock in the city. “And a ring,” Caroline reminded herself, glancing down at her hand. “And glass beads. And two sketchbooks.”

The night wind had become cold, and Caroline closed the shutters again. Maybe tomorrow would reveal some answers.

The next morning the sparkling weather was replaced with dark clouds and the threat of rain. She ate breakfast inside as raindrops peppered the windows. There was no point in going out just to become wet and miserable. Maybe, if it cleared up, she might try her hand at sketching. She would need a book and a pen, of course. That would involve locating an art shop. When the weather cleared by mid-morning, she set off in the direction of St Mark’s again, splashing through puddles, her collar turned up against the chilly wind. In spite of all the speciality shops, she didn’t come across one that sold art supplies. Lunchtime was approaching, and she was feeling grumpy and hungry. Why was she wasting her time here? To prove she was as good an artist as Aunt Lettie? Would that give some meaning to being here?

When she reached St Mark’s Square, she went into the Correr Museum and browsed in their shop. “Where could I find art supplies?” she asked the woman behind the counter and was directed to a street on the other side of the square. “Under the famous clock and then turn right,” the woman had told her.

It had started to rain again, and she kept to the colonnade until she found the clock. A crowd of tourists had gathered, and the bells high in the campanile rang out. Oh, it must be noon, of course, she thought, and paused to watch as the animated clock came to life. This put her in a better mood as she ducked through the archway to the Calle Larga San Marco behind the square. She passed a bank and realized she should probably get more money if coffees were going to be that expensive and restaurants wanted cash. As she went up to the ATM, she glanced up. It was a reputable bank, wasn’t it? One couldn’t be too careful. And then she froze. The sign that swung in the breeze said, “Banco San Marco,” and the logo was exactly like the lion that crowned her key.

Feeling rather stupid, she forced herself to go inside. She asked who might speak English.

“Scusi,” she said to a man sitting at a desk behind a glass partition, “but I have this key, and I wondered if it has anything to do with your bank?”

He took it, examined it and nodded. “Of course. It is an old key from one of our vaults. A very old key.”

“I see. Thank you,” she said. She couldn’t think what else to say. As she turned away, the man called after her. “Do you not wish to access the vault now?” he asked.

She stared in surprise. “That key is still good? After all these years?”

“If the owner has paid the yearly sum, then the vault still works,” he said. “Are you the owner?”

“It belonged to my great-aunt. She left it to me in her will.”

He nodded. “Very well. Show me your identification, and we shall see. Follow me, please.”

After checking that things were in order, he admitted her through a security gate and then a door and then down a flight of steps that could have led to a dungeon. Down below was cold and poorly lit. His key opened another door, and she found herself in a strongroom with a long wall of safe-deposit boxes. The man examined the number on her key and nodded. “Sì . The number is still here.” He bent down, selected a small brass door amongst the many and put the key into the slot. The door slid open. Caroline’s heart was beating rather fast as the man retrieved a long slim box from the vault.

“You wish time to examine?” he said. “There is a private room here.”

He led her through, still carrying the box, and placed it on a table. Then he retired, shutting the door behind him. Caroline could hardly make her fingers work to open the catch on the box. It was stiff, and for a moment she thought it wouldn’t move, but then it came open and she gave a little grunt of disappointment. Instead of money or jewellery, there was one piece of paper. It looked like some form of official document, signed and stamped in various colours. She closed the box and came out to find the man waiting for her.