The Venice Sketchbook(40)

“And I’m sure I don’t need to mention my house rules to you,” she said. “No smoking, no drinking and no men in your room. But then, you are not an undisciplined young person. I expect you to know how to behave like a lady.”

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t expect I will have much in common with the other students. I am so much older.”

“I lock my door at ten, unless you tell me in advance that you will be late,” she said.

And immediately my thoughts went back to the convent: they locked the door at ten, so we’d had to have dinner early, and in the darkness of the alleyway near that convent he had kissed me. I could still remember the feel of his mouth against mine, his chest thudding against mine.

“No men in my room,” I muttered to myself after the signora had gone.





CHAPTER 15


Juliet, Venice, July 5, 1939

I am safely installed in my new room. I enjoy the sun shining in the morning, the pigeons cooing on the ledge outside my window and the glimpse between buildings of the Grand Canal. Bruno the cat comes to visit often, curious about all of my belongings. So at least one person in Venice has a pet cat, I think. You were wrong, Leo. And I wonder about my kittens. Leo said they were great-grandparents by now. I do hope he spoke the truth and they were not all drowned the moment my back was turned. I try not to think about him, but I do find myself glancing in the direction of the Palazzo Rossi when I pass that way.

I have been to the accademia and obtained a list of supplies for my classes. Gosh, they will be expensive, I fear, but my stipend is quite generous, and I’m not likely to spend on frivolous things like drink—although wine is cheaper here than water. Isn’t that ridiculous?

And I am rediscovering Venice, free to wander and explore on my own for the first time. I think this is a city one could explore forever and still find new things. After Signora Martinelli mentioned coal and rubbish being taken up and down by a pulley, I have noticed that this is the normal delivery method for many things. A basket comes down, and a newspaper and bottle of milk go up in the early morning. Bottles of mineral water, the grocery shopping. One has to be careful not to be hit by a descending basket!

July 5, later in the day

Something really strange just happened.

I went out to buy my supplies. There is apparently a good art shop close to the Rialto Bridge. I had bought paints, brushes, a sketchbook and charcoal and was lingering on the bridge, admiring the beautiful things in the window of a jewellery store, when I heard a voice inside saying, “Grazie mille, Signora Da Rossi.”

I spun around sharply and saw a stunningly beautiful and fashionable woman coming out of the shop. She was wearing a scarlet halter top with a pair of wide white linen trousers. Her dark hair was tied up with a red ribbon, and her mouth was a gash of scarlet lipstick. Could there be more than one Signora Da Rossi, or was this Leo’s wife, Bianca? If so, I didn’t think he had much to complain about.

I followed her with my gaze as she went down the stone steps of the bridge. At the bottom, a man stepped out of the shadows. A tall, dark man, and for a moment my heart did a little flip that it was Leo. But it wasn’t. It was another man altogether. She opened the box she was carrying and displayed what was inside. He nodded approval, then took out the contents—a heavy gold necklace—and she turned her back to him as he put it around her neck. She turned again, showing off the necklace. He nodded approval again, and she stepped forward, raising her face to be kissed. He kissed her, stroked her cheek, then let his hand slide down over one bare shoulder before she walked away in one direction and he in the other.

I tried to process what I had seen. Was this really Leo’s wife? And in that case, who was the man? Perhaps a relative, but the way he had looked at her made me think that he was more likely to be a lover. Did Leo know? Did he care? I felt hot and angry inside that she had been given the prize I so desired and clearly didn’t care about him. If she behaved so openly in a town like Venice, surely Leo must know that she was unfaithful.

I tried to think charitably. Perhaps she wasn’t actually unfaithful but just liked other men adoring her, spoiling her. Leo had said, after all, that she was a spoiled child. I walked on, but the anger wouldn’t go away. Also the realization that Venice was such a small place. If I had bumped into her on one of my first days here, surely it couldn’t be too long before I ran into him. How would I handle it? Would I have the strength and resolve to smile politely and keep on walking? I had to.

After that, the whole day was soured for me. I had planned to shop at the market, to buy flowers for my room, perhaps a small bouquet for my landlady, but I couldn’t bring myself to buy anything that would bring joy or beauty. Instead I stopped in a small coffee shop and had a coffee and a couple of open-faced sandwiches. I realized in the future I should eat a more substantial lunch, as the evening meal chez Signora Martinelli was not going to be large. Last night it was a hard-boiled egg sliced with some tomatoes, mozzarella cheese and coarse bread. It seems that meat is an expensive luxury in Italy, but fish is plentiful and cheap. I dropped hints that I love fish, but she said it makes the place smell. I think I’ll be eating my fish out at lunchtime.

I carried my supplies home and got a disapproving look from the signora. “I hope there will not be any paint used on these premises,” she said.

Oh dear. She’s not the warmest of people, and I find myself thinking of my comfortable room at home, the generous meals cooked by my mother. I’ve only been here three days—I can’t possibly be homesick already. Seeing Bianca Da Rossi must have really upset me. To know that she is beautiful was bad enough. To know that she doesn’t seem to care a fig for Leo is even worse. I tell myself it is none of my concern. I must get on with my life.