The Venice Sketchbook(43)

Henry had clearly lost most of this conversation. I found it hard to keep up myself, with Italian being spoken in strange accents. Imelda was really fluent; so was Gaston. Franz had been almost silent until now, so I couldn’t tell how much he was following. I looked from one to the other. My fellow students, with whom I’d be spending the next year. Would they become friends? Would I even make a friend while I was here? And I realized that since art school in England I had not had any real friends. My former school friends had married and were busy with children and entertaining. I had never really bonded closely with the girls at college, who all seemed more bohemian, more adventurous than I, living in digs in London and going to pubs and clubs. Since then . . . well, the other schoolmistresses were so much older, as were most people in our village. I had enjoyed the company of my sister, Winnie, until she met a young man, married him, and went off to India. Now I was out of the habit of confiding in anyone apart from my mother . . . and I never shared my innermost thoughts with her. She never knew about Leo. She would not have approved. She had always been rigid in her beliefs of right and wrong, having been brought up a Baptist and only switching to C of E when she married Daddy and moved up in status.

A bell rang. “We must not be late for our next class,” Franz said. “A good impression on the first day, ja ?”

“See you tonight, then,” Gaston said.

“If Henry doesn’t get lost.” Imelda shot him an amused look.

I felt hopeful as I went towards my figure drawing class. It was exciting to be part of a group of people—people who teased and expressed opinions and had different views. I felt as if I had just emerged from a cocoon.





CHAPTER 16


Juliet, Venice, late evening, July 6, 1939

I have just returned from Professor Corsetti’s soirée. I don’t think I can sleep. I feel charged with energy and enthusiasm. This is exactly what I hoped for when I agreed to spend this year abroad.

Signora Martinelli wasn’t too pleased when I told her that I would not be dining at home. “You could have told me earlier,” she said.

“I’m sorry. My professor only extended the invitation after class today. Apparently, he invites all the foreign students to his house after the first class. I could not say no, could I?”

“I suppose not,” she agreed. “You won’t be late, I hope.”

“Would it be possible for me to take a key?” I asked. “We are not invited until eight, and I would not like to be the one who leaves before everyone else.”

She hesitated. “I suppose I can trust you with a key,” she said.

“I’m sure I won’t be very late. Just maybe a little after ten. And I promise to be quiet.”

She sighed. She did a lot of sighing, I’d noticed. As if everything in this world was a great burden to her. In a way, she reminded me of my mother, who was not the most optimistic of souls.

She went to the hall table, pulled open a drawer and handed me a bunch of keys.

“The big one for the outside door,” she said. “And the smaller one for the apartment. Make sure you don’t lose them.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you about dinner.”

“It’s no matter,” she replied. “It was only going to be salami and a little salad anyway.”

I went to my room and debated what to wear. Last year I had been caught out when Leo had invited me to dine at the posh Danieli Hotel. Ladies in Venice dressed well. So I had brought my few items of respectable clothing with me. I examined my pale-blue silk evening dress. Too formal for a student gathering, surely. I wanted horribly to fit in, to belong to the group, not to stand out as an old frumpy female. I could picture Imelda eyeing me with distaste, while she looked stunning in a simple black dress, probably with a silk scarf tossed carelessly around her in the way that Continental women can do, and we Englishwomen can’t.

In the end I opted for a green and white polka-dot dress with a crossover white collar. It was more afternoon tea dress than evening gown, but I doubted that my fellow students would be wearing formal attire. And at least it had been made by the village dressmaker only a year ago, so the style was passably modern. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wished that I owned a simple black gown that could be dressed up for the occasion. I had shied away from black after my father died and Mummy had insisted on our wearing it for months. It really didn’t suit me with my fair complexion. I brushed my hair into a sleek bob, considered adding a jewelled comb, then decided against it. Then off I went.

I debated going over the Accademia Bridge and then making my way around to the Frari church, but there didn’t seem to be a direct route, and I was afraid of getting lost in the dying light. Then I remembered someone saying there was a traghetto at San Toma, and indeed, on my map, a dotted line was shown going across the Grand Canal there. I wasn’t sure what a traghetto was, but it seemed to be some sort of ferry. I decided to risk cutting through the Campo Santo Stefano, finally arrived at the Grand Canal and found a line of people waiting to cross. Then I saw the ferry: it was a gondola! The people ahead of me were helped down into it and remained standing, packed close to overloading while they were rowed across. Then the gondola came back, and I was included in the next trip. I found it somewhat unnerving to be standing up in a gondola, especially when a vaporetto passed us, throwing up a wake. But we made it safely, and from there it was no problem to find the Fondamenta del Forner. I was learning for the first time that a calle was a street, but a fondamenta was a street that ran beside a canal.