The Venice Sketchbook(44)

I rang the bell and was admitted. This building had a lift, and I was pleased to ride up to the third-floor apartment rather than manage the three flights of stairs. The professor himself opened the door to me, then led me through to a large room with windows that looked out across the city. At this hour, the sun had just set and the tiled roofs were bathed in rosy twilight. Swallows flitted low; seagulls wheeled above. It was a perfect scene. And the room behind the view was equally attractive: white modern furniture, a long, low sofa and walls decorated with modern art—great splashes of colour. I didn’t have time to examine these as Professor Corsetti introduced me to the assembled group.

“This is the young lady from England, Miss Browning.”

I looked around to see that Imelda, Gaston and Franz were already there. Henry was not. A woman came forward, arms open in welcome. “How happy we are that you’ve come to our home,” she said. “I am the professor’s wife, Angelica. Let me introduce you to our guests.”

I hadn’t expected guests other than my fellow students and wondered instantly if I should have worn the more formal evening dress. This was confirmed instantly as I was led to an older woman, who was wearing a stunning midnight-blue gown with matching jacket. At her neck was a sapphire necklace. She had a narrow face topped by boyishly cropped white hair and dark, intelligent eyes that examined me with interest. The effect was that of a bird of prey, a hawk maybe. Rather alarming.

“Contessa, may I introduce Miss Browning from England,” Signora Corsetti said. “My dear, this is our dear friend, Contessa Fiorito. She is a great patron of the arts in this city.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether I was supposed to curtsy, but I took the hand that was extended to me. It was an elegant hand with blue veins showing through very white skin.

“How lovely,” she said in perfect English. “And how brave of you to come. We did not expect to see anyone from England this year, given the tense situation. But have no fear. This is Venice. We do not believe in war here.”

“Can you keep it out if it happens?” I asked.

“Of course. We will simply blow up the causeway,” she said and laughed. “But do not worry. Our beloved leader has big ideas, but trying to make Italians fight is like herding cats. I do not think we will go along with Herr Hitler’s monstrous vision.”

“Italian, please, Gabriella.” The professor came over to us. “It is not fair that you two have your conversation that my other guests cannot join in. And how is her Italian to improve if she speaks her own tongue?”

“Scusi, Alfredo.” The countess gave me a conspiratorial wink. “How is your Italian?” she asked in that language.

“Not too bad,” I said. “I just need practice.”

“And you will get it, although I have to warn you that the Venetian accent is terrible, and we have a language of our own. We do not say buon giorno like the rest of Italy. We greet each other with bondì . You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

“Stop talking for a moment, Gabriella,” the professor said, “and let me finish my introductions. This is Vittorio Scarpa. He owns a gallery, and he assists the contessa with her collection.” He put a hand on Signor Scarpa’s shoulder. “If you learn from what I have to teach you, then you may end up exhibiting your paintings in his gallery, or even at the next Biennale.”

“Professore, please. Do not put false hopes into their heads. If they want to exhibit at my gallery, they will need to become new Salvador Dalí s. I am very, very choosy, as you well know. Only the best, right, dear Contessa?”

This man was much younger—thirties or early forties—good-looking in a very Latin sort of way: dark, wavy hair with a little too much grease for my liking; dark, flashing eyes and a suit that was probably made from raw silk. When he shook my hand, his felt podgy and clammy. Not a pleasant feeling, but he gave me a condescending smile.

“Welcome to Venice,” he said.

The third guest was a priest. Having grown up as a member of the Church of England, I had a deep distrust of anything Catholic. This one didn’t look in any way frightening. He was a large, round man with rosy cheeks and eyes that flickered with amusement. He was introduced as Father Trevisan.

“A foreigner like you,” the professor said.

“Really?” I asked.

The priest chuckled. “Because of my name. From the town of Treviso. Half an hour away on the mainland. So to Venetians I shall forever be an outsider. Although I have to point out that at least one of our doges was a Trevisan.”

“Are you a member of an order, Father?” Gaston asked.

The priest gave an innocent little smile. “I was a little worried about the poverty, chastity and obedience,” he said. “I am quite good at the chastity, but I’m not so good at obeying, as my superiors will tell you, and I do like a good meal and a good vintage occasionally.”

We all laughed.

“Alfredo, too much talk,” the professor’s wife said. “Shall we not go through to dinner?”

“We are still waiting for the last guest, cara mia ,” he replied. “Our American friend has not yet arrived.”

“He is probably wandering around San Marco or Cannaregio looking for the address,” Imelda said with a brittle laugh. “He didn’t seem to know where San Polo was.”