The Venice Sketchbook(48)
“Do you think there will be a worst?”
“I’m rather afraid that I do,” he said. “I’m waiting to see if and when I may be recalled. It all depends on Mussolini and if he decides to follow along with his idol Adolf. I don’t think he has anything like the resources to start a proper war yet, but it would be bad if he invited the Germans to use Venice as a base and thus got us drawn in against our will.”
“Oh gosh,” I said. “I suppose Venice would make a good naval base.”
“The Nazis would like to use Trieste, which used to be the big Austrian naval base before the Great War,” he said. “But Venice is a safer harbour, and easier to hide ships amongst all the little islands.” He shook his head. “But let us not dwell on what might be. Let us make the most of this perfect Venetian night and good company, what?”
I nodded. He picked up a glass of Prosecco and handed it to me. “So you’re visiting here?”
“I’m here for a year, studying at the accademia,” I said. “I got a bursary to take leave from my teaching job.”
“Jolly nice. I’d make the most of it, if I were you. Venice is still one of the few civilized cities in the world. The racial laws created last year by Il Duce were supposed to exclude Jews from education and teaching and then to strip them of property. None of that has happened here. The Venetians still live quite happily and do business in the ghetto and turn a blind eye to those of Jewish origin, like our dear contessa here.”
I looked at him with surprise and then turned my gaze to Contessa Fiorito. I remembered now that she had mentioned her parents were Jewish é migré s. “But her husband was an Italian count,” I said.
“Indeed he was, but that has nothing to do with her racial origin. Born of a poor Jewish family in Paris, so I understand. Of course she is well respected here and does a lot in the way of philanthropy for the city. Most people don’t even know her heritage.” He drew closer to me. “I have advised her to have an escape plan ready, just in case.”
A servant approached with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Mr Sinclair helped himself with relish, and I took a skewer of prawns. Henry Dabney and the priest came over to join me, so the worrying conversation was at an end. I had known that war was possibly looming on the horizon, but I don’t think I’d ever examined the fact that I might actually be in danger.
CHAPTER 18
Juliet, Venice, July 9, 1939
Conversation dwindled as more food was brought round. Foie gras on slices of Melba toast, thin slivers of raw beef, bruschetta topped with tapenade. All equally delicious and exciting for me. I looked around as glasses sparkled in the lights dotted amongst the trees and on the jewels the women were wearing. It was hard to believe that a couple of weeks ago I had been Juliet Browning, schoolmistress, living in a small village and eating baked beans on toast for Sunday supper while we listened to the news on the radio. But then my gaze went to Count Da Rossi. He was still handsome in middle age. I turned back to listen to what Henry was saying.
“What do you think of the food?”
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“A little too fancy for my taste. Give me a good steak or hamburger any day!”
“So I suppose you didn’t come from this sort of background either?”
He laughed. “My dad is a self-made man. Started an auto dealership and has done very well for himself, in spite of the Depression. But my mom went to college, and she wanted that for her kids, so I started out majoring in business and then I discovered art. Of course my dad wasn’t about to pay for me to study art, so I switched to industrial design. He thought I might be able to design a new automobile for him and we’d make a fortune—take over from Ford, you know.” He gave a derisive chuckle. “And then I saw this scholarship offered to study in Europe, and I thought, Why not? So I applied, and here I am. The old man wasn’t pleased, but then he’s not funding it, is he? I figured it was my one chance to see a bit of the world before I’m stuck selling automobiles for the rest of my life.”
I looked up at his round, earnest face. “Do you have to follow your father into his business?”
“I’m the only son. Who else would take over from him someday?”
I found myself considering this. Leo was in the same boat. Only son and obligated to be what was expected of him—to lead someone else’s life, not his own. And then I realized I was not so different. I could have stayed on in college, worked as a waitress to pay for my room and board and become an artist one day. Instead I had been the dutiful daughter, living my mother’s life, not mine.
“Now we’re both free, at least for a while,” I said.
“You’re right. It’s kinda surreal, isn’t it? These surroundings and sipping champagne with aristocrats with oodles of money?”
“It is,” I agreed.
Franz came over to join us. “It is a pleasant evening, is it not?” he asked.
“Are you used to this sort of thing?” I asked him, switching to Italian. “Henry and I were just saying it was like living in a fantasy.”
“For me, too. My father owns a bakery. He thought I was mad to want to study art. Why did I need art to become a baker one day? I told him I would teach him to make very artistic bread.”