The Venice Sketchbook(50)

“We were just about to try and work our way to the front,” Gaston said.

“Let me see if my launch has arrived,” the count said. “I might be able to fit you all on board and give you a lift.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Imelda said.

“I cannot leave fellow art lovers in the lurch.” He had a charming smile, reminding me of Leo. “Come. Let us see if my boat has arrived yet. I told my man to come for me at ten. I was sure I would have had enough by then, but it is hard to say no to Gabriella.” As he spoke, he was scanning the waterfront, where there were several smaller jetties. “Ah,” he said, pointing at a sleek teak motorboat I recognized all too well. “Over here!”

We followed, I a little reluctantly. “I have brought some young friends. Do you think we can find a place for all of them?”

“We can try.” The man at the helm stepped up on to the dock, and my heart did a sudden flip as I saw that it was Leo himself.

The count was also surprised. “Leo, what are you doing here?” He looked back at us. “It is my son. He has come himself instead of our servant. What happened to Mario?”

“His brother had a birthday. I gave him the evening off. And I didn’t mind a trip across the laguna . It’s a lovely night.” He hadn’t seen me. He held out his hand to assist his father into the boat, then reached up to Imelda. Franz, always the gentleman, pushed me in front of him. Leo reached up and then froze. “Julietta! Am I dreaming? What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Leo,” I said. “What a surprise. I’m studying here, at the academy of art.”

I could feel his hand shaking as I stepped down into the boat. He turned mechanically to assist the boys down. “Studying? Here? For how long?”

“A year,” I said.

“This young lady is a friend of yours, Leo?” the count asked.

“We met last year at the Biennale,” Leo said smoothly. “When I was escorting that party of rich donors, remember?”

“Ah yes. You enjoyed the Biennale, Miss Browning?”

“I thought it was wonderful. And the setting in the gardens is magnificent.”

“It’s not what you English would call ‘my cup of tea,’” he said. “Although my son keeps trying to drag me there. But so much rubbish is being called art these days.”

“My father would like the whole Biennale to be full of old masters,” Leo said.

“Of course. That was real art. You should see the painting that I’m sure Gabriella Fiorito paid a large sum for,” he went on jovially. “Hideous. Great daubs of colour. Nothing soothing about it. Apparently done by some up-and-coming Jewish painter still working secretly in Germany.”

“Well, that is Contessa Fiorito for you,” Leo said. “She sees herself as the great benefactor—the Medici of our century. And she likes to rescue people, the way that others rescue stray cats.” He glanced up from the wheel, and our eyes met.

He pulled down to full throttle, and the boat sped across the lagoon, the wind fresh and salty in our faces. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure that those squashed beside me on the back seat could hear it. How had I fooled myself into thinking that I could handle this? Being so close to him was torture. Why had I not realized how small Venice was, that I was bound to run into him whatever I did?

“Where should we drop you young people off?” the count asked. “Are you all living close to the accademia?”

“Close enough, I think,” Gaston said. “Please stop wherever it is convenient. We appreciate this kindness so much. Without you, we would have been standing on a dock for another hour and a half and we might not even have found room on the last boat.”

“Pull into the dock at the accademia, then, Leo,” his father said.

Leo manoeuvred the boat, jumped out smoothly and secured a rope. Then he held out his hand to help us disembark. I let Imelda disembark first, then it was my turn. Leo’s hand held firmly on to mine.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied. “I am delighted to know that you have the chance to study here. Now perhaps you will become a great painter after all.”

“Hardly,” I said. “But at least I shall improve.”

“You live near the school?”

“Not too far,” I said. “Within walking distance.” He wanted my address, I could tell. But I wasn’t going to give it to him. “Thank you again. I’ll see everyone in the morning.”

I started to walk away, but I delayed in crossing the Accademia Bridge until the motorboat had gone past. Then I walked home very fast, my footsteps echoing from the deserted cobblestones.





CHAPTER 19


Juliet, Venice, Monday, July 10, 1939

I tried not to think about him, but I lay awake for hours, listening to the distant noises of the city, and only fell asleep in the early morning. Thus I awoke groggy and grumpy, and had to rush to bathe and prepare for class. This morning it was Drawing and Painting the Nude, and amongst the foreign students, only Gaston and I had selected the class. It must have been an entry-level class for the Italian students, as most of them looked horribly young, and I sensed glances coming in my direction. One of them actually asked me if I was the teacher. When I introduced myself as a visiting student from England, he looked embarrassed and hurried off to his own seat.