The Venice Sketchbook(52)

“I suppose you are right. England will try to.”

She nodded, leaning closer to me. “I think it will be bad. I have seen what they are doing in Germany. Building so many tanks and machines of war. They have already taken Austria, which was the country of my grandparents.” She paused on the landing halfway down the stairs. “What will you do if the war happens? Will you go home?”

“I expect I’ll have to,” I said. “Although everyone says that Venice will be quite safe. Nobody would ever bomb such a thing of beauty.”

“I hope you are right,” she said. “But Italy will side with Germany. You’ll be called an enemy, won’t you?”

“I’ll face it when it happens,” I said. “Right now I want to enjoy every moment. In fact I—”

Leo was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me with that cheeky smile on his face.

“Bondì ,” he said in Venetian before switching to English as students streamed past us out into the glaring sunlight. “So I have found you! I was in the neighbourhood, and I was feeling hungry, and I thought you might want to come to lunch with me.”

My new friend gave me a little nudge of encouragement and melted away. I stood there, clutching my art portfolio, my heart thumping.

“I can’t come to lunch with you, Leo,” I said. “You know that. You are a married man. It wouldn’t be right for you to be seen with another woman.”

“And you think the same applies to my wife?” he asked, frowning. Then his face softened. “Besides, it is only lunch. Not a nightclub at the Lido. Not even an intimate dinner at the Danieli as we once shared. You have to eat. I have to eat. Why not?”

I was going to be firm. I shook my head. “No. I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to me. You are offering me something I can’t have—like that carrot dangled in front of the donkey, just out of reach. Always, just out of reach. Don’t you realize that every time I see you, it breaks my heart to know that you are married to someone else? And it’s stupid, really, because we hardly know each other. We’ve met a couple of times, and they were wonderful and romantic for me, but they weren’t real life. Just a beautiful dream. You don’t really know me, and I don’t know you. I might be absolutely awful.”

This made him laugh, then the smile faded. “I know when two people are instantly attracted to each other,” he said. “But I do understand. I would not want to damage your reputation in this city, and I’m sure the report of any little outing together would get back to my father quickly enough.” He stood there, his eyes looking into mine in a way that I found so disconcerting.

“My tree?” he said. “Could we not meet occasionally by my tree? Have another little picnic one day? You remember in the Giardini? Behind the statue? Nobody would see us there.”

“They would see us coming or going,” I said. “I’ve already come to realize that this is a very small town. Everybody knows everybody. This very conversation is now being reported back to your family, I can assure you.” I took a deep breath, went to touch his arm, then thought better of it. “You have your life, Leo. You have a wife, and soon you’ll have a family. And I’m not part of it. I can’t ever be part of it, so please don’t do this to me.”

His eyes clouded. “I don’t want to cause you pain ever. I just needed to see you. To prove that you were real. In the boat last night, I thought I was dreaming. Imagining things. You are truly here for a year?”

“If a war doesn’t interrupt my studies.”

He nodded. “It is a pity it is not an even year. I would have been delighted to escort you around a Biennale. If you are still here when it opens next May, perhaps . . .”

“You think the city will hold a festival of international art if the world is at war?”

“Of course. Venetians would never let a little thing like a war interfere with their art. We live and breathe our art. It is part of our bones.” Without warning, he grabbed my portfolio. “Show me what you have been drawing.”

“No!” I tried to snatch it back, but too late. He had untied the portfolio and opened it. And the first picture was the naked man, drawn in detail. Leo studied it for a second, then flicked through the quicker sketches. He closed the portfolio again and handed it back to me. As I took it, our fingers brushed, and for a moment his hand remained touching mine.

“You are good,” he said. “You have a feel for the human figure. Start working on something for next year’s Biennale. I can probably get it exhibited.”

“I’m sure nobody wants to see my work,” I said. “I’m all right at copying what I see, but I don’t think I have vision to take an object and turn it into my creation like the great artists do.”

“Then maybe you should just draw what you see. Ordinary people, going about ordinary lives. It is important that we also document that, for who knows what the future will bring.”

“I must go and get my lunch,” I said. “I have less than an hour before my next class.”

“Are you sure . . . ,” he began.

“Very sure. Go home to your family, please.”

He nodded. “Very well. But it was so good to see you. Like a miracle, really. When I kissed you goodbye last year, I thought it would be for the last time.”