The Venice Sketchbook(56)

She reached the Accademia Bridge just as a vaporetto was arriving. She jumped aboard and was grateful to be out of the rain and wind as the boat headed for the Rialto. After alighting there, she was directed to the city hall. But to her annoyance there was a sign on the big front door announcing that office hours were ten until one and then three until six. It was only just two, and it seemed that all the small shops around the bridge, likewise, were shuttered for the lunch hour. She crossed the bridge and walked around the market, which was in the last stages of closing up for the day. Only a solitary fish lay on a marble slab.

The stall-keeper called out to her. When she said she didn’t understand, he switched to English. “You want? Last fish? Good price, huh?”

“I’m sorry. Staying at a hotel,” she said and walked on. As she did so, she pictured herself at that market, learning to bargain with the stall-keepers, buying fresh fruit and veg and fish every day. It was a tempting daydream until she reminded herself that she had a life back in England, a son to raise, a grandmother to comfort.

At last a distant clock chimed the hour, and she crossed the bridge back to the palazzo. Alas, the furniture inside did not match the grandeur of the exterior, and the first two people she addressed did not speak English. Finally, a young woman was called, and Caroline explained what she wanted. As Luca had suspected, the records from long ago were stored in a separate building. This involved crossing the Rialto Bridge and heading towards the less desirable part of the city, then climbing several flights of stairs from a dingy courtyard. More translation was needed, much waving of hands, and then an elderly man suggested she leave the certificate with them.

“No, sorry,” Caroline said. “This is not leaving my hands. Too important. Can you make a copy and check with that?”

He finally agreed that he could, then indicated the search might take a few days, maybe a week, maybe more. He shrugged. “Is very old document . . .”

The frustration boiled over. “Listen, please,” she said. “It is very important that I know whether this place belongs to me. There is someone who would like to take it from me if I can’t prove I own it. Please help me.”

Of course, no Italian man can resist the words “please help me” from a lady. He gave her a tired smile. “For you, signora, I will do my very best. Come back tomorrow, eh?”

So she had to be content with leaving a photocopy with Signor Alessi and agreeing to meet late the next afternoon. The weather seemed to have set in for the day, so she gave up, went back to the pensione and fell into a long afternoon nap, no doubt encouraged by the wine she had drunk at midday. The rain had worsened by the evening, so she made for the closest restaurant: a small cramped room, seemingly populated by students from the nearby university, where she was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the seafood risotto.

That night it was hard to sleep, whether the food had been too rich or the discoveries of the day just too overwhelming. Caroline lay listening to the sounds of the city, trying to come to terms with finding herself the potential owner of a lovely apartment and dealing carefully with a man who might do anything he could to take it away from her. Why did he have to be so damned attractive? And then she considered this: it had been a long time since she had considered a man desirable. At least that was one small step forward and away from Josh.



The next morning dawned bright but blustery. Caroline breakfasted, chatting with the proprietress, telling her about her discovery.

“The Da Rossi family?” The woman was astonished. “They are one of the great families of Venice, you know. They go back to the Middle Ages and include a doge and a pope. They made their money in shipping, and then more money in shipbuilding during the war for that pig Mussolini and for Hitler. Not something I’d be proud of.” She gave Caroline a knowing nudge. “I believe the patriarch stepped down recently. Now it’s his son who runs the business. But no more shipbuilding these days. That’s all gone to Asia, hasn’t it?”

After breakfast Caroline put on her mac and rode the vaporetto out past St Mark’s, past an area of gardens, now mostly bare and leafless at this time of year, and out to the Lido. There she walked across the island to the beach, watching angry waves crashing on the sand, wishing she had worn a scarf to protect herself from the wind. She grabbed a bowl of minestrone soup at a small café and waited impatiently until she could visit Signor Alessi. At four thirty she climbed the steps to his office. He wasn’t there. Caroline swallowed back frustration until a young woman appeared.

“Un momentino. He will come, signora. Wait.”

She waited, and the old gentleman appeared, smiling.

“I have found the record of your lease,” he said. “It was not too hard. The Da Rossi holdings are easy to find. And I am happy to tell you that the lease is all in order. Va tutto bene, heh? No problem.”

Impulsively, Caroline leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You are an angel,” she said.

He looked absurdly pleased. She almost danced down the steps. The lease was all in order. The apartment was hers! She telephoned Luca Da Rossi’s number and left a message: “The city confirms my lease is properly recorded and still valid. I will be taking possession of the apartment tomorrow. When can we meet with your grandmother?”





CHAPTER 21


Juliet, Venice, July 20, 1939