The Venice Sketchbook(57)

I have settled into a pleasant routine here. I get up, bathe, eat breakfast, usually with my landlady gossiping about who was at Mass and what they were wearing and what the priest said, and then I go to classes. I seem to have made some friends—or at least pleasant acquaintances. I have gone to lunch with Henry, who is like a loveable St Bernard puppy, and with Imelda, who is surprisingly nice to me and not as terrifying as I first imagined. She and her family have suffered through Franco, being driven from their life in Madrid and forced to survive in Biarritz, France. Her father, formerly a professor, is now working as a janitor. But she has grandparents who are fans of Franco and who are paying for her schooling. I have to confess that I have not reached the stage of friendship where I can share in a similar way with her. She remarked on the fact while we were having a before-lunch coffee one day. “You never tell me anything about yourself,” she said.

“There is nothing to tell,” I replied. “I have led the most ordinary of lives since my father died and I had to leave art school. I teach girls. I go home. I live in quiet solitude with my mother.”

“But what about men?” she asked. “There must be men. You do not want a husband?”

“Of course I do,” I replied. “But the only men in my village are the vicar, who is married, the butcher, who is also married, and several elderly farmworkers. And I can’t leave my mother. She had become most dependent on me.”

“So how did you manage to escape and come here?”

“My aunt agreed to live with my mother for the year.”

“That was kind.”

“Not entirely.” I smiled. “She had just lost her Austrian maid, and I don’t think she wanted to do her own housework.”

“We all want something, don’t we?” Imelda said. “But myself, I do not think I could live without men. I enjoy the physical relationship, don’t you?”

I felt myself blushing. “I haven’t had much chance to experience it. But the few times were very nice.”

I’ve also made friends with the fair girl from South Tyrol. Her name is Veronika. She is less intrusive and disturbing, but funny and sweet and so young. Just the antidote I need to depression. And I have seen Leo again, in spite of all efforts to avoid him. Most days we have no classes after lunch. It seems to be a time for siesta here, as in Spain. The shops all close until four. The city slumbers, apart from energetic tourists. But I find I am not able to rest in the afternoon. My brain is still buzzing after the morning’s session, and I am itching to paint. We have studios reserved for students at the accademia where we can go to paint, but I have started doing what Leo suggested and going out with my sketchbook, trying to capture ordinary people going about their daily lives.

Two days ago, I was sketching in a narrow street just off the Campo Sant’Anzolo, which is on the other side of the big church of Santo Stefano, so it is in my neighbourhood. I liked the way the laundry was strung across the street, row after row. It created an interesting contrast of light and shadow. I thought it would make a good painting—maybe even a semi-abstract that Professor Corsetti would approve of. I was deep in thought when I sensed that someone was standing behind me. I spun around and saw Leo there.

“Can you not find something more beautiful than drying underclothes and sheets?” he asked, a smile on his face.

I fought to keep my face calm and distant. “Are you spying on me?”

“No, pure coincidence, I promise you. I have just come from Alberto Bertoni—the bookshop on the corner. Have you visited it yet? One of the oldest in the city. I can find amazing things there. Real treasures. I had to pass it on my way home from a business meeting with my father, so I was lured inside. And then I find you. Two pleasant surprises in one day.”

He squatted down beside me, perching on the steps where I was sitting. “How are you enjoying our city? And your academy?”

“Both are wonderful, thank you.”

“What are you doing in this neighbourhood?”

“I live nearby.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them.

I saw the reaction his eyes. “Really? In which street?”

“I’m not going to tell you, or you will come and visit me, and we’ll both get into trouble.”

“All right. But not on this street, I take it?”

“No.”

“You know what it is called, don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

He was grinning. “It is Rio Tera dei Assassini.”

“‘Rio Tera’—that means a former river that has been filled in to make a street.”

“And ‘assassini’?”

“It sounds like ‘assassins.’”

“Exactly. You are right. The street of assassins.”

“Goodness.” I looked up, alarmed. “Assassins have their own street in Venice?”

“Of course. How else would you find them if you needed one?”

I checked to see if he was joking. He seemed quite serious. “Not today, surely?” I examined the quiet surroundings, the peeling shutters closed against the midday heat, the ubiquitous pigeons sitting on porches.

He gave a little shrug.

“But what about the police?”

“I’m sure they need assassins, too, from time to time.”