The Venice Sketchbook(58)
“You are pulling my leg, Leo.” I laughed.
“I am not touching your leg. Although I would like to.”
“It’s another—”
“I know. English expression. Your language is crazy, you know. We must only speak Italian from now on.”
“I’m doing rather well in Italian these days,” I said. “I have to chat with my landlady over meals and of course in all my classes.”
“Does she speak pure Italian and not Venetian? I don’t want you to learn bad things.”
“She’s originally from Turin, so she speaks Italian to me.”
“Good.” He got up again. “I will leave you to your sketching. I must get back to work. We have a big project. Bianca’s father has an order for ships from Mussolini himself, and we have the task of ferrying supplies to the army across the Mediterranean and around to Abyssinia.”
“To the war?”
He nodded. “My father and father-in-law have no hesitation in profiting from such things, so it would seem.”
“But you would?”
“Let us say I would think very hard before I agreed.” He was about to walk away, then turned back to me. “Will you come and watch me row on Sunday?”
“You are rowing? Where?”
“The regatta at the big festival. You don’t know about it?”
I shook my head.
“One of the most important in our city. The Feast of the Redentore. It celebrates when we were saved from the plague in the 1500s. In the afternoon there are all sorts of rowing races. I shall compete in the two-man boat—not very successfully, I fear, but my cousin signed me up. He is younger and fitter than I am. Then everyone walks across the bridge to the Church of the Redentore for Mass—”
“Where is that?” I asked, now familiar with many of the churches but not that one.
“Over on Giudecca.”
I frowned, trying to place this. “But there is no bridge. It’s an island.”
“There will be a bridge on Sunday.” He looked pleased with himself, as if he was enjoying surprising me. “They build a bridge of barges all the way across from the Zattere, and people walk across to Mass, and then they picnic with their families and watch the fireworks. You must come. You’ll enjoy it.”
“I’ve no family to picnic with,” I pointed out.
“Your new friends from the academy. They will enjoy it, too.”
“I’ll ask them,” I agreed. “At least I’ll come to watch the rowing. And then later for the fireworks. I love fireworks.”
“Me too. I’ll row extra hard, knowing you are watching me.” He blew me a kiss and hurried off, leaving me hot, bothered and confused again. I so enjoyed talking to him. We talked so easily, as if we had never been apart. We laughed together. And yet it was wrong. Why oh why did I think it would be a good idea to come back to this place?
The next day I came home to be greeted by my landlady with a suspicious look on her face.
“Somebody left flowers for you,” she said, indicating a bouquet wrapped in paper, tied with a white ribbon, lying on the hall table.
“Really? How nice!” I couldn’t think who that would be. “Did they leave a note?”
“I believe there is one with it,” she said, and I got the impression that she might have opened and read it.
I went over and picked up the bouquet. The sweet smell of red roses, mixed with other scents, came up to me. She was right. A little note was tucked in between the flowers. I opened it.
You see. It was easy to find out where you live. Everybody knows everybody in this town. I just had to ask for the woman from Turin!
It wasn’t signed, for which I was grateful. I gave my landlady a little smile. “Do you have a vase? We can put them on the kitchen table and both enjoy them.”
“You know who they are from? An admirer?”
“Just a friend.”
She nodded. “Someone said they saw the Da Rossi boy in this street.” She said it casually. From the way my face flushed, she confirmed her suspicion. “Not a good idea. You don’t want to get involved with that family. And I’ve been hearing things about his wife, too. Her father has Mafiosi ties, so one understands. He wouldn’t take kindly to anyone . . .”
She left the rest of the sentence hanging. Anyone who crossed his daughter. I understood.
“Just a friend from my childhood,” I said. “Nothing more.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Don’t worry. I intend to, signora,” I said. I took the flowers through to the kitchen.
CHAPTER 22
Caroline, Venice, October 11, 2001
The next morning Caroline set out for the flat she had inherited. She decided to wait before checking out of the pensione, just in case the place was not immediately habitable. There were sounds of hammering and distant voices but no sign of Luca as she went up the stairs and unlocked the door leading to her great-aunt’s hideaway. In bright sunlight the view was spectacular. She could see right across the lagoon, and she stood at the window for long minutes before she set out to investigate the rest of the rooms. To one side was a small kitchen with pots and pans, including two cups and plates on a draining board. Through a doorway was a bathroom on one side and a bedroom behind it. The bed still had sheets on it, although there were signs that mice had found it a comfy refuge.