The Venice Sketchbook(6)

“Not bad,” he said, nodding. “I think you have a gift for art. The way you capture the people in the square. There is humour in it.”

I suspected this was because I hadn’t got the perspective quite right, but he went on, “Have you been to the Biennale yet? If you are a student of art, it is essential.”

“What is it?”

He frowned. “You have not heard of our Biennale? It is a huge art exhibition in the gardens. Many countries have pavilions. Countries from all over the world exhibit the best in modern art. You would love it.”

“I will tell my aunt.”

“I would be happy to escort you.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “How is it you have so much free time?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I have just finished my course at the university in Padua. In the autumn I must start to learn the family business, but at this moment my time is my own. So will you let me show you the Biennale?”

“I’ll certainly ask Aunt Hortensia whether we can go,” I said. “But I’m afraid she may not accept your kind offer to show us around. She feels her duty to protect me very strongly.”

This made him smile. “I am hardly likely to have evil in my heart when in the presence of a formidable aunt.”

I had to smile, too. “She really is formidable.”

The steps leading to the pensione garden came up beside us. I touched his sleeve. “Look, could you stop a little further down the canal? I’d rather that nobody saw me getting out of your boat looking like this.”

“Very well.” He cut back the throttle and inched us forward to a set of steps a few yards away. “When will I see you again? Or do you not want to see me again?”

“Oh yes,” I said, sounding, I’m sure, a little too eager. “But we only have two more days in Venice before we go on to Florence. I will ask Aunt H. about the Biennale. Perhaps she will say yes. Or perhaps she will still be feeling ill tomorrow, and I’ll have time to myself.”

“Good,” he said. “Let us hope the sickness lingers for one more day. I have so much to show you of my city.” He grabbed the post beside the steps and held it firmly. He assisted me out, then handed me my bag.

I looked down at the box of kittens. “You promise me you won’t drown them as soon as I’m gone? Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“What?” he asked. “You wish me to die?”

“No, it’s a saying. We say, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die’ when we promise something.”

“Very well, I promise, but I do not hope to die. I plan to live long and have a good life.”

I stood on the canal walkway, looking down at him. Would I ever see him again? I wondered.

“I shall be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ready to escort you and your aunt to the Biennale.”

I gave him a big smile. “All right.”

“Ciao, Julietta.”

“Ciao, Leo.”

He revved the motor and the boat sped away.





CHAPTER 3


Juliet, Venice, May 1928

Fortunately, I encountered the proprietress as I came into the front hall. She threw up her hands in horror when she saw me. “Cara signorina. What have happened?”

“I fell into a canal,” I confessed.

“Dio mio! Subito. Taking off clothes and washing you.” She bundled me into a bathroom, ran a bath and helped me out of the wet clothes, all the time making little cluck-clucking noises. She managed to make me understand that she would take care of washing my dress and undergarments. She whisked them away, then brought me a large towel and a robe. I lay back, enjoying the warm water, smiling as I thought of Leo. All my life I had dreamed of falling in love. All those years at a girls’ school, with not a single boy in sight. Even the gardeners were going on eighty. And now it had really happened to me. A wonderful boy wanted to see me again. I sighed in pure happiness.

Aunt Hortensia was sitting up reading as I tried to creep into the room. She looked at me in astonishment. “You had a bath? I didn’t hear the water running.”

“The proprietress ran one for me downstairs,” I said. “I’m afraid I had a little accident and fell into a canal.”

“Juliet! I let you out of my sight alone once, and you nearly drown. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t nearly drown,” I said. I took a deep breath, forming the sentence in my head before I said it. “I was trying to sketch an interesting rooftop. I’m afraid I leaned out just a little too far and lost my balance. Anyway, a very kind man came to my rescue and brought me home in his boat.”

“You accepted a lift from a strange man?”

“I needed to be helped out of the water. There were no steps. And anyway, it was better than having to walk back looking like a fright and dripping water.”

She sighed. “Well, I suppose no harm was done, except I presume your nice new sketchbook was lost in the water?”

“I managed to throw it up on the bank as I fell,” I said, thinking quickly. “So as you say, no harm done. And the young man was educated at an English boarding school.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Ampleforth.”

She sniffed. “A Catholic school.”