The Venice Sketchbook(61)
“So you won’t be going to church in the morning if there is a Mass in the evening?” I asked.
She looked horrified, as if I had suggested she might want to walk around with no clothes on. “Not go to Mass? Of course I must go. To receive communion. Since one must fast from midnight onwards, it has to be a morning Mass. I could not survive with no food or drink until the evening.”
To me, a member of the relaxed and easy-going Church of England, this was one of the rules that seemed strange. If an empty stomach was important to receive communion, then an hour would suffice, surely. From midnight on was excessive. But then there was much about the Catholic Church I did not understand—like confessing sins to a priest and having them forgiven. My wandering thoughts were interrupted as my landlady asked, “So you will come to the feast?”
“Probably not to the Mass,” I said. “I might watch the boat races and then the fireworks. And some fellow students might join me for a picnic, but it’s really a day for family, isn’t it?”
“I won’t be home to prepare your meal in the evening.”
“Don’t worry. Some stores will be open, won’t they? I’ll buy some picnic supplies for myself.”
She actually patted my hand. “Don’t bother. I have plenty of food here. There is always far too much. You are welcome to help yourself.”
There is no chance of sleeping late on Sunday mornings in Venice. The first church bells start at six o’clock and are followed almost every half hour by the bells of various other churches. Sometimes there are four or five churches at once, so that the city echoes with the sound. I heard my landlady bustling around in the kitchen, talking, as usual to Bruno the cat. I thought I might as well get up, rather than lie in bed doing nothing. I bathed, dressed in my lightest cotton frock, as the day already felt hot and clammy, then went through to the kitchen. I realized the signora had a big day ahead, so I took the liberty of making the coffee and laying out bread, cheeses and jam. She looked absurdly pleased when she returned home to find breakfast waiting for her.
“I hope you didn’t mind,” I said. “I was sure you’d have a lot to do today.”
“I’m grateful,” she said. “I do have baking to do, and the day will be a hot one.” She considered this, then added, “Fortunately, the widow Grevi has offered to make the sarde in saor . You know I do not like the smell of fish in my house.”
I had seen this item on menus and gathered it was fresh sardines cooked with some kind of sauce, but I had yet to try it. Maybe this evening, if I located the signora and her party, I’d be offered some.
We sat and ate breakfast together, then I volunteered to do the washing up while she got out her recipe books and started work. The kitchen smelled enticingly of garlic and onions, then of baking. I left her to it, sitting in my room and polishing some of my sketches. By midday she tapped on my door.
“I’ll be off then,” she said. She was dressed in a flowery silk dress and what was clearly her best hat, looking more outfitted for a wedding than a picnic. “I just saw Signora Bertolini coming out of her house. So I can leave you to lock the door and take a key with you? And I’ve left you food for your own picnic on the kitchen table.”
I watched her go from the kitchen window, saw her join the gaggle of widows, each carrying a large box or basket of food. They were not going to starve, that was clear. Then I saw that she had laid out slices of ham, salami, tomatoes, cheese and olives on a plate for me, and next to them a slice of some sort of quiche, and some plums. I packed the food and waited until I thought the events would start before I put my own hat on. It was going to be hot sitting in the sun. Not wanting to carry too much, I put the keys and a little money into the pocket of my dress and left my handbag and wallet at home. I presumed occasions like this might be a field day for pickpockets, and they weren’t going to get much from me.
The streets were almost deserted as I came out to the piazza in front of Santo Stefano. I looked up and noticed for the first time that all the balconies were decorated with garlands, paper lanterns, flowers. When I crossed the Accademia Bridge, a steady stream of boats was coming up the Grand Canal, most of them decorated, too, all crammed full of people already eating, drinking and merrymaking. As I stood watching the spectacle below me, I saw that clouds were building over the mainland. This was not unusual for this time of year. The clouds gathered over the Dolomites, but rarely did the storms reach us out on the island.
I made my way across the sestiere of Dorsoduro to the waterfront known as the Zattere. It was strange, but I had never crossed to this side of Dorsoduro, even though it was quite a narrow sliver of land. The Zattere was a promenade that ran beside a wide waterway—too wide, really, to be called a canal. On the other side was the island of Giudecca, usually only accessible by ferry. Only today the canal was spanned by a makeshift bridge. Barges were lined up across the canal, and a wooden walkway had been laid over them. It looked rather precarious to me. The bridge terminated at a lovely white facade of a church, facing the waterfront. From my reading, I knew the style was referred to as Palladian—sort of neoclassical with columns. Behind it the rest of the church was that warm pinkish orange and had a large dome.
I looked around to see if I could spot any of my fellow students. When I had mentioned the boat races and suggested we might have a picnic somewhere and see the fireworks, I was not greeted with overwhelming enthusiasm. Imelda informed me that she had no intention of sitting in the sun and getting sunburned. Gaston said he didn’t go in for religion. Franz said he might come, depending on how much work he had for class, and Henry said it sounded like fun. I said I’d try to be somewhere near the bridge. But the whole area was crammed with people, some waiting to make their way across the bridge and others having already claimed their spots to watch the races and picnic. I couldn’t spot Henry and thought it unlikely I’d find anybody in the chaotic movement of people. Nor did I think I’d have much chance of finding a spot in the shade. It appeared that every inch along both sides of the canal had already been claimed with blankets, chairs, tables, picnic baskets and even some umbrellas.