The Venice Sketchbook(62)

Cheers further along the waterfront announced that the races had started. I joined the line to follow the stream across the bridge. It was a strange sensation walking on a pathway that rose and fell with the water—and no handrail either. I wondered how many people might fall in before the day was over, seeing the amount of wine that was being consumed. On reaching the island, I worked my way out towards the tip, where I might have a good view of the races. They seemed to be starting out in the lagoon in front of St Mark’s. The whole basin was full of watercraft, with a clear path down the middle for the races.

I squeezed into a corner of shade on some steps in front of a building and found I was sharing the excitement as the crowd around me started shouting and cheering. First came the two-man gondolas, moving remarkably fast. The gondolas had been painted for the occasion in bright colours, breaking the tradition of their usual black. I noticed some spectators wore neckerchiefs in the colour of the team they were supporting. They were particularly vocal. Since I was supporting no one in particular, I just watched, although it was exciting as teams drew level, then overtook and pipped another boat on the finish line. Another heat followed, then another. And a ceremony on one of the docks on the far bank for the victors, with much jubilation if the gondolier the crowd was supporting won. Then came the junior rowing races and finally the two-man boats. They were all quite far from me, but I thought I recognized Leo, even though most of the boats were manned by dark-haired, well-muscled oarsmen. Still, I waved and cheered as I had promised. His boat came third, and he and fellow oarsman were helped on to the dais, where they were surrounded and congratulated by family and friends, with much hugging and slapping on the back. Then it was confirmed to me that it had been Leo. I saw Bianca push her way through the crowd, looking stunning in a simple white linen dress. Even from here, I recognized her instantly. She came up to Leo and gave him a very public kiss. He put an arm around her, and they were swallowed into the crowd.

The races being over, the crowd settled down to the serious business of eating. I walked up and down a bit, wondering if I should try to find my landlady and join her party. Then I decided it was unlikely I’d find them, and besides, I did not want to intrude. And frankly I had no appetite after what I had just seen. I felt alone and out of place. Everybody here was surrounded by family and friends, all laughing, teasing, eating and drinking. I realized if I’d been back in England, it wouldn’t have been much different—just my mother and me. No big family, no large circle of friends. No laughter. I sat on a step, opened my packet of food, stared at it, then decided to put it away again. I’d just go back to my room until the fireworks started. No sense at all in being here.

“Signorina! Here! Over here!” I looked up to see a large middle-aged man waving. He was seated at a table with his family. It took me a minute to realize he was waving at me. He said something.

A young man got up and came over. “My father says you should not eat alone on such a day. Please join us, there is plenty for all.”

I tried to refuse. No, I couldn’t intrude on their family celebration. But the man insisted, taking my arm. Reluctantly I was led over. The father introduced them all in rapid succession. His wife, his daughter, her husband, her two children, his two sons, his mother. When they heard I was English, they were all fascinated and peppered me with questions. Did we have such feasts in England? How many brothers and sisters did I have? And why wasn’t I married yet? I answered them all and heard their amazement that such a beautiful young woman did not have a husband.

“We must do something about this,” the wife said. “Who do we know with unmarried sons?”

There were suggestions, laughter, and I began to relax amongst them. Food was offered, including the sardines in their sauce, polenta, pasta. Everything tasted wonderful. I found myself thinking how pale and dull our lives in England were compared to this. And then the thought crept in, unbidden. Did I want to go home at the end of the year? What if I just stayed and found a job and spent my life amongst these happy, loud, affectionate people?

Wine was offered and poured. Toasts were drunk, one of them to me. And then the church bells rang.

“We must go to Mass now if we want to get a seat,” the wife said. “You come with us?”

I could hardly refuse. The wife and daughter linked arms with mine. I believe they were Giovanna and Sofia, but I wasn’t quite sure which was which. We left the food and the table with the absolute conviction that nobody would touch it, and off we went into the church. It was filling up fast. We were squeezed into a pew. I felt horribly uncomfortable at flesh pressing against mine, the smells of sweat and everyone’s just-consumed picnic around me, mingled with the scent of incense. More and more people streamed in. The aisles were packed. People stood around the walls. Then a bell rang, and a great procession of priests, acolytes, choir entered. I didn’t understand much of what was going on. I stood when they stood, knelt when they knelt. When hymns were sung, the whole place echoed with sound. I could tell it was a moving experience for those around me, but the heat was intense. Many of the women had fans, including my adopted family, so I benefitted from a small wafting of air, but as the service progressed I started to feel really clammy, as if I might pass out. I was so relieved when they stood for the final blessing, followed by a closing song and a great fight for the doorway.

As we came out, it was getting dark. Usually there was a glowing twilight at this time, but the clouds from the mainland had now built over the city and a wind had sprung up.