The Venice Sketchbook(65)

“Now you can have that bath,” he said. “I fear I ought to go back. They’ll wonder what happened to me. They might worry that I, too, have drowned.”

I nodded.

“And I won’t see you for a while. My family goes to the villa in the Veneto for the month of August.” As he spoke, he was busy dressing again. His ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Take care of yourself, won’t you?”

“You too.”

He nodded. He went to say something else, half reached out to me, then turned and hurriedly walked away. I stood for a while, staring at that closed door, then I lowered myself into the hot bath. I no longer needed it. I wasn’t shivering—in fact my whole body was on fire—but the water was soothing. I’d probably get into trouble with my landlady for using so much water, but for once I didn’t care. I tried to think seriously about what had just happened. It was only the heat of the moment, I told myself. We were both shocked and exhausted. But then I wondered, what if he did come to see me again? Would I be able to resist him? Did I want to end up as a man’s mistress? And didn’t the bible tell us that adultery was wrong?

I lay in that bath until the water turned cold, then I got up and dressed in my nightclothes. A large explosion told me the fireworks had started. I opened my window and watched the night sky lighting up over St Mark’s Basin. Oohs and aaahs and cheers greeted each new firework. They were magical, and I stopped worrying about what might happen and let myself enjoy this one moment. I was still standing at the window when I heard the front door open and Signora Martinelli appeared, out of breath after carrying her basket up the stairs.

“We decided to make for home before the crush of people,” she said. She put the basket down on the table. “So much food left,” she said. “We’ll be eating our way through it for weeks.”

She saw my nightclothes. “Oh, so you didn’t go out to see the fireworks? So beautiful.”

“I watched from here,” I said. “You can see the sky from my window.”

“So you can. But you went out earlier, surely? Did you go to Giudecca? To the church? To see the races? And did you hear there was trouble? A high wind broke the bridge apart. Several people drowned. Awful tragedy.”

I nodded.

“So you stayed home,” she went on. “And missed all the fun.”

“Not quite,” I replied.





CHAPTER 25


Juliet, Venice, July 1939

By the next morning, I was back to reality. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t believe what had happened. Shame competed with the wonder and exhilaration that a powerful, handsome man had made love to me. He desired me. And clearly I desired him, from what I remembered of my response last night. I felt myself blushing at the passion I hadn’t known I possessed. But of course it could never happen again. It must never happen again. Last night had been pure folly, brought upon by a near-death experience. From now on, I would be sensible, sane and get on with my life. Leo was away for a month, which was a good thing. It would give me time to decide whether I wanted to risk staying here, given the storm clouds of war looming over the Continent and the proximity of a man I loved desperately and who appeared to love me, too.

The most reasonable thing would be to go home right away, before he came back from the villa. I’d have to give up my art classes, but what was the point of them anyway? It didn’t seem I’d ever be a great artist, and my skills were sufficient to teach bored little girls. And I should be with my mother if there was to be a war. “Just a week or so longer,” I whispered to myself. I realized what it was: I couldn’t go without saying goodbye. I had to see him again.



August seemed to drag on and on. It was horribly hot and muggy. The canal outside my window stank. Afternoons brought occasional thunderstorms from the mainland. Most Venetians followed the example of Leo’s family and went up to the hills. Our classes were on a summer break, so there was no work to keep me occupied, and then Signora Martinelli announced she was going to pay a visit to her sister in Turin. I promised to look after Bruno and keep the place clean.

My fellow students had also abandoned me. Imelda and Gaston had gone home to their families. Henry had set off on a tour of Tuscany. I had no idea what Franz was doing. Presumably he had also gone home to Austria—or was it Germany?—if Henry’s suspicions were correct, to report on what he found here.

So I was alone in a city that was almost deserted. Normally at this time of year there would be tourists, a shopkeeper told me. But who would risk coming if there was to be a war? And the British, who normally came in August—they stayed away because Mussolini had signed his ridiculous non-aggression pact with Hitler.

It was too hot to sit outside sketching for long. I tried to work on paintings. I visited churches and studied architecture. I got a parade of letters from my mother, begging me to come home before it was too late. I was tempted, but I couldn’t leave before Signora Martinelli returned. There was Bruno to consider. Someone had to feed him. Maybe it will all blow over, I told myself. Maybe England will make another pact with Hitler, and the threat of war will melt away.

I started taking the vaporetto and going out to the Lido to swim. The beach was the only place that was crowded, as Venetians who could not afford to head for the hills took refuge in the water. But the Adriatic Sea was as warm as a bath, and one had to walk on the narrow planks because the sand burned the feet. Still it made a pleasant change, and there was a breeze on the crossing of the lagoon. As I was walking back after my swim one day, I passed the contessa’s villa. She had invited me to call on her, I recalled, although she had probably gone away for the month of August like everyone else. However, I took the chance, went up to her front door and knocked.