The Venice Sketchbook(67)
“You will keep painting and make me proud, Josef.” She took a long drink of the lemonade.
I started to eat the items on my plate, being extra careful with the sugar-dusted biscuits.
“I’ve been thinking.” The contessa broke the silence. “If you are bored with nothing to do at the moment, you can help me. I have some cataloguing to be done, and some preliminary work for the Biennale. Usually Vittorio does these things for me, but he is away in America, selling inferior paintings to people who have more money than taste.”
I had to smile. “Does Vittorio work for you?” I asked. “They said he owns a gallery.”
“He does, but I am his best client, and he knows, as they say in your English, on which side his bread is buttered. He flatters an old lady, and he likes the things I offer him. And he is articulate and amusing, and he makes me feel young and alive, so the relationship is symbiotic.”
This made me wonder again if the relationship had a sexual component to it.
September 1, 1939
These were a couple of pleasant weeks, helping the contessa, sitting in one of her cool and shady rooms, taking tea under the enormous palm tree in her back garden. We examined submissions from artists around the world. I helped to catalogue and file her collection of rare drawings and prints. This included names that made my eyes open wide in astonishment.
“This drawing is an early Picasso!”
“Yes, darling. I know.” She gave a wicked little smile. “His mistress was so jealous that he had to ask me to leave in a hurry, and he thrust the drawing into my hands.”
She was certainly a woman of surprises. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed my visits out to the Lido—the witty conversation, her knowledge of art, the elegance, the refined living, all of which were so removed from my own dreary life in England. Our daily sessions continued until Vittorio returned and was clearly displeased to find me there.
“Why do you let this woman do the things I like to do for you?” he demanded, pacing around the room.
“You weren’t here, my darling,” the contessa replied, patting his hand. “And besides, I have enjoyed Juliet’s company. Sometimes one just needs another woman around.”
“But she is an amateur. What does she know about rare prints? She has probably put her fingers all over them.”
“Don’t sulk, darling,” the contessa replied, a look of amusement on her face. “If you frown, you’ll get wrinkles, and you know how much you value your beautiful face.”
“Now you mock me.”
“Not at all. Besides, Juliet’s classes start again next week, so you can have me all to yourself once more. And if you are clever, you can find me another German Jewish artist of the calibre of Goldblum.”
He seemed to be appeased. I was sorry my time with the contessa was coming to an end. She was such a cultured and amusing person, and frankly I learned more about art from her than I would have done in a year’s art history course. The beginning of September approached, along with the renewal of my classes and the return of my friends and my landlady. She came home on September 1, red-faced and out of breath after climbing the stairs.
“Welcome home,” I began. “You will find Bruno alive, well and as naughty as ever.”
But she held up a hand to cut me off. “You have not heard the news! They were talking about it on the train station. The place was in an uproar. Germany has invaded Poland. It seems the world will be at war again.”
CHAPTER 26
Caroline, Venice, October 11, 2001
Back in her aunt’s former apartment, Caroline got to work. She stripped the bed and threw out the bedding. She was relieved to find that the mattress seemed to be intact, with no mice nests lurking inside. With much effort, she turned it, then opened the windows to let in blustery air as she swept, mopped and dusted. She was happy to see no recent signs of infestations, just some long-dead flies on the windowsills. It was hard work, but by the end of the afternoon, she felt an absurd sense of achievement. She wrote a list for the next day: Buy bed linens. Buy a new electric heater. The ancient electric fire looked as if it belonged in a museum and could set the building on fire in seconds. She was delighted to find the electricity was on in the building. And that the strange contraption over the bath actually produced hot water.
The list included food, tea, wine. Just the basics, she thought. It would be easy to take a main meal at one of the nearby trattorias. She couldn’t wait to spend her first night here, but it would have to wait until she had new bedclothes and food. So she went back to the pensione and returned to the little trattoria for her evening meal. After dinner she used the computer that was set up for the guests in one of the salons and sent an email to Josh.
It seems that Aunt Lettie left me some property here, she wrote. I am going to enjoy making it habitable again and look forward to bringing Teddy here next Easter. There is a lovely sandy beach, and he’ll be fascinated by the gondolas. She did not ask about Desiree.
As she finished, the proprietress invited her to a glass of limoncello, clearly curious to find out what Caroline had discovered.
She expressed amazed delight at everything Caroline told her. “An apartment on the Zattere! Dio mio, that is worth having these days. So many foreigners are buying here. Lots of Germans. We’re not too happy about that. The older generation still remembers the way they treated us during the war.”