The Venice Sketchbook(7)

“Well, yes. Being Venetian, it is fairly likely that he’s a Catholic. But he’s from a good family. They own a palazzo. And he’s told me all about the Biennale. Have you heard of it? The big art festival with pavilions from all over the world?”

“Modern art.” She gave me a withering glance. “Miró and Picasso and all that rubbish. I hope they are not going to teach you any of that stuff at art school. Absolutely anyone could throw paint at a canvas the way they do and call it art. Even a tame chimpanzee could paint better pictures.”

“But can we go and look anyway? My rescuer has offered to show us around.”

“Certainly not. It is not the kind of art I wish you to see, and it would be most improper to be escorted by a strange man. Your father would think me derelict in my duty.”

“He’s from a very good family,” I said again. “He showed me his house—or rather palazzo. It’s beautiful. Right on the canal across from the Gritti Palace, and made of coloured marble.”

She sighed. “I’m afraid the young man has been spinning you a tale, my dear. I think you are describing the Palazzo Rossi.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He said his name was something Rossi.”

“Humph.” She gave a patronizing chuckle. “I hardly think so.” She patted my arm. “My dear, you are young and inexperienced. This boy was probably running an errand in his employer’s boat and enjoyed impressing a young foreign girl. But no matter. It would not be seemly for you to meet him again.”

“He said he would come for me at ten tomorrow morning. May I not even meet him to tell him I can’t join him? It would be rude to keep him waiting for nothing.”

“If he actually shows up.” She was sneering. “I think you’ll find that his employer’s boat is not available for him, and it will be you who is waiting for nothing.”

“Can I at least try?”

“Better not,” she said. “Anyway, I had planned to take us to Murano tomorrow, if I feel up to it.”

I could see I was not going to win this case. But I couldn’t bear the thought of Leo waiting for me and thinking I was the rude one for not showing up. Then I came to a decision: I tore a page from my sketchbook and wrote on it, Leo, I’m so sorry. My aunt is being beastly and won’t let me see you again. Thank you for saving my life. I’ll never forget you. Your Juliet

Then I rose early the next morning, crept out and pinned the note (inside an envelope I had snitched from the hotel stationery) on the wooden pole used to tie up gondolas in front of the pensione. Aunt Hortensia seemed restored to her former health. We breakfasted and then found a boat to take us to the island of Murano. All the way across I wondered if Leo had come, and read my note, and felt a pang of regret. The glass-blowing on the island was interesting, if rather hot, and Aunt H. and I were both red-faced when we emerged from the interior of the factory with its furnace glowing.

“That is enough for one day, I think,” Aunt H. said, bustling me towards the waiting motor vessel. I would like to have browsed in the shop and maybe bought myself a necklace of those exquisite glass beads, but Aunt H. declared the price to be exorbitant and told me I’d do better at the stalls beside the Rialto Bridge where one could bargain.

On the return journey we stopped at another island called San Michele.

“Ecco San Michele!” Aunt Hortensia proclaimed as we approached.

“Are we going to get off there, too?” I asked.

“Goodness no. It is the cemetery.”

And as we drew close, I could see that the whole island was composed of white marble tombs, some like little houses, some topped with angels. I thought it might be a good place to be buried.

“Now you can see why I always choose this pensione,” my aunt said when we finally returned from our jaunt and a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade was brought to us. “So civilized to sit in the shade and recover.”

She then went for a little rest. I slipped away to the place where I had left my note and was relieved to find it gone. At least he knew I had not stood him up. But then it struck me with full force that I would never see him again. Never see the way his eyes sparkled and his face lit up when he laughed. It was almost too much to bear.

After Aunt H. had recovered sufficiently, we crossed the Accademia Bridge, all fifty-two steps up one side and fifty down the other, and visited the accademia.

“It is a teaching academy like the one you will be attending in September. It also houses one of the finest collections of paintings,” my aunt said. I looked around, hoping to get a glimpse of some students, but my aunt marched straight to the museum entrance. As in the Doge’s Palace, I was overwhelmed with the size and opulence of the paintings. So many virgins, suffering saints and popes being crowned. I was secretly sure I would have loved the modern art at the Biennale better! I had to admire Aunt H.’s fortitude. She marched on, admiring and commenting on each painting.

Then we made our way to the Rialto Bridge and the market beside it. Aunt H. allowed me to do a little drawing, while she sat sipping a coffee at a café beside the Grand Canal. I loved sketching the market with its stalls of fruit and vegetables, women in long peasant skirts and dashing men with black moustaches. I wasn’t so entranced with the fish market. The smell was too overwhelming to want to linger. I returned to Aunt H. and was offered a gelato. Delicious Italian ice cream in flavours I had never even heard of: pistachio and stracciatella. It came with a delicate wafer.