The Venice Sketchbook(70)

“Venetian is a separate language?”

“Oh yes. Quite different. The older generation here still speak it.”

“There are so many fascinating things about this place. I rather wish I could stay longer.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Job? Income? Grandmother? Son?”

“You like your job?”

Again she hesitated. Why did this man that she hardly knew seem to have the ability to see into her soul, to read her mind? And why did he seem to care so much?

She shrugged. “It pays to feed us, but it doesn’t make use of my talent or education.”

“Which was what?”

“Fashion design. I went to art school.”

“Ah. So art runs in your family. What would you like to do? Be another Armani?”

She hesitated, unsure of herself. “I’m not certain anymore. I used to think I could design a brilliant collection, but I was never like Josh. He always wanted to push the envelope and design outrageous things. Me, I went more for beauty and good lines.”

“Yes, I can see that. Well, you can sell me the apartment and use the money to start your own fashion house.”

She smiled. “It does sound tempting.”

“Think about it.” He gave her a smile. “See you soon.”

After Luca had gone, she found that she was still staring at the door. Was he just being charming until his lawyers found a way to turf her out? Or would he try to buy the place from her at a steal? She just wished she knew whether she could trust him.





CHAPTER 27


Juliet, Venice, Sunday, September 3, 1939

On that Sunday morning, the bells mocked us with their serenity. “We are well and safe here,” they were saying. “You can come to Mass as usual. All is well.” Pigeons flapped unconcernedly; seagulls wheeled in a clear blue sky. The signora went off to church.

“We must all pray really hard that another catastrophe may be averted,” she said. “We cannot suffer through another war like the last one.” She gave me a look of pity. “You are too young. You do not remember, do you?”

“I was only four when it began, but I remember my mother weeping when my father was sent off to fight,” I said. “And he returned home badly wounded, never the same. And I saw the names on the war memorial in our village. So many sons who did not return. You’re right. We must pray that it doesn’t happen again.”

And so, for once, I went across the bridge to St George’s Anglican church and sat, taking in the simplicity of white walls and dark polished wood, the tranquillity of the light, falling through stained glass on to the tiled floor, and tried to pray. But my head was full of such conflicting thoughts and worries that prayer wouldn’t come. I had never found any closeness to God since my father died. It felt as if He had deserted us. So I sat like a statue, listened to a sermon full of hope and trust, mouthed the words of familiar hymns—“O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come” and “Fight the Good Fight”—but came out still feeling hollow and with no real sense of what I should be doing.

The church had been full. I had no idea there were so many expatriates in Venice. I suppose some of them must have been tourists, but many knew each other and were obviously residents. I saw Mr Sinclair, the consul I had met at the contessa’s soirée. He greeted me with a nod as we exited the church after the service.

“You are still here, I see, Miss Browning. I take it you will be going home now?”

“I’m still making up my mind,” I said. “I have been reassured that Venice will not be involved in any war. Nobody would dare to bomb Venice. And they say that Italy is not ready to go to war with anyone for some time. Mussolini wants to build up his army first.”

“That’s true enough,” Mr Sinclair said. “But he has signed the non-aggression pact with Hitler. We may find ourselves dragged into a war, whether we like it or not. It will be a question of choosing sides, and Italy has sided with Germany.”

“You are sure there will be war?” one of the women asked. “Will Mr Chamberlain not manage to broker peace again? Let Germany have Poland? After all, it is part of their ancestral homeland, isn’t it?”

“If we don’t stop Hitler from grabbing what he wants, he’ll swallow the whole of Europe,” Mr Sinclair said. “I’m rather afraid that war is inevitable. We have drawn a line in the sand. Hitler has crossed that line. And I don’t know how long Italy can stay out of it.”

We were a sombre group that went our separate ways. At two o’clock that afternoon, we heard on the radio that England and France had declared war on Germany.

Now it became obvious to me that I should go home, however much I longed to stay. I could not let my mother face a war alone, even if Aunt Hortensia was with her. And I couldn’t risk being trapped in an alien country if the war came in our direction. I wondered if Leo had returned from the countryside. I really didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.

I went to my classes the next day and felt the tension in the air. The Italian boys were whispering about what they would do if they were called up into the army. None of them wanted to fight.

“My brother was killed in Abyssinia,” one of them was saying. “Such a waste of life. Why would Italy want Abyssinia anyway? What use is it to anyone? Only to stoke Mussolini’s vanity now that he has an empire.”