The Venice Sketchbook(72)

The contessa greeted me warmly. “How I have been missing you,” she said.

I noticed Vittorio, standing with a glass in his hand, watching her from across the room. He had not been missing me! He was jealous, although this was stupid. Then there was another professor and his wife—a professor of art history, we were told, and it was highly recommended that we take his course.

He nodded in agreement. “It is imperative to know the past before one can be free to paint in the present.”

Prosecco was poured and served. I didn’t like the taste of this one as much. It had a harsh metallic overtone. Possibly a cheaper vintage! I found the bad taste lingered in my mouth, and I was glad when we sat down to eat tomato salad. Then came a risotto alle seppie. The dish was an alarming shiny black colour, and we were informed it was made with the ink of the cuttlefish. It was a very traditional local dish. I took a tentative mouthful. It wasn’t bad—salty and fresh-tasting—but suddenly I realized, to my horror, that I was about to vomit. I jumped up from the table, my napkin pressed to my mouth as I rushed for a toilet, where I deposited everything I had eaten so far.

The professor’s wife was standing outside the door, looking concerned.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “There must be something in that dish that doesn’t agree with me. I’ve never eaten it before.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. Maybe it was just the sight of such unfamiliar cuisine. It does look a little off-putting the first time.”

“Perhaps I should just go home,” I said. “Please make my apologies.”

I made a hurried exit. Out in the fresh air, I felt better, but still a little queasy. Back with my landlady I drank some chamomile tea and ate crackers before going to bed. In the morning I felt right as rain. Obviously cuttlefish and I were not going to be the best of friends, I decided. I ate breakfast and went off to my morning classes.

By lunchtime I was feeling almost sick with hunger. My classmates were going to their favourite pasta place on Fondamenta Priuli, a tiny eatery beside a narrow canal, where the prices were good and the portions generous. But I couldn’t seem to stomach the thought of pasta. Instead I opted for the sandwich shop that served the tramezzini and chose my favourites, including tuna with olives. I had taken only a couple of bites when I realized I was going to throw up again. I rushed outside and was sick in the gutter.

What was the matter with me? I wondered. Not a stomach flu, or I wouldn’t have felt well this morning and been able to eat breakfast. Was it some kind of food poisoning? Bad water? I had let down my guard a little and now cleaned my teeth with ordinary tap water. Yes, that must be it, I reasoned.

I stopped off at one of the small markets and bought a bottle of mineral water and some Melba toast. That seemed to calm my stomach again, and I went to afternoon classes, but that evening I felt sick after eating salad and a hard-boiled egg. I went back to my room. Something was wrong with me. Should I see a doctor or simply go back to England while I could? I pictured my mother taking care of me, tucking me in bed with a cup of Bovril and some dry toast—our usual remedy for anything stomach related. It did seem appealing.

However, the next morning again I felt fine. I finished my morning classes and wondered about where to go for lunch. I couldn’t risk another embarrassment. So I went to the sandwich place and bought two tramezzini, one with cheese and one with ham. Then I went to sit on a bench beside the Grand Canal, near the vaporetto stop. I had only eaten a couple of mouthfuls when I felt queasy again. I stopped eating immediately and sipped water, willing my stomach to quieten down. It was pleasant to sit in the sun, watching people go past. Venice was always so lively, always something interesting to watch. I decided to get out my sketchbook. If I wasn’t going to eat, at least I could be productive and work on my figure drawing.

I was engrossed in sketching the man at the newspaper kiosk when I heard a big shout of joy and saw two women greeting each other. They were rushing together, arms outstretched, delight on their faces.

“Bambino!” the older woman exclaimed. “Finalmente. Grazie a Dio!” And she put her hands on the extended belly of the young woman.

They went into animated conversation that I couldn’t catch, but Italians always talk with their hands, and I could see how thrilled and surprised they were with this event. I watched with the sort of second-hand pleasure one gets from seeing other people happy, until a strange thought crept unbidden into my head.

Bambino. Weren’t unexplained nausea and sickness amongst the first signs of . . . no, surely not. Why had it never occurred to me that a pregnancy could result from my encounter with Leo? Not just one time, surely? Not the first time? The only time? But then I remembered that I had not had my monthly visitor since—since July? I had never been the most regular, and this had not alarmed me, until now. But from what I had heard, pregnancy sickness was in the morning, wasn’t it? Not at odd times of the day.

This reassured me, but I couldn’t resist going over the bridge to the bookstore on the Street of Assassins and searching through manuals on pregnancy and birth. And there it was in black and white: Sometimes the sickness can present itself in the evenings. Old wives will tell us this is more usual if the woman is expecting a male child.

I came out of the bookshop and stood on the empty street. How well I could recall meeting Leo there. “Assassins have their own street?” I had asked.