The Venice Sketchbook(76)
At least I had to be content with that.
CHAPTER 29
Juliet, Venice, November 1, 1939
September has turned into October, into November. The fine summer weather I had come to associate with Venice had broken at the end of September. Clouds now gathered frequently over the Dolomites, bringing fierce squalls of rain. I helped Signora Martinelli haul up coal for the boiler. My room, with its radiator, is still cold and damp. Even the pigeons, sitting on the ledge across from my window, puff out their feathers and shiver. The swallows have long gone to warmer climes. So have the tourists. The city feels empty.
However, for me things have been improving. The bouts of sickness and dizziness gradually stopped, and I felt well again. In fact it was hard to believe I was pregnant. But I had been to see Leo’s doctor, who had assured me that this was so.
“You are still relatively young and healthy,” he said. “I foresee no complications. Make sure you eat well and get enough rest and fresh air. Plenty of good food to fatten you up.” He eyed me critically. “You are too thin. Lots of good pasta, eh?”
And so I have gone about my usual daily routine: classes, walks, occasional evening invitations. The professor’s wife has not invited me again, perhaps worried that her cooking might produce another bad result for me.
I had stayed away from the contessa, not wanting to have to reveal the truth to her and yet not wanting to lie to her either. I refused her September invitation and then again in October. Maybe I had not wanted to risk meeting Leo’s father at one of her soirees, although he didn’t strike me as a great lover of the arts. And then I was crossing St Mark’s Square the other day, having made another attempt to sketch those impossible domes and statues of the basilica, when I bumped into her.
“My dear child, I was sure you had gone home when you didn’t come to my soirée,” she said, grabbing both my hands and then giving me a kiss on each cheek. “I am so delighted you decided to stay. You must come and have a cup of tea. I was headed to Florian’s. Come with me.”
I had always wanted to go to Florian’s café on the square but never dared to alone as it seemed so impossibly grand with its exquisitely painted walls and ceilings, its gilt and mirrors, plush seats, marble tables. It was like a miniature palace. Aunt H. had told me it was the oldest café in the world. The contessa seemed to have no hesitation about entering such a formidable establishment. She slipped her arm through mine, and I was whisked through the impressive front entrance. The countess was welcomed with much bowing and shown to the best table in the Chinese room. Tea was ordered, and a selection of pastries. I wisely refused the one with lashings of cream and settled for an apple tartlet instead.
After she had taken a drink of tea, the contessa started talking again. “I was devastated when you didn’t come to see me. I thought, Have I done something to offend her? Does she not like my company? ”
“Oh no,” I said hastily. “I assure you I love visiting your beautiful home. It’s just the last two occasions were impossible for me. On one evening I was sick, and on the other I had a big assignment for my painting class.”
She waved a hand. “In the future, you tell your professor that I require your presence. He will not dare to defy me.” And she chuckled. “But you will have to come to my November soirée, of course. You will never guess who has agreed to be present—none other than the great Paul Klee! What a coup for me, huh? You know his work, of course. He was much harassed by the Nazis in Germany and has wisely retreated to his native Switzerland. But what a towering figure in the art world. Say you will come.”
I could hardly refuse. I mumbled something about lots of work for school, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “If you wish to become an artist of note, you must mix with the best,” she said. And so I agreed to attend. At least I was no longer at risk of being taken sick in public. As we ate, I considered how strange it was that she would be hosting soirées with famous painters while the rest of Europe was already at war.
After we had taken our leave, again with kisses on both cheeks and my absolute promise that I would be there at the soirée, I walked home across the square. Clouds had gathered while we took our tea, and a hard, cold rain stung my face. I slipped into the shelter of the colonnade. The whole experience with the contessa had been surreal, and the rain was a reminder that real life was hard and it stung.
Leo had taken to coming to the small trattoria where I ate my lunch. On the doctor’s advice, I had moved from vegetable soup to pasta at lunchtime. Filling and cheap.
“You are looking well,” Leo commented the last time we met. “Blooming, in fact.”
I gave him a half-amused look. He became serious.
“Julietta, I want to do more. Tell me what I can do.”
I could hardly say, “Get rid of Bianca and marry me,” could I? We were sitting together at a table in a dark corner where we couldn’t be overheard, and most of our conversation was in English, but all the same I glanced around.
“When the time comes, you will help me find the right home for our child,” I said.
He nodded. “But you will need help. At least I want to give you financial support so that you don’t have to worry.”
“You don’t need to,” I said, suddenly angry.