The Venice Sketchbook(77)
He looked hurt. “But I want to. Do you think I do not feel horribly responsible? Guilty?”
“Leo, you are no more guilty than I am,” I said. “We are both equally responsible.”
“Right, but you carry the burden and I walk away whistling. That does not seem fair, does it?” He reached across the small table and took my hand. “I am going to set up a small account for you at my bank—the Bank of San Marco. I will arrange for money to be put in every month, to cover your needs.”
“But won’t your family object? They are sure to notice.”
He shook his head. “I have a private account, separate from my family, separate from my wife. I will arrange everything. Don’t worry. If you need to move, you can get your own place.”
“I like it where I am right now,” I said. “Signora Martinelli is not the warmest, but it’s convenient for my studies and it’s nice to have meals prepared for me.” I looked up, into those warm, brown eyes. “Is it wise to be seen with me like this? Think of your family’s reputation.”
He shrugged. “This part of the city is mainly students and laborers, and they don’t care who sits with whom. I can assure you that my wife’s friends don’t even know that Dorsoduro exists. To cross the Accademia Bridge, for them, would be the same as going to Siberia.”
In spite of everything, I laughed with him.
November 11
Saturday is always a free day for me. I explore the city. I find quaint and unusual shops. On fine days I ride the vaporetto out to one of the islands and watch the glass-blowing on Murano or the lacemaking on Torcello. Or even the fishermen bringing in their catch on the less attractive Vignole. I try to capture everything in my sketchbook, and during a long vaporetto ride across the lagoon, I find myself thinking whether I want to go back ever. Couldn’t I find a job here in Venice? My Italian is now really fluent. I could visit my child, watch him or her growing up, be an adoring aunt. It did sound tempting, but then guilt about abandoning my mother crept in. Why had I been raised to be the good daughter, always to do what was right?
Saturday morning dawned blustery with the promise of rain later, but I decided to go out anyway. I didn’t like to stay in my small room, and I didn’t feel welcome in Signora Martinelli’s kitchen or sitting room unless I was invited. So I put on my raincoat, tied a scarf around my head, and off I went. As I came out into the square, there was suddenly a loud banging sound behind me. My first thought was gunfire, that the war had entered Venice. I turned to see a group of children, bearing down on me. They were wearing paper crowns, some wore capes, and they were carrying pots and pans, banging spoons on them as they walked. They called out something I didn’t understand, and then a girl held out her hand.
Luckily, a woman returning with a laden shopping basket approached us. She put the basket down, reached in and handed out sweets. The children immediately broke into a song. I couldn’t catch all the words but they went something like:
“San Martin ze’nda in sofita
Par trovar la so novissa
La so novissa no ghe gera
San Martin co culo par tera.”
The Venetian language was still an enigma to me, but I did hear the words “San Martin.”
“What is this day?” I asked the woman. “A feast day?” (There are so many feast days in Venice that almost every weekend a saint is celebrated at some church or other.)
She looked surprised, as if I was a visitor newly landed from a distant planet. “St Martin’s Day,” she said. “The children go around the town singing and banging. They want treats or money to buy the San Martin biscuits. You have not seen them in all the bakeries?”
I thanked her and fished in my purse for small coins, which made the children break into song again. They went on their way, their high, shrill voices echoing from the stone walls: “San Martin co culo par tera . . .”
I found these celebrations exciting, after the subdued harvest festival that was the highlight of our church year in England, and went to the nearest bakery, where the window was full of beautiful big biscuits in the shape of a man on a horse, decorated with a sugar crown. Of course I bought one, but it looked too good to eat. The children I passed had no such qualms, biting off the horse’s head before they went back to banging on their pots. Then suddenly I found myself looking at a small boy trailing at the back of the group. He had big, sorrowful eyes, and immediately my thoughts went to my child. Would he be unloved, unwanted? Would he be the one who trailed at the back of the group? And I realized I couldn’t ever do that to him.
I turned into the Calle Larga XXII Marzo, the main street heading to St Mark’s Square, and there was Leo, walking towards me.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “I was on my way to tell you that everything is set up with the bank. Do you know where it is? Come, I will show you.”
He turned to walk with me towards St Mark’s, crossing the small canal where I had fallen into the water, all those years ago, and where he had saved me. If he had not arrived in time, would I have drowned? I looked longingly at him. As if sensing my gaze, he turned to me and smiled. I thought, He loves me, so no matter what happens, or what others think, that is important and worth cherishing.
We came out through the colonnade and crossed the square, and then he led me through an arch on the other side. Just behind the square was the marble front to the bank. The symbol of St Mark’s, the winged lion, hung above the door. The windows were decorated with iron latticework.