The Venice Sketchbook(79)
“Where is it?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I was completely stupid. “The church of the Salute, of course. You know it. The big church with the white dome at the tip of Dorsoduro. They build a special bridge for the day. A bridge of boats across the Canal Grande. And everyone carries a candle. It is a feast day to thank the Madonna for sparing the city from the plague.”
The words “bridge of boats” had made my decision for me. I was not going to risk crossing that way again, even though this would be a narrower crossing than the expanse to Giudecca last summer. But I knew where bridges of boats could lead.
“Thank you, but I will not come to Mass with you,” I said. “I will observe from the Accademia Bridge.”
She sighed. “Am I never going to make a good Catholic of you? My confessor says I do not try hard enough to save your soul.”
“I’m sure you set a fine example, signora,” I said. “It’s just that I have my own religion.”
“Church of England, you call it?” She gave me a withering stare. “A renegade religion that defied the true pope.”
“At least we are both Christians,” I said.
She gave a derogatory sniff. “And about supper tonight—I have been invited to dine at the home of my friend, the widow Francetti across the street. I can leave you—”
“No need,” I replied before she could finish. “I will find something to eat. I’m sure if it’s a feast day, there will be stalls selling food.”
“Plenty of those,” she replied, again looking disapproving. “There are people who think of it as a carnival, not a holy day.”
Since it seemed few of my fellow students were planning to attend class, I didn’t want to find myself as the only one. I thought I might take a boat out to one of the islands, but the weather did not cooperate. It rained relentlessly all morning, making my landlady peer out of the window, sigh, then cross herself. “Such rain on the Feast of the Madonna. Never have I seen it like this. It is a bad sign, is it not?”
“Maybe it will pass before nightfall,” I said.
“Let us just pray there is no aqua alta while we are at Mass,” she said. “People will be in their best clothes. They will not want to wade home through high water.”
“Wade?” I asked, not quite understanding the word in Italian.
She nodded. “Sometimes the water comes this high.” She indicated the middle of her thigh. “Usually just over the feet, but one never knows. We must pray hard that God will keep the high water at bay for this special feast day.”
Did God listen to prayers about floods? I wondered. Every year there were news reports of villages swept away, some of them presumably containing good Christians. I couldn’t believe that God actively controlled weather, or then there would be perpetual sunshine over Vatican City and perpetual rain over Communist Russia. I had to smile at this thought.
At dusk my landlady appeared in her best hat and coat, carrying an umbrella “just in case God does not see fit to stop the rain.”
“I’ll walk with you and carry your umbrella,” I said. “You’ll want to carry your candle.”
“If the candle can stay alight in such weather,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “It could be that we don’t light candles until we enter the church. But I am glad for the company, at least to the bridge.”
So we walked together, joining a noisy throng. Some had candles in jars and lanterns, and these threw flickers of light on to the sombre walls of the streets. We passed the churches of San Maurizio and Santa Maria del Giglio and came on to the Calle Larga leading to St Mark’s Square. Then we crossed a small waterway and turned towards the Grand Canal. Now there were hawkers selling balloons and toys, as well as various sweetmeats and even gelato, although I couldn’t imagine who would want an ice cream on such a cold, bleak night. The narrow calle opened up, and there before us was the bridge of boats, and on the other side the Church of Our Lady of Health. Lights were strung across the piazza and in the trees. They danced crazily in the stiff wind from the lagoon. And the crowd was squeezed into a thin procession across the bridge, the candlelight bobbing up and down as they crossed.
My landlady saw some women she knew. I nodded to her and watched them join the line to cross. From inside the church I already heard singing—the voices echoing as from a great space. It was all rather moving, and I was tempted to join them after all, but the thought of being crammed in or of standing for an hour was not appealing. I stood in the shadows and was just about to go when I saw a servant carrying a lantern on a pole. And behind him a well-dressed party. As they passed under a street lamp, I recognized them. First came Count Da Rossi, looking like some Renaissance patriarch in a great cape, and behind him Leo, with Bianca holding a delicate red umbrella over her head with one hand while the other gripped Leo’s arm.
Suddenly the scene had lost its magic. I turned, melted into the darkness and went home. I didn’t even feel like finding an open trattoria. I made myself a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. What am I doing here? I asked myself. This is madness. Better to face my mother’s displeasure, the village gossip, my aunt’s scorn than find myself trapped in a place where I had no family, nobody.
December 3, 1939
Winter has definitely arrived, but I’m still here despite it. We’ve had wind and blustery rain ever since the festival. At night I boil a kettle to fill the stone hot water bottle I have bought and cuddle up against it, hoping to get warm in bed. The first signs of Christmas are appearing: nuts and tangerines are now for sale in the Rialto market; there are hot-chestnut sellers on the street corners. I am so tempted by the smell every time I pass, and I always buy a little bag and put it in my pocket to keep my hand warm.