The Venice Sketchbook(80)

My landlady said that Christmas officially starts with the Feast of the Immaculate Conception on December 8, which is a holiday here. I was rather confused about this: How could Mary conceive on the eighth and give birth three weeks later? But it turns out it is Mary’s birth they are celebrating, not Jesus’s. This religion is so complicated. And of course there is a saint for everything. My landlady prays to a different saint for her aching back and another for the success of her baking. She sees them as Jesus’s little helpers.

“Why should we bother the Lord with such small trifles?” she said. “That is what the saints are for.”

So I wonder which saint is in charge of childbirth. I might need the help of him or her. This is a reality that is only beginning to dawn on me: women die in childbirth. It is incredibly painful. And where will I have the baby? Will someone be with me? I glance across at my landlady over dinner. What will she think when she finds out? I’ve realized that one of the hardest things is not having someone to talk to. No relative, no friend of my own. Not that I could ever have confided in my mother, but perhaps my sister, Winnie, if she hadn’t gone to India. And here, Imelda or the contessa came to mind, but I just can’t see myself opening up to them, burdening them with my worries. I suppose it comes from years of loneliness.

December 8: The Feast of the Immaculate Conception

I have discovered what my landlady thinks. Today was a holiday because of the feast day. I met up with Henry, who is becoming a real friend, and we walked around town watching people putting up Christmas decorations. There was a Christmas market being set up in the big Campo San Polo, selling tree ornaments of Murano glass, hand-carved wooden toys from Switzerland and Austria and lots of good sweets. I found myself feeling very homesick. Not that Christmas was an exciting festival at my house. We had a small tree, decorated with paper chains and glass balls. We went to midnight service at our church. We had a roast chicken for Christmas dinner, because a turkey was too big for the two of us. My mother made the Christmas pudding with silver threepenny pieces inside. We pulled crackers, put on paper hats and listened to the king’s speech on the radio. So little really, but now it meant everything to me.

I could still go home. The words crept into the back of my brain.

“It’s just beginning to sink in that I’ll be away for Christmas.” Henry had an uncanny way of echoing my thoughts.

“I know,” I agreed.

“I think you should go home, don’t you?” he said. “I’m even thinking I should go home, while there are still ships crossing the Atlantic. The Germans would not dare to torpedo an American liner, because it would bring the States into the war.”

“I am considering it,” I said.

“Go while you can. There doesn’t seem to be any real fighting in this part of Europe yet. Germany is still busy with Poland. But I bet you could still take a train across France. You’re still getting mail from back home, aren’t you?”

“I am.” I nodded agreement. “I got a letter from home the other day.”

It had been a particularly stern one from Aunt Hortensia. There isn’t a day goes by that your mother doesn’t worry about you, she wrote. I can’t understand why you are being so selfish and putting your own pleasure above the well-being of your dear mother. Venice may be a grand place to sit out a war at the moment, but what if you find yourself trapped behind enemy lines? What if you are taken prisoner? Your poor mother thinks of these things every day. It is especially hard for her with your dear sister stuck in India, expecting a baby any moment, and her husband now off somewhere with the British army. Please do be sensible and come home before it is too late.

Your affectionate aunt, Hortensia Marchmont

I had no idea how to respond to that letter or to come up with a credible reason for wanting to stay away. Apart from bringing disgrace to my family, there was also a financial component. If I returned home, I’d have no stipend, no job and no way of providing money for my mother. I had arranged for half my stipend to be deposited in her bank every month. This way at least I could save the money that Leo was putting aside for me, resume my position at the school next September, and nobody would be any the wiser.

“I just got a stern letter from my mother, too,” Henry said. “Rather a stern one. What if something awful happened to me? She couldn’t bear to lose her only son.”

“So will you go?” I asked.

“I’d really like to finish up the year here. If things get worse, then I expect I’ll change my mind. But as long as Germany keeps its conquests to the east and England doesn’t do much about it, then I guess we’re relatively safe.”

“Do you think Italy will stay out of it?” I asked.

“Bound to. Mussolini doesn’t have the army or the weapons to take part in any meaningful way. He’s happy to invade Albania, make his people think he’s a great conqueror, but he wouldn’t take on Britain.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. I glanced up at the sky. “I think we’d better head back, don’t you? It’s about to rain again.”

“Damned rain,” Henry commented. “These poor people putting up their booths—I hope it doesn’t all get ruined.”

“I suppose they are used to it. It seems to rain an awful lot.”

He laughed. “You’re from England. Doesn’t it rain there all the time?”