The Venice Sketchbook(81)

“It rains frequently, but not deluges like this. When it rains here, it’s as if the sky has opened.”

As I spoke the words, the sky did open. We rushed for cover into the nearest church. Inside the foyer a Christmas crib scene was being erected, with a realistic stable and almost life-size statues. Not just Mary and Joseph, but lots of shepherds and Italian peasants with their animals, tradespeople carrying their wares. I found it quite moving.

We waited for a while, but it didn’t seem as if the rain would stop in a hurry.

“There’s a trattoria on the corner over there,” Henry said. “Should we make a dash and get something to eat?”

“Good idea.”

We managed to skirt around the side of the square without getting too wet and both ordered a bowl of minestrone soup, which warmed us up nicely. I was so glad that I could finally enjoy food again. We finished our soup, followed it with coffee and a pastry, and still the rain hadn’t eased up. Then we were conscious of a loud siren, blaring out over the city.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Aqua alta!” a man at the next table said, waving his arms excitedly. He got up in a hurry, left some coins on the table and ran out, his coat over his head.

“What does that mean?” Henry asked.

“I think it means that some of the streets get flooded. We should go home while we can.”

Henry nodded. He insisted on paying the bill. “Will you be able to get home all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. I expect the traghetto is still operating,” I said. So we parted company. My raincoat and scarf were soon soaked through. The wind had come up, driving the rain in different directions, first hitting me in the face and then in the back of the neck. I reached the traghetto dock and found the gondola tied up with its cover on.

“Blast,” I muttered. I was now in for a long walk up to the Accademia Bridge before I could cross the Grand Canal.

I slogged on, feeling more and more frustrated, as there is no such thing as a direct route in Venice. I had to retrace my steps to cross a canal, then constantly choose left or right instead of going forward. Finally I reached the Accademia Bridge and had to battle both wind and rain, clinging to the railing as I made my way up the fifty steps and then down the other side. When I came down to the little piazza, it was already flooded. I waded through the icy water, feeling it lapping over my ankles. Other people trudged through it as if it was only a minor inconvenience—a woman carrying a laden shopping basket, another pushing a pram with the child suspended just above the water level.

I was now so cold I was shivering uncontrollably. Campo Santo Stefano loomed ahead of me. Not too far now. I stumbled into an unseen drain and fell forward. I would have gone flat on my face into the icy water if a passing man hadn’t grabbed me and hauled me to my feet again. I passed a bar and was amazed to see men sitting on stools, drinking and smoking while water lapped below them. It seemed that nobody else cared too much about the rising waters.

“Madonna!” Signora Martinelli exclaimed when I came into the flat and stood in the hallway with water dripping from my clothing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I am making your floor wet.” I tried to unbutton my coat, but my fingers were numb with cold.

She came up to me. “You poor child,” she said, and started unbuttoning my coat for me. “Let’s put it over the bathtub to dry,” she said. “And your shoes. So the aqua alta is already upon us, yes?”

“It is. The whole of Santo Stefano is flooded.”

She removed my coat. My clothing beneath it was equally sodden. “Let us take those clothes off, too,” she said and started to pull my jumper over my head. I was feeling so weak and exhausted that I let her. I didn’t realize the danger until too late. Her hands went to the zipper on my skirt, and as she let it fall to the floor, she saw my petticoat, now tight and extended over my growing belly.

She stared. “Dio mio! What do I see? Am I correct? Is this what I think it is?” she asked, her voice harsh. She prodded at my belly with her finger. “There is a bambino inside?”

I nodded.

“I let you into my house because I thought you were a respectable woman.” She almost spat out the words. “Not a tramp. Not a woman of the streets.”

“I’m not, signora. I am a good woman, I promise you,” I said. “I made one mistake with a man that I love, who can’t marry me.”

“To do this with a married man is adultery. Adultery is a mortal sin,” she said coldly. “If you die before confession, you go straight to hell for all eternity.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was still standing there shivering. “I should take a hot bath,” I said. “Or I will catch cold.”

“You will leave this place,” she said.

“You want me to go? Now?” I stared at her, horrified.

“I am a good Catholic woman,” she said. “I would not turn you out in such weather. But I want you to leave as soon as you find another room. I cannot let my neighbours know that I have housed a person like you. What would they say? They would blame me for letting such a person into my house. I could not endure the pointed fingers, the whispers, the looks of condemnation.”

“Very well,” I said and set my chin. “I will leave, and I’m sorry to have caused you any grief. Believe me, I have plenty of grief myself. I cannot go home to my mother because I don’t want to cause her shame.”