The Venice Sketchbook(84)
“There is a pulley outside,” he said. “You put the coal in the bucket, and up it comes. But do not worry. You will not have to do this.”
“Why not?”
“I have arranged for a woman to come in,” he said. “Francesca. She is the mother of one of our employees. A local woman. Used to hard work and needs a job as her husband has just died. She has had six children. She will take good care of you. You tell her what you want done, and she will do it—the cooking, the cleaning, the shopping. Whatever you want. I think you will be happy here, yes?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the view. “Yes, I think I will,” I said. Then my practical side took over. “But isn’t the rent very expensive?”
He laughed. “No rent,” he said. “It’s yours.”
“What?”
“I’m giving it to you. I’ve talked to our lawyer, and he is drawing up a ninety-nine-year lease for this floor. It belongs to you now. Stay as long as you want, or go, knowing you can always come back.”
“Leo, I don’t know what to say,” I muttered, terrified I might cry.
“Cara mia, it’s the least I can do,” he said tenderly. “And selfish, too. I want a place where I can visit you.”
This set off an alarm bell in my head. I wanted to have the chance to see him, but . . . “Leo, you should understand that I’m not going to be your mistress,” I said.
“But cara . . .”
I took a step away from him. “Isn’t that what rich men do? They buy a nice flat so they can visit their mistresses whenever they want? So convenient.”
He touched my arm, gently. “Julietta, no. I promise you that was not my intention. I will be honest. I would like to make love to you again. But if you do not wish it—so be it. We will be close friends. The apartment is for you because you are the mother of my child. I want you to be safe and well provided for.” He put a gentle hand on my arm. “Please do not be angry. My intentions were good.”
I was in such a precarious position, I had to believe him and be grateful.
CHAPTER 32
Caroline, Venice, October 13, 2001
A good wall heater arrived, delivered by a couple of workmen and making the bedroom cosy. Caroline went through her aunt’s clothes, putting them into piles to donate or discard. She realized now that she had some true vintage pieces amongst them: a tea dress, a long evening dress, a fringed shawl. Those she would keep, but the jumpers had long ago succumbed to moths, and she carried them down to a nearby rubbish skip along with long-expired items from the kitchen and bathroom. She kept a couple of lace-edged hankies and a bottle of eau de cologne that was miraculously unopened and still good. Then she went through the paintings and drawings once more. She’d definitely keep the sketches of Venice. Maybe the Da Rossi family would like the sketches of the baby, if it proved to be Luca’s father. She put them aside, noting that they ranged from a chubby newborn to about a one-year-old. No drawings after that. So perhaps she stopped looking after the child when he was one—or, more likely, she had to flee. It would be interesting to know if there were any records of where she lived in Switzerland. The Swiss were so organized, there were bound to be! She smiled at the thought.
By the third day in the apartment, she realized there was nothing to keep her any longer, apart from meeting Luca’s father if and when he arrived. The flat was immaculate. The drawers cleaned out, the old suitcase packed with the things she’d be taking with her. The weather had turned colder, and she thought of Granny’s warm kitchen and hearty soups. She also thought of Teddy. How long since Josh had let her speak to him? Had he convinced Teddy that he didn’t want to go back to England? She didn’t know if Josh had replied to the email she had sent him because she did not have a connection and didn’t know where to find one. Worrying thoughts crept into her head as she lay in that warm bedroom. What if Teddy was sick and she didn’t know and Josh couldn’t contact her? But she had given Granny the address, and Granny could telephone her. Stop worrying, she told herself. Enjoy this moment. Enjoy the beauty. Be free. Be hopeful.
At the end of the week, her mobile rang, and it was Luca. “My parents arrived home and are settled in. Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?” He gave her the address.
At eight o’clock, dressed as smartly as possible, she came out of her building to find it was pouring rain again. Waves slapped over the Zattere. Goodness, she was going to arrive looking like a drowned rat, she thought. Now she had two choices: she could cross Dorsoduro, being mainly sheltered in narrow streets, but then she’d have to brave the full force of the storm on the Accademia Bridge, or she could wait for a vaporetto and have to travel all the way around until finally it came back to the Grand Canal. She decided to risk the former, managed to get across Dorsoduro without getting too windblown, but then had to battle to keep hold of her umbrella over the bridge. On the St Mark’s side, she was able to stay fairly sheltered under balconies while she located the building (with some difficulty in spite of the directions Luca had given her). It was an elegant white marble structure with a doorman in uniform who saluted her and pressed the button on the lift to the top floor.
Inside the lift she removed her headscarf and tried to smooth her hair into place. I must look a fright, she thought. As she stood at a white-painted front door, she experienced a shiver of nerves. Even at her best she would look dowdy compared to Luca’s family, and she certainly was not looking at her best right now. What if it was a big dinner party? But then Luca opened the door.