The Venice Sketchbook(89)
My first Christmas away from home. How strange and empty it seemed, and yet some good things have happened, too. I moved into my new home—a home that I own, at least for the next ninety-nine years, on December 16. I found there were new rugs on the floor, a new water heater in the bathroom (like my landlady’s, but not so prone to exploding) and a new bed made up with clean sheets and a huge fluffy eiderdown. There were lined velvet drapes at the windows. The place was warm; there was coal beside the stove. It was a bright, sparkling day, and I gazed out at that view, feeling a great swelling of happiness for the first time in months. It was perfect.
Later that day, I met Francesca. Not exactly the warmest person but clearly used to hard work. She spoke with such a strong Venetian accent that I could hardly make out what she said, but at least she understood my Italian. She made me a wonderful mushroom risotto the first night—rich and creamy. I had already been shopping and went to bed with a hot chocolate and biscuits, feeling well satisfied. Over the next few days, I bought more items to make the place feel like home—pillows and a blanket, a bowl of oranges and a table lamp for my desk. I had fallen in love with that desk. It was gorgeous inlaid lemonwood from the south of Italy and still smelled of lemon after all these years. It had all sorts of little compartments and drawers, including, to my delight, a secret drawer that was only accessed when you pulled out one compartment and then opened it with a little key. Not that I had anything to hide, and Francesca could barely read Italian, let alone English, but it was nice to know it was there.
Classes ended for the holiday. Imelda went home to her parents, who had moved close to the Spanish border, just in case the Germans invaded France. I had bought gifts for my mother and Aunt Hortensia at the market: Torcello lace handkerchiefs, tiny glass ornaments for the Christmas tree and a box of nougat. I added a Christmas card, and inside I wrote a note. I had thought long and hard about what to say to them that might make sense and decided that of course it was money.
The reason I have decided to stay for now is a financial one, I wrote. As you know, I am receiving a generous stipend that makes up for my teacher’s salary this year. Should I come home, that money would cease, and as the school has surely hired a temporary art mistress for the year, I’m not sure how we would live. So I’m staying on for all of our sakes, but promise I will make a sensible decision when it becomes necessary to leave.
I felt a little underhanded about saying this, but I didn’t want to cause grief to anyone. In return I received a package on Christmas Eve of my mother’s Christmas pudding and a wedge of Christmas cake, plus a scarf she had knitted. I was touched.
I debated whether to buy a small gift for Henry and ended up getting him a Murano glass dog with a sorrowful face. It was enough to make anyone laugh when they were feeling low. And then there was Leo. What did one give a man who was exceedingly rich and could buy what he wanted? Then I decided that I was going to be bold for once. I saw a plain silver locket in the market. I bought it and cut off a small curl of my hair, tying it with a pink ribbon. At least he would have something to remember me by when I had gone.
I stocked up with panettone, the traditional Christmas cake that now appeared in all the bakeries, bought a chicken to roast with all the trimmings and decided to invite Henry to join me for the day. I was surprised to receive an invitation from the Contessa Fiorito, sent to me via my professor, to join her on Boxing Day for her annual party. As she was Jewish, I wouldn’t have thought she’d celebrate Christmas at all. I debated long and hard about taking her a gift and then settled on a pot of white snowdrops from the market. Flowers are always so cheering, and they reminded me of the first signs of spring at home.
I didn’t expect to see anything of Leo, knowing that Christmas is such a big family holiday, but I heard a tap on my door just as it was getting dark on Christmas Eve. Francesca had gone home hours before, having made me a traditional fish stew for my dinner. I gave her a generous Christmas tip and saw her smile for the first time. So I was surprised when I opened the door to find Leo there, gasping for breath. In his arms was a large box.
“I ran up all three flights,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek as he came in. “I’m due at the family dinner, but I couldn’t let the holiday pass without seeing you. I’ve brought you a present.” He put the box down on the table, then watched with anticipation as I opened it.
It was a large box, and I couldn’t think what it might be until—“Oh,” I said, surprised and pleased. “It’s a radio! How wonderful.”
“I wanted you to know what was going on in the world,” he said.
“I have a small gift for you, too,” I said, and handed him the leather box, tied with a ribbon. He glanced up at me, questioning, then opened it. When he saw the locket, a smile spread across his face. He took it out, opened it and held it in his palm.
“Your hair?” he asked. “A lock of your hair?”
I nodded. “I wanted to give you something to remember me by when I have gone.”
“As to that,” he began, “I have come to make a suggestion to you.”
He paced a little, then took a seat in one of the armchairs. The heavy drapes were closed, keeping in the warmth from the stove.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t have time, cara. I’m sorry. But I have been thinking about the best solution for you and the baby, and I would like to present it to you. You say you want to give up your child and find a good family for him. Well, I have found one.”