The Venice Sketchbook(9)

“Is he really Greek?”

“Napoleon put him here when he created the gardens,” Leo said. “I don’t know if he came from Greece or was made for the gardens in 1800. There are other such statues all over the place.”

“He looks sad,” I said, staring up at the bearded face.

“So would you if the salt from the sea was eating you away,” he commented, his hand touching a hand that had now only stubs for fingers. “But do you know what else I like? This big old tree behind him. A plane tree, I think it is called. When I was a small boy, I used to make a fort in the little space between the statue and the tree. I would hide away and pretend I was on a desert island, all alone, and I could spy on people walking past.”

“I used to make hiding places in our back garden,” I said. “I used to pretend I was a rabbit or a squirrel.”

He gave the statue a final pat. “You should come back and sketch him,” Leo said. “He would like that. To be in your book.”

“I don’t know if Aunt H. would approve. He has no clothes on.”

“She will approve of the gardens. All the English like gardens, don’t they?”

“We don’t have much more time here. Just one day.”

“But you will come back again, when you are a famous artist.”

I had to smile at this. “When I see the art here, I am rather afraid I shall never rise to such heights.”

“But that is the art of the past. You must have seen Picasso, Dalí , Miró ? They break all the rules. They paint the world as they see it. What is in their hearts. That is what you must do.”

“I hope so. I do love to paint and sketch, and Daddy has been nice enough to agree to pay for art school.”

“What does this father of yours do?”

I made a face. “He was wounded in the Great War,” I said. “Gassed, actually. His lungs were badly damaged. He tried going back to his job in the city for a while, but lately he hasn’t been doing much. He inherited a little money from his family, and we live on that. Daddy invests it, and we seem to do quite well. I’ve been to boarding school, and my sister will start there soon.”

“You have brothers?”

“Just one sister. She’s much younger than me. The war came in between, you see.” I paused. “Do you have brothers?”

“Unfortunately, no. I am the only boy. I have two sisters. One has gone into the convent. The other is married and producing babies on a regular basis, as good Italian wives do.”

“You would have liked a brother?”

“Of course. An older brother preferably. Then he could have taken over the business, and I would have been free to do what I want with my life.”

“What would that be?”

“Travel the world. Collect beautiful things. Maybe open an art gallery. Maybe write a play. I have all sorts of impractical ideas that I shall never be able to use. My father is a powerful man. We own a shipping company. We have been in commerce since Marco Polo, and my father is a good friend of Mussolini, so . . . we are favoured.”

“So you really are very rich?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Isn’t that a nice thing to be? I know my family used to enjoy a better life than we do now that Daddy isn’t well. They used to travel to Europe, and Mummy ordered her dresses in Paris. Now it’s the local dressmaker, Mrs Rush, who makes our clothes, as you can see from what I wear.”

“I think you look wonderful.”

I paused, blushing, unable to handle this compliment. And hardly daring to ask the next question. “Leo, you say you are rich, and you are certainly handsome. Why would you waste time with a girl like me?”

We were standing beneath a lamp, and I saw him smiling.

“There is something about you. You are not like the girls I know. They are bored with life and only want money spent on them. You—you are so keen to experience everything. You want to taste what life has to offer.”

“I do. Now that I am here, I want to travel. To see the world. To be a free, independent woman.” I realized as I said the words that this was exactly what I wanted. I hadn’t thought much about my future beyond art school before, but now that I had experienced Venice, I knew there was a big, beautiful world I had to see. I certainly did not want my life to be confined to a prim English village.

“Not to marry?”

“Someday maybe.” I blushed when I said this, glad it was dark. “But not until I know who I am and what I want.”

We had been walking along the dark and silent gravel path between ghostly shapes of buildings and stands of tall trees. Now we paused again.

“Perhaps your art should be more like this?” Leo said, and I saw the shape of another statue in front of us. This one was a giant work in metal, a horse maybe, rearing up, but strangely distorted and rather alarming.

“A modern German artist,” Leo said. “He shows great promise.”

“I don’t think I’d like to create something frightening like this,” I said. “I like beauty.”

“Of course you do. You are how old? Eighteen?”

I nodded.

“At eighteen, everyone likes beauty. Everyone has great visions for the future.” He paused. “Ah, here we are. The spot for our picnic.”