The Venice Sketchbook(90)
“You have?” I could hear my voice wobble because this sounded so final.
He nodded. “I would like to adopt him legally and raise him in my home as my son. He will inherit everything, including the title one day. He will be well looked after and loved. Does this meet with your approval?”
I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything as I tried to come to terms with this. “But what about Bianca?” My voice was now shrill. The shock had been great. “Surely she will not welcome another woman’s child into her home, especially if she found out the child was a result of our affair?”
He shrugged. “Bianca can’t have children, so it seems. I didn’t find this out until we married. Her doctor says ‘can’t have,’ but it might be ‘won’t have.’ Either way, I would have no heir unless our son is legally mine.”
“You’re very sure it’s going to be a boy.”
He gave a cocky smile. “The men in my family are very virile. We produce sons.”
“And if it’s a girl? You won’t want her?”
“It won’t be.” He leaned forward and grasped both my hands. “So does this make sense to you? It is a good solution, is it not? For both of us?”
“How do I know Bianca will treat the baby well? She may be jealous. I wouldn’t want to put my child into danger.”
“Bianca could not be less interested in babies, I assure you. We will hire the best nursemaid, and he will be loved and spoiled.”
“How will you explain this sudden arrival of a baby to the community? I’ve already been made aware of the power of gossip in this town.”
“Ah, I’ve thought of that, too. It is a relative’s child. From somewhere out in the countryside. She gave birth, bravely, but she is dying. I promised to keep the child within the family. That’s what we do here.”
I had been trying to digest this as he spoke. But another thought, a small sliver of hope, was creeping into my mind. “Leo, if Bianca can’t have children and she deceived you on this, isn’t that grounds for annulment?”
“Of course,” he said, “in any other family. But this marriage is a business transaction. Mutually beneficial to two powerful companies. If the marriage were annulled, our partnership with Bianca’s father would end. He is a proud and vindictive man. He’d ruin us. And not only that, but I fear his ties with the Mafia. If I let down his daughter, I suspect I would wind up floating face down in the lagoon.”
“Oh gosh,” I said. “How complicated.”
“It is,” he said. “I do not think you understand family obligations in the way that we do here. It is a sacred duty to put family first.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’m so sorry. I must leave you now. Run all the way. At least there is no aqua alta to wade through to midnight Mass. God bless you, cara mia. Buon Natale.” He blew me a kiss and was gone, leaving me with whirling thoughts and a knot of anguish in the pit of my stomach.
Henry came on Christmas morning, bearing a bottle of Prosecco and a beautiful leather portfolio “to carry and store your artwork.” I was touched and a little embarrassed. I felt my cheeks burning.
“Henry, how very kind of you,” I said. “And I have a small gift for you, too.”
When he saw the glass dog, he laughed. “What a sad face. A real hangdog!”
“I wanted to cheer you up when you felt homesick,” I said. “But I think the Christmas dinner will cheer us both up.”
We had a glass of Campari with some olives, then the roast chicken with roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts and carrots, and then the Christmas pudding. Henry had not tried one before, and I’m not sure he really liked it, but he was polite and appreciative. To walk off our meal, we strolled along the Zattere. It was quite deserted, and from inside homes came the sound of music and laughter, reminding me strongly that it was a day for families. We wound up with tea and cake, again a new experience for Henry.
“Thank you for this,” he said. “I was dreading the holiday alone, frankly, and now I’ve enjoyed myself.”
I had, too. And the next day, we took the boat together over to the Lido and the Contessa Fiorito’s villa. The house was decorated with greenery and glass ornaments, and chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling. Professor Corsetti and his wife were there, as was the British consul, the smiling priest and other people I had met before. No sign of Josef, however. I asked the contessa about him.
“I have found him a safe haven amongst other artists in Florence. Now I am working on bringing a young woman. One at a time, I’m afraid, and there are so many I can’t help.”
“Do you think the treatment of Jewish people will spread here?” I asked. “Mussolini is such an admirer of Hitler.”
“I think there are people in Italy who would like to see Jews rounded up and sent to camps, but not here in Venice. Not amongst people of culture. Our Jewish community is such a part of the city and well respected. I think we are safe here.”
We had been standing together, apart from the others, and I wondered if I should tell her about my pregnancy. Was it fair to withhold this information from her? I certainly didn’t want her to learn it from local gossip. But now was not the right time. I’d make a point of coming over to visit her alone, some other time. I thought she would be the kind of person who would not judge, but one couldn’t be sure . . . Then a devastating thought occurred to me. Professor Corsetti! My professors at the accademia. Was there a policy against people like me? Would I be allowed to continue my studies? When I saw him over at the table, helping himself to some pa té on a cracker, I decided that I had to know. I went over to him.