The Venice Sketchbook(91)

“Can I have a word with you, please?” I asked. “In private?”

He looked suspicious but came with me into the small anteroom. “Well?” he asked.

I told him I was going to have a baby, that the father couldn’t marry me and that I’d like to continue my studies for as long as possible. Would that be a problem?

“Do you think you will be too weak to hold a paintbrush? To stand at an easel?” he asked. “Or do you think the size of your girth might get in the way?”

“No!” I exclaimed.

“Then what might be the problem?”

“That you don’t want me in your class anymore and think I might corrupt other students.”

He looked at me, then burst out laughing. “My dear girl, in my world everyone has a lover or a mistress, is homosexual or bisexual and certainly has the odd illegitimate child. Nobody will raise an eyebrow, I assure you.” He hesitated. “But you. I am concerned about you. Are your studies more important to you than your safety and well-being? Would you not rather be at home for this momentous event? Amongst those who can take care of you?”

“Yes, I would,” I said, “but I do not wish to cause shame and embarrassment to my mother, so I’m staying away. When the time comes, I will give up my child and go home.”

“A noble sentiment. I wonder if you’ll go through with it.”





CHAPTER 35


Juliet, Venice, February 21, 1940

My life has settled into a comfortable routine. I go to my classes, I have lunch with Henry or occasionally with Leo, I come home to find my flat warm and spotless with a meal waiting for me, thanks to the good Francesca. The weather has been bleak and gloomy with lashings of rain and several occasions of aqua alta, but this part of Dorsoduro does not flood easily, so I’ve been able to get around without wet feet. Imelda did not return after the break. I was not too surprised. Travelling through France may soon become dangerous or even impossible. And I haven’t seen anything of Franz either, which just leaves good old Henry and me. I have been out to see Contessa Fiorito, once to her January soirée and then once on my own to tell her my news. I felt it wasn’t right to keep her in the dark any longer.

“I have to admit I suspected this,” she said. “I could tell.” She looked at me, her head cocked to one side in the birdlike manner of hers. “And the young man—he won’t do the right thing?”

“He can’t. He’s married.”

“A happy marriage? One he does not want to leave for you? Divorce is becoming a little more accepted in our country, you know.”

“Not a happy marriage but one he can’t leave.”

“I see.” A long silence. “Is it possible that it is young Da Rossi?”

I flushed scarlet. “How did you know?”

“I remembered your face when I introduced you to his father. Your reaction was not that of a person being introduced to an unimportant stranger. At the time I thought that maybe you were overawed by meeting a handsome count.”

“It was a shock,” I said.

She toyed with her teaspoon. “Young Da Rossi. Not a happy marriage, so one understands, but not one that he can easily walk away from.”

“No.”

Again she stared out past me, to her lovely garden, where the palm tree was swaying in a stiff breeze. “Then you will go through this alone? And the child? You will try to raise a child alone? Your family will accept it?”

“No. I’m going to give it up. It’s all arranged. It is going to a good family,” I said.

“Ah. A practical young woman.” She paused. “I admire you. I was not so noble in my youth. I was much younger than you when I found myself pregnant, unable to support a child, and instead had an abortion. Not a thing I would recommend. It was certainly taboo. I had it done in a back room, no sterilization. I nearly died. But in my day it was not possible to raise a child as an unmarried mother.” She reached out and gripped my hand with that birdlike claw of hers. “You can always come and live with me, you know. I take in strays. I enjoy your company.”

I felt tears welling up. “That’s so kind of you, and I have to admit it’s tempting, but I have a nice little flat of my own now in Dorsoduro. It’s close to my art classes.”

“Pity. I could have used your help with the planning for the Biennale. It opens in May, you know.”

“It’s going to go ahead, in spite of the war?”

She chuckled. “We in Venice do not let a small thing like a war get in the way of art. Of course, the number of countries will be limited: the Germans, the Russians have both already committed to their pavilions. The Americans, too. I’m afraid the art will reek heavily of propaganda this year, but it gives our Italian artists a chance to display their work—and our Jewish artists-in-exile, too.”



In the new year I received a frosty letter from my mother, thanking me for the Christmas gifts and saying she was glad I enjoyed the food and the scarf. I appreciate your concern for us, she wrote, and the desire to keep providing financially, but all sorts of jobs are now opening up for women in war work—factories and even the armed forces. I read on. Aunt Hortensia says that if you really do not intend to return until the end of your year abroad, we should offer your room to evacuees from London. So many people are leaving the city with the threat of bombing looming in the future.