The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(30)

Potted plants and stenciled house numbers tell me we’re in a residential area. Black shutters adorn the homes, splayed like outstretched arms. Pink bougainvilleas cascade from second-story window boxes, and every now and then I spot a little cubby housing a statue of the Virgin Mother and Child.

“I love this place,” I say, snapping a photo of creamy linen sheets, meticulously hung on a wire suspended between two houses. “I never realized laundry could be so pretty.”

Poppy smiles. “For centuries, Venezia was one of the most powerful cities in Italy. Today, it’s simply magical.”

And it is. Every block, it seems, we climb another arched stone bridge, one of three hundred and forty in the city, Poppy tells us. A giggle escapes me. With each step, a strange sensation of lightness fills me, as if I’ve been freed from shackles and set aloft. I can’t help but do a little dance when I reach the top. Poppy sees me and joins in, doing her own little two-step. Lucy shakes her head at us, and we all laugh.

We wander down a crowded cobblestone alley where tourists peer into shop windows, admiring colorful trinkets and mouthwatering pastries. A woman squeezes ahead of us, dressed in flat shoes and a fur coat, clutching a bag from the market. A merchant wearing a paper hat leans against his building, eyeing Lucy as we pass.

I’m smiling when the alley empties into yet another town square, or campo, as the locals refer to them. In the center stands an ancient cistern, ornately carved in stone. Children giggle as they squat beneath it, filling balloons with water. I snap a photo, then pull my map from my purse. We must be in Campo Santa Margherita. Or maybe it’s Campo San Trovaso.

“Put that away,” Poppy suggests. “Venice is a maze. You’ll never find your bearings. I always say, when you feel lost or confused, consult your heart. It’s your most reliable source of navigation.”

Yeah, right. I smile and stuff the useless thing into my purse, charmed by the sound of a man on a balcony, singing in Italian. Pigeons swoop overhead. Wine bars and upscale restaurants sporting colorful awnings span the perimeter of the square, alongside jewelry stores and bakeries and pizzerias. At the far end stands a small but proud cathedral. People stroll and shop with their families, or sit in pairs at little iron tables.

We cross a longer bridge where a half dozen gondolas idle in the water. Poppy clasps her hands, and her entire body seems to tremble with glee.

“A gondola ride! Let’s go!”

“Seriously?” Lucy asks. “A gondola?”

Poppy laughs. “Oh, Luciana, be on the lookout for childhood joy, won’t you? I fear you have lost yours.”

Italian men of various shapes and sizes stand at the helms of their Venetian flat-bottom boats, wearing black-and-white-striped shirts and red kerchiefs, a vision so corny that it’s quaint. Lucy points a finger at a particularly good-looking gondolier.

“Quello!” she says.

The shiny black gondola rocks when we step into it, and I help Poppy move to the red upholstered seat. The handsome gondolier stands on the asymmetrical boat, using a single oar to push the gondola down the narrow canal.

Poppy drapes an arm around each of us, and I’m lulled by the relaxing gurgle of water. I breathe deeply of the canal, a unique smell that’s dank and fishy and fresh all at once. We pass beneath old stone bridges so low I almost duck, and float alongside beautiful calli lined with fancy hotels. Flags hang suspended from an iron balcony, red with gold, blue, and green, their brilliance shimmering in the dappled sunlight. The gondola veers close to the canal wall, and our driver uses his oar to push off. Lucy eyes him like a T-bone steak.

“To symbolize their love for water,” Poppy says, “Venetian mythology claims a gondolier is born with webbed feet.”

“Who cares about webbed feet?” Lucy says in perfect Italian. She raises her eyebrows. “I prefer a very long oar.”

My eyes go wide and I tip my head toward Aunt Poppy, hoping to remind Lucy that our eighty-year-old aunt can also speak the language. But Poppy only laughs.

“Luciana, you slay me!” She sits up straight. “I’m so pleased you’re both fluent in Italian. Your mother would be proud, Emilia.”

I perk up. “Really? She wanted me to speak Italian? Why?”

Poppy gazes out at the water, as if time is calling to her. “Rico struggled with Italian, but he eventually mastered it.”

“And my mom?” I say, clutching her hand, trying to keep my frustration in check. “What else do you know about her?”

She looks up at us. “Have I gotten to the part of the story where Rico plays his violin?”

“Nope,” Lucy says, and she gives an exaggerated yawn. “But feel free to skip ahead.”





Chapter 16




Poppy

1959–60

Florence

Monday through Saturday, from eight until four, I worked at the Uffizi Gallery. But the bus back to Fiesole didn’t leave until six thirty. Mr. Blue Eyes worked nights, stretching gloves at a leather factory from seven until four in the morning. Which meant that six days a week, for two and a half glorious hours, I was free, and so was Rico. We’d stroll the streets of Firenze, speaking in Italian and German, laughing at our silly mistakes, soaking in everything we could learn about each other.

One day, about a week after we’d met, he brought along a weathered leather case. We sat on a bench in front of the Duomo, and to my surprise, he lifted a violin from the case and began to play. It was thrilling, watching the bow travel up and down the strings, creating the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe it! He was a violinist!