Venetian Lessons in Love

uno

The early-morning fog which had enveloped Venice was beginning to recede, allowing the city’s muted pastel tones to emerge in the breaking sunlight. It was time for Venice to rise and face a new day.

The familiar clack of a particular pair of heeled boots on the slate-grey pavers set in motion a routine chain of events. At the point where the Cannaregio, Castello and San Marco sestieri met, blinds and shutters were unlatched on cue, aluminium awnings were thrown open and doors left ajar as ears strained to discern her approach. Secret signals and whistles rang out, and faces appeared at the windows above, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and her four-legged companion as they passed by on the calli below.

She strode with a confident grace. Rounding the corner of Calle dei Bombaseri, her steps, keeping time with the beat of her heart, echoed between the palazzi, giving notice of her arrival.

They still called her l’Orfana .

Her journey led her to Campo San Bortolomio, and she was thankful for the first kiss of morning light, which radiated a comforting warmth that cleared the final remnants of damp mist. Up the Ponte di Rialto she went, keeping her steady rhythm, but she stopped at the bridge’s peak, setting down her wicker shopping basket and hoping to catch the final moments of the breaking dawn over the Grand Canal. Hues of orange and red spilled across the facades of the opulent residences and hotels lining the banks of the lagoon. No matter how many times she had witnessed the scene, she never tired of its unpredictable beauty.

A stiff wintry breeze blew along the canal, and she nuzzled into her mottled grey cashmere scarf, comforted by its gentle caress. Despite the nerves she felt this morning, she smiled into the beams of dawn breaking over the water and adjusted her black leather gloves, tucking the folds deeper into the creases between her fingers. Reaching down, she patted her short-haired dachshund on the top of his head and adjusted his fleecy doggy coat. Then she gathered her basket once again and set off in the direction of the open-air Mercato del Pesce di Rialto, hoping to find something irresistible in the morning’s haul.

The irony was that she had no appetite whatsoever.

She found the market unusually quiet for a Friday, as locals – irrespective of religious persuasion – usually marked the day with a meal, or two, of freshly caught frutti di mare . The stalls were mostly already open, with the last few still unloading the morning’s catch. Bundled up in jackets and scarves, fishermen were hard at work pulling crates of fresh fish, shellfish and other sea treasures from dinghies which bobbed gently on the canal. Some whistled while they worked, many smoked, others shouted and gossiped among themselves. With only locals up and about at this early hour, it was indeed the moment to catch up with friends and colleagues before the nosy tourists swarmed in.

Browsing the stalls, she paused here and there to inspect what was on offer, her tiny four-legged companion mirroring her every step. Curious eyes followed her wherever she went.

Biting her bottom lip in thought, as she often did – though many said she did it to tease – she tried to piece together the ideal menu from the seafood that lay before her. What would go well with a side of the unknown, a sprinkling of fear, and a bottle of pinot grigio?

Quickly scanning the rest of the stalls from where she stood, she sighed, disappointed that her favourite stallholder was nowhere to be seen. This only compounded her worry.

She darted between trolleys stacked high with pearlescent blue prawns and silvery eels, careful not to step in the shallow puddles that had formed in the main walkway. A few boisterous whistles were aimed in her direction, but she ignored them. Not finding herself particularly inspired, she turned on one fine pointed heel of her best pair of black leather boots, prepared to scratch fish from her menu.

She ran her emerald-green eyes over the stalls one last time, then gathered her glossy dark tresses into a ponytail, which cascaded down her back. She decided to call it a morning, and signalled their exit to her furry shadow with a flick of her head towards the fondamenta .

They passed through the mercato , emerging along the waterfront, and the kiss of the breeze which waltzed in off the Grand Canal was comfortingly familiar. She was ready to make her way to the supermercato instead when a hand on her shoulder made her turn, startled.

‘Lucia!’ The voice was loud and cheerful in the cold, quiet morning air. ‘Leaving so soon?’ The man peered into her empty basket. ‘And empty-handed?’ He tutted, then turned his attention to her companion, who was pawing at his wellingtons for attention. ‘Foscari, buongiorno to you, too!’ He fished through his pocket and dropped a morsel of salt-cured meat he used for bait to the pavers, which the dachshund immediately pounced upon.

‘Miro, I did look for you.’ She rested her gloved hand gently on his as he held on to the handle of her basket. ‘How are you? You look well.’

Miro was dressed in his usual salt-encrusted layers of wool and his black PVC fisherman’s wader; completely inadequate for the northern Italian winter, but sixty-eight-year-old Miro had the lagoon running through his veins, so was near-impervious to the cold. For as long as Lucia could remember, two things had remained constant: his bristly beard, which had simply whitened with the passing years, and his love of that knitted grey berretto , displaying his now completely bald head through its many holes.

‘I’m well, Lucia. Very w—’ His pleasantries dried up upon noting the darkened rings beneath her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ He reached across and caressed her pale cheek.

‘Wrong?’ She cleared her throat and drew her shoulders higher. Foscari yapped at her feet.

‘You’re worried about something.’

‘Nothing is wrong. Just a poor night’s sleep. The rain . . .’

Miro raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you thinking about Jacopo?’

Lucia pressed her eyes closed and exhaled slowly. ‘I’ve done nothing but think about Jacopo for weeks now.’

Miro’s hand found the crest of her shoulder. ‘There was nothing we could have done to help Jacopo, Lucia. The man was as stubborn as the acqua alta . Coming and going despite all the warnings. Those knees of his—’

Lucia’s green eyes flicked open. ‘He should never have taken that fall. I . . . I should have helped him more.’ She shrugged herself free from Miro’s grasp. ‘I could have—’

‘Done nothing!’ Miro’s voice found a distinct sharpness. ‘He would never have accepted more help. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

Lucia gave in to the grief which had kept her company since she had found Jacopo lifeless at the bottom of the stairs of his palazzo just two months earlier. The unsettling way his large arthritic limbs had bundled together from the fall. The way she had clawed at his dead weight, trying to rouse him. The rush of panic and dread. The cold lifeless hands, just like her mother’s. It was all still very raw.

With welling eyes she said, ‘I couldn’t save him either, Miro. My parents, and now Jacopo.’

Miro paused for a moment, and Lucia noted afresh the bustle of the mercato and the cawing of the gulls overhead. ‘Perhaps,’ he eventually started, planting himself directly in front of her, ‘this is the time to save yourself , Lucia.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t need saving.’

He couldn’t withhold the sarcastic guffaw which erupted from his mouth. ‘Lucia, I was there the day your beloved mamma and papà brought you home from the hospital. It was I who pinned the pink roses and fiocco nascita to the door of La Scuola Rosa, announcing your arrival to Venice. You can’t fool me.’

She wanted to escape his all-knowing eyes, but was unable to. Instead, she caved. ‘I know I deserve my own life, Miro. But the path my parents paved for me, our school, the community . . . I need to be there to continue that legacy for them. I want to be there.’

‘Yes, but you, Lucia, need nourishing too.’ His chin dropped as his eyes narrowed. ‘ Your heart deserves to be cared for.’

‘I have you. Francesco. Mariella . . .’ And just when she realised she could no longer include Jacopo in her list of nearest and dearest, her eyes again locked with his. She took a quick look over her shoulder and noted a few nosy stares from across the mercato . ‘I can’t cry here. Please, no more.’ She squeezed his hand to convey her resolve.

Miro nodded his understanding and said bracingly, ‘We had a successful catch this morning. Vieni , Giorgio and Pietro are unloading the crates.’ He led Lucia and Foscari to the embankment where his sons were unravelling nets and emptying troughs of seafood into buckets of ice. The smell was that of the open waters of the lagoon – salty, yet sweet and invigorating.

Lucia cleared her throat and steeled herself. ‘ Buongiorno .’ At the landing’s edge she gathered the hem of her coat and bent down to inspect their catch, Foscari at her heels.

‘ Buongiorno ,’ the two young men replied in perfect unison, the symphony of which only heightened their similarity.

‘We caught some moeche ,’ said Miro, pointing to a red bucket at the top of the dinghy. ‘Pass it here, Giorgio.’

Clambering his way to the bow, mousy brown–haired Giorgio collected the bucket and dropped it on the fondamenta before waddling his way back to the stern. He watched quietly as Lucia and his father picked through the fiendish crabs, which were snapping their pincers defensively.

‘It’s still a little early in the season, so they are quite small.’ Miro gave the bucket a gentle flick to move the soft-shelled creatures about.

Foscari growled, and Lucia reassured him with a pat on his crown.

‘ Grazie , but they’re not what I had in mind for lunch,’ she said.

‘ Branzin ? Schie ? Orada ?’ Pietro asked, pointing to other water-filled buckets.

Peering into one crate, Lucia pointed. ‘This one.’

‘Ah, il rombo . Our only one today. He is yours,’ Miro announced, shooing Lucia out of the way. ‘Shall I clean it for you?’

‘ Sì, grazie . I’ll take the bones, too, please.’

Miro stepped back into the dinghy where he made himself comfortable. Pietro handed him a small sharp knife, a wooden chopping block, which Miro rested across his lap, and a shallow green enamel dish, soon to hold the turbot’s entrails. Working with the confidence of decades of practise, Miro gutted and filleted the fish in a matter of moments. He continued to direct his sons in their unloading of their catch as he worked.

‘ Carta, va bene ?’ he asked Lucia, wrapping the opaque fillets in waxy white paper, followed by the bones and head.

‘ Certo .’ She leaned over to collect the parcels, placing them securely in her basket. Lucia peered through her handbag in search of her wallet.

‘ No, no , Lucia. Enjoy it, a gift from our table to yours.’ He smiled up at her as she rifled through her banknotes.

‘Miro. Please let me pay for once.’

He tutted his refusal, shaking his head. ‘You’re like a daughter to me, Lucia. You can pay me with the return of your smile.’

Despite her melancholy, she melted for him. ‘You’re just too kind.’

Upon seeing her cheeks flush, he winked. ‘Are you . . . eating alone?’ His tone was coy.

‘I have my usual Friday lunch company arranged.’ Her brows pinched. ‘And you know that.’

‘Oh?’ Miro readjusted his berretto with studied nonchalance.

Rolling her eyes she allowed herself a giggle. ‘You know who’s coming for lunch. Don’t play this game.’

Miro’s cheeks warmed. ‘Could you, you know . . . put in a good word for me? With her?’

‘What makes you think it will work this time?’

‘ San Valentino is coming up. No one should be alone for the most romantic day of the year.’ His eyes were hopeful. ‘That includes you, Lucia. Despite how difficult every anniversary of your parents’ passing may be for you.’

Frowning, she said, ‘I’ll try with Mariella. But I’m not promising anything. You know how she feels.’

Miro nodded. ‘ Grazie . And whatever it is that has stolen your light today, Lucia . . . I hope you work it out soon.’

Lucia smiled inwardly. She offered her hand, helping to haul him up to the fondamenta from the dinghy. They shared two cheek kisses before she whispered in his ear, ‘ Grazie for always being there for me, Miro.’

‘We almost weren’t today,’ he stage-whispered, offering some levity. He cast his eyes back to Giorgio and Pietro, still fussing in the dingy. ‘ Facciamo sempre tardi! ’

Lucia managed a laugh as she bid them farewell. She untangled Foscari’s lead, then turned and headed in the direction of the Rialto. Though she felt a little lighter, the unknown of what lay ahead at lunch loomed over her.

Pietro watched her go, mesmerised. ‘Do you think she’s aware of the attention she gets?’ he asked his brother.

‘If she is, I don’t think she cares,’ Giorgio said, uninterested. ‘Like me.’

‘ Eh! ’ Miro barked at his sons, hurrying them along. Tossing them the ends of a sopping wet fishing net, he continued, ‘Why doesn’t one of you do something about it and ask her to dinner? Lucia is one of a kind.’

‘Oh, no, Papà. She may be beautiful, but . . .’ Pietro lowered his voice, speaking directly to his brother. ‘You know what they say about her.’

Giorgio sighed. ‘I still don’t care.’

‘Temptation personified. Venice’s most untouchable. L’Orfana .’ With Miro now walking in the direction of the mercato and out of earshot, Pietro continued, ‘The man who learns to tame her will become legendary.’

Giorgio rolled his eyes. ‘If she ever lets that happen.’

Pietro watched Lucia disappear into the crowd of market-goers, leaving a palpable trail of curiosity and desire behind her.

Turning onto the three-metre-wide Calle del Leone, just a few paces from home, Lucia drew no attention. Noting some debris and muddy water gathered at the street’s lowest point, she exhaled in frustration, causing Foscari’s little nose to immediately tilt skyward to check on her. The overnight high tide always left its calling card, taunting Lucia with its careless deposits of stagnant lagoon waste in her most precious corner of Venice. For this, she despised it.

Approaching her pale pink three-storey palazzo, Lucia removed her gloves, carefully tucking each in the respective pockets of her coat. Foscari, patiently awaiting his freedom, knew to sit still so that Lucia could release him from his leash. He gave a friendly yap in the direction of a man who was sitting on the cool grey pavers, his back against the glossy black door of Lucia’s Italian language school – La Scuola Rosa.

A manicured mop of dark brown curls gathered around Francesco’s forehead and ears, framing his striking profile. His eyes remained fixed on the book cradled in his hands. With his legs stretched out long and straight in front of him, he was the epitome of Italian style: the burgundy tapered cotton trousers cinched in at his ankles met an immaculate pair of chocolate-coloured suede loafers, paired with a crisp white linen shirt and burnt-orange merino knit. It was the perfect combination of trend and comfort.

Francesco underlined key passages in his book with the pencil that lived near-permanently behind his right ear. His eyes feverishly scanned each line, seeking out moments worth returning to. He underlined another, nodding with satisfaction as he did so. Then, spotting Foscari, he tapped the top of his thigh with his free hand, welcoming the dog to his side. Without lifting his gaze, he licked his right index finger, preparing to turn the page.

‘You’re early.’ Lucia smiled, proffering a hand to pull him from the ground. ‘No coat again today, I see.’

‘You know I’m hot-blooded.’

‘Checco, it’s four degrees. Even Foscari has his winter cappottino on.’

Ignoring both her comment and her outstretched hand, Francesco banged his fist passionately against the cover of the now-closed book. His lesson plan notes fluttered beside him. ‘It’s even better than I predicted,’ he beamed. His warm breath birthed small clouds of condensation on the wintry breeze. ‘ This is exactly what we’ve been talking about for years, Lucia. The tendency towards cultural inertia and the resulting stagnation of societal values.’ Standing tall he gathered his belongings, and Foscari’s long little body ran a series of circles around his feet.

‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ Lucia said, rummaging through her handbag. ‘I only bought it for you so that I can borrow it once you’re finished.’

‘If only some of this messaging could reach the people with power! Imagine the possibilities!’ He flapped the book, entitled, Ieri, Ma Domani , or Yesterday, But Tomorrow , in the air, allowing its glossy cover to glisten in the morning sun, and Foscari gave a short sharp bark seemingly in support of Francesco’s passion.

‘Here, can you hold this?’ Lucia passed him the wicker basket, which now also contained a few carrots, celery, two yellow-skinned onions, and a small glass jar of saffron threads, all of which she had purchased on her walk back from the mercato .

Peering into the basket, Francesco inspected the produce and the two paper-wrapped parcels. ‘From Miro?’

‘ Rombo .’

‘Ah, buono ,’ he said, raising his eyebrows in approval. ‘Today we shall eat like kings.’

‘ Eccole! ’ she announced, locating her keys. With a rusty turn in the keyhole, the door’s latch released with a loud clunk . It took the usual three shoulder thrusts into the jamb to open the door, an art Lucia had perfected. ‘Don’t you always eat like a king?’ she asked.

Rearranging the folders of lesson notes and resources in his arms, he winked. ‘Usually. Except for that one time you experimented with the rucola e —’

But Lucia was quick to jab him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘ Zitto, tu !’

They both entered the foyer and she closed the door. The air inside contained the familiar scents of vanilla, wood and photocopied paper, entwined with the heady comfort of Lucia’s lingering breakfast coffee.

Francesco walked through the classroom spaces and across to the wrought-iron spiral staircase nestled in the back corner of the school. He stopped, pointing to the small red Stop sign displaying a painted black silhouette of a dachshund, glued low on the wooden newel post. ‘No stairs for you, Piccolo . You know the rules.’ And to save the pressure on his little elongated frame, Francesco readjusted his belongings and scooped Foscari under his right arm. ‘I welcome tips, you know.’

Foscari growled playfully, then tucked his muzzle into the crook of Francesco’s wrist.

As they began their ascent to the second floor, Lucia took a moment to ensure the pink Chiuso plaque was securely in place on the front door’s window. Through the glass pane she could see out onto Calle del Leone.

Directly across from La Scuola Rosa was the disused shell of the once-bustling restaurant, La Commedia, aptly named after the Venetian theatre style la Commedia dell’Arte , and for the fact that it once, close to two hundred years ago, was a small playhouse. Next to La Commedia was a narrow coffee bar frequented mostly by students of her school, and further along, a sartoria , marked by the gold decal of a cotton-threaded needle on the front window.

This was Lucia’s Venice.

Or at least her corner of it.

Bringing her focus back inside, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. Her eyes looked heavy and her cheeks were as pale as the lagoon’s sea foam. Fresh anxiety rippled through her. Shaking her shoulders, Lucia pulled herself together and turned the snib on the inside of the door, locking out the rest of Venice.

‘Are you ok?’ Francesco asked from the top of the stairwell. He studied her tired-looking features.

‘Perfect,’ she replied stoically, standing by the mahogany welcome desk. ‘ Vai . I’ll just be a moment.’ But even she wasn’t convinced by her performance, and she noted how Francesco seemed to be assessing her suspiciously.

Just as the last view of Francesco’s feet disappeared up onto the second floor, Lucia scanned her surroundings.

La Scuola Rosa. Her pride and joy.

A language school for adult learners from across the globe, it was described as a welcoming home away from home. Many students told her they never wanted to leave.

She allowed a little melancholic sigh to escape her lips as she looked around.

Two commanding tables in matching mahogany sat at either end of the open-plan floor. The tables were paired with upholstered chairs, each featuring the red and gold gonfalone di San Marco ; the winged lion standing ever proudly, sword drawn protectively over its city and people. The vaulted wooden ceiling reflected the glow of the hand-blown pink glass sconces which were built into the vast wall of shelving to her right. Bookcases, each filled to the brim with resources and texts, just begged to be rummaged through. The original hand-painted signage made by her mother was still in use – grammatica , esercizi , libri , informazioni , copioni and guide . It was an evolving library of language and words, and students were encouraged to take, borrow, share and add to what they found.

Lucia walked across to the bookcase ladder her father had made, complete with two decommissioned gondola oars fashioned into long handrails. With a gentle push, the ladder travelled along the bookshelf on its castors, coming to a stop by the spiral staircase Francesco had just ascended. The tip of one of the oars was positioned perfectly so that it would ring a bell as it passed by.

But that had been her father. The family tinker.

Lucia took a deep breath and walked to the staircase, resting one hand on the ferro di prua that had been used as an endpiece for the banister. The brass was cold and smooth under her fingers. She remembered the day she had bought it with her father from a renowned maestro d’ascia who worked in one of the now-closed squeri in Giudecca. The thought brought the smell of freshly turned wood and waterproofing lacquer to her mind, as well as the way her father’s hand had fiercely gripped hers as he contemplated a new creative endeavour. It had cost a small fortune at the time, but he had assured Lucia that the ferro would be at home at La Scuola Rosa, and it was she who suggested that it live on the capping.

It was as if her parents had never been stolen from her.

They were imbued in the deep hue of the woodgrain. Stitched into the upholstery. Reflected in the views of the Grand Canal seen from the arched windows behind the staircase. Etched eternally in the margin scribbles of texts and papers still lining the bookcase.

They were everywhere, yet nowhere at all.

Suddenly, the air around her began to thicken with dread. It filled Lucia’s lungs to the point of drowning, and all she could do to escape the weight of her worry was to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Up the stairs she went, beyond the second floor, similar to the first, and up to her studio apartment on the third. Francesco and Foscari were waiting for her.

Though she couldn’t be certain, she sensed that today would be the day everything changed. The day she knew would come. The trouble was, she wasn’t ready. In the deepest corner of her heart, she knew she never would be.

Having lost everything once before, the gossamer-thin hold she had on her life was simply that. Impermanent. Fleeting. Ephemeral. And Lucia knew it could, and would , be taken away.

Just. Like. That .