Chapter 8
Jacopo disappears for half an hour, then texts us to meet him at the canal door. He’s not in Catrìn. Instead, he’s in a varnished wooden boat with two oars and no motor.
I eye it doubtfully. ‘You want me to get on … that?’
‘Best way to see Venice.’
I climb awkwardly on board and find a spot in the middle. It’s surprisingly deep and stable. ‘Is this a gondola, then?’
‘Hardly,’ Leo snorts, taking up the oar at the front. ‘This is a batelina. The only time Jacopo touches his dad’s gondola is when he’s cleaning it.’
Jacopo bristles. ‘That’s what apprentice gondoliers do. It’s part of our craft, part of our art.’
I love how he calls it an art, like it matters as much as anything in a gallery. But I don’t love it when he asks, ‘Ready to sing? You know “O Sole Mio”, sì?’
Leo takes one look at my horrified face and bursts out laughing. ‘Jacopo’s kidding.’ Then, when I relax, he adds, ‘Just hum along if you don’t know the words.’
Since when does Leo-Leonardo make jokes?
And since when do I like it?
Might be time to call a truce and just enjoy this new side to him. All this second-guessing is exhausting, and it’s hard to stay angry when I’m drifting silently through the floating city.
Without the engine noise, away from the peopled chaos of the calli – and especially here in the smaller, quieter canals – I hear water sloshing against stone, the creak and glug of the oars.
Streaks of green slime mark the tides like a ruler.
If Griselda were here, she’d collect it and turn it into biodegradable bubble wrap, or something equally world-changing.
I picture her wandering around with armfuls of it like a monstrous blob and make a mental note to add this to my growing collection of unflattering Griselda portraits.
At every junction – if canals have junctions – Jacopo calls out in a deep, musical voice. And other people respond like it’s some kind of code.
‘What is that?’
‘It’s what we should do in the mornings,’ Leo answers.
‘Huh?’
‘So we can work out if the bathroom’s free. We can shout “Pope oeeee” to check the coast is clear like the gondoliers do, and reply “Oeeee vien vanti” if it is.’
Jacopo splashes Leo with the oar. ‘And that is why you do not have a real girlfriend. Me? I’m happy to share. Especially with Evie.’
A real girlfriend? What … does he have a fake one or something? Before I can ask, my mobile buzzes.
Griselda.
I ignore it, but it buzzes again. And again.
‘Sorry – better take this,’ I mumble, hunching over the phone. ‘Hi.’
‘Finally. Mum’s been asking me why she can’t see your posts. Why haven’t you been sharing anything? You usually photograph your dinner before you eat it.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just … busy settling in.’
‘Has Paola called yet?’
My stomach lurches. ‘Um, not yet. Just got here, remember?’
She pauses to decide what else to hassle me about, then, ‘Switch to video? Mum said you got a big fancy room, but that can’t be right.’
‘My signal’s rubbish,’ I lie.
‘Where are you? Sounds like you’re outside.’
I swallow. She’s on to me. ‘No, no, like I said, my signal’s pretty bad.’
‘I didn’t have any problems when I was there.’
‘Yeah, but my phone’s ancient. Another one of your hand-me-downs, remember?’
‘I saved up for my new one,’ she snaps. ‘It’s not my fault you spend everything you earn on nib replacements for your stylus.’
Sigh. Here we go. ‘How would you know? Been snooping in my things?’
‘Something to hide?’ Griselda counters.
‘No!’
‘Then either post what you’re doing or call Mum.’
She hangs up just as a yellow ambulance boat streaks past, siren wailing.
Jacopo tilts his head. ‘I did not understand. But you sound very fierce. Like the Lion of San Marco.’
My accent always gets stronger when I’m wound up. Jacopo isn’t judging. Leo might be, though. He’s watching me carefully from the bow.
‘The lion of what?’ I ask, steering us away from my call.
Jacopo points the oar towards a banner strung between two balconies. ‘See the lion with wings? That is San Marco, our patron saint.’
Right. St Mark’s Square and all that. I’ve seen yellow landmark signs pointing to it – sometimes right next to each other, pointing in opposite directions.
‘Any other Venetian creatures I should know about?’
Leo looks over, suddenly thoughtful. ‘You like that kind of thing?’
I shrug, not about to admit it. He’d probably think it’s immature.
‘So is it difficult?’ I nod towards the oars.
‘Rowing?’ Jacopo grins. ‘Even a bambino can do it.’
I watch Leo lean into the oar, the smooth drive of his movement. The defined arms and broad shoulders reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror yesterday morning start to make sense.
‘Hmm. Not sure I believe that.’
‘Want a turn?’ Jacopo asks, already grinning.
I glance between the boys. ‘Where would I go?’
‘The front oar is the motor. The back oar steers. Depends on the build.’ He gives me a slow once-over. ‘You could do either.’
Leo and I share an eye roll.
‘Chicken,’ Jacopo calls as I step carefully to the bow to join Leo.
Leo moves behind me, voice low in my ear.
‘It’s not about strength. It’s efficiency. Move your whole body, not just your arms.’ His hands brush over mine as he adjusts my grip on the oar. I go still, my brain glitching at his touch.
‘Like this?’
‘Looser.’ His hand moves to my hip, guiding me just a fraction. ‘Soften your knees. Go with the water.’
It’s awkward at first, but not terrible. Leo stays close, helping me find the rhythm again when I get stuck.
‘You’re getting it!’ He sounds genuinely pleased. I risk a glance back. He’s doing that whole-face smile. At me.
I almost forget Jacopo until his voice cuts through.
‘Would you like to see some street art by a very talented unknown artist?’
Leo’s smile drops away.
‘What?’ Jacopo is the picture of innocence. ‘Tourists love our Banksy.’
‘Huh?’ I twist in the direction he’s pointing.
I’ve seen Banksy’s stuff online, but never in real life.
This one’s a tiny kid in a life jacket, arm raised, a smoking flare in one hand.
By the looks of it, it won’t be here much longer.
It’s barely above the waterline, the colours already slipping away.
‘I can show you some local pieces if you like—’
‘Can you stop wasting time, Jacopo? We’re supposed to be taking her to Ca’ Rezzonico, remember?’
The boat rocks as Leo steps towards the stern. ‘Here, let me steer for a bit.’
I instinctively shift my weight the other way, and then—
It all happens fast. The bow pitches and suddenly I’m tipping over, arms flailing for balance. ‘Guys—?’ I start.
Then cold water slams into me, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. I hang, suspended, for long moments before I resurface, coughing, sky and canal swapping places.
I’m vaguely aware of Jacopo calling my name as the boat slides in and out of focus. Then Leo’s there, reaching down and hauling me back on board with a grunt. Water sloshes everywhere as I collapse on to the seat, dripping and shivering.
‘Am … am I g-going to catch something? Whwhat’s the sewage system like?’ I chatter.
Leo yanks off his hoodie and shoves it at me. ‘Here. Put this on.’
A shiver rattles through me. ‘N-no. It’s yours.’
He presses it into my hands, then adds the puffa he’d left on the seat.
‘This too. Just take them … Nessie.’ His tone is light, teasing – but his eyes move over my face, checking every inch to make sure I’m really OK.
And that, more than the proper down-stuffed jacket – the kind worth more than my whole outfit – is what warms me most.
‘I prefer kelpie, actually. I’ll take you with me next time.’
‘Kelpie?’
For once, my pronunciation is better than his.
‘Scottish water spirit,’ I explain, teeth still chattering. ‘Pretends it’s a horse to lure people into lochs and drown them.’
Leo’s gaze slips towards the water like he’s trying to imagine it.
From the fondamenta, a girl in a bobble hat and scarf waves at us. ‘Tutto bene?’
Jacopo replies, too accented for me to catch, but whatever it was sends her marching off at a quick pace.
‘What just happened?’ I ask Leo.
‘He told her you’re fine, but he’ll use any excuse to chat to a pretty girl.’
I groan into my hands. ‘My God. He couldn’t even see her face.’
Being soaked through rules out Ca’ Rezzonico, so we row straight back to the palazzo.
Jacopo’s mum barely lets me shower before parking me at the kitchen table with a steaming bowl of pasta in chicken broth.
It revives me enough to go out with the boys again – on the condition there’s no water or culture involved.
I don’t know if this is normal Saturday stuff or the build-up to Carnevale, but there’s so much happening – musicians in the streets, pockets of improvised theatre, busy markets in every campo.
By bedtime, I’m so wiped out from my dip in the canal and city overload that I can barely keep my eyes open. I can’t sleep without messaging Rebel though, so I pull Leo’s hoodie over my pyjamas, breathing in his faint paint-and-soap smell, and grab my phone.
@TotallySketchy: Sorry I’ve been quiet today. Things have been mad.
I wait, hoping he’ll come online, but I’m struggling to stay awake.
My kelpie girl watches from the screen: wild hair, dripping mane. And now I’m thinking of Leo and the quiet care I didn’t expect from him. It feels wrong, like I’ve let him into somewhere he shouldn’t be. Rebel’s and my space.
So I try to hold on to Rebel instead.
@TotallySketchy: