4. Lucia
4
LUCIA
I thought I’d have some time to get used to the idea of returning to Venice, but after I applied for the job at the Palazzo Ducale, things started to move faster than I was prepared for.
I had my virtual interview on Monday with Dr. Nicolo Garzolo. On Tuesday, I got an email from his assistant asking for my references, and on Thursday, Dottore Garzolo calls me again and offered me the contract. “Can you start on Monday?”
“That soon?” I ask, dismayed. Technically, nothing is preventing me from beginning my new job next week. My lease is conveniently ending this Sunday, and I have nowhere to live after that. One of my former colleagues has kindly offered to let me couch surf while I find my next gig, but I’d rather not take her up on her invitation. This contract has come at the perfect time.
Except when I remember the last time I flew into Venice, bile fills my mouth.
“We’ve been putting off our digitization efforts,” Dottore Garzolo replies. He’s in his seventies, balding with a thick white beard. “I’m not one for computers. When I first started, we maintained neat and organized ledgers, and that was sufficient for all our needs, but the director insists that we’re falling behind and I need to get started immediately .” His voice turns accusatory. “You said you were available right away when we talked on Monday.”
“I am,” I reassure him. “I just didn’t think. . .” I can’t pack up my belongings and fly across the Atlantic in three days. It’s too soon. Even if this is something I’ve done more than once, and even if all my belongings fit in a suitcase.
I take a deep breath and push back my nausea. Apart from the emotional turmoil of returning home, there are other, more practical considerations. Where am I going to stay? Venice is a city filled with tourists, and reasonably priced accommodation is always in short supply. The salary Dottore Garzolo offered certainly doesn’t give me a lot of options.
Hang on. Livia, my contact at the company that manages the logistics of renting my parents’ apartment to a succession of tourists, emailed me a couple of weeks ago about renovations. The elevator in the building has broken down, and since my parents’ apartment is on the fourth floor, it’s going to be difficult to rent it out. So, instead, she proposed using the time to replace the bathroom tile and giving the place a new coat of paint. She’s even emptied the place of furniture in preparation for that to happen.
I’d been busy with work, so I skimmed her note and told her to do whatever she thought was necessary. But I’m pretty sure the work hasn’t started and if I ask, she’ll be happy enough to postpone the work until spring.
Dottore Garzolo is waiting for me to reply. My fingers are gripping the phone so hard that my knuckles are white. “Yes,” I reply, jumping into the deep end of the pool. “I can start on Monday.”
And that’s how, three days later, I find myself touching down at Venice’s Marco Polo airport.