Chapter 9 Loretta
L ORETTA
Loretta’s leg is going numb. She wriggles on the hard plastic chair to shake off the pins and needles. It’s been one of the longest nights of her life, in the intensive care unit keeping company with Oriana, the nurse who also hasn’t left Alberto’s side, and Luca, who’s been checking on him regularly.
Luca comes back in at just before six am and props himself against the foot of the bed. ‘I’m going home to sleep. My colleagues will take good care of him, don’t worry.’
‘Thank you, Luca. God was smiling on us the day you were born. My Alberto’s in safe hands with you.’
‘That’s if he ever agrees to let my hands near him.’ He looks sideways at Alberto, who’s breathing heavily in his sleep. ‘I hope he changes his mind and consents to the surgery. I’m genuinely worried for him if he doesn’t.’
‘Oh, he’ll consent. You leave that to me.’
‘I didn’t know Zio was so stubborn.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘More scared than he is of dying?’
‘What can I tell you?’ She shrugs. ‘The man’s an idiot.’
Luca chuckles. ‘You look tired, Zia. You should think about going home. You need to sleep.’
‘Sleep? Ha! I have to work. I’m calling Marina to come sit in my place so I can go and cook.’
‘You can’t be serious. You’re working today?’
‘Of course I am! People come from all over the world to eat at my restaurant. Sometimes they tell me they’ve been saving for years to come to Venice just to dine at Il Cuore. I feel guilty enough about missing last night. You said Alberto was stable. So it’s safe to leave him with Marina, isn’t it?’
‘He’s stable, yes, for now . But he had a resting heart rate of one seventy-five when he was brought in yesterday. I can’t guarantee it won’t go up again. And what about you? Excuse me for mentioning your age, but you’re sixty-six years old. You have advanced arthritis, and it wasn’t so long ago that you were admitted here yourself with dangerously high blood pressure. I haven’t forgotten that, you know. Maybe what happened yesterday is a sign to slow down.’
‘Slow down?’ she scoffs. ‘Are you mistaking me with someone else, dear Luca?’
He squats down in front of her and takes her hands in his. ‘Zia, you know how much I love and respect you. But you going to work today is madness. Please go home and get some rest, then come back and convince your stubborn husband to let me save his life.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me. Ciao, Luca, ciao ciao.’ She waves him away.
Once Luca’s gone, she pulls her chair closer to Alberto’s bedside. The room is separated from the others by a thin blue curtain that doesn’t keep out the sound of a child crying and the stream of questions from his panicked mother to a nurse. Along with the incessant beeps of monitors, the phones and pagers ringing and the ambulance sirens, it’s a wonder that Alberto’s fallen asleep again.
Loretta picks up his hand and strokes the back of his knobbly fingers. Just about every joint in both of their hands is misshapen, swollen and red. She at least looks after her nails, but Alberto’s are brittle and yellow.
Maybe Luca’s right; maybe the time has come for Alberto to slow down. Alberto works as hard as she does, starting his day before sunrise to get ready for the market with Rocco, then being her right hand all day long. He cleans fish and trims meat, washes dishes, sets and clears the tables, arranges the flowers, looks after guests, serves, helps with laundry. There’s nothing he doesn’t do apart from the cooking. He’s ten years older than her and he never complains. Now his body has complained for him.
Alberto opens his eyes and moans. ‘Loretta? Are you still here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I dreamed you left.’
‘I’m here.’
He squeezes her hand. ‘Good. I was worried you’d gone to the restaurant.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
He sighs. ‘I want to go home.’
‘I know you do. Luca just left. He’s insisting you have surgery.’
‘What does Luca know? He’s barely out of nappies.’
‘He’s a forty-year-old man. One of the most celebrated surgeons in Italy. What are you talking about?’
‘Keep your voice down, we’re in a hospital,’ he stage-whispers. ‘Even after I have a heart attack, you still scold me.’
‘I wouldn’t be scolding if you had even an ounce of common sense.’
He gives her a sleepy smile. ‘Give me a kiss, Loretta, go on.’
‘With that breath? You’re dreaming.’
‘What else did Luca say, then? Tell me.’
‘He said you have to quit smoking.’
He guffaws.
‘I should try to set him up with Marina,’ she says.
‘You say this like the thought has just come to you, not like you’ve already tried and failed to force it eighty-five times already.’ He yawns.
She ignores the jibe. ‘The two of them make sense together.’
Luca’s not only intelligent and handsome, he’s also sweet natured, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s wealthy. He comes from a good Venetian family, he goes to church. What more could Marina ask for?
‘He must have been lonely yesterday with the girls away at their mother’s for Christmas.’ Her lip curls whenever she speaks of Luca’s ex-wife, Corrine, a French nurse who cheated on him with a man twice her age, when their girls were toddlers. A Bitcoin tycoon she met online apparently. Loretta has never trusted the French. ‘I’ll invite him to the restaurant. The more he visits, the more chance Marina has to see what she’s miss—’ She stops when she sees that Alberto’s eyes are closed again.
He looks anxious even as he sleeps. It makes her heart ache.
She shuts her eyes too and the events of yesterday come rushing back to her. She remembers how only minutes before his cardiac arrest, Alberto had asked her for a photo of them together in the piazza and she’d refused. It scares her to think this might have been the last opportunity for them to ever have a photo, and instead of smiling for him, she’d rejected him.
Next time he asks, she’ll say yes. Come to think of it, has she ever asked him to have a photo with her instead of the other way around? She can’t remember a time when she did.
‘I do love you, Alberto, I do,’ she whispers.
She promises herself that when he’s home and feeling well again, she’ll pull out her phone and take a photo of him. For posterity.
Oriana leaves her station in the corner of the room and comes to Alberto’s bed to check his drip. He stirs but doesn’t open his eyes.
‘They’re organising his room on the ward now,’ Oriana whispers. ‘We should have it ready in an hour or so. If there’s anything you’d like to bring for him from home, now’s a good time to go.’
‘Yes, okay. I’ll go get his toothbrush and mouthwash, more for my sake than his.’ Loretta’s lower back cracks when she stands. ‘If he wakes while I’m gone, will you tell him where I am?’
‘I will.’
‘And you have my number in case anything happens?’
‘Yes, yes, go, signora. I’ll look after him, I promise.’
Loretta kisses Alberto’s forehead. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
He stays asleep.
The big Christmas tree at the entrance of the hospital makes her inexplicably sad. When she steps out of the hospital’s front doors, the cold air coming off the canal slaps her in the face. She tightens her scarf and zips up the jacket Marina dropped off for her last night. It isn’t often that she’s outside this early, so she steals a glance at the dark blue water, waves gently lapping under the light of the moon that shines even as the sun rises.
The streets of San Marco are abandoned. Venice is slow to rise and early to bed, especially in winter, and Loretta likes being out in the city before the clatter of tourists on the streets. She walks quickly, her hands tucked into her jeans pockets and her breath warming the scarf, until she reaches the front steps of the hotel.
But she doesn’t go inside. Instead, she finds herself continuing along narrow intercepting alleyways and across empty piazzas to San Zaccaria. The huge wooden doors of the church are closed but she knows they’ll be unlocked. San Zaccaria never closes. Without letting herself think about what she’s doing, she pushes the door open.
It’s freezing inside the empty church despite the heaters glowing orange. Loretta crosses herself with holy water. She drops five euro into a rusted tin, lights a thin white candle for Alberto and slots it into position on the top row of a metal stand. By the end of the day, the entire stand will be filled with the hopeful prayers of others, but for now hers is the only intention, flickering golden on its own.
She walks up the centre aisle and genuflects next to a wooden pew close to the front of the church. She kneels on the padded kneeler, clasping her hands in prayer. Looking straight ahead past the altar, to the large painting of the Madonna resplendently swathed in robes and seated on a throne with the naked infant Jesus in her arms, Loretta whispers, ‘Ave, o Maria, piena di grazia ...’
Her heart skips a beat when the sacristy door creaks open. She stays focused on the painting of the Blessed Virgin. Footsteps approach. From the corner of her eye, she sees the nun walk past. The nun slides into the pew behind Loretta and sits close enough that Loretta can hear her breathing.
‘You came.’ Flavia’s voice is quiet.
Loretta links her fingers tighter together. ‘Don’t ask me why I’m here, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Because you want to see me as much as I want to see you.’ There’s a Roman accent in Flavia’s speech.
‘Why now?’ Loretta struggles to keep her voice calm as her pain bubbles to the surface. ‘Why, after all these years, have you come back now?’
‘A young Venetian priest I work with at the Vatican was coming home to celebrate a funeral mass happening today. I liked the idea of having company for the journey.’
‘In thirty-six years you haven’t found someone to catch a train with?’
‘I see you haven’t lost your sharp tongue.’ Flavia giggles and Loretta’s heart squeezes at the sound of it.
Loretta continues facing the front of the church. Flavia’s sweet floral perfume fills the air. It feels especially sinful that a nun can smell this good. Loretta breathes Flavia in, committing her scent to memory so she can go to the big farmacia next time she’s in Milan and smell every perfume they have until she finds it.
‘Is it Padre Alessandro you travelled with?’ Loretta asks when she can find her voice again.
‘Yes. You know him?’
‘Everyone knows him. It’s not often a priest from Venice is promoted to the Vatican.’ Loretta pauses. ‘Or a nun. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, cara.’
The easy way Flavia slips in the term of affection makes Loretta giddy. ‘Whose funeral is it anyway?’ she asks to keep the conversation in a safe space.
‘Do you know Signore Zanetti?’
‘Anna-Maria’s husband?’
‘I don’t know the family. Alessandro said his name was Virgilio.’
Loretta chokes up. ‘That’s him. I hadn’t heard. God rest his soul.’
‘Amen.’
Loretta falls silent. Poor Virgilio. Poor Anna-Maria. She wonders if their daughter has returned for the funeral. She’d heard years ago that young Elena had moved to Australia, leaving her parents all alone.
After a minute or two, Flavia coughs. ‘You became famous.’
‘It was unintentional.’
‘It made me so happy to see you on TV, I can’t describe how much. I love that you still wear the black turtleneck and blue jeans. I don’t know anyone else who can dress in her sixties the way she did in her twenties and look just as good. You’re an icon.’
Loretta snorts.
‘I save all the clips of you, you know,’ Flavia continues. ‘I watch them over and over. It comforts me – it’s like you’re with me.’
‘Hmm. I haven’t had anything of you to comfort me in decades. Not one thing.’
‘I know. I never forgot you though, even before you were on TV. I missed you every day of every week of every month of every year.’
‘That’s quite the declaration, when you’re the one who left,’ Loretta reminds her.
Flavia sighs. ‘Aren’t you going to turn around so I can at least see your face?’
Slowly, Loretta pushes herself off her creaky knees and turns to face Flavia Castellani who, even at sixty-five and with her hair hiding beneath a veil, is still the most beautiful human she’s ever laid eyes on.
Flavia smiles at her with closed lips and Loretta’s heart thuds and thuds.
‘Hi,’ Flavia says.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re as stunning as ever, Loretta. Even more so, if that’s possible.’
‘That’s not true.’ Loretta looks down.
‘How’s your husband? Recovering, I hope?’
‘He is.’ She picks at a piece of splintered wood on the pew.
‘Are you happy?’
Loretta takes a deep breath. ‘We’ve been together now for over half of my life. He’s a good father to our children and a good partner for me with the hotel. And he loves me, so ...’ She lets the sentence fall.
‘I was surprised to find out you got married and had children. I didn’t see that coming.’
‘ You were surprised by me ? You blindsided me! I gave you ten years of my life. Ten years, Flavia, and you abandoned me. What did you expect me to do?’ Loretta bites her lip. ‘My parents were desperate for me to marry. I was thirty when you left me with nothing. I told them I’d marry whoever they found for me.’ She looks into Flavia’s eyes. ‘They found me Alberto.’
‘You’ll never know how sorry I am for the hurt I caused you. But I had to leave.’
‘We both did what we had to do.’ Loretta sniffs. ‘I have to get back to the hospital. Alberto will be wondering where I am.’
‘Let me walk you there. It’s barely light outside; I’ll keep you company.’ Her gaze is intense.
Loretta looks away. ‘That’s not a good idea.’
Flavia touches her arm and it sends a shock of electricity all the way down to her fingers. ‘Ciao, Flavia.’ She edges out of the pew. ‘Please tell Padre Alessandro to give the widow, Anna-Maria, my best. I don’t see much of her these days. Have a safe trip back to Rome.’
‘You’re saying goodbye before we’ve even finished saying hello? Why?’ Flavia’s voice is hoarse.
‘Because we made our choices a long time ago and we have to live with them.’ Loretta hurries out of the cold church into the colder wind before Flavia can stop her.
She walks as fast as she can away from San Zaccaria, berating herself for her foolishness. What good did she think would come of going to the church? Idiota.
As she approaches the hotel, her breathing is still ragged, her heart is still galloping. She doesn’t want her children to see her like this, so she walks on towards Piazza San Marco.
The artist is already standing in the tank, wearing the same white dress as yesterday. Two men walk away from her, carrying a long ladder between them. The artist’s name is Magdalena Jansen. She’s a big deal in performance art, likely even the biggest deal in the world. But nobody’s there to watch her yet besides Loretta.
Magdalena sees her and there’s a look of instant recognition in her eyes. Magdalena holds her palm up to the glass. She beckons to Loretta with a nod. Loretta takes slow steps towards her. She holds a shaky hand up to meet Magdalena’s, the cold glass separating them. Their hands are almost identical in size, both with long fingers spread out. When Magdalena holds her stare, the tears Loretta’s been holding on to escape. Magdalena doesn’t look away.
More seconds pass and then Loretta takes her hand off the glass. ‘Grazie,’ she mouths.
The level of the water in the tank is higher than yesterday, now reaching Magdalena’s knees, soaking more of the dress. It’s only day two of the twelve-day exhibition.
Loretta turns away from Magdalena and walks with her head down to the hotel to collect her sick husband’s belongings for hospital. Flavia is here, her darling Flavia, within agonisingly close reach. But Loretta’s future with Alberto, loyal loving Alberto, may as well be set in stone like the stairs of Venice, there until the day they sink into the sea, paving the way to nowhere.
Affogando.