Chapter 33 Sophie
S OPHIE
On the way back to Il Cuore from the markets, Sophie and Rocco walk across the Rialto Bridge. It’s an overcast morning and the canal is peaceful in the semi-darkness. The streetlights are still on, their yellow reflections shimmering on the water.
‘Can I stop to get a picture of the canal? It’s stunning in this light.’ Sophie leans on the railing. ‘I love how the waves lap right up against the buildings. You don’t see that anywhere else in the world.’
‘This is the magic of Venice,’ Rocco says. ‘The balance between water and stone.’
‘I love that! I’m going to quote you in my feature.’
He laughs. ‘Okay, but also write that water and stone is the magic and the disaster of Venice.’ He leans on the railing next to her. ‘The big ships that come through the canal make the waves too big. Every day the water washes away more of the clay. The buildings are eroding. They will crumble soon.’
Sophie shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand how the ships are still allowed to come through.’
‘Come, let me show you something, but we have to walk back the other way.’
They turn back in the direction of the markets, Rocco dragging the cart full of food behind him. On the other side of the canal, he squats down and rubs the ground with his fingers. ‘See this?’ He looks up at her. ‘This is concrete. When the ancient stones erode, instead of replacing them with new stones, the government fixes the cracks with concrete.’ He stands up and kicks the concrete with the tip of his shoe. ‘Centuries of beauty destroyed like this, piece by piece.’
The concrete is smeared messily into the surrounding stones. Sophie takes out her camera and photographs it.
He laughs through his nose. ‘ This is what you want to photograph? Will your people at the magazine want a photo of concrete?’
‘No, but I do. This is important.’
He takes her the long way back to the hotel, stopping at different places to point out more signs of destruction. ‘See that step? When I was a child, my friend Armando lived in this building and we used to climb five stairs to the front door. Now the stairs are all under water, only this one step remains ... That angel statue on the bank over there, it used to be two angels. You see how he is looking down? The other angel is looking up from under the water. A drowned angel.’
They arrive back at the hotel, where Loretta gives Rocco a mouthful about lagging behind with the food.
‘I was showing Sophie the damaged stones on the ground. I want her to see what is happening to Venice.’
‘Stones? This is why you let my fish rot in the heat? To stare at stones? Dio aiutami . ’ Loretta taps the back of his head. ‘The only stones I am worried about are the ones in your head!’
Rocco spreads his arms out. ‘What heat, Mamma? My toes are frozen and I’m wearing woollen socks. I could leave the fish outside for three days in this weather and it would still be fresh.’
‘Go and unpack the food into the fridge and cut up the oranges on the bench. Save your staring at the ground for when you have time.’ Loretta hands a basket of pastries to Sophie and softens her tone. ‘Help me in the restaurant, please, Sophie? I cannot rely on my son.’
Sophie wants to say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Loretta. I’m perfectly happy to keep hiding in here.’ But she can’t avoid the restaurant forever to avoid the one guest who makes her squirm. She takes the basket of pastries and follows Loretta out there, holding her breath. The restaurant’s packed. She does a quick scan of the room. No Christian. She exhales.
Loretta puts her to work and she’s instantly busy, going between the restaurant and the kitchen, clearing tables, topping up the coffee pot and juice jugs, refilling fruit platters. She doesn’t pay much attention to the diners with one notable exception.
The priest. Holy mackeroly, the priest !
Loretta calls Sophie over to a table and introduces her to Padre Alessandro and his parents, Signore and Signora di Rita. Loretta’s practically frothing at the mouth as she tells Sophie twice in the space of a minute that the holy Alessandro has come home for a visit all the way from the Vatican itself. This holy Alessandro, Sophie thinks, is the unlikeliest of priests. If an antipriest was a thing, he’d be it.
The only priests she ever knew growing up were withered, rambling old men. But this guy, mother of God! His eyes are such a pale blue they’re almost grey, and when he smiles, there’s an altogether too-knowing look in them. He’s dressed in a tight pinstripe black shirt and skinny jeans. The jeans are red. Red skinny jeans. On a priest. He’s got a mop of blond wavy hair and a sexy three-day growth. He’s tall and broad, with his sleeves pulled taut against his ripped arms. A thousand per cent there’s a sixpack hiding under that shirt. This is the kind of priest she’d drag herself to early Mass for every Sunday morning.
‘Welcome to Venezia, Sophie.’ Alessandro gives her a lopsided smile.
Her tongue sits like lead in her mouth. ‘Welcome you too, thanks,’ she mumbles, immediately wishing for an earthquake to swallow her up before she says anything even more idiotic.
It’s only when she walks away from the table a minute later, having thoroughly humiliated herself with her slack-jawed staring, that she remembers the weird conversation between Rocco and Marina yesterday about a mystery man who was coming to breakfast with his parents, and everything clicks into place.
Oh. Oh! A Catholic priest, Marina . How very Fleabag of you.
She’s still smiling to herself at the salaciousness of it all when she walks straight into someone at the entrance to the restaurant. ‘I’m so sorry!’ She takes a step back.
‘Hey, no worries.’ Christian smiles. ‘Nice to see you again.’
Her face feels numb. She forces herself to smile. ‘Hi.’
Then she locks eyes with his partner, whose hand he’s holding. The woman should be hospitalised for malnutrition. She’s dressed in a grey jumper that’s so big on her she could fit into it twice.
Aggressive mimicry. This woman is his prey. Sophie doesn’t know much about a lot of things, but this she knows. She swallows. Her throat’s so tight that it hurts. ‘Ah, are you ... are you after a table?’
‘We are indeed.’ Christian gives her another disarming smile.
Sophie never knew that it was possible to hate someone you don’t know, but she wholeheartedly hates this man.
She leads them to a free table. The woman catches her eye again as she sits down. She needs help. Sophie doesn’t need to be told to understand this. She leaves their table with her stomach in thick, bunched-up knots.
Marina comes into the kitchen. Sophie doesn’t care about her illicit little romance with the hot priest any more, and she’s already forgotten about Rocco’s despair for his sinking city.
All she can think about is the woman in the restaurant with the sunken cheeks and thin brown hair cut shorter than a schoolboy’s. She needs to find out more about this situation, because she’s going to do whatever she can to help her.
Sophie knows a matter of life or death when she sees one.