Chapter 65 Loretta
L ORETTA
Loretta slips from their bed and quietly dresses in the dim light of the moon. How is she ever going to sleep again? The guilt keeps her eyes from closing.
Alberto stirs. ‘Che fai?’
‘I can’t sleep. I’m going for a walk.’
He squints at his phone by the bed. ‘It’s four-thirty in the morning. What’s wrong with you?’
‘I need some air.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ He flicks the covers off.
‘I want to be alone. Go back to sleep.’ She makes for the door, not giving him a chance to argue.
‘Ti amo.’ He’s already half asleep again.
‘Ti amo, Alberto.’
She tries to pray as she walks along the empty lanes but her prayers are hollow. It rained hard for most of the night and the water on the ground sloshes around her boots. Venice is bleak in the flooded darkness. Piazza San Marco is abandoned but for the pigeons. She walks past Florian, with its wet red wicker chairs stacked on the tables; past the basilica, battered by the acqua alta of November but still standing; past the giant illuminated Christmas tree, the clock tower and archways of the Doge’s Palace, and onto the esplanade.
She reaches the installation in front of Hotel Danieli. The metal sculpture is in pieces, smashed by the stampeding crowd who were escaping the rain after the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. The aluminium Venetian workers – the gondoliers, chefs and shopkeepers – who were being crushed by the metal tourists now lie scattered and broken from the feet of real tourists. What strikes her is that the tourists destroyed the metal versions of themselves as well; the tourists destroyed everything.
Yesterday, the mayor stood in front of the broken structure and spoke of the need to limit the daily visitor intake for Venice and to impose a tourist tax. ‘These eat-and-run visitors are killing us!’ he shouted at the gathered journalists.
Whatever has caused it, whether it’s Magdalena standing in the tank of water, the visit from the Clooneys (who were actually quite pleasant in the end) or the impassioned speech from the mayor, this art exhibition is getting the world talking. The internet can’t get enough of it.
A small stray dog trots past her. He cocks his leg at the sculpture and pisses on the face of a chef before trotting away.
Loretta looks down at the water swirling around her ankles. A day, at least, of acqua alta lies ahead for San Marco before the water drains. Soon the council workers will be out laying wooden footbridges all over the city. If only all the talking and tweeting would lead to action to stop this from happening over and over.
The rain begins to fall again. In her sleep-deprived state, she forgot to pack an umbrella, so she heads back towards home. Piazza San Marco is still in predawn darkness when she passes through it. Magdalena’s tank is filled with dirty water the height of Loretta’s chest. Magdalena hasn’t yet arrived for the day.
Loretta walks to the tank and places her palm on the glass. The rain comes down harder now. She isn’t dressed for it, in a woollen trench instead of a raincoat. She keeps her hand up against the tank and leans her forehead on it. The sign at her feet says ‘ affogando ’ .
‘Me too,’ she says, a sob escaping her. ‘Me too.’
The sound of a camera shutter makes her jump. A few metres away, a man, standing under the awning of the gelato shop, takes a second photo of her.
‘What are you doing?’ she shouts. ‘Stop it!’
‘I don’t speak Italian, love,’ he says, so she repeats it in English.
‘Sorry, couldn’t resist. It’s a great shot.’ He has an Irish accent.
‘I did not consent to you taking this photo.’
‘I don’t need your consent. You’re in a public place.’
She joins him under the awning. ‘Why are you here? It is not even five in the morning.’
‘Waiting for the artist. Nobody’s taken a photo of her climbing into the tank.’
‘Why do you want to photograph that? It will ruin the illusion.’
He lights a cigarette. ‘On the contrary – makes it more potent. Her willingness to return, to suffer again.’
She takes a step closer to him. ‘Delete my photo. Please, I am asking you nicely.’
His eyes rest on hers. ‘You’re that famous cook, Signora Bianchi.’
She doesn’t answer.
‘I’m Dan.’ He turns his face to blow the smoke away from her. ‘It’s too good a shot to delete.’ He shows her the photo on his camera screen. ‘It’s magic, look at it. Just you, in the rain, in the dark. Beautiful.’
She’s shocked by how broken she looks in it.
‘Are you worried about your city sinking?’ he asks.
‘What a stupid question to ask a Venetian.’
‘All I’m saying is this shot will help more than the whole exhibition, trust me. You can give people facts about the rising water, you can stick a professional artist in a tank, it’s not going to achieve anything. This here’—he taps the camera screen—‘a Venetian icon who everyone loves standing by herself in the flood, this is the emotional connection people need to get on board with change. I have to publish this.’
‘You do not have to at all, but you are going to do what you want anyway.’ She turns her back to him and walks to the hotel as the rain pours on her.
She doesn’t notice how cold she is until she reaches their apartment and has trouble unlocking the door – her hand is shaking so much. The unflinching eyes of il Papa are glued on her. Alberto’s snoring can be heard through the door; it’s loud enough to wake people in Barcelona.
She has to tell him about Flavia. He deserves to know.