quattro
Lucia’s legs stiffened, as if turned to stone.
She blinked and looked again. There it was, the unmistakable glow of light emanating from the upstairs windows of La Commedia.
Lucia suddenly questioned her own eyes. Was it real? Or was she imagining things? Her mind baulked at the idea of what a presence in the building could mean.
Inevitably she thought of the anniversary scandal, and her memories taunted her, playing the noxious headlines on a loop.
Ten years on, but forever l’Orfana
L’Orfana: of age, but not of sound mind
Venice’s untouchable beauty
L’Orfana: single, desperate . . .
She shook her head to clear it. But then the images came.
Lucia brushing wisps of her hair from her cheek into the wind, but evidently crying uncontrollably in public .
Lucia catching a sneeze before it broke, but squinting through a decade of emotional turmoil .
Lucia waving down to Francesco from her apartment window, still in her pyjamas, but farewelling her latest fling .
It would be beyond foolish for anyone in the modern day and age to be irresponsible enough to attempt a similar journalistic stunt, especially given how many high-profile Venetians had come out to support Lucia after the story was published. Then again, even something minor had the potential to throw her back into the public eye, to dredge up her past, and remind those who had perhaps forgotten: Lucia Trevisan was still alive; she was still l’Orfana with the lagoon-green eyes; but now, as an adult, Lucia could be tossed around like public property.
Another roll of thunder overhead released her from the moment. Again, she looked to the illuminated window. Yes, the light was real.
As she brought her hands to her cheeks to steady herself, a thought occurred to her. Something that Miro had mentioned in the market suddenly brought a fresh burst of adrenaline to her bloodstream.
‘ . . . Despite how difficult every anniversary of your parents’ passing may be for you. ’
Anniversary.
The anniversary of her parents’ passing was two weeks away. And for the first time it clicked. Twenty years . . . Their twentieth anniversa—
Before she could let her mind slot all the pieces into place, she had left the safe confines of the school and made her way to La Commedia’s front door. Determination had replaced her previous fear. Lucia wasn’t going to stand around and let an anniversary scandal 2.0 happen.
Standing up close, she pressed her ear to the door and strained to hear anything within. But between the howling wind and the increasing rumble of the thunder, it was near impossible to hear at all. Retreating a few paces, she cast her eyes back to the lit window, but there was no sign of movement within.
Just as the rain suddenly began to fall in earnest, Lucia scuttled across the front of the building and made her way to the water’s edge, right where La Commedia framed the end of Calle del Leone. She continued around the back, doing her best to keep her balance on the narrow footpath which skirted the building, leading to the hidden service canal behind.
Nothing.
Not so much as a dinghy.
No sign of life, or change.
Even the rear-entry door was securely shut with the same rusted lock that had clung there for decades. The narrow stairs which led to the top floor were still tied off with the original chain.
Her shoulders dropped. Perhaps, after the emotional and draining day she’d had, her mind really was playing tricks on her?
The sky above her lit up and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the narrow newspaper-lined windows.
What are you doing?
Her long dark hair was plastered to her cheeks and her eyes showed no sign of their trademark spirit; she looked soulless.
Numbed by the cold and rain, she didn’t so much as flinch when the loudest boom of thunder yet shook Venice, seeming to reach down even as far as its petrified alder-wood roots. Nor did she feel the razor blade–like flicks of the torrential rain on her face.
She walked back to the school and closed the door, making sure to lock it behind her.
Tap. Tap .
Lucia stirred, grumbling something into her sleeve.
Tap. Tap .
She turned over, grimacing as the morning light’s rays found her slitted eyes.
Bang !
Blinking her eyes open, it took Lucia a moment to register where she was. ‘ Oddio . . .’ she breathed, as aches and pains suddenly registered up and down her body.
Francesco stood on the other side of the school’s front window, looking through the glass at Lucia who was now stretching out her limbs, still lying on the raised platform of the display area. His wide eyes and a gentle shake of the head said it all. ‘Lucia, what are you doing there?’
His voice was muffled by the thick double-glazed glass, but Lucia heard him. She moaned as she rolled over and sat up. Rubbing her tender temple, which had spent the night perched on a bilingual dictionary, Lucia wearily got to her feet, opened the door, and stepped onto the calle .
Francesco raised his eyebrows. ‘What were you doing sleeping in the window?’
Her voice cracked as she found it. ‘I . . . I must have fallen asleep . . .’
‘But why?’
A mess of mascara-stained cheeks and rain-frizzed hair, Lucia’s blotchy red eyes returned to La Commedia’s window. ‘A light was on in there last night. After you left . . . I went to investigate, but there was nothing . . . I locked myself in and turned off the lights and just waited. I thought maybe . . .’
Francesco turned and examined the front of La Commedia. It looked just as it always did – locked and empty. ‘Have you been drinking?’
She knew it sounded ridiculous, but she pressed again all the same. ‘No! In there! Last night . . .’
‘Are you su—’
‘I’m . . . I’m almost sure.’
Francesco took both her hands in his and drew her closer. He hadn’t seen this version of Lucia, with the frantic darting eyes and unfinished sentences, in years. It filled him with dread that yesterday’s news had catapulted her back to the past. ‘You’ve had a terrible twenty-four hours, Lucia. Edoardo’s visit. The situation with Vittorio Gatti.’
Pointing to the middle window on the top floor of La Commedia, she said, ‘I thought maybe there were . . .’ Her eyes welled with tears.
‘Photographers? Journalists?’
‘ Sì .’ She sniffed and nodded solemnly.
Foscari’s concerned barks from her apartment upstairs echoed down to the school’s bottom floor, stealing Lucia’s focus for a moment.
‘Oh, please don’t cry.’ He wiped a tear from her cheek and glanced at the calle behind them. ‘Not here. You of all people don’t want an audience for this.’
Before coaxing her back through the door, Francesco shot a cautionary glare up at the windows of La Commedia, his forehead furrowed with concern.
With Lucia under the hot shower, Francesco assessed her apartment; it was just as they had left it after the post-lunch clean-up. Her bed was still made. The notes she had gathered to start work on fundraising for Jacopo’s half of the school were still on her nightstand. Nothing seemed amiss. But there was a strange energy in the air that Francesco couldn’t place. It was as if Lucia’s four walls were unsettled, restless somehow.
He grimaced, and despite the winter chill, opened both sets of windows at either end of the apartment, allowing the refreshing breeze to blow through from the Grand Canal across to Calle del Leone.
Foscari sensed something too. He was sitting on the window seat facing the calle , his gaze fixed on La Commedia. He let a low growl simmer behind his teeth.
Francesco joined him, gave him a reassuring pat down the length of his spine, and took a moment to assess La Commedia for himself. His eyes landed on the top-floor windows. Dark within, as was to be expected. But something had shaken Lucia, and Foscari clearly sensed something, too. These factors made Francesco think twice about his quick judgement of the situation.
Hearing the water shut off, Francesco collected some fresh things for Lucia to wear: her black skinny jeans, which always hugged her long slender legs just right, and a white cotton long-sleeve top. He gave a gentle tap on the bathroom door and popped his head through the gap. ‘Leaving these for you.’
Lucia, towelling herself dry, said, ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. Finding me like that in the window.’
He lay the clothes on the edge of the wash basin. ‘Once you’re dressed, I suggest we call Mariella so she knows what’s going on across the calle .’
‘Ok,’ Lucia replied.
‘And I’m staying here tonight.’
‘Checco . . .’
He raised a finger. ‘ Silenzio ! No arguments. A dachshund isn’t a reliable second witness.’
Sitting cross-legged on the bay window seat with an extra-strong cappuccino nestled between her palms, Lucia started to feel human again.
‘You worry too much about me.’
Francesco shrugged. ‘It’s what I do.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘ Grazie . You being here means a lot right now.’ Her eyes settled on the financial papers she had pulled together the day before. She was grateful for Francesco’s support and needed to focus her attention.
‘Any ideas about where to start, then?’ he asked, noting the direction of her gaze.
She took a deep breath, then said, ‘Let’s begin by crosschecking Edoardo’s numbers. Due diligence. I have copies of all the bank statements, lists of all our inventory and resources. Then, we should know where we stand – and what we need to make up the rest of the money.’ She closed her eyes. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘You should be proud of your success.’ Francesco gave her thigh a sympathetic pat before standing. ‘I’ll go grab my laptop from downstairs. Need anything else?’
Lucia looked across the apartment to her desk. ‘Bring back some A3 paper to plot on.’
‘To plot and scheme ?’ Francesco twisted an invisible moustache melodramatically.
Lucia caved and gave him the smile he had worked for. ‘Yes, let’s scheme.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Let’s bring down Vittorio Gatti, one bilingual dictionary at a time.’ She rubbed her tender temple. ‘Not a comfortable pillow substitute.’
Francesco cackled then disappeared downstairs.
Lucia downed the remainder of her coffee, set the hand-blown glass cup on the windowsill, and gently tutted her tongue behind her front teeth. ‘Foscari? Tut, tut. Dove sei ?’
On cue, Foscari emerged from his sleeping basket under Lucia’s bed. His black silken coat with caramel accents glistened in the morning light. Ambling his way up his customised staircase, Foscari joined her on the window seat and padded into her waiting arms. Lucia felt his little body relax in her embrace and she nuzzled her cheek against his coat, comforted by his warmth. Pulling him closer to her chest, she whispered, ‘What do you think? Will we pull this off? Eh ?’
Her furry companion snuggled in closer, and she read the gesture as one of moral support, and held him a little more tightly.
It was reassuring to arrive at the same figure Edoardo had penned, indicating that all had been calculated fairly and accurately. But still, the €300,000 required to buy Jacopo’s share of the school still made Lucia feel faint.
Spread across the dining table were a series of A3 sheets of paper, each labelled differently: Expenses ; Revenue ; Savings ; Avenues to explore . For good measure, Lucia had decorated the last with stars and a few love hearts, casting her hopes for a miracle out to the universe.
‘Where did the personal loan lenders list go?’ Lucia asked, sifting through the bank statements in her lap.
‘ Eccola !’ Francesco passed it across to her from his side of the table.
Lucia reassessed the €300,000 written on the contract. ‘Minus my savings. Minus what’s left of my parents’ estate . . .’ she murmured, leaning over and scribbling some notes. ‘Did you get a balance of 180,000 euros?’
He checked his total. ‘ Sì, sì .’
She dropped back in her chair. ‘I don’t even think I have spicci in my wallet for caffé right now, let alone 180,000 euros.’ Her eyes scanned the papers. ‘ Va bene , we try for a personal loan.’
‘Or a business loan against your half of the school.’ He righted photocopies of the photo page of Lucia’s passport, her carta d’identità , and her proof of residence documents. ‘This is all ready to go.’
‘Let’s lodge some applications now. The future waits for no one. Especially me.’ She grabbed her papers and laptop and shuffled around to Francesco’s side of the table. ‘Eighty-nine days, Checco . . .’
Somewhere between the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork and the niggling hope that someone might come through with a loan, Lucia found her appetite. Together she and Francesco prepared a simple yet satisfying dinner of polenta e radicchio , which Lucia served on the same wooden platter her mother had always used. And, as usual, the pair consumed the meal without plates, simply with forks, and generously poured glasses of Amarone red wine.
‘So, what is his name? You never got the chance to tell me.’
‘Who?’ Francesco asked, snagging a caramelised length of burgundy radicchio on his fork.
‘Your new “pothos”.’ She smiled. ‘The guy from last night.’
Francesco’s fork froze mid-air. ‘Last night? No one special .’
‘ Dai ! We tell each other everything. Who is he?’
‘ Ho detto, nessuno . Leave it alone, Lucia.’
Assessing him over the top of her glass, Lucia exhaled. ‘ Va bene .’
Suddenly, Foscari seemed agitated. He scurried from his food bowl in the kitchen to join Lucia, his ears twitching in time with his tail, before making his way up his grammar-guide staircase to the window seat facing the calle . He rapped on the glass with a paw, causing both Lucia and Francesco to turn to him.
‘ Cosa c’è, amore ?’ Lucia asked.
Foscari yapped, standing on his hind legs now with both paws on the pane.
Lucia felt her skin prickle. ‘ Dio . . . ’
Together, the pair joined Foscari by the window.
There, across Calle del Leone, was La Commedia, as it always had been. But now, one of the top-floor windows was clearly illuminated from within.
Lucia tugged on Francesco’s arm. ‘You do see that, don’t you? Or am I ready to be committed?’
Nodding slowly, he said, ‘I see it, alright.’
‘I don’t want to go back out there.’
‘ No, no . Don’t,’ Francesco agreed.
‘On Monday morning I’ll visit the comune and file a report of suspicious behaviour. I don’t want to give that place another thought until then.’
‘ Bravissima !’ He offered a round of applause. ‘But who will run your class while you’re taking on middle-level Venetian bureaucracy?’
‘I’ll ask Stefano to start my lesson for me once he’s finished level-testing the new students.’
The corner of Francesco’s mouth lifted. ‘Stefano, we’re lucky to have him.’
‘We certainly are. And you, too,’ Lucia cooed, collecting Foscari in her arms. ‘ Bravo, Piccolo . Let’s go eat, eh ?’ She pulled the curtains closed, shutting out all thoughts about La Commedia for the rest of the weekend, choosing to focus solely on the safeguarding of her school.