nove
Following their lunch of Miro’s prawns, Mariella, Francesco and Lucia headed downstairs to open the school for the afternoon’s lessons.
The air was crisp and cool despite the sun, which had managed to break through the morning’s overcast and gloomy skies. Even Foscari was keen to explore outside, looping around the ankles of the students who were gathered out the front.
‘ Non hai freddo ?’ asked one, dropping to give him a little pat.
Lucia smiled. ‘He just wants to play.’
The same student bundled him into her arms and carried him inside. ‘Come and play with me upstairs,’ she said.
The quiet palazzo suddenly burst into life as the students trooped in, half of them thumping up the stairs. Some stopped on their way through to peruse flyers and brochures at the bookcase and a few collected reading materials, registering their entries in the borrowing log by the welcome desk. Others dropped staple grocery items into the wicker basket by the door, ready for Lucia to donate to the parish office every Sunday morning for Venice’s most needy. One student posed for photographs, hanging from the bookcase ladder and bursting into song, sending the chorus of ‘ O Sole Mio’ across the room. Other students made their way directly to the mahogany tables, simply eager to get on with their lessons.
Lucia watched as Mariella embraced two of the newer arrivals, a couple from Berlin, welcoming them in from the cold and offering the woman her handkerchief. Then there was Francesco, who was relieving an elderly student from Dorset of her coat and umbrella, then leading her to her seat, their arms locked securely together. Foscari had found playmates for the afternoon in a trio of students from Adelaide, and took great joy in darting between them for attention and caresses.
La Scuola Rosa was no normal school. It was something special. Unique. A support for those in need as much as a place to learn, discover and grow. Lucia looked on with pride, beaming at what she had managed to sustain and strengthen in her parents’ absence.
Her eyes flicked to their family portrait on the wall behind the welcome desk. Where her usual melancholy might have taken over, this afternoon it didn’t. What she felt instead was a passionate and burning desire not to give up. To find the money. To try her best to keep Gatti away and the school in her name alone. It manifested in her clenched jaw and rising chest, inflating a little more with each determined breath.
Surely, someone out there across the lagoon – other than Vittorio Gatti, of course – might find some use in supporting the school?
Use .
Support .
Or, benefit ?
The words began to penetrate the layers of worry that had stockpiled in her mind over the past week.
Who could benefit from supporting us? And how could that work?
It was at that moment that Francesco flitted past the welcome desk to collect his class roll and photocopies. Lucia swooped on him, grabbing his shoulder.
She whispered, ‘ Cosa significa benefattore ?’
His face twisted with confusion. ‘ Cosa ?’
‘What’s a benefactor?’
With an air of uncertainty, he said, ‘Someone, or a group of people, who support others or organisations. With money.’ He shrugged. ‘Is that what you mean?’
A benefactor .
It was the most delicious glimmer of hope she could have asked for that afternoon. It whet her appetite and curiosity in equal measure.
With a nod and a grateful squeeze of Francesco’s arm, Lucia quickly collected her things and darted up to her class on the second floor. It was only once she had neared the top of the spiral staircase that she found the printed tickets to the masked ball Francesco had left for her among her lesson notes. Like a flash of lightning a name came to mind. It caused her to stop mid-step and she let the thought simmer there, considering the possibilities.
‘I know I have it somewhere . . .’ Lucia had given up rifling through papers in her desk drawers and had now taken to removing the drawers completely, emptying them onto her bed. ‘I just know I would have kept that paperwork.’
Francesco and Mariella watched on, both perched against the kitchen bench, each with an espresso in hand. Foscari’s little head darted with astonishing speed, tracking Lucia’s erratic movements.
‘I can make some calls,’ Mariella offered.
‘ Eccolo !’ Lucia announced, launching a stapled A5 booklet into the air. ‘The names and numbers of all the members of the Venetian Arts Council Trust. Those years spent on the advisory committee weren’t in vain after all.’
Francesco guffawed. ‘You hated being on that panel. You used to complain after every sitting.’
‘I know,’ she said, crossing the room. ‘But now I feel like it was all worth it.’ She opened the booklet to the contacts directory and flattened it on the benchtop between Mariella and Francesco. ‘Now, where is he?’ Her finger ran up and down the columns of names.
‘Who exactly?’ Francesco asked, setting his now empty cup down in the sink.
‘Tiziano Zorzi,’ Mariella answered. ‘One of the gatekeepers of Venice.’
His eyes widened. ‘That sounds . . . ominous.’
‘It’s brilliant. Or, could be . . . aha!’ Lucia’s nostrils flared in delighted relief. ‘Here he is.’ Retrieving her phone from her back pocket, Lucia began to dial.
‘Besides “wielding the keys to the city” – what is Tiziano famous for?’
Lucia darted to her desk and retrieved the printed tickets. ‘ Your beloved ball.’ She let them fall to the countertop just as the call connected. ‘Ah, sì, pronto ? It’s Lucia Trevisan, Tiziano. I was hoping you had a minute to spare . . .’
The following morning, Lucia watched how her own hand hovered apprehensively over the brass door knocker. She was nervous, but she managed to goad herself into grasping it and bringing it down on its base plate with a confident bang. Three times, for good measure.
She waited, and her eyes grazed the burgundy and grey–speckled terrazzo flooring underfoot. A few moments passed before she heard Tiziano’s shuffling footsteps within.
‘ Arrivo ,’ came his muffled voice.
Clearing her throat, Lucia smoothed her long black ponytail and stood a little taller. She was ready.
The door opened, and there stood Tiziano Zorzi, a little more aged than when they’d last met five years ago for the Venetian Arts Council Trust, and with much less hair.
‘Lucia Trevisan,’ he said, stepping forward to catch her hands. ‘Come, come. It’s much warmer in here.’
He was right. Despite the ten-foot ceilings of his opulent Grand Canal–facing palazzo, the air radiated a cocooning warmth. Lucia noted the crackling fire to her right as she stepped into the vastness of the sitting room. One of many.
‘A truly terrible winter, this one. Wouldn’t you say?’ he began.
Lucia caught a glimpse of the view of the water from one of the leadlight windows on either side of the fire. The clouds had darkened considerably since she had set out on foot. ‘Yes indeed. It’s much wetter this year. The water has been awfully high on my side. And the constant storms . . .’
‘ Sì .’ Tiziano’s hands clutched his temples. ‘The lightning and thunder. This kind of weather is no good for those of us trying to maintain the city’s social calendar.’
He had gone there first, and she was secretly thankful for it.
‘How is the event planning going? Surely with Carnevale around the corner, you and your staff would be very busy.’
He led Lucia to a leather-topped desk in the corner, behind which was a ceiling-high and wall-wide bookcase, filled to the brim with cloth-bound titles. Gesturing that she should take a seat, Tiziano rang a small brass bell. ‘ Caffé ?’
In all honesty, the last thing Lucia’s insides needed was a hit of intestine-churning caffeine, but she accepted his offer with a gracious smile. ‘ Grazie .’
Tiziano’s obscenely round belly was difficult to manoeuvre behind his desk, but he managed it, and reached for his small circular glasses to better assess her.
‘ Allora , what is it that I can help you with today, Lucia?’
With her shoulders pinned back and bright eyes twinkling, she said, ‘Well, I’m hoping we can actually help each other.’
His eyebrows rose as he lifted his pen. ‘Is that so?’
A man of great wealth and reputation, and – if the rumours were true – a descendent of noble blood, Tiziano Zorzi was still a businessman at heart. While his financial matters were often concerned with six- and seven-figure sums and international connections, Lucia knew he was always willing to consider any transaction or business deal big or small that might sway his profile towards the limelight.
‘I’m sure that across the calendar year, and through the many organisations you lead, you have a great deal of . . . shall we say, turr ?’ she suggested.
Lucia watched as the older man’s friendly demeanour suddenly began to fade. His eyes narrowed and his cheeks flattened, and he set down his pen. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘This business of event management you have going on is merely a sideline for you, is it not?’ She practically batted her eyelids through her thinly veiled innocence. ‘You’re the best in the business here in Venice. No one throws a party like you, Tiziano. Your name is synonymous with luxury, with opulence . . .’ She gestured to the gilded ceiling and likely priceless sixteenth-century paintings hanging on the wall to her left. ‘People trust you. And your taste. They will put their money behind you because you are a safe and steadfast investment in this city. You always have been, and you always will be.’
Tiziano’s left eyebrow rose slightly. ‘What is it that you need, Lucia?’
Lucia leaned closer over the desk. ‘Money.’
Her directness must have caught him off guard. Lucia could almost see the cogs begin to turn in his mind. Neither said anything for a moment, and the silence was broken only by the arrival of an elderly lady carrying a silver tray with biscuits, an ornate moka pot, and two hand-blown blue glasses.
Tiziano acknowledged the woman’s arrival with a nod, and poured Lucia a coffee. He set it down in front of her before proceeding to pour his own. ‘And you think of me as some kind of bank? As if I have money lying around in drawers, under mattresses, and hidden in secret safes behind my bookcases?’
Seeing her chance to bring some levity to the moment, Lucia said, ‘Yes. Because that’s what happens in the movies.’
Over the top of his glass, Tiziano’s lips puckered into a smile. Lucia couldn’t read if it were sardonic, or simply impressed, but it was a change all the same. ‘What are you thinking, then, Lucia?’
Taking a sip, she began. ‘Your annual San Valentino masquerade ball.’
He nodded. ‘Next week. Yes.’
‘It’s the event of the year for so many, not just us Venetians. I’m attending with a friend this year.’
‘I look forward to welcoming you both personally.’
‘It’s a sell-out?’
‘Every single year.’
‘And how many tickets do you sell?’
‘Six hundred at three hundred euro per head.’
She took another sip, and gave a nod of congratulations. ‘Admirable.’
‘Considering the overheads, it turns a modest profit.’
‘But surely, Tiziano, for a man such as yourself, with your successful business endeavours, breaking even, or even turning a minor profit, would be enough. For you, it’s more about being seen and being the face of the event, is it not? It’s the recognition, as much as the turr.’
‘It’s about Venice, Lucia.’ He set his cup down with great assurance. ‘It’s for the people of this city. For our legacy. For our culture. It’s about providing a space and place for those traditions, some centuries old, to continue to flourish.’
Lucia nodded firmly. ‘So we understand each other.’
His eyebrows knitted. ‘How so?’
‘Because my work, my business, which strives to achieve all those things, and perhaps more, is at risk.’
Tiziano leaned forward. ‘Is your school in trouble?’
‘Structurally . . . it’s complicated. I require assistance to purchase Jacopo Molin’s share of the school, otherwise I run the risk of co-ownership with parties who may not have the school’s best interest at heart.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard of Jacopo’s passing. Mi dispiace tantissimo .’
‘ Grazie .’
Lucia could sense a rising quiver make its way through her chest. She swallowed the rattling sensation down. Now, more than ever, she needed to appear as strong as was humanly possible. ‘So I’m here, one business owner to another, to ask for your assistance.’
‘My money.’
It wasn’t a question, and Lucia knew that his assertive tone was a warning. ‘Yes. Your investment in Venice. My proposal is this: host your ball, frolic, dance, we’ll all drink and be merry. And at the end, when the costs are settled, gift the profits to me. To secure the future management of my school, La Scuola Rosa.’
‘A loan?’
She shook her head. ‘A gift.’
‘And what is in it for me? A share? A stake?’
Lucia’s hand immediately rose between them to stop him. ‘No. A sizeable, unquestionable, transparent, all-above-board tax deduction, on account of your donation to my school.’
Tiziano tossed down the last mouthful of his coffee and set the cup to rest on the silver tray. It tinkled, and he reached across and took a small biscuit from a white porcelain plate. He took a bite, buying himself a few moments. ‘How is that justifi—?’
Lucia interjected, ‘Your work on the side is and always has been concerned with preserving this city. You have made generous donations in the past to other organisations. Galleries. The hospitals. Consider this in the same vein.’
Tiziano tapped his pen on the desk. ‘And what of acknowledgement?’
Lucia’s throat tightened. ‘You can make your donation public knowledge. But under the guise of it being from the depths of your generous, Venice-loving soul, working so terribly hard to support the lagoon’s most iconic and important businesses. This would ensure the bureaucratic transparency of your donation .’
Tiziano brushed the crumbs which had come to rest on the crest of his belly to the floor. ‘Contracts?’
‘No.’ Lucia’s magnetically green eyes locked with Tiziano’s. ‘I just need your word, and for you to stand by it.’
She watched as his jaw clenched. ‘A donation, out of the blue, to La Scuola Rosa, is what you need?’
‘It’s what we could both use. I need the money. You could use the tax cut that the donation would afford you – and the good press you’d get for your generosity never goes astray.’
Tiziano held up a finger and withdrew some papers from a drawer to his right. Lucia fidgeted nervously as she listened to the sound of the pen dragging across the thick card-like paper. But she kept her resolve strong and confident, and was thankful for the deep canopy of the desk which hid her anxious hands and bouncing feet from view.
With a final circle around a numerical figure, Tiziano tutted to himself. Then he reached to the bottom drawer, opened it and withdrew a small lock box. Thumbing the numbers on the lock into place, it flipped open, and from it he took an A5-sized black leather-bound notebook. He swivelled in his chair, so that its back now faced Lucia.
Whatever was in that notebook, it wasn’t to be shared. All she could see were the top two inches of Tiziano’s balding crown from over the top of the chair.
She waited as patiently as she could, setting her own cup down on the silver tray.
After a moment or two, Tiziano turned to face her again. He replaced the notebook in its box, locked it and dropped it back into the drawer. ‘I think, based on these figures,’ he gestured to the initial notes he had made, ‘I can offer one hundred thousand. No more. And only as a gifted donation. We exchange no paper. No correspondence. No further communication of any sort on the donation, except for a receipt of acceptance for tax purposes. Which, as you say, will always come in handy.’
Lucia suddenly felt light-headed. ‘Of course.’
‘And on one other condition . . .’
She swallowed, and held her hands tightly together under the desk. ‘What is that?’
‘The ball must turn a profit, as I need to clear my overheads. This year has been the most expensive to date. Labour. Wages. Food and beverages. I am collaborating with an investor on this year’s ball who is trialling new ideas to stretch the profits. If you’ve been to one of my balls in the past you will certainly notice this year’s changes.’
Lucia nodded. ‘I understand. And I look forward to seeing it go from strength to strength.’
‘Let’s proceed with this plan. Unless a more tempting offer presents itself in the meantime.’ He laughed, and Lucia wasn’t sure if he was serious, or simply taking stock of this unexpected turn of events.
Lucia stood and proffered her hand across the table. Tiziano’s handshake was firm and reassuring. ‘ Grazie , Tiziano. From one defiant, proud Venetian to another.’
‘Come see me a week after the ball. We can talk then.’
It wasn’t until Tiziano had watched Lucia exit the palazzo and cross the nearby bridge that he finally rose from his chair. He moved closer to the window and gazed out at the Ponte di Rialto. There were few tourists about on account of the rain, and the vaporetto stop across the water was without its usual snaking tail of ticket-wielding passengers. Even the restaurants below on Riva del Vin seemed quiet, with many opting not to open their outdoor seating areas.
Tiziano’s gaze settled on one smaller restaurant across the canal. It was the only establishment that had chosen to offer full canal-view service. Despite the cold and intermittent rain, there was still a demand. People were still willing to pay a premium for the iconic view and cultural experience. He watched as couples and families walked up and down the fondamenta , pointing at the other closed restaurants and eventually joining the rain-soaked queue for the only venue game enough to be different in the face of adversity.
Everything has value, once someone else wants it , he thought.
Clearing his throat, Tiziano reached into his blazer pocket and withdrew his phone. Locating the name he needed in his contact list, he dialled and waited.
The call connected, and without the usual pleasantries, Tiziano said, ‘I’ve just had a very interesting visit you might like to know about. From Lucia Trevisan . . .’