dieci
Monday morning hugs were always restorative. But this particular Monday, bolstered by Tiziano’s promise, the hugs were extra long and reassuringly tight.
‘ Brava , Lucia,’ Francesco said over her shoulder, while she wrapped her arms around him. ‘This is very promising.’
‘It all stemmed from your invitation to the masquerade ball,’ she reminded him. ‘So thank you !’ Turning to catch Mariella in a similar embrace, she noted the older woman’s less than enthusiastic facial expression. ‘Are you ok?’
Mariella nodded a little too quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘ Sì, sì .’ But her rigid stance and the way she tensed her shoulders as if held up by a coathanger suggested otherwise.
Lucia and Francesco’s eyes locked for a moment. ‘No you’re not, bugiarda !’ Francesco quickly fired back.
Stumbling over her words, Mariella finally admitted, ‘I’m concerned about involving Tiziano. That’s all.’
‘Why concerned?’ Lucia took a step back and leaned against the welcome desk.
‘Because men like Tiziano are too well connected in Venice. He knows too many people.’
‘I don’t have many other options, Mariella.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, waving her hands to clear the air. ‘I just wish you’d told me your plan first. Tiziano, he’s . . .’ She trailed off, and Lucia saw the familiar gleam of fear in her dark brown eyes. ‘Edoardo’s visit has just rattled me. Basta . Let’s get on with the morning. The students will be here before we know it.’
At that moment Stefano arrived, as he always did on Monday mornings to support La Scuola Rosa with any new arrivals.
‘ Buongiorno ,’ he announced, brandishing a large paper-wrapped parcel of cornetti . His mid-length auburn waves were tucked neatly behind his ears and his usually fair complexion had taken on colour from the fresh morning air.
Lucia couldn’t help herself. Her eyes immediately flicked to Francesco, and she watched as the two shared nondescript, perfectly professional cheek kisses. All above board. She tried to stifle a delighted smile, but wasn’t entirely successful. Francesco, noting her attempt at restraint, gave her a covert shake of the head.
Lucia read this to mean, He doesn’t know that you know . She nodded her understanding. ‘ Ti amo ,’ she mouthed.
‘ Grazie , Stefano,’ Mariella said, taking the parcel from him. ‘ Preparo il caffé, allora !’ And she promptly disappeared up the stairs in the direction of Lucia’s apartment.
‘How many new students this morning?’ Stefano asked, flicking through some papers on the welcome desk.
‘Twenty-three. That includes that large group of English university students from Liverpool.’ Lucia drew his attention to a thick manila folder.
‘And the two families from California. The winemakers.’ Francesco pulled a stapled bundle of papers from Stefano’s pile. ‘They are also due this morning.’
‘ Perfetto .’ Without thinking, Stefano took the pencil from behind Francesco’s right ear and began making notes. ‘I’ll get everything ready.’ He collected a stack of printed diagnostic tests from a drawer, and made his way upstairs to the second level where the new students would be assessed for their language level.
Once Stefano was out of earshot, Lucia whispered, ‘Ahem! You never let me borrow the pencil .’
With slightly flushed cheeks, Francesco replied, ‘That’s because you’re not Stefano.’
Lucia gave him a friendly shoulder bump, and gestured that they should join Stefano upstairs. Just as she took a step forward, a voice from behind made her blood run cold.
‘You look just like your mother.’
Lucia froze. Before she had even turned around she knew who she’d find standing there. The voice jolted her memories, bringing back the day she had watched this man lock La Commedia for the last time and strut up the calle with that familiar smirk of self-approval. Steeling herself with a breath, she pivoted to face him.
‘Gatti,’ she said. It wasn’t a welcome.
‘ Buongiorno , Lucia.’ Wearing an effortlessly stylish combination of slim-cut suit pants, polished black shoes and a knee-length charcoal coat, he exuded both money and power.
She swallowed, and Francesco returned protectively to her side.
Without conscious thought she tensed, and felt a knot of frustration turn itself around in her stomach. ‘What do you want?’ She couldn’t help but be direct about it. She had heard plenty of conversations about this vile man between her parents. Even decades old, the memories were still clear. As a little girl she had pictured a sinewy spindly man who dressed all in black and lived in a cave somewhere near the northern Alps, emerging every now and then to wreak havoc and torment the local townspeople. In truth, her imagination hadn’t been far off. Vittorio Gatti, now in his early seventies, was gaunt and rather bony, however his style conveyed his love of elegance and a lack of financial boundaries. She cringed inwardly, trying to appear unperturbed by this early and unwanted visit.
‘Now, now, Lucia. That’s no way to address an old friend of your parents.’
He’d gone there. And so quickly. As smoothly as she could, she said, ‘You were no friend to my parents. That much I know for certain. And, as it goes, you’re no friend of mine, or La Scuola Rosa, either.’
It grated at her to see him saunter through her front door. His gaze dragged calculatingly over the ground floor of the school. It lingered for a moment on the long bookcase, and he managed a short exhale of acknowledgment at the gondola oars which framed the sliding ladder. ‘Sweet,’ he said with a sarcastic twist. He approached the first of the two large mahogany tables and swept his right index finger over the top, as if to assess its cleanliness. ‘Well maintained. That’s a positive start.’
Lucia took a defensive step forward, but was pinned back by Francesco’s hook on her arm. ‘What do you want, Gatti?’ she repeated.
It was then that Vittorio turned to face the welcome desk. A fresh posy of pink roses was displayed in a handmade glass vase of a similar pink to the front facade. The business cards piled neatly next to it were of the same shade, as was all the paperwork and the folders. It was a sea of pink in a multitude of tints and tones.
‘I don’t quite remember so much pink,’ he noted, tutting to himself. ‘Too feminine for my taste. But I can change that.’ Then his eyes found the photo on the wall: Lucia with Elena and Umberto at the front of the school, arms linked contentedly under the bougainvillea. ‘ This I remember.’
Francesco’s hold on Lucia’s arm tightened, and under his breath he whispered, ‘ Calma . . .’
‘It will be nice to be back on Calle del Leone,’ he said evenly. ‘It’s been fifteen years since La Commedia unfortunately closed its doors. What a shame that was . . .’ His sincerity was non-existent.
With that, Lucia broke free of Francesco’s hold and stepped assertively forward. ‘Leave. You’re not welcome here. Not now, not ever.’
Feigning offence with a hand pressed delicately to his lapel, Vittorio merely laughed. ‘Lucia, Jacopo Molin is dead.’ He paused cruelly for effect. ‘He can’t come back to stop this from happening. The sooner you just accept that, the better it will be for all of us.’ Lucia watched as his gaze fell on the community donation basket by the front door. ‘Surely the Church is a better organisation to facilitate this kind of outreach program?’ His devilish eyes rolled, unimpressed.
‘Get out.’
‘Don’t resist this process, Lucia. Defiance isn’t a good colour on you. Let this handover take place without incident and the working climate that follows may just be tolerable.’
Lucia took a breath and did her best to calm her seething rage. ‘You will never get your hands on this place.’ Now standing a foot in front of him, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to slap him, to wipe that sick smile from his beaky little face. But she simply steeled herself and stood taller. ‘I would sooner dance on my parents’ graves than let you hang your name over that door – or over any more doors of Venice. You seem to close them a little too easily.’
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Lucia.’
‘And I don’t appreciate you turning this city upside down to empty its pockets, only to line yours.’
Vittorio grimaced. He dipped his hand into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a business card. ‘I’ll leave this for you. In case you ever want to talk in a more civilised manner.’ His eyes scoured the welcome desk, but ended up settling on Lucia’s handbag hanging off the back of the chair. ‘I assume that is yours?’ Lucia’s eyes narrowed as he slipped the card into the main compartment. ‘Play nice, Lucia. We have a long road ahead of us.’
It was then that Mariella appeared on the stairs from the second floor. The sight of Vittorio Gatti, in all his obnoxious callousness, caused her to drop her cornetto . On cue, her face flushed a toxic shade of red and she bounded down the stairs as quickly as her full wobbling frame would allow. ‘ Che cazzo vuoi ?!’ she bellowed, pushing Lucia aside and launching herself at their intruder.
Vittorio’s face contorted with disappointment. ‘You’re still here, Mariella? I thought you would have been fired years ago. A good-for-nothing like you.’
‘Ok, that’s enough! Basta !’ Now it was Francesco’s turn to get involved. ‘You’ve been asked to leave, so leave. You can’t come in here and insult the staff and torment the owner and expect to get away with it. So go. Now!’ Francesco ushered Vittorio from the lobby with a forceful hand on the wrist. ‘ FUORI !’
Vittorio held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll go. For now. But know this . . .’ Framed by the door, Vittorio pointed to the sky. ‘I see everything. I know everyone. Nothing escapes me. Venice knows better.’ His expression twisted into a mirthless grin, briefly revealing his coffee-stained teeth. ‘Enjoy the eighty-two days. I bet you’ll have a ball . . .’ He smirked before turning, pausing for a moment to take in La Commedia across the calle , then slipped away and out of sight.
The trio exhaled, and Mariella was the first to speak. ‘That monster!’
Francesco attempted to placate her with an embrace. ‘He can’t touch us here. As much as he’d like to.’
Meanwhile, Stefano had arrived on the bottom landing of the stairs to see what the fuss was about, a yapping Foscari under his arm.
But Lucia didn’t hear any of it. She had moved to the front door and, gripping the frame, her eyes were fixed on La Commedia, just as Vittorio’s had been. That split second when Vittorio had paused to take in the building suddenly looped in her mind. Surely not , she thought. Could he be somehow connected to the comings and goings, the lights, the mysterious activity across the calle ? The man . Could he possibly be working for Vittorio?
I see everything . . .
Gatti’s warning echoed through Lucia’s mind, but it only served to ground her more resolutely in her fight to keep him as far from Calle del Leone as possible, and away from La Scuola Rosa for good.
Turning her head, she looked to the family portrait, and in her heart she made her parents a solemn promise. I’ll do anything it takes. I won’t let you down .