diciannove
Lucia’s recount of the previous night’s meeting with the man was met with open mouths and incredulous eyes on Tuesday morning. Francesco had inched his way as far to the edge of Lucia’s bed as was possible before landing on the floor, and Mariella had clung so fiercely to Foscari that he nipped her hand in warning and she set him down.
‘ E allora ?’ Mariella’s hands took flight.
‘That was it. He shut me down.’ Lucia replied matter-of-factly.
Francesco made his way to the window and stared across at La Commedia. ‘He’s in there right now. Probably watching us, too.’
‘He is watching us. He told me he does.’
Francesco exhaled. ‘I did not expect this at all. Sorry, Lucia, for ever doubting you.’
‘I should have said something cleverer. Wittier.’
‘ Shh . Don’t start on that. You will drive yourself mad.’ Mariella waved away Lucia’s worries.
Francesco turned to face them. ‘Lucia, you’ve neglected to share the most important details.’ He dropped himself back on the mattress beside Mariella. ‘What does he look like?’
Lucia scowled. ‘You have a one-track mind.’
‘And I will play it on a loop until I have an answer.’
Despite herself, Lucia laughed. It felt good. She closed her eyes, as if making space in her cluttered brain for the man’s image to return. ‘He’s taller than I am. Dark features. And has a chiselled chin.’ Her fingers danced over the end of her own. ‘Some stubble.’
‘Someone get this woman a thesaurus!’ Francesco mocked. ‘You can do better than that.’
‘I really can’t. It all happened so fast. He’s annoyingly sarcastic. But really gorgeous.’
Francesco leaned over with exaggerated interest. ‘Really, now? And how was he dressed?’
‘Like . . . a man?’
‘Lucia! Dio . . .’
‘Checco! His fashion choices are the least of my concerns right now.’
‘It says a lot about a person.’
‘I really don’t care. La cosa più importante è —’
‘La Scuola Rosa!’ Mariella interrupted, peering at her watch. ‘Not long now.’
Lucia fiddled with her sling then collected her class notes from her desk. ‘Yes. Basta !’
‘When you say dark features, do you mean cioccolato fondente dark, or are we closer with al latte ? Hazel, or definitively basic brown?’
Lucia snort-laughed and gave Francesco’s bottom a playful prod with her knee. ‘Stairs, you! Vai !’
Francesco picked up Foscari and tucked him between his elbow and hip. ‘You and I need to stick together,’ he said to their furry companion. ‘Otherwise I am outnumbered by these women.’
‘And consider yourself the luckiest man in Venice!’ Mariella retorted, already halfway down the stairs.
That afternoon, with the lessons taught, the students dismissed, and the doors securely shut, La Scuola Rosa’s trio made themselves comfortable in the upholstered wingback chairs on the second floor of the school.
Two and a half weeks had passed since Lucia signed Edoardo’s contract, and while there were options on the horizon, Lucia was still looking for financial back-up plans. This moment, the intimacy and quiet of the afternoon, suddenly seemed like the perfect time to bring up the latest turn of events – the book deal.
Lucia spread Edoardo’s papers on the low-lying table between them. She plucked Benedetta’s business card from the pile and passed it to Mariella.
Lucia watched as Mariella tipped her half-moon glasses to the end of her nose, scrutinising the name. ‘Del Campo, Benedetta. Who is she?’
‘A publisher.’
Francesco’s neck craned to get a better look at the two inches of embossed curiosity. ‘What does she want?’ He took a sip of coffee then set his cup down on the table by his notebooks.
‘She came to see me yesterday. Here. She wants to publish a book about me.’
For the second time that day, Mariella and Francesco’s jaws dropped in unison.
‘Why?’ Francesco asked, taking the card from Mariella and analysing every detail.
‘She thinks my story should be told.’
Mariella, who had spent the past few decades trying her best to protect Lucia and the school, suddenly inflated with concern. ‘And who will write this book?’
‘Please don’t use the future tense. That makes it sound so set in stone.’
Mariella’s eyebrows rose, but she persevered. ‘Hmm?’
‘Me.’
‘You would write it?’ Francesco leaned forward. ‘No offence, Lucia, but you are not a writer.’
Lucia threw her head back and laughed. ‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘So who, then?’ Mariella looked to Francesco, eyes wide with worry.
‘I would, but with her, or someone else, I guess. But I really don’t like that lack of control.’ Lucia gestured to the card. ‘She says she’s willing to pay generously for the deal.’
Mariella rose from the chair. ‘ No , Lucia. No, assolutamente no . You have suffered enough. You do not need to sell your soul, the last remaining shred of privacy you have—’
‘It could bring in the remainder of what we need to pay, though.’
Francesco suddenly joined the chorus of concern. ‘Lucia, think long and hard about this. Yes, it’s your story, but do you really want to tell it?’ He reached across and caught her bouncing knees in his hands. ‘Or, are you too scared not to, as you need money for the school?’
Their eyes locked. ‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘When does she want an answer?’ Mariella nodded in the card’s direction.
‘I already told her no . But she didn’t want to hear it. There’s no deadline. The offer is just there.’
A long heavy sigh trickled from Francesco’s lips. ‘It’s your decision, Lucia. We will support you, either way. Just . . . please think on it. Once your story is out there, there’s no taking it back.’
‘My life, my face . . . I’ve always been out there. I can’t go for a drink with someone without the media writing me up as married or “on the market again”.’
‘Please, Lucia.’ Lucia recognised a familiar darkening of Mariella’s eyes.
There was so much truth to what Mariella and Francesco had said. Of course there was. But she also felt a terrifying temptation to accept Benedetta’s offer. Lucia could feel it simmering away just under her skin. It prickled and teased her as being the swiftest way out of Edoardo’s mess – and, a tiny voice inside her whispered, a way to regain control of her own story. Control she’d lost decades ago.
‘I will think about it,’ Lucia promised, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.
Lucia returned Benedetta’s card to Edoardo’s papers and stood tall, stretching. Taking her coffee with her, she paced the length of the second floor, hoping to find some clarity in the stillness and quiet of the usually lively open classroom space.
‘We just need to devise something here. A plan. Or program. Something at the school to help boost the funds. And we need to pray that the ball turned a profit for Tiziano. Otherwise . . .’ Lucia’s fingernails tapped away at the porcelain espresso cup, keeping time with her frenzied thoughts.
Tip. Tip. Tip.
Foscari joined her and pawed his way along the centuries-old floorboards. He turned in time with Lucia at the window facing Calle del Leone, then trotted back to the chairs. His little head tilted sideways, checking for her next move, before he returned to his previous position in her shadow.
Drinking the last of her coffee, Lucia sighed and came to a stop in front of an old vintage tourism poster from the 1960s. It was framed and mounted to the wall between two pink hand-blown glass sconces. The image of a gondoliere atop his black vessel, in a navy blue and white–striped top, cruising under the Ponte di Rialto, filled her heart with a melancholic sediment of worries. It was a mix of failure and desperation, of letting her parents down, of losing them all over again. The poster had once hung in their apartment on the third floor, on the wall right by where Lucia’s childhood bed had sat by the Grand Canal–facing window. She recalled how it had often been the last thing she would see before she closed her eyes at night, and those boldly defined words, Venezia per tutti! , used to fill her with hope.
As a young child she used to reason that if Venice really were for everyone, then surely everyone would come to La Scuola Rosa. She used to fall asleep to the sound of coins and notes being counted at the kitchen table after hours, plus the rustle of carbon pages in the old click-clack machine and the quiet voices of her parents chatting.
The little open-plan apartment had provided little privacy, but it had taught Lucia some of her greatest life lessons. She absorbed her parents’ words, their conversations. She grew to learn their processes by listening in from the comfort of her warm cocooning bed. And with the beauty had come the beasts of burden, too: one name had cropped up again and again in her patchwork of memories – Vittorio Gatti.
Her mind returned to the challenge before her now. Had Foscari sensed the tension in her at the thought of Gatti? It felt probable, as he drew closer to her, stepping over her feet a number of times as if marking his territory.
Lucia dropped her open palm to his crown and gave him a loving caress. ‘ Piccolino, mi segui ovunque io vada, no ?’
He gave a delighted yap of agreement.
Ovunque . . .
Her eyes returned to that vintage poster, an image she could recreate detail for detail with her eyes closed. The collection of tourists piled high in the back of the gondola, limbs jutting over its sides as each scrambled for a better view of La Serenissima . Venezia per tutti . But this time, the word ovunque escaped her lips. Ovunque .
‘ Venezia, ovunque !’ she announced across the room, and the increased pitch and passion behind her statement caused both Mariella and Francesco’s heads to turn towards her. ‘ Ovunque . Everywhere.’
‘ Cioè ?’ Francesco looked perplexed.
Lucia hurried to the arched stained-glass windows facing the Grand Canal behind them. She pulled the maroon drapes to the side and peered out over the water, now dotted with a fresh burst of rain. ‘ Venezia, ovunque . Venezia, everywhere. Wherever you are in the world, come join us. Venice knows no bounds. Venice is everywhere.’
She could feel the worry and anxiety ebb away. What replaced it was a chemical mess of excitement and enthusiasm. Lucia bobbed down and collected Foscari under her right arm, and the two looked back out over the water. ‘That’s it. It’s so perfect.’
‘What is?’ Mariella had half turned in her chair and was now resting on a propped elbow.
‘You’re not thinking of online lessons, are you?’ Francesco asked warily. ‘Because I think the world is done with pandemic-style screen-delivered learning.’
‘Better than online lessons.’ Lucia sucked in a deep, bolstering breath. ‘People will walk the calli with us. As if by our side. Venice will literally be everywhere.’ She returned to her chair and propped Foscari down in her lap. ‘How many Instagram friends do we have?’
Francesco’s mouth curled into a grin. ‘Followers?’
‘ Sì . The people who connect with us.’
‘Well, before the . . . post . . . it was ten thousand. Now . . .’ He reached for his phone and opened the app. His eyes widened, again, when he saw the plethora of notifications and messages awaiting him, and he said, ‘Coming up on thirty thousand.’
‘Thirty thousand?!’ Mariella shrieked. ‘People?’
‘Mostly. I suspect we have caught plenty of bots too, though.’
‘Robots?’ Mariella pushed her glasses to the top of her nose. ‘What in the world?’
Francesco shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you go viral.’
Lucia suddenly realised that the post and the attention it had drawn could perhaps serve another purpose. A more useful one. And dare she think it – something positive ? New eyes were looking at her and La Scuola Rosa, and that had the potential to be converted into revenue. ‘It still baffles me. Incredibile .’ She shook her head. ‘And these followers don’t pay anything, do they?’
Francesco tutted. ‘Not yet .’
That was the kind of uncertainty that Lucia liked. It was steeped in potential. ‘How so?’ Lucia asked. Foscari turned himself over in her lap, and Lucia’s hand found his belly. She gave it a scratch, her eyes never leaving Francesco’s screen.
‘We could set up a channel. A private space or website which people pay a fee to access. And we could advertise that on our Instagram profile.’
‘ Un abbonamento .’ Lucia’s green eyes seemed to flash with renewed determination. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘We can choose the terms. The cost. And of course, the content.’
‘What do you mean, content?’ Mariella wiggled forward in her chair to reach for another biscotto . She took two to make it worth her while.
‘What we make and put out there to the world.’ He looked at Lucia. ‘Whatever you want to share.’
‘Our Venezia. That’s what I want them to see. The real Venice. Not just the tourist trap it has become. I mean, the backstreets. The darkening calli . The pockets of history. The nuanced patches of narratives that together form this wild, untameable city.’
‘ Allora , no Zoom lessons?’ Francesco’s eyes squeezed shut as his fingers met in a tight and hopeful steeple at his chest.
‘Not on my watch.’ Lucia smiled. ‘No lessons. Those are for our students. Project Venezia , Ovunque! will be different. Our special brand of different.’ She paused for a moment. ‘This isn’t about selling out and becoming a touristy Venetian brand. This is about authenticity and sharing what many people miss. It’s about uncovering the hidden Venice. One calle at a time.’
‘Like influencers?’ Francesco asked.
Lucia grimaced. ‘Absolutely not. We are educators. End of.’
Mariella reached across to her notebook which lay by her empty coffee cup. ‘Shall I take notes?’
Lucia nodded. ‘Let’s get started.’
Slowly, Lucia peeled the bandage from her forehead, wincing at the sight of the bruise morphing from red to purple in her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She tossed the bandage into the waste basket and removed her sling for the night, enjoying the range and freedom of movement she now had.
Carefully gathering her long dark hair so as not to hurt her shoulder, she wound it together and tied it in a high topknot, but the usual side wisps managed to escape her grasp and fell loosely by her cheeks.
She changed slowly into her pyjamas – her trusty singlet and loose cotton bottoms.
Hopping into bed, she snuggled down into the pillows beside Foscari, and he raised his head to check on her. ‘Just adjusting,’ she said, smiling. ‘Even you worry about me.’
Foscari whined then yawned, dropping his head to rest on his folded paws out the front.
For the first time in weeks Lucia felt a sense of calm. Perhaps it was assertiveness. But something in her had shifted from panic mode to determination. She knew she could function well and thrive like this. Despite it all.
In her lap sat the Project Venezia, Ovunque! plan.
Guided walks: La Scuola Grande di San Rocco, il Gran Teatro La Fenice, l’Arsenale, Lido di Venezia, Murano, Burano, la Chiesa dei Frari, la Scala Contarini del Bovolo, il Ghetto Ebraico . . .
Tours: Il Palazzo Ducale, La Basilica di San Marco, la Chiesa di San Zaccaria, il Museo Peggy Guggenheim, il Campanile di San Marco . . .
All to be recorded and shared on the platform.
The lists continued, and the margins were dotted with suggestions and possibilities that required more thinking and planning.
There were the five-minute flash videos, which could showcase some of Venice’s more recognisable attractions, and the In Cucina series, designed to teach viewers how to make the most iconic Venetian dishes, all from the comfort of Lucia’s little apartment kitchen.
They would make all the content themselves in the afternoons, once classes had finished. They would also take advantage of the existing class program excursions, walks and tours. Francesco had reported that Stefano was keen to help, which would provide a much-needed fourth set of hands to contribute to the mammoth task.
Lucia scanned the collection of ideas one final time and sighed contentedly. It was a start.
She set the papers down on her nightstand and gave Foscari a final pat for the night. His tail twitched as he registered her familiar touch, even in his sleep. She blew him a little kiss. ‘ Sogni d’oro, Foscarino mio .’
As she prepared to sleep, Lucia noticed that the curtain across the window facing Calle del Leone was bunched to the side. Foscari must have been playing with it during the day, she thought. As quietly as she could, Lucia padded over to it and gave the fabric a shake to straighten the pleats. As she did so, her eyes flicked across to the top windows of La Commedia, directly opposite her own.
The lights were on.
This revelation didn’t deliver the adrenaline spike it once had, now that she had met the man who lived there.
She tried to see in from her three-metre vantage point across the narrow calle , but all there seemed to be beyond La Commedia’s curtains was a golden lit void.
Then suddenly, the man appeared.
What will it be this time, huh? She looked calmly over at him.
He didn’t seem all that perturbed by her presence. This made Lucia wonder if perhaps he had been waiting for her. And if so, why?
He leaned against the side of the window and looked back at her. His expression was mostly neutral, but any definition in his features was muted by the darkness of the night and the glare from the glass pane in front of him.
Who would be the first to look away? Lucia felt the temptation to disappear and ignore him, but there was something intoxicating about holding his attention. At a safe distance, of course.
Eventually, he nodded. Gentle enough to be an acknowledgment, but calculated enough to be a challenge. Lucia felt her earlier strength and determination returning. This man, whoever he was, wouldn’t get the better of her.
She watched as he moved and fidgeted behind the glass. Then, with a considerable shove from his left shoulder, he opened both sides of the window and leaned forward, resting his hands on the exterior wooden ledge. Lucia saw his breath catch the cold night air. His hand mimed an upward wave, coaxing Lucia to follow suit.
He was initiating communication.
What does he want from me? A war of words? Another verbal duel?
Lucia’s stomach suddenly cramped with uncertainty, and the calm resolution she had found only moments earlier dissolved and seemed to seep away.
She came undone.
The sarcastic tone of their previous encounter returned to taunt her. He had left her feeling powerless and the perfect fool. Now, more than ever, Lucia wanted to regain control.
If she opened the window, would that make her complicit? Obedient? Or, defensive? She couldn’t determine which, and most definitely needed longer than the few seconds available to ponder her next step.
Now that his face was gently illuminated by the exterior lights of a building a few doors up, Lucia could see him more clearly. His cinnamon-brown stare locked with hers, and Lucia sensed that he was appraising her. Considering her. Maybe trying to place her.
He rolled up the sleeves of his thick woven knit, revealing his forearms; they were marked with valleys of muscular definition so deep and articulated that Lucia, even at three metres away, could see them clearly.
Those arms . . .
Her eyes lingered on them a beat longer than she had intended. Then she buried the desire to see how they might feel under her fingertips. Without conscious thought, her teeth caught her bottom lip.
The man raised his eyebrows expectantly and gestured again.
Despite the temptation to pull the curtains and shut him out, just as he had done to her at his front door, Lucia’s curiosity had been piqued. She straightened her spine and pulled back her shoulders, careful of her injured arm. Then she leaned onto the padded bench with one knee, unlatched the window and pushed it open.
A flush of cold air ignited all her senses and tousled the wisps of hair framing her face. But she stood tall and resolute in her simple singlet, ignoring the goosebumps that sprang up on her arms.
Mirroring the man’s stance, she leaned forward and rested her one steady hand on the ledge.
Checkmate. Your move.
There was a moment of silence. Neither spoke nor moved. The only sound was that of the gulls mewling overhead, taking the city by night to enjoy what the tourists had left behind by day.
It was the man who broke ranks first. Lucia heard him clear his throat before saying, ‘Alex.’
That was it. Presumably his name. He hadn’t framed it with any kind of explanation. You asked for my name, so here it is.
He hadn’t given it the proper Italian open e . It was tighter. Shorter.
This man isn’t all Italian.
Nonetheless, the moment felt like an anticlimax. Lucia had expected some of the banter of their previous meeting: the bravado and sharp-tongued sarcasm. But this was something else.
Before she could stop herself, she replied, ‘Lucia.’
His expression didn’t change, yet his intense stare remained fixed on Lucia at the window.
Lucia couldn’t read what this man wanted from the moment. There was a calmness about him, as if he lacked the emotional range to initiate a response. But it was his turn to speak, so she stayed quiet.
The night air seemed to thicken in the silence, and the few metres between them began to feel somehow charged, loaded. Still Lucia restrained herself, though her determined nature demanded more.
Perhaps sensing this, Alex stood tall and rested his hands on the ridge of his hips, those forearms drawing taut.
Lucia swallowed.
She realised she’d been wrong: he was not devoid of emotion, he was merely serene, comfortable. Taking in the way he stood so confidently, his stance relaxed, Lucia could tell that tonight wouldn’t be the night for a duel.
In unison, both retreated from their windows, closing them gently, and the shadows of the night – just like their mutual intrigue – continued to deepen around them.