venti
Le previsioni meteo promised a reprieve from the exceptionally dark and wet winter. And, true to its word, it delivered a few glorious mid-week days.
What the forecast could not have predicted, however, was the storm of a different kind that was brewing in Lucia’s little corner of Venice. No umbrella could shelter her from it. An extra layer wouldn’t stop its cold penetrating deep to the bone. This storm, unless watched carefully and planned for, would cause catastrophic damage.
But there was no way for Lucia to know this, because all that was on her radar was unseasonal sunshine and clear skies overhead. And that could only mean one thing for Lucia’s planned Venetian history lesson – al fresco .
‘Foscari,’ Lucia began, in her slower-paced, student-friendly Italian. ‘Francesco Foscari to be precise. Not this Foscari.’ She gestured to the furry shadow at her feet who, upon hearing his name, immediately sat to attention. ‘ Tranquillo, amore . We’re talking about the other Foscari. Your namesake.’ Foscari whined and dropped his head to his paws. Returning her attention to her students, she continued, ‘Francesco Foscari was the longest-serving Venetian Doge. Not the best-looking of them, but a truly faithful one.’ A murmur of giggles spread across the group. ‘He gave more than thirty-four years of service to La Serenissima during the fifteenth century.’ Lucia wove between the students’ chairs, arranged in a circle in the sunshine that beamed down onto Calle del Leone. ‘Think about why that period is significant.’
An American student was the first to pipe up. ‘Is thirty-four a lucky number in Venezia?’
Lucia smiled but shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
Then a spindly framed Spaniard offered, ‘ Il Rinascimento .’
‘ Sì. Ottimo . The Renaissance. A time of rebirth for culture, philosophy, science, the arts. That was all taking place predominately in . . .’
‘Firenze,’ he added.
‘ Bravissimo . Remembering, of course, Italy was not a united republic at this point. That came much later. Here, Venice was its own republic. And Florence – well, that’s their history. The Renaissance eventually made its way here, too. But later. Now, an interesting character that unites the Rinascimento and faithful old Foscari is Donatello. Lo scultore . Remember that a masculine singular noun beginning with s plus another consonant takes the definite article, lo .’ Lucia padded out the syllables. Donatello, lo scultore. Chi è ?’
‘The Ninja Turtle!’ cheered a rowdy young Englishman.
This was met with laughter and cheering, which made Foscari bark excitedly.
Then, suddenly, all heads, including Lucia’s, were drawn to the top window of La Commedia, which had opened wide. There, leaning on outstretched arms, was Alex. With his pillow-tousled hair and in his pyjamas, he looked less than impressed. ‘What are you doing, Lucia?’ he called down.
Lucia had to squint and shield her eyes from the midday sun. ‘ Scusami ?’
‘You. Here, now. What is this ?’ He gestured to the arrangement of fifteen-odd chairs, coat-clad students, piles of books, all of which encroached significantly on the already narrow calle . His tone was sharp and laced with frustration.
Lucia drew a calming breath and stepped forward into La Commedia’s shadow. ‘We are learning about Francesco Foscari, actually,’ she said, to which Foscari yapped at her heel. ‘ Basta, amore ,’ she directed to the ground, while keeping her eyes on the window.
‘That part I know. I’ve heard every word. I mean, why here, now?’ His chest seemed to inflate with disdain.
It appeared the Alex of their first encounter at the front door was back, the rough and sarcastic Alex who had brushed her aside. What happened to the serene man from the window last night? Huh? Is he in there? Can I deal with him?
She forced a smile. ‘Because it’s a beautiful day. Is it not?’ She turned to the students and they nodded their agreement. ‘It is the middle of the day. What is your issue with the noise?’ She turned to the students once more and lowered her voice. ‘ Was I being too loud?’ A sea of shaking heads reassured her.
‘This is a public space. Not a place for lessons. I’m trying to sleep.’
‘And I am trying to teach.’ She gathered her hair with her right hand and flicked the lengths over her shoulder. ‘ You’re interrupting Venetian history.’
Lucia’s insides felt as if they had begun to effervesce with courage. She wouldn’t let him, or anyone , for that matter, call the shots when it came to her school and students. That threat was growing old and she was exhausted by it. Enough was enough.
‘Then I will simply take matters into my own hands.’ Alex disappeared from the window momentarily, before returning with an A3 sheet of paper, a roll of masking tape, and a marker in his hand. Leaning against the inner wall of La Commedia he penned a message, then affixed the newly fashioned sign to the outer ledge of the window, for all to see.
Silenzio, per favore! it read.
It drew giggles from the students, and Lucia couldn’t help but join them. ‘We have half an hour until we break for pranzo . Thank you for your patience.’
‘It stops now. I am desperate for sleep. I’m working very hard to make my order deadlines for Carnevale.’
‘Go. Dormi !’ She turned to the students. ‘That’s which form of the verb dormire ?’
A blonde German woman’s hand flicked skyward. ‘ L’imperativo ! Giving a command.’
‘ Bravissima !’ Lucia couldn’t help but grin. She turned back to the window, and Alex seemed all the more frustrated.
‘ Ti prego . Leave me in peace. I don’t want to hear your voice out here again.’ He pushed what seemed to be little yellow earplugs into his ears, then closed the window.
‘Don’t worry about him, Lucia,’ said a recently retired South African gentleman.
She waved off his concerns. ‘Our summers are spent here on Calle del Leone. Lessons. Lunches. Parties. Cooking classes. We even project films onto the facade of the building at night after our Friday night aperitivi . No one here on the calle has a problem with it. It’s life-giving. Revives this little part of Venice.’
‘I am not too sure it’s a good idea.’ An Australian woman pointed to the window again, where Alex’s sign threatened to blow away in the spirited breeze. ‘He was pretty angry. Certainly doesn’t want to hear your voice, Lucia.’
Mulling this over, Lucia’s eyes narrowed playfully. ‘Yes. That’s right. It’s my voice that’s the problem. He specifically asked for silenzio .’ She smiled like the Cheshire Cat and ducked back into the school, only to reappear a few seconds later with a small cylindrical Bluetooth speaker in hand.
‘A listening test?’ asked one student.
‘No. Better. Another voice is going to take over from here.’ She withdrew her phone from her back pocket, paired it to the speaker, and opened Spotify. ‘ Carissimi ,’ she announced to the class, ‘I give you the master, Giuseppe Verdi, and his incredible nineteenth-century three-act opera, I Due Foscari . Act One. Chorus. Aptly entitled: Silenzio .’
Suddenly, a wave of operatic voices burst from the speaker, which Lucia held aloft in the direction of Alex’s window. It took just seconds for the tempo to increase and the baritone chorus to fill the calle , which paired perfectly with the students’ raucous applause and delighted laughter.
She knew it was cheeky. She knew she was poking the bear. But that sarcastic rude facade of Alex’s didn’t belong on Calle del Leone, and she wanted to put him in his place. If he was going to blow hot and cold, then she would, too.
The window flew open again, and the class fell silent. ‘What are you doing?!’ Alex’s voice, raised now to be heard over the top of Verdi, was flecked with anger.
‘Just giving you what you asked for. Silenzio . I’ve saved you the overture. It really kicks off well with Silenzio , wouldn’t you agree?’ Her piercing green eyes stared up at him with brazen confidence.
He seethed and shook his head before closing the window and drawing the curtains.
Lucia allowed herself to revel in her victory for a moment, which was only heightened when Alex’s makeshift sign was plucked from its position by the breeze and blew away. She didn’t care where it ended up, as long as it wasn’t in front of her school.
She inhaled deeply into the sunshine then gazed down at her feet, planted steadfast and strong on the pavers below.
With Giuseppe Verdi’s help, Lucia Trevisan had drawn a solid battleline across Calle del Leone.