ventuno
Once the school had closed for the day, Mariella had a stern word with Lucia about the impromptu Verdi concerto. ‘Let’s not make enemies of our neighbours,’ she begged.
‘Alex needed to be put in his place,’ Lucia pressed. ‘I won’t let him intimidate me. I was doing nothing wrong. And in the middle of the day! It’s not as if we were out there at midnight!’
With her hands raised in warning, ‘ Attenzione ,’ was all Mariella could offer by way of rebuttal.
Behind Mariella’s shoulder, Francesco rolled his eyes sarcastically, and Lucia had to stifle a giggle. Sensing this, Mariella turned and was swift to give Francesco a playful shove in his middle. ‘ E tu !’ she snipped. ‘Sometimes it’s like working with teenagers in here!’
Throwing his arms around her full frame, Francesco tossed his head back and laughed. ‘We keep you young! You can’t deny it!’
‘Some days it feels like premature ageing!’
‘ Dai , Mariella.’ Lucia reached across and took her hands. ‘We love you.’
Mariella gave in to the smile she’d been trying to contain. ‘The children I never had.’
A silence tinged with melancholy fell across the room and, locking eyes with Francesco, Lucia knew Mariella was thinking about Giancarlo, her beloved, free-spirited late husband, stolen from her in their second year of marriage following complications from what they had been assured was ‘routine surgery’.
Mariella cleared her throat. ‘Do you need anything done before I head home, Lucia?’
Lucia was about to reply, but Francesco beat her to it, ushering her playfully from the doorway. ‘I’ll take over from here.’
They exchanged cheek kisses and Mariella wrapped herself in both a scarf and long coat.
‘ Buonasera ,’ Lucia added, blowing a kiss after her as she started up the calle .
Francesco seemed to relax once Mariella had disappeared from view. ‘Ok, tesoro . You and I have work to do tonight.’
‘Yes, for the Venezia, Ovunque! project. I’ve got some ide—’
He tutted. ‘ No . Tonight you have a date.’
Lucia, who had been bolting the front door shut, lost her grip on the handle and slipped. ‘What?!’
‘Yes. Vieni .’ He was already waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase. ‘Love waits for no one.’
Green eyes wide, she asked, ‘With whom?’
‘Claudio. Your potential masked kisser. Pasta and tennis ball man, from the Instagram DMs. Now, tell me,’ he began to ascend the stairs, ‘when did you last tend to the hair north of your ankles?’
‘Uhm . . .’
‘That’s not a good start.’ He tossed something into the air which she instinctively caught. A brand-new razor. The woman on the pack beamed vibrantly, her hair wrapped in a purple terry cloth turban and a slender leg perched on the edge of something out of shot. Her half-shaven shin was clearly the source of her joy.
‘I’m really not date-ready, Checco,’ Lucia said, looking down at her sling.
‘ Everything north!’ he cried, disappearing onto the second floor.
‘Black jeans are more than appropriate,’ Lucia called from the bathroom. ‘Can you please pass me the green sweater on the chair?’
She could hear Francesco padding across the floorboards, which creaked underfoot. ‘No. This is better.’ He passed her a slinky black dress through the gap in the door.
‘Checco! There’s no way. It’s five degrees outside.’
‘Claudio might just warm you up.’
‘You leave me no other choice,’ she retorted, stepping from the bathroom wearing the acceptable black jeans and a black lace bra.
Francesco grimaced.
‘Is it the jeans or my breasts?’ She feigned offence with a dramatic gasp.
‘The jeans. I have seen your breasts too many times for them to scare me now.’
She plucked the aforementioned green sweater from the chair and pulled it carefully and slowly over her head, leading with her good right arm. Once on, she tugged the long sleek lengths of her hair from under the collar. ‘I’m not wearing the sling tonight.’ She tossed it to her desk. Pivoting on the spot she said, ‘See? Fine.’
‘Your romantic funeral.’
‘So what exactly is happening tonight?’ She dropped to the edge of her mattress, pulling on a pair of thin black cotton socks before slipping into her boots.
‘Claudio will meet you for a drink at the jazz bar in Cannaregio. Around twenty-thirty.’
‘And you—’
‘Will be literally sitting at the next table. Tranquilla . I’m not sending you out there alone.’
Lucia exhaled. ‘ Grazie .’ She stood, made her way to her desk and retrieved their pre-prepared table of information on her suitors. ‘Claudio Rota. Tall. Handsome , according to no one in particular . . .’
Francesco laughed. ‘Ok, prove me wrong tonight.’
‘And we have the crucifix. The father and daughter symbols. “Matilde”. Pasta. Wine. Tennis ball. And potentially blue eyes.’ She dropped the list on her side table. ‘I’m not convinced by the eye situation.’
‘Just wait and see. And remember, you are in control tonight. Open-ended questions. No leading statements. It’s up to him to prove himself.’
Lucia’s feet felt cold and uncomfortable in her boots. She made her way to the window and stared across at La Commedia. ‘You’re right. I’m in control now.’
‘Stop fidgeting.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Leave the glass alone. You look nervous.’
‘That’s because I am nervous.’ The retort came out a little too loudly and caught the attention of someone at the table to the right of Lucia’s. ‘ Scusami ,’ she whispered in their direction, and then back to Francesco, ‘This is a lot.’
Speaking behind his wineglass, sitting as promised at the table to her left, was Francesco. He had his trusty pencil behind his right ear and a novel beside his phone. ‘I’m here. You want out, just say the word.’
‘What word? We never chose a safe word.’
Francesco’s lower lip puckered as he pondered. He scanned the bar, searching for inspiration, and finally, his gaze landed on a dated vintage print of Marco Polo over the rows of bottles behind the service counter. ‘Marco Polo.’
‘ Sul serio ?’
‘ Sì . You need help, just say the name.’
Lucia shifted in her chair, and she too was now speaking behind her swiftly disappearing glass of red. ‘And what if he talks about Marco Polo?’
‘He won’t.’
‘Or has read a book about him. Or written a thesis.’
‘A thesis?’ Francesco worked hard not to laugh. ‘The man has a peach and eggplant emoji set in his bio. There won’t be a thesis here.’
‘Checco . . .’ But just as Lucia was about to offer another objection, they both noticed a tall and indeed very handsome man set foot in the bar. Lucia decided to ignore the fact that she had heard Francesco swallow his pride to her left.
The man shook off the light dusting of rain that had settled on his coat, and hung it on a free hook by the door. First he looked towards the people waiting by the bar, but then, turning to the right, he spotted Lucia.
His eyes were unforgivably blue. So intoxicatingly blue, in fact, that they forced Lucia to question if her kisser did indeed have brown eyes as she recalled, or if it had been a play of the light behind his mask.
‘Lucia?’ he asked, coming towards her.
Clearing her throat, Lucia nodded and rose to her feet behind the table. ‘And you are?’ Of course she knew who he was, but Lucia felt it polite, and perhaps also necessary , to confirm.
‘Rota, Claudio. Piacere . Again.’ He walked to her side of the table and instinctively they drew close and swapped cheek kisses.
His accent was deeply Venetian. It was that tangled mess of nasal pinch and tight vowels, all caught somewhere at the back of his throat. Lucia cast her mind back to what she could remember of her companion’s voice from the night of the party. There had been nothing remarkable about the voice of the masked kisser, but for most of their time together it had been overshadowed by the godforsaken thump of the bass and the alcohol-fuelled laughter wafting from the dancefloor.
She just wasn’t sure.
Those damn blue eyes. They’d been brown, hadn’t they? Or were they costume lenses? Or, just maybe, they were blue all along, and it was simply too dark to see them properly?
Something inside her withered. She was kidding herself; this man surely wasn’t the one. He couldn’t be. But his bright handsome face was hard to challenge with reason. Before she knew it, her lips took charge and made the decision for her. ‘Please, take a seat.’ The ease with which she slipped back into her chair surprised her, and Lucia chose to take it as a good sign. A positive start.
Claudio promptly did as instructed, and ordered a drink from a passing waiter, and another for Lucia. ‘I am so glad we could meet up tonight,’ he started.
Lucia’s hands fiddled with the hem of her sweater under the table. ‘Yes. Thank you for coming. It’s nice to meet you. Properly .’
‘Yes. Well, we didn’t exactly get the opportunity to talk at the party. Did we?’
His matter-of-fact facial expression was hard to fault. The apparent sincerity with which he had opened the conversation loosened whatever knot of worry still tangled Lucia with unease.
Scrabbling about for something to say, Francesco’s words returned to her. Open-ended questions. No leading statements. It’s up to him to prove himself . She swallowed down a mouthful of wine. ‘And why couldn’t we talk?’ She gave her most genuine smile. Almost playful.
‘The music was so loud. Don’t you remember?’
Setting her glass down between them, she pulled her hands into her lap, hoping to hide their trembling from Claudio. ‘The music. Hmm.’ She could sense Francesco’s best attempt at appearing nonchalant at the table beside them. He was sitting stiller than he ever had in his whole life, pretending to give all his attention to his book.
‘Yes. The music was terrible. It was you I was interested in.’
‘And how was that even possible? You could hardly see anything of me under the costume,’ Lucia teased, fishing for what Claudio might reveal about what he’d seen.
‘I could see enough.’
Suddenly, there was something about the way Claudio’s eyes rolled down her neck and rested on her chest that made the vice in Lucia’s stomach turn a revolution tighter. His energy seemed to shift, and he leaned closer across the table. It was unsettling, and not at all subtle.
‘Right. So, tell me more about yourself then, Claudio. Now’s the perfect opportunity to talk.’
‘ Va bene .’ He paused and reached for his wine, taking a sip. It bought Lucia a moment to study his features more closely. A chiselled chin, very closely shaven. Deep-set eyes and a wide brow. Broad shoulders and chest, the deep definition of which was evident even under his white shirt. ‘I’ll start. I’m thirty-six. I manage the gym and pool facilities in a number of luxury hotels and private residences across the city.’
Lucia’s mind suddenly flicked back to the rough skin of the man’s hands that night. ‘Does that involve much . . . manual work?’
‘It can. Moving things. Building equipment. But mostly I just like to sneak in a few workouts in my properties when I can. “ Quality control management .”’ He winked.
Lucia wasn’t impressed by the childish air quotes he put around his statement. But what she did notice were his calloused palms. Her heart dropped a little at this realisation. While Claudio was indeed good-looking, she didn’t feel any sort of connection to him. He seemed shallow. Boring, even. If he was indeed the man she had kissed that night, then this moment was nothing more than a let-down. Without realising it, she sighed.
‘What?’ he asked.
Catching herself, she pasted a smile on her face. ‘Sorry. I was just wondering about the logistics of moving all that equipment across the water.’
‘ I don’t.’ He held his hand out across the table to stop her train of thought, as if the mere suggestion were an insult. ‘I pay other people to do it.’ He laughed, and there was an insensitive edge to his tone. It felt as if he might take pleasure from ordering around others and watching them do the work in his place.
Lucia’s heart dipped further. Arrogant and mean. While she was tempted to call it all off at that point, something forced her to stay put. To really find out for sure. At least that way she could set her mind at ease, tell herself, Yes, he was the one, but an awful person. Nothing lost . ‘If you’re the boss, you can do what you like, I guess,’ she said to fill the silence.
‘I do more than work and work out,’ he added, as if needing to convince her of his worth and merit. ‘I have a daughter. She’s six. Matilde. She lives in Padova with her mother.’ He reached for his phone and scrolled through his recent photos. ‘ Eccola ,’ he said, passing it to Lucia.
A bright smiling face filled the screen. Matilde’s golden curls fell around the sides of her face, and the sight of her tongue trying to poke through the gap where a top-row tooth was missing drew a smile from Lucia. ‘ Bellissima ,’ she said, returning the phone. ‘Things didn’t work out with her mother, then? Do you see her often?’
He took in some more wine, then shook his head. ‘Her mother? Pfft. That was a mistake. She was a waste of my time. But I see Matilde every other weekend.’
The spiteful scorn that contorted his face scared Lucia. While she was curious to know more about what had happened between them, she figured not knowing was probably best. She could only imagine the vitriol that might erupt from his mouth.
The image of sweet-faced Matilde sat illuminated on the table by his glass. That poor child , Lucia thought. Growing up with this man as a father figure . She had just about decided to call it, to pull the plug, irrespective of the level of clarity she did or didn’t have from the situation, when Claudio made it all the easier for her.
‘Enough of me. Tell me about you . . . Lucia.’ The pause before her name was laced with a hint of something more sinister. He lowered his voice and leaned across the table, leaving a handful of inches between them. ‘All I really remember from that night was your tight, wet—’
Lucia pulled back from the table with such force that Francesco instinctively turned towards her.
‘My what?’ It was impossible to hide her shock behind a whisper.
‘Bending you over the back of the stage like that. Makes me hard just thinking about it.’
She rose to her feet. ‘I never did any such thing. And I wouldn’t. With you of all people.’
‘Then who did I fuck by the speakers?’ He looked genuinely mystified.
Lucia let out a frustrated growl and pushed the table as far as she could before it smacked him in the chest. She threw down her napkin and downed the last of her wine. ‘Marco Polo!’ she barked across to Francesco.
‘Marco who ?’ wheezed Claudio, who had doubled over the table in pain, nursing his ribs.
Throwing her coat over her shoulders, Lucia laughed. ‘Go read a book. It might do you some good.’ She grabbed Francesco’s arm and led him from the bar.
It wasn’t until they had set foot on the pavers outside the bar that Lucia’s grip on Francesco loosened.
‘ Incredibile ! Brava , Lucia.’
She shuddered at the thought of Claudio being so close to her, let alone having him pursue her any further. Lucia gagged. ‘ Che coglione !’ She wrung her hands then flicked her fingers. ‘ Schifo !’
Francesco looped an arm through hers and guided her back onto the path towards home. ‘I’m so proud of you, Lucia. You really did something big tonight. Enorme !’ His free hand waved through the air.
She exhaled, causing grey puffs of condensation to dance ahead of them. ‘That was not what I thought might happen.’
‘ Sì, sì. Lo so . But you did get an answer.’
‘I know.’ She shook her head a little to refocus her attention. ‘That was the aim. Now I’m even more curious about Nicolò.’
They approached a small bridge and started climbing the shallow steps in unison.
‘And if Nicolò is a dead end, what do you want to do? Return to the DMs?’
‘Absolutely not. If it’s not Nicolò, then we move on. I have the rest of my life to deal with love, but only seventy-one days to buy out La Scuola Rosa.’
‘I understand.’ Francesco pulled her arm a little more tightly to his side. ‘Nicolò won’t be back until the 7th. More than two weeks away.’
‘Good. Enough time to get past that mess.’ She flicked her head back in the direction of the bar. ‘And I have another date to worry about in any case.’
‘With whom?’
‘Tiziano. Our post-ball catch-up this Saturday.’
Francesco’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
She tutted. ‘No. I’ll be fine on my own. Let’s just hope he’s turned enough of a profit to come through on our agreement.’
‘We can only hope.’
‘But until then, I was thinking that this Friday’s aperitivo could use a little . . . boost.’ She turned to give him a sly wink, and the sparkle in her eye was reminiscent of the playful times the two had shared as young children. Lucia goading Francesco to chase her, Francesco pretending to refuse on account of not wanting to run inside the school, but eventually conceding and racing her up and down the spiral staircase. The ordeal ending in fits of giggles and a swift telling off from Mariella and Lucia’s parents.
‘Boost? Tell me more.’
‘I’m thinking of screening Roberto Benigni’s Pinocchio after the aperit —’
‘ Bellissima idea !’
‘Out on the calle .’
Francesco pulled them to a complete stop. ‘ Non ho sentito bene. Scusa . Where, now ? ’
‘On the school’s facade. Just like we do during summer.’
Suddenly imitating Mariella’s worried expression from the afternoon, he said, ‘Lucia. What are you doing?’
‘ Niente . Just following our usual tried and tested cultural program.’ She gave him a wide, innocent smile.
But Francesco wasn’t so easily fooled. ‘It’s so cold at night, Lucia. No one will want to come and sit in the dark on the street to watch a film. Believe me.’
‘We have plenty of blankets and pillows in storage. And we have the fire pit upstairs on the terrazzo . We can bring that down.’
Francesco rolled his eyes. ‘Lucia, what you really want to do here is get on the nerves of that man across the calle . Round two.’
‘Oh, you mean Alex?’
Francesco lowered his chin and gave her the look of a disappointed parent scolding their small child. ‘He will surely retaliate; should you provoke—’
‘Shh,’ she said, pulling him with her as she set off again. ‘Who cares about him? It will be a fun new wintry adventure for our students.’
‘It smells of trouble.’
‘It smells like you’re not being supportive.’
‘Lucia!’ He scowled up at the night sky. ‘I think I agree with Mariella here. Leave him alone. You have enough problems to deal with at the moment.’
‘I know. I’m acutely aware of them all, Checco. And Alex isn’t anywhere near the top of my list of priorities. Trust me. So, Pinocchio it is.’
Francesco’s shoulders drooped a little under his coat. ‘ Va bene ,’ he said resignedly.
She didn’t know why Francesco had conceded so easily. In fact, she was half expecting more of a fight. Perhaps he was still feeling the pinch of the Instagram saga? Some residual guilt over the night’s outcome with Claudio? Whatever it was, it only bolstered Lucia’s resolve.
While she didn’t truly understand why needling Alex felt so good, she had a sneaky suspicion it was on account of her standing her ground, holding her own. With Claudio it had been much the same. She’d held her nerve, been assertive, and called the final shot. She’d felt powerful . It was a feeling Lucia hadn’t known for a very long time.
Feeling buoyant at the thought of Alex returning to his window like a melodramatic damsel in distress, she quickened her pace. ‘Let’s put out the usual popcorn and snacks. And we will need the larger speakers. The built-in one on the projector is not loud enough.’
Francesco’s eyes closed in defeat. ‘It won’t end well.’
She waved away his concerns. ‘It does. You’ve seen the film. Benigni è un genio .’
‘I wasn’t talking about the film.’