ventinove
It was the sight of Francesco and Stefano waiting out the front of the school that made Lucia drop her head and sigh.
Francesco cocked his head to the right, sizing her up as she approached. ‘Are you done now? Is this madness over?’
Stefano’s expression echoed Francesco’s. Furrowed brows and pursed lips conveyed their shared concern for her.
‘I’m an idiot. A sad, lost, confused, troubled idiot.’ She motioned that they should go inside. ‘The students?’
‘All out for lunch,’ Stefano said.
‘And Mariella?’
‘Upstairs cooking our lunch,’ Francesco added. ‘What happened? Alex came home half an hour ago. Where did he go?’
Lucia’s lungs emptied and her chest caved under the weight of her shame. ‘Cimitero di San Michele.’ Both Stefano and Francesco stopped in their tracks. ‘I’ll tell you all together.’ She motioned to the spiral staircase. ‘Let’s go.’
Once Lucia had finished her recount, she threw herself back into her chair at the dining table. ‘I’ve fallen apart.’ She paused, taking a generous mouthful of wine. ‘I’m the worst human alive.’
Mariella guffawed, speaking with a mouth full of spaghetti alle vongole . ‘I would have ranked Vittorio Gatti higher on that scale this month.’
Despite herself, Lucia managed a smile. ‘ Grazie .’
‘We are all worried about you, Lucia.’ Francesco reached across and squeezed her thigh under the table. ‘Your behaviour today was . . . troubling.’
‘I know. I have been berating myself since I arrived at the cemetery.’
‘It’s more than just today.’ Francesco’s gaze locked with Stefano’s and they shared a look, as if they were thinking back to a private conversation on the matter. ‘The business with the school, Alex and La Commedia, and that damn Instagram post . . .’ He swallowed, recalling his own role in the saga. ‘I think you’ve reached breaking point.’
Lucia released a long breath. ‘You’re probably right. I don’t know how much more I can take.’ She twirled her fork and brought another mouthful of food to her lips, allowing the briny comfort of the clams to spread across her palate. ‘ Ottimo ,’ she complimented Mariella, enjoying the return of her appetite, which she hadn’t felt of late.
Stefano set down his cutlery and cleared his throat. ‘Lucia, let Francesco and I take some of the pressure off you. We can manage the Venezia, Ovunque! project for you.’
Hearing this, Lucia’s immediate instinct was to refuse. She was the one at the helm, commandeering the ship at all times, with the support of her trusty crew, of course. But the fatigue in her heavy legs and her rattled, anxious mind gave her pause. So, rather than protest, she listened to him.
‘We are quick with the editing software and we can run around the city attracting less interest than you at the moment. Time is of the essence, right? Every day counts. Sixty-three are left. This would leave you to focus on your other concerns. Ti prego . Please just let go a little.’
She gave a gentle nod of gratitude. ‘ Grazie . That would be incredibly helpful.’
Francesco beamed at Stefano, and reached across affectionately to caress his hand.
Instinctively, Stefano made to pull away, but Lucia interjected. ‘Stefano, I know about you two.’ She smiled and looked between them. ‘And I’m so delighted.’
Stefano looked to Francesco with a relieved expression.
‘I told you it would be fine,’ Francesco said.
Stefano exhaled what little was left in his lungs. ‘Lucia, I worried that you wouldn’t . . . Grazie .’
Mariella rose from her chair to wrap her short stumpy arms around them both.
‘Your happiness is all that matt—’ But Lucia was interrupted by the ringing of her phone.
Ordinarily she would leave a call that interrupted company, but even Mariella encouraged her to answer. ‘Sorry, it could be someone about a loan, or . . .’ She collected her phone from the kitchen bench. ‘It’s Olivia Caruso,’ she said.
Foscari, who had been enjoying his own share of lunch from his special little bowl, barked at the continued ringing.
Francesco did a quick mental stocktake. ‘About the production, I bet. It’s that time of year.’
Lucia answered. ‘ Pronto , Olivia? . . . Brava . Good to hear. Yes, still here. Always here. Francesco and Mariella . . . We are just having lunch with our colleague Stefano. Of course, dimmi . Hmm. Sì . . . That sounds exciting . . .’
The conversation continued for a few minutes, with Lucia eventually promising to call Olivia back in the next few days. She returned to the table newly invigorated.
‘ Allora ?’ Francesco asked, dropping a few empty vongole shells into the bowl in the centre of the table. He licked his fingertips.
‘It’s production time. Olivia is asking if we have any students who might be interested in an on-stage non-speaking role for their current show. Friday fortnight.’
‘What’s Il Camino staging this season?’
‘Carlo Goldoni’s La Locandiera , in an exaggerated Commedia dell’Arte style. Masks and all.’
Francesco, who had been taking a drink of water, suddenly spat it down his front. He erupted in laughter. ‘ La Locandiera ?’
Lucia blinked in confusion. ‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
Wiping his chin with his napkin he said, ‘And you think the universe forgot about you, Lucia.’
‘Excuse me?’ She sat a little taller in her chair.
‘Mirandolina. Venetian innkeeper. Beautiful and wanted by all men. Source of intrigue. Cons potential suitors out of their money, is stubborn and strong-willed, fiercely independent. Finally breaks one man, only to mock him publicly. And eventually falls in love with the humble waiter.’ Francesco locked eyes with Stefano.
‘ Lascia stare, tesoro. ’
‘What?’ Lucia’s gaze darted between the two of them. ‘Are you implying that my life is like Mirandolina’s?’
‘Life, no . But some of her traits . . .’ Francesco glanced up at the ceiling as he pretended to ponder the matter.
‘Oh, yes.’ Stefano erupted in laughter but was silenced by the napkin Lucia flung at him across the table.
‘I am nothing like Mirandolina. And I don’t run an inn!’
‘What I want to know is, who’s the humble waiter in your version of the tale, Lucia?’ This time it was an empty vongola shell that flew at Stefano.
Then it was Francesco’s phone’s turn to chime. He pulled it from his pocket to flick it to silent, but his eyes caught a glimpse of the notification. ‘Oh. Just what we needed to reset the energy of the day.’ Lucia’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s a message notification from Nicolò, Lucia’s final potential masked kisser.’
Lucia’s emerald eyes widened. ‘I’ve been so distracted these past few days I had completely forgotten about him. What does he say?’
With a dramatic flourish of the wrist Francesco opened the message and read: Lucia, I thought I’d message to see if we’re still seeing each other next Saturday. I am coming to Venice and would love to see you. If you’re no longer comfortable with that, that’s perfectly fine. I understand. I hope you’re well. Nic .
Lucia closed her eyes and pushed the images of Alex by the grave, Vittorio Gatti standing in the school’s entrance, and the sarcastic smile of the comune employee from her mind. She replaced it all with her kisser’s mask. That black half-mask in moulded leather that emulated the wind.
You deserve happiness. You deserve love. You deserve a chance. You have so much pushing against you now. You have nothing to lose. Just say . . .
‘Yes. Tell him, yes.’