trentadue
‘Are we going to run with Marco Polo 2.0 for Nicolò?’ asked Francesco cheerfully that Saturday evening.
Lucia giggled. She was thankful for the levity. ‘Why not?’ She took another sip of her wine and cleared her throat.
Checking the time on her phone she happened to catch the moment the digits clicked from 20:59 to 21:00, and as if on cue she looked up to see a tall, broad-chested man walk into the bar.
He smiled kindly to a couple who were exiting as they all bottle-necked at the entrance. Taking a step back, he held open the door and wished them buonasera with a wave. Something in Lucia dared the universe to deliver this man to her table. His brown wavy hair sat just on his collar line, and was tucked behind his ears. His chiselled chin featured a smattering of stubble, and it all accented his deeply magnetic chocolate eyes.
Lucia watched as the man scanned the bar in search of someone. He hadn’t yet seen her tucked away by the far window, with Francesco at the next table. The man caught the attention of a passing waiter and said a few words to him, and then he, too, scanned the bar before gesturing to Lucia with a suggestive open hand.
And that was the moment he set eyes on her. His face bloomed into a devastatingly handsome smile and he crossed the bar, pulling off his coat as he did so.
‘Lucia,’ he said, approaching the table.
Lucia nodded and couldn’t help but mirror his expression. She stood up and joined him beside the table, accepting and reciprocating his cheek kisses.
‘I am so sorry it has taken me a few weeks to get back to Venice. I don’t live here anymore, and work has been really busy in the meantime. Apologies.’ He lowered his voice and drew her a little closer with a gentle hand on her forearm. ‘And I saw what happened after the ball.’ His eyes softened with genuine concern for her. ‘That was simply terrible. No one should have to live through that. And I feel partly responsible for it, for the kiss. I’m so sorry.’
Lucia’s mind whirled. He was so sure about what had happened and his perceived role in it. As if there were no question or doubt that he was the one . As if this meeting were the most natural stepping stone after the kiss in the piazzetta. And despite the character he’d shown when he entered the bar – the kind opening of the door, the polite interruption of the waiter – his concern for her wellbeing was the most unexpected yet delightful turn of events.
‘Thank you,’ Lucia said, and forced herself to remember Francesco’s earlier advice about open-ended, non-leading questions. ‘Please, Nicolò, take a seat.’ She gestured across the table.
‘Thank you.’ He dropped the coat onto the back of his chair and said, ‘But please, just call me Nic. No one except my mother calls me Nicolò.’ He dropped another of those dashing, charming smiles and proceeded to pour them both a glass of water. ‘Now tell me, how are you feeling about this?’ He waved across the table with both hands. ‘A little strange, isn’t it?’ He proffered his glass and clinked it against Lucia’s.
Smiling, she said, ‘It’s been a ride.’
‘I can imagine.’ The waiter he had caught only moments earlier passed by, and he ordered a drink to match Lucia’s. ‘So, did you want to talk about what happened at the ball?’
His question was all on Lucia. She caught herself fumbling over her words. ‘Well, uhm,’ she stammered.
‘Wait,’ he said, reaching across the table to catch her arm reassuringly. ‘So you know I am not a phoney, I thought I would bring this along.’ He reached behind him and dug around in one of the pockets of his coat, pulling from it a black satin pouch. He handed it to her. ‘I can only imagine how difficult it might be for you to trust people. And especially in this situation.’
Beyond the silken touch of the satin Lucia could feel the soft contoured lines of something well-formed yet malleable. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
With a smile, he said, ‘Hopefully something that helps you to identify me.’
She reached into the bag and withdrew a soft black leather mask. It flattened naturally in her hand, but she saw straight away that it had the same ripples and folded waves emulating the wind as the mask her kisser had been wearing. Lucia’s eyes flicked to Nicolò and took in his serene expression. He was at peace. There was no pretence. He knew this was the mask, and that they had shared that kiss. This much she could read, plain as day.
Her hands began to tremble, and noticing this, he said, ‘It’s ok, Lucia. There’s nothing to be frightened of.’
‘This is the mask ,’ she said after a few moments. She traced the lines around the eye holes, and the memory of how the man’s brown eyes had seemed to float behind them returned to her mind.
‘I know it is,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I didn’t think I’d find you.’
He half laughed. ‘And you think I expected to be sought out? The only reason I saw your friend’s post is because a friend of mine forwarded it to me knowing I had attended a ball that night. He thought of it as a bit of a joke, but I guess the joke’s on him.’ His wine arrived and he proceeded to take a mouthful. ‘ Buono .’
Lucia studied him across the table and relaxed back into her chair, feeling more at ease. She returned the mask to its black satin pouch, then reached for her glass of wine. ‘Tell me about you, Nic.’
‘Just as long as you’ll tell me everything about you.’
Under normal circumstances, this request for personal information would have terrified Lucia. Sharing everything about herself to a perfect stranger? It simply wouldn’t happen. But something about the man across from her enveloped her with a sense of calm. So she nodded. ‘I will do my best.’ She glanced covertly across to Francesco nearby, who was seemingly engrossed in his book.
Nicolò nodded, then began. ‘I’m in advertising, specifically working with major food brands around their seasonal campaigns. It’s only March, yet we are already busy working on this year’s portfolios for Natale . I’m an only child who grew up here in Venezia but who escaped for university. I really only return home when awkward family gatherings are on the table. Like today’s lunch for my father’s birthday.’ They shared a laugh. ‘My parents are a lot . Too much, sometimes.’ While he had intended the comment as a joke, he suddenly realised how it might have come across. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me.’
Lucia was touched by his kindness but waved off his concerns. ‘It’s fine. We all have problematic versions of family .’
From the next table Francesco cleared his throat loudly, which drew a stifled laugh from Lucia.
‘And what about you, Lucia?’ Nicolò asked, taking another sip of wine. ‘I am sorry to say that all I know is what I have seen in the media over the years. And I really don’t like that fact.’ He gave a wry wince. ‘Tell me about the real you .’
So there, at that little table in the bar, feeling seen and safe, Lucia opened up a tiny corner of her heart and decided to trust someone.
Just a little.
But it was a start.
After two hours of chatting, and two shared helpings of cicchetti , Nicolò insisted on walking Lucia home.
With her arm looped around his, and with the not-so-distant echo of Francesco’s footsteps fifty metres or so behind them, they set off in the direction of Calle del Leone.
Just as they were approaching the Ponte dei Zogatoli Lucia asked, ‘When are you leaving Venice?’
‘First thing tomorrow morning. Work on Monday.’ His eyes hit the starry night sky, then came to meet hers. They shared a smile.
Lucia had thoroughly enjoyed their evening together. Nicolò was handsome and charismatic, the conversation had been easy, and the chemical connection that Lucia had shared with him during that kiss seemed to extend beyond masked balls and stolen midnight encounters. Her curiosity got the better of her and she asked, ‘And when are you returning?’
‘Not soon enough, I’m afraid.’
Did he sound wistful about that? Lucia wondered. ‘Oh, ok,’ she said.
‘We still have the rest of tonight.’ His tone was hopeful, gentlemanly. And his sweet nature and charming smile reassured her.
Then Lucia did something she never thought she could do. It had been Nicolò who had initiated their first kiss in the piazzetta. What was stopping her from initiating a second? Checking over her shoulder she gave Francesco a covert signal that she needed a moment to herself, then Lucia pulled them to a stop.
‘Everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Perfect.’ Releasing herself from the looped hold of their arms, Lucia pressed both hands to Nicolò’s chest. Even under the layers of his woollen coat and knit, she could feel the strength and tightness of his chest. It felt familiar. With a flick of her eyes she coaxed him to step back into the shadows of an overhanging portico, and there, hidden from the night, she pinned him against the glass window.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, lowering his chin playfully, allowing his cheek to brush against hers.
‘I want another before you go.’ She almost didn’t recognise her own voice vibrate in the cold night air. It sounded foreign to her; too enthusiastically dominant to be that of Lucia Trevisan.
‘Allow me to oblige,’ he said, and his grasp moved down her arms, and in time, just as his lips were dipping to catch hers in the shadows, his hands found hers.
They were incredibly warm. A soft, welcome reprieve from the frosty night air.
As his fingers interlaced themselves with hers, the realisation hit her.
Soft.
Soft hands!
Lucia lurched from his arms just as their lips were about to touch. She fumbled for his hands and turned them over in her own.
‘What’s wrong? What are you doing?’
She pulled him a few paces from the shadows to steal some of the moonlight. Nicolò’s hands were indeed soft. Plump and full, with not so much as a graze on them, let alone the rough, weathered skin she had felt the night of the ball. That skin was the kind that wouldn’t heal over a few weeks. It had been pummelled and damaged from decades of work. Thickened to the deepest layers of soft tissue, that skin would never again know the fullness and suppleness of Nicolò’s hands.
‘You’re not him,’ she said in a defeated whisper, and suddenly dropped his hands, taking a step back.
‘What are you talking about?’ He moved forward to catch her in his grip, but Lucia darted to the side.
‘You’re not the man I kissed. Your hands . . .’ Then her demeanour tightened with the rising anger in her voice. ‘Who are you?’
At that moment Francesco ran from the shadows to her side. ‘Lucia, what’s going on?’
Nicolò was thrown by the arrival of company. ‘Who’s this guy?’
‘You’re a fraud, aren’t you?’ Bolstered by frustration and embarrassment, Lucia lunged at Nicolò. ‘ Chi cazzo sei ?’ She pulled at his clothing, and he attempted to swat her away. ‘Where did you come from? How did you know about the mask?’ Finally, finding what she wanted in his coat pocket, she tore the black satin pouch containing the mask from him. ‘What the fuck was this about?’
Francesco had surmised enough of what was going on to understand that Lucia had been taken advantage of. He thrust himself against Nicolò and pushed him back against the glass window. ‘Where did you get that mask?’
Nicolò was grasping for words, his dignity in shreds. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
Lucia’s ego was bruised, and she was angry, having allowed herself to feel vulnerable with this fraud. She saw red. ‘ Where did you get that mask ?!’ She joined Francesco and the two formed a blockade. Nicolò wouldn’t be passing until they said so.
‘I bought it from an artisan here in Venice, ok?’
‘ Chi ? Which artisan?’ Francesco asked.
Attempting to wriggle free, Nicolò growled, ‘I can’t remember his name. He has a workshop in Dorsoduro.’
‘Where in Dorsoduro?’ Lucia pressed.
‘I don’t remember the number. But . . . it’s the only workshop along the backwater line where the fondamente Bonlini and Ognisanti meet.’
‘How did you know that was the mask?’ Lucia’s eyes darted frantically across his face.
‘I . . . I didn’t. I had purchased that one a month earlier. I took a punt and sent the DM. For a joke. You never denied it wasn’t the one.’
Hearing this, Francesco loosened his grip a little. Nicolò wrenched himself free and bolted as fast as his legs would carry him back towards Cannaregio.
Lucia dropped to the pavers, doubling over herself with exasperation, the black satin pouch still in her hand. Her nerve had been shattered.
Again, you opened yourself up and again you have been run over! Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Why, Lucia! Just. Stop. Love isn’t worth it!
Francesco took a moment to catch his breath, hands on hips, looking up at the night sky.
With more questions than answers, the two locked eyes and conceded the evening’s defeat.