Chapter 14
Veronica ferries Leo to the mainland after school to play football with his old art school mates.
For the first time in days, I have the palazzo to myself.
I don’t even make it upstairs before I call Mum.
No whispering. No editing every sentence in case Leo overhears.
Maybe that’s why the conversation stays easy: just weather, shop gossip and Dad’s latest rant. I hang up smiling for once.
If that weren’t already a win, Rebel messaged me during the call.
@RenaissanceRebel: You’ve inspired me through some rough patches. Now it’s my turn. Watch this space.
I don’t know what he’s planning, or what he can even do, but knowing he wants to try matters. I don’t feel like hiding out any more, so I wander down to the kitchen and ask Jacopo’s mum if there’s anything I can do.
We make sarde in saor – sweet-and-sour sardines – just for ourselves. I slice onions until my eyes sting, and she bats my hand away when I try to rub them.
She watches me closely as I take my first bite.
‘Xe bon?’
‘Xe bon,’ I repeat, grinning when she claps. I think I’ve just learnt the Venetian dialect for tasty. It gives me a tiny boost, so I have a go at asking where Jacopo is.
She replies straight away, faster than before, and I lose most of it. Then she gestures towards the door and says fora.
Fuori, maybe? Out. Makes sense.
I help her clean up, even when she waves me off, and by the time the kitchen’s tidy, she grabs her carrello, pats my hand, and heads out to catch the vaporetto. I wonder if she notices I never use her name. I don’t remember ever being told it. And it’s too late to ask now.
Still feeling lighter, I head through to the living room and sink on to the sofa with my iPad.
Well, not sink. The sofa doesn’t allow for that.
I toy briefly with the idea of sketching Jacopo’s mum as a kindly brownie, then stop myself.
Art and I aren’t friends right now, and I don’t want to ruin my mood.
I scroll for something to stream instead, settling on a comfort rewatch.
A little later, the front door opens, and Veronica appears at the edge of the room.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘We ended up eating on the mainland. Leonardo’s gone to bed, and I’ve got some work to catch up with.’
I start gathering my things, but she raises a hand.
‘Please. Stay. Finish your programme.’ She smiles, then leaves me alone again.
The episode keeps buffering just as it gets good. I’m refreshing the page for what feels like the millionth time when a sudden crack splits the air outside, followed by cheers somewhere along the canal. Fireworks flare briefly above the rooftops, their colours flashing against the windows opposite.
I get up and press my face to the glass, waiting for another burst. Nothing. But I spot movement below.
A dark figure slips out of the palazzo. Backpack. Puffa. Leo.
He sets off along the fondamenta, checking behind him every few steps.
Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one with secrets.
My coat and shoes are already by the door.
I slip them on and sneak out quietly, picking up my pace when I see Leo round a corner at the far end of the street.
I catch sight of him again on the hump of a bridge, but a rowdy group in full costume floods the narrow crossing, and I get why Jacopo complains when people don’t stick to the right.
I weave through to find the street splits into three. There’s no sign of Leo.
Great. Lost him.
I try to work out where I am, but the calli all look the same in the dark. One wrong turn becomes four, and not only have I lost Leo. I’m lost, too.
Voices swell ahead, music and laughter spilling out into the night. I follow the noise without really thinking. Left, then right, then right again.
A familiar shape swings into view ahead of me – a battered metal sign jutting out over the street on a bracket. A cartoon octopus painted bright red.
The friggitoria-chippy Jacopo brought us to after the water parade. We ate here, then turned right just past it and followed the canal back to Leo’s.
OK. I know where this is now.
Even with the window shutter down, the smell of old oil hits me as I near the building. That’s not what stops me.
Painted straight across the metal of the shutter is a piece of art. A girl draped on a chaise longue, bomber jacket and boots, delicate hands, a faraway stare.
I recognize it.
But not from Venice.
My phone’s already in my hand. I scroll until I find it – the post on the Art Exchange.
I look from the screen to the shutter.
It’s a perfect match.
Rebel’s art.
Here. In Venice.
A memory cuts through. Jacopo’s voice, that day.
I helped decorate the place.
The thought creeps in, impossible to shake.
Could Jacopo be Rebel?