Chapter 6 Elena
E LENA
‘You know that old redneck American couple we saw when we were checking in? I bumped into them out in the hallway and the old fella does this big wave and he goes, “Hola, Doctor!”’ Christian laughs as he walks into their suite. ‘“Hola!” So I wave back and say “Ni hao , sir . ” He didn’t get it. They’re in matching “I love Venice” tops.’
Elena laughs through her nose. ‘I saw them rubbernecking when you were doing the CPR.’
Elena had stood watching, as helpless and useless as everyone around her, as Christian breathed life back into Signore Bianchi that afternoon. But she wasn’t like the other hotel guests, morbidly fascinated without the emotional attachment. She loves the Bianchis. She’s loved them for most of her life. Her brother, Paolo, played junior football for years with Rocco. They were like a second family to her growing up. The last time she saw any of them was at Paolo’s funeral twelve years ago when she was sixteen.
Christian had chosen Hotel Il Cuore. She’d wanted somewhere closer to Mamma’s apartment in the Jewish Quarter, but predictably, like most foreigners who know nothing of Venice, Christian was all about the San Marco location. He liked the sound of the forest-themed restaurant at Il Cuore with the glass dome ceiling and the draw card of the famous Signora Bianchi.
She hasn’t told him she knows the Bianchis; she’s relying on them not recognising her.
Christian walks over to where she’s sitting on the bed and presents her with a white cloth napkin, folded over, concealing what’s inside it. ‘Remember Marina told us about the cakes they leave in the restaurant for the guests? Here, I went down and got you something.’
She opens the napkin and her stomach twists. ‘Oh, a cannoli.’
‘Chocolate custard filling. You told me it used to be your favourite when you were growing up, yeah?’
She nods, it’s true. That’s a whole lot of calories she’ll be consuming if she agrees to eat it. She wants the cannoli though. Oh, how she wants it! But it wouldn’t be without consequence. She’ll have to atone for it, for days. Is it worth it? Saliva pools in her cheeks.
‘Go on, Ellie,’ Christian’s tone is gentle. ‘Just this once, babe.’
He didn’t see her scoffing a slice of marantega cake earlier behind the closed bathroom door at her mother’s apartment, or he wouldn’t be saying ‘just this once’.
She chews her lip. ‘I should be watching what I eat.’
‘It’s been a hard day. You deserve it.’
It has been a hard day. She relents, taking a large mouthful. The pastry crumbles onto her chest. ‘Mmm, so good. Thank you.’
The custard is deliciously lush. As soon as she’s swallowed the last piece, the regret courses through her. It wasn’t worth it.
Christian walks into the bathroom. ‘Let’s go for a walk before bed, babe,’ he calls out. ‘The installations for that climate art exhibit I was telling you about went up today. Some are supposed to light up after dark. Sounds pretty cool.’
‘Christian, I’m exhausted. I don’t want to go out again.’
Elena used to care about climate change. She was so passionate about it that her university major was Environmental Law. But now, the whole world could erupt into a giant fireball for all she cares. Her papà is dead and she didn’t make it back in time. She waited for Christian to sit his final exam so they could come back to Venice together. And for that, she blames him.
She hears him gargle and spit in the bathroom before he calls out again, ‘But it’s Christmas, Ellie. Let’s do something fun. The whole day’s been so bloody depressing. Come on, put on your coat. It’ll cheer you up.’
She knows she should do this for him, go on the stupid walk, look at the stupid art. It would make him happy, and he’s been so good with her family today.
But with the death of her beloved papà, something in her has snapped. When she was packing for Venice; for the entirety of the flight; when she set foot on home soil; when she saw Mamma so broken, so scared; while she listened to Padre Alessandro discuss the order of the Mass – throughout all of it, her rage towards Christian grew bigger and deeper.
So rather than agreeing to go on the walk, she hears herself say, in a tone that’s wholly unfamiliar to her, ‘Nothing about today feels like Christmas. My father’s dead. If you want to go look at art, go by yourself.’
Christian emerges from the bathroom holding a hand towel. There’s toothpaste in the corners of his mouth. He uses the towel to wipe the froth from his lips and sits near her on the bed. He lifts a lock of hair off her forehead. ‘Take a breath.’
‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m not myself at the moment.’
‘Everything’s going to be okay, babe,’ he says softly.
‘I know.’ She sighs. ‘I know.’