due
From the corner of her eye, Lucia could sense Francesco watching her from his usual position on the cushioned bench by the bay window. His attention would flick between the view outside over the Grand Canal, the lesson plans piled up in his lap, and Lucia preparing lunch at the stove in the kitchen.
The nature of her open-plan apartment provided no corners to hide behind, and no shadows to cower in. No matter her attempts to convince him otherwise, Lucia felt that Francesco knew something was brewing.
With fingers devoid of their usual confidence and dexterity, Lucia dropped a more generous than intended pinch of saffron threads into the hot rice. She stirred again, watching as the thickening starch run-off took on the most glorious golden hue. It bled from the saffron, pooling in pockets before she moved it on once again with the wooden spoon. In went another ladleful of hot fish stock, and the pan bubbled fragrantly in reply.
Foscari made his way to the window seat overlooking Calle del Leone. He trotted up the fifteen-inch-tall dachshund-friendly staircase fashioned from outdated Italian grammar guides, and pressed his wet black nose to the glass. He gave a sweet little bark just as Lucia’s phone lit up.
Lucia flicked a few loose strands of hair from her eyes and glanced at the text preview on the screen. ‘Mariella’s here,’ she said, turning to face Francesco.
‘ Vado io !’ He gestured that she should continue cooking. ‘You stir.’
Walking over to Lucia’s writing desk, positioned against the wall between her bed and the top of the staircase, he collected a small pink bucket. Inside was the spare key to the front door. A long line of sparkly cord was knotted securely to the wooden handle. He opened the window that faced Calle del Leone and waved to Mariella on the street.
She was wrapped tightly in a black knitted tunic which accentuated her short greying curls. ‘ Buon venerdì !’ she called up to the open window, loud enough for all the neighbours to hear. She adjusted her purple half-moon glasses.
‘I hope you’re hungry. There’s a veritable feast waiting for you up here.’ Francesco slowly began to lower the bucket down to Mariella, one arm-length at a time.
‘I’m always hungry,’ she chortled, her round middle jiggling. She collected the key from the bucket and let herself into the building, after the necessary shoulder thrusts into the door jamb, of course.
‘Miro’s asked after you again, Mariella,’ Lucia said as she applied the final touches to the risotto. ‘You have a certain hold on him.’
Mariella grumbled. ‘I’m an old rotund widow.’ She removed her glasses and wiped them on her scarf. ‘With terrible vision. Who would want me?’
‘Besides us? Miro, evidently,’ interjected Francesco.
This time Mariella’s retort of disapproval came in the form of a belly laugh. ‘Let him pine. I don’t care in the slightest. He knows I’m not interested.’ Mariella was the first to notice that Lucia had set a fourth place at the table for lunch. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Lucia the superfluous low-lipped bowl.
‘No. Leave it. We have company today.’
Mariella and Francesco exchanged a loaded look.
‘Company?’ Francesco’s eyebrows knotted in confusion.
‘Yes.’ Lucia gave a short, frustrated sigh. ‘ Edoardo Boscolo will be joining us today.’
‘And he is?’ Francesco pursed his lips.
‘The lawyer handling the settlement of Jacopo’s estate.’
Mariella suddenly seemed winded; it was as if her sails had drooped and she had come to a stop in a remote unknown harbour. ‘And . . .?’
‘Do I think he wants to talk about Jacopo’s share in the school? I hope so. But I don’t know. He simply said he had matters to discuss regarding Jacopo’s estate.’
‘Do you really want us here for this, Lucia? We can go.’ Francesco made to gather his things.
‘I need you here. You are my chosen family. This concerns you as much as it concerns me.’
It was at that moment that Lucia’s phone chimed once again, and Foscari returned to the window as quickly as his stumpy legs would carry him.
Lucia checked the message. ‘It’s Edoardo. I’ll go let him in.’
Just as she reached the top of the staircase, Mariella caught her arm and pulled her close. ‘Lucia, Jacopo was a respectful man of his word. A gentleman. He loved you like a daughter. If he said he would leave you his share of the school, then that’s what he has done. Today should be just a formality.’ She squeezed Lucia’s arm reassuringly. ‘Please, try to relax.’
Lucia forced a smile then descended the stairs. Upon reaching the second floor, she stopped. She could almost feel her heartbeat in her ears, and a clammy cold sweat bathed the back of her neck. She took a moment to breathe, shaking out her hands by her sides, but all this did was bring to her attention the way her fingers trembled with fear. Something inside of Lucia wanted to believe Mariella. But after a lifetime of disappointments and false hopes, she wouldn’t be able to rest until La Scuola Rosa was rightly in her name. And her name alone. Just as it had always been planned.
With another deep breath she collected herself, straightened the hem of her jumper and zhoozhed the length of her long ponytail. Then she continued downstairs, plastering the most genuine look of tranquillity across her pallid face as the universe would allow.
And there through the glass was Edoardo Boscolo, standing by the door looking up at the building and taking notes on a small yellow pad. Full-figured, wearing a navy suit paired with a white shirt and dark brown patent leather shoes, Lucia almost didn’t notice his bulging attaché case at first.
What did he have in there? Contracts, perhaps? Jacopo’s will? Would Edoardo deliver the news she had craved to hear since the night of her eighteenth birthday? On that occasion, Jacopo had slipped an envelope containing a birthday card into Lucia’s hand. But it wasn’t the money he had gifted Lucia that had made it a memorable occasion; it was the promise he had made in his trademark curly cursive that had pushed her confidently from child to woman.
‘Signorina Trevisan?’ Edoardo’s tapping on the glass pane of the door snapped Lucia from her vacant-eyed reverie.
‘Ah, mi scusi !’ With fidgeting hands she unlocked the door, gave it a proper pull, and welcomed him inside. ‘ Benvenuto to La Scuola Rosa,’ she said, holding the door open and ushering him inside. ‘Please, follow me all the way up. My apartment is on the third floor.’
Edoardo followed her up the stairs, his breath becoming more laboured with each step.
‘Might I be so bold as to suggest that in future, guests are seen in the lower levels of the building? It might spare a heart attack or two. You wouldn’t want that liability on your conscience, now, would you?’
Lucia was caught off guard by Edoardo’s bluntness, but figured that given the nature of the meeting, shelving that sentiment would be best. ‘I’m sorry. Signor Boscolo, meet my colleagues and dearest friends, Mariella Sartori and Francesco Pavan.’ The three nodded to one another. ‘Here, please take a seat.’
Placing his attaché case beside his chair, Edoardo removed his jacket, slung it over the chair back and promptly sat down. ‘ Grazie . And thank you also for the invitation to lunch.’ He reached across and poured himself a glass of white wine, taking a loud gulp before setting it back down.
Irritated by him already, Lucia needed to reset. Looking to Francesco, who was standing behind Edoardo, didn’t help. His curl-framed face had contorted with such disgust that it forced Lucia to muffle a giggle into the back of her hand. She feigned a cough. ‘This winter has been exceptionally cold and wet,’ she said, giving Francesco a jab in the ribs as she passed him on her way to the kitchen. ‘Mariella, Francesco, please, take a seat.’
With her back turned to her company she closed her eyes and sent a private message to the heavens. Please, let it all go to plan . Today would indeed be the day.
Lucia set the heavy pot of risotto down on a cast-iron trivet in the centre of the circular table. ‘ Risotto alla milanese , Venetian-style, if you’ll permit me,’ she said, turning to collect a large roasting tray from the oven. She arranged it next to the pot, and the sight of the golden-topped turbot fillets sitting on a bed of roast potatoes, hand-split olives and wilted greens, drew sighs of appreciation from her diners. It was enough to distract her, even for a moment, from what Edoardo might be about to unleash.
Mariella served everyone a generous ladleful of risotto, watching the creamy concoction pour perfectly all’onda into the white bowls. The risotto’s soft saffron-tinted tone brought some levity and sunshine to the otherwise nerve-racked table. Mariella dropped a small scoop into Foscari’s bowl in the kitchen, too, for good measure.
‘ Buonissimo ,’ Edoardo announced, after taking his first bite. ‘It’s different somehow.’
‘ Brodo di pesce ,’ Lucia explained, pointing to the tall pot still on the hob, half-filled with her homemade fish stock. The bones and head of the turbot had come into their own.
Edoardo dug in again, shovelling down a decidedly more generous spoonful.
Lucia’s eyes darted between Francesco and Mariella. As if sharing one singular thought between them, she drew a bolstering breath and asked the question she already knew the answer to. ‘ Allora , to what do we owe the pleasure, Signor Boscolo?’
With a mouth full of risotto, he said, ‘Edoardo. Per favore .’ In went another helping, followed by more wine. ‘The death of Jacopo Molin is what brings me to you.’ This was followed by more open-mouthed chewing. ‘ Mi dispiace tantissimo . A wonderful man.’
‘A father figure,’ Lucia added, gesturing for Mariella and Francesco to eat.
‘I can see why. A long-standing client of mine, too.’
‘You mentioned on the phone that you had matters of Jacopo’s estate to discuss with me.’
With the first shred of manners evident since his arrival, Edoardo took the Burano lace-trimmed ivory napkin from the table and wiped his mouth. ‘Yes, but I see we now have company.’
‘You can speak freely at this table.’ Lucia smiled politely. ‘Mariella and Francesco are my colleagues, but also the closest thing I have to family.’
‘ Va bene ,’ Edoardo said, setting the napkin down. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Signorina Trevisan.’
Lucia’s jaw tightened. ‘But not as I’d like it to,’ she said. ‘Jacopo’s estate?’
‘ Sì .’ Edoardo pulled his glasses from his top pocket, resting them on the end of his bulbous nose. He pulled back slightly from the table and removed a hefty stack of papers from his attaché case, tapping the edges to right the pile. ‘Lucia,’ he began. ‘When did your parents open La Scuola Rosa with Jacopo?’
‘More than three decades ago,’ Mariella supplied.
‘ Sì, esatto ,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘This building was always in the family, and this is where my parents settled after they married. They only needed this space,’ she gestured to the apartment. ‘So it just made sense for the scuola to take up the two lower floors.’
Edoardo made a few notes on the yellow pad he had been using while out on the calle . ‘Hmm. And as my papers indicate, there is some shared equity in the school. Resources, equipment, et cetera . . . including savings and shares.’
Was that a question? What was Edoardo digging for? ‘La Scuola Rosa is in a solid financial position. And yes, the equity is in the name of the school. Some of what physically lives downstairs belonged to my parents, but the rest is property of the school.’
His note-taking continued, and Mariella tried in vain to crane her neck inconspicuously to catch a glimpse of what he was writing.
Frustrated by this to-ing and fro-ing, Lucia could now feel the tension rising from her feet. ‘Edoardo. I’m sorry for being blunt, but what does this have to do with settling Jacopo’s estate?’
After a pause, the lawyer set down his pen and removed his glasses. ‘Lucia, please explain to me how you understand the current ownership of the school.’
‘I inherited my parents’ half after they . . .’ She took a deep breath and forced an acknowledging nod to her situation. ‘And Jacopo owns the other. Owned. It was his.’
‘ Ho capito . . .’ Edoardo said, bringing the end of his pen to the corner of his mouth.
Lucia got up from the table and went to her desk. She rifled through the second drawer, withdrew a white envelope and returned to the table. ‘ Ecco ,’ she said, passing it to Edoardo. ‘And this was the promise Jacopo made me on my eighteenth birthday . . . about his half.’
Edoardo withdrew a yellowing birthday card from the envelope and held it aloft in his chubby fingers. The cover featured a pink glitter-embossed ‘18’. His eyes scanned the hand-written message within. ‘Intent to entrust, I’m afraid, Lucia, holds no water.’
Lucia’s mind suddenly scrambled. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Jacopo Molin never formalised this intent in a legal sense. In his will.’ He patted the papers by his plate.
In unison, Lucia, Francesco and Mariella all sat up straighter in their chairs.
‘What does that mean?’ Lucia’s mouth went dry as she pushed out the words.
‘Legally, you have no claim over Jacopo’s half of the school.’ He handed her back the birthday card. ‘ That half is not yours.’
Lucia felt herself buckle in the chair, and Foscari, sensing the change in her, scuttled to her feet.
‘So . . . what? I mean . . . who?’ She steepled her hands in front of her, the knuckles white. Francesco rose and came around to join her. He crouched down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. ‘Jacopo doesn’t have any famil—’
‘He does, actually,’ Edoardo interrupted. ‘An estranged nephew, Roberto Molin. He lives in Chicago, in the United States. He is a businessman, works with stocks. Has a wife, two children.’
‘ Dio . . .’ Lucia dropped her face into her hands and her shoulders curled.
‘Never fear, Lucia,’ Edoardo said, taking a spoonful of risotto into his mouth. Chewing, he added, ‘Not all is lost.’
Lucia looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have been in talks with Roberto since Jacopo’s death. As the only surviving relative, the entire estate is entrusted to him. As for Jacopo’s share of La Scuola Rosa . . . he wants no part of it. In fact, he has assigned me to oversee its handover.’
‘Handover? To me?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
Lucia cleared her throat. ‘Tell me what I have to do.’
‘I explained your situation to Roberto, as I understood it at the time. Given your long-standing history with Jacopo, he welcomes you to sign an expression to purchase contract—’
‘Of course I will!’ Lucia blurted, her hands fumbling on the table in search of a pen. ‘Tell me where to sign!’
‘Roberto has a keen business eye. He knows that a unique commercial opportunity like this in the city of Venice doesn’t come along every day. And so, before I came to see you, he wanted me to scope other potential purchasers from the market.’
Lucia swallowed. ‘And?’
‘ And , there is one other person who wishes to purchase Jacopo’s share of the school.’
Lucia’s blood ran cold. All she could do was stand and begin pacing the short distance between the kitchen area and the dining table, Foscari trotting alongside. Lucia’s wide-set emerald-green eyes locked with Mariella’s. ‘Can you believe this? Mamma and Papà . . .’ she began, and Mariella simply shook her head in disbelief. Turning her attention back to Edoardo, who was now picking through the fillets of turbot from the roasting tray, Lucia asked, ‘Who wants it?’
Transferring a fillet to his plate, Edoardo answered, ‘Vittorio Gatti.’
Hearing this, Mariella rose from her chair with both speed and defiance. ‘ That man?! In this place?’ She banged her fist on the table, causing everything on it to rattle. ‘No! Never! I won’t hear of it!’ She pushed back from the table with such force that her chair crashed to the floor behind her.
‘Vittorio Gatti. Why is that name familiar?’ Francesco asked, alarmed by the display.
Mariella’s cheeks were feverishly red. ‘When we opened the school all those years ago, Gatti came lurking. He saw the money we were making, the success and the reputation we built through sheer hard work. He wanted a piece of it then and made his intentions very clear. He pushed and pushed for a buy-in.’
‘Why is he still interested after all these years?’ Francesco asked.
‘Revenge,’ Lucia said, exhaling loudly. ‘The ultimate show of victory. The final parade to trample over my parents’ grave. Because they can’t stop him now. Dio . . . How is this happening?’
Mariella banged again on the table with an impassioned fist. ‘Umberto and Elena wanted nothing to do with him back then. They knew he was involved in dirty dealings in the city. Money exchanging hands. Businesses closing suddenly. They pushed him away. Refused him time and time again. So then, when it was clear he was getting nowhere, he began spreading rumours across the lagoon about the school, about Umberto and Elena. Failure this. Corruption that. But it didn’t break their resolve. They were the life and soul of this place. And you, Lucia, are the embodiment of that.’
Lucia’s green eyes, the same as her mother’s, narrowed. Her voice lowered just enough to let her words seep out, tainted by grief, tinted with terror. ‘Vittorio Gatti saps the life from Venice. One icon at a time.’ She turned and made her way to the window. Pulling back the lace voile curtain she said, ‘It was Gatti who purchased La Commedia all those years ago, Francesco. Remember?’
She looked at the derelict two-storey building across the calle from her own. And despite being two storeys in comparison to Lucia’s palazzo’s three, it was the same height, because the internal floors were higher.
‘La Commedia was once the beating heart of this sestiere , Edoardo,’ Lucia continued. ‘Hard to believe that a restaurant can change the spirit of a city’s quarter, but La Commedia did. It exuded joy and life. And the music played until so very late. But no one on the calle cared. Proper cucina veneziana . Mostly locals. Always run by the same family, the Rigons. Do you remember them, Mariella?’ But Mariella was too incensed to engage in Lucia’s reminiscing.
Francesco chimed in. ‘I remember the nonna with the blue gingham apron. With the long pl—’
‘Plaits! Yes. She used to sneak galani across the calle in little white paper bags for me. Mamma didn’t want me eating too many sweets, but that nonna always found a way to get them to me.’ Lucia shook her head wistfully. ‘At least fifteen years ago, Edoardo, Gatti bought the business. Offered more than it was worth and eventually pushed the Rigons out. He let it go to ruin. On purpose. Just like the rest of the businesses he tramples for his tax cuts and write-offs. I could write you a list of thirty, maybe forty. Descends from old Venetian money. He’s a monster.’
Turning to face Edoardo, Francesco asked, ‘Knowing all this, how in good conscience could you even consider selling Jacopo’s share to Vittorio Gatti? He will surely want to see the school fail. Crumble from within.’
While chewing the last of his roasted potato, Edoardo shrugged and said, ‘Business matters have no social conscience.’
Lucia scowled, and her polite veneer suddenly wore thin. ‘This is not the Venetian way. True Venetians are a dying breed. There are so few of us left here on the lagoon. Why does Gatti deserve to be considered? La Scuola Rosa is an institution of excellence, impeccable reputation and, above all, living Venetian history.’
‘Because Gatti,’ Edoardo said, pausing for effect, ‘has promised to pay Roberto double its sworn value.’
There it was. Like the water level markers protruding from the emerald canals, measuring the rising tides and floods, Vittorio Gatti had set the benchmark, forcing Lucia into a sink-or-swim battle.
Lucia felt light-headed under the metaphoric weight of this news. She grabbed her chair back for support and held on so fervently that it startled Foscari. Sensing that Edoardo was the catalyst for Lucia’s unease he dropped his front legs low to the ground and growled in the lawyer’s direction, earning a condescending laugh from Edoardo.
Lucia, who had been treading water since she was eleven, was exhausted. ‘ Non ci credo. è impossibile .’ She returned to pacing, while Mariella pointed a serving spoon in Edoardo’s direction, working herself up to a fresh explosion.
Francesco intercepted Mariella and coaxed the women to return to the table.
Lucia’s usual pale complexion now looked grey in the low lighting of her apartment, and the shock had robbed her eyes of their iconic green depth. ‘What’s it all worth?’ she asked tremulously.
Edoardo rifled through papers then slipped her a printed spreadsheet. His index finger travelled to the sum in the final cell and he tapped on it twice. ‘But double it, as you will need to outbid Gatti’s offer.’
Lucia absorbed the six figures – multiples thereof – but kept her expression impassive. The school’s success – her success – suddenly felt like a curse.
It was so overwhelming. Suffocating. As if the thing she had tethered herself to so passionately – so defiantly , in fact – were suddenly dragging her through the canals.
Looking at all those numbers on the page, Lucia knew she didn’t have the money. Between the frantic maths her mind attempted in the moment, and the grief she still felt at having lost Jacopo so recently, she came undone. If she turned down the chance to beat the offer on the table, she would lose the future she had always envisioned for herself – a life spent serving their community of learners, imparting wisdom and culture, challenging minds with language and new learnings, all within the sacred confines of her quite literally rose-coloured life.
No.
She wouldn’t allow that to happen.
At least not without a fight.
‘What are the terms?’ she asked, forcing a determined and direct tone into her voice.
Edoardo raised an eyebrow. Lucia couldn’t decide if he was surprised by her potential participation in the deal, or simply amused by a vain attempt. ‘If you sign the expression to purchase contract, Lucia, you essentially start the clock.’
‘The clock?’ Francesco asked.
‘Yes. You will force Vittorio Gatti into a position whereby his maximum offer – this right here – is valid for ninety days. Inclusive of today. By signing, you, or any other party who may wish to participate, would have those ninety days to beat his offer. But you, right now, Lucia, are the only one with the power to start this.’
She wanted to laugh, because the only thing she felt in the moment was disempowered. ‘Show me the contract.’ Lucia tensed from head to toe. She had built up an invisible brick wall and she was determined to protect herself behind it. She took the papers Edoardo proffered and leaned back in her chair to read each word with meticulous care.
It all checked out. It was a carbon copy of what Edoardo had explained, except for one thing. ‘And Gatti knows that the only thing for sale is Jacopo’s half of the business, and not the building? The palazzo is mine.’
‘He is acutely aware.’
Lucia closed her eyes and felt Francesco’s secure grip on her forearm. It was reassuring, but she knew it was not enough to stave off the onrushing memories of that Valentine’s Day in 2006.
Click .
Flash .
The rubbery thickness of her mother’s lifeless hands. Her father’s empty pupils, staring into the saturated rain clouds above. And now, Jacopo’s dead weight and that harrowing blue tinge to his skin.
L’Orfana .
The noise and camera flashes returned.
Click . Click . Flash .
The photo. That damned photo that had been splashed across the press, across the internet. The moniker she couldn’t shake, still to this day.
Then there was the tenth anniversary incident. At twenty-one, she’d had to face a barrage of resurfaced interest in her private life and her professional world, after she had finally found some peace and closure. She couldn’t have known that she was being watched – surveilled – night and day for weeks in the lead-up. She could never have guessed that behind the lace voile curtains of the second floor of La Commedia, just three metres from her window across Calle del Leone, journalists were lying in wait, preparing a story that would once again iconise L’Orfana , throw her back in the spotlight.
L’Orfana : Venice’s Most Eligible Bachelorette.
But they were.
And she was.
She wouldn’t let anyone disempower her again.
Lucia opened her eyes, and that infamous green gaze flashed brightly across the table, aglow and renewed. ‘Give. Me. The. Pen.’