cinque
Lucia wondered how much longer she could be addressed by the term signorina . If she were to stay single forever – or, as the headlines had called her, Venice’s most eligible bachelorette – at what point would signorina meet its linguistic expiration date? She figured that the man at the comune office that Monday could sense she was single and thought to convey her the courtesy. His courtesy, however, ended there.
‘Trevisan, Lucia,’ she informed him.
His long, beak-like nose had a distinct bend in the middle. Lucia noticed it as he dropped his head to scribble her name on a notepad. He seemed to pause for a moment, as if the name and those vibrant green eyes stirred something in his memory, but eventually, he met her gaze. ‘Signorina Trevisan, and your complaint would be?’
She smiled tightly. ‘A concern . Not a complaint.’
He raised his eyebrows and gave an indignant Italian nod of the head to no one in particular. ‘Your concern , then?’
‘The empty property across from mine on Calle del Leone has been occupied the last few days, and strange things are taking place inside the building.’
His pen poised, he asked, ‘What strange things?’
‘Lights on during the night. There seems to be no one there during the day. The property still seems abandoned otherwise.’
The man dropped his pen loudly to the countertop. ‘Signorina, you are here to complain about someone turning on their lights?’
‘Not complaining. Just concer —’
‘Stop. I don’t have time for this. Prego !’ he called, ushering forward the next person in the queue.
‘No. Don’t push me aside. I need your help. Per favore .’
Lucia’s tone and now raised voice garnered rolled eyes from others standing in the lines behind her.
‘Go. Next!’
‘But who deals with residential and commercial disputes? Is it you, signore?’ She stood firm.
‘ No .’ The man was already trying to collect papers from the man next in the line. ‘ Lei .’ He gestured to a colleague sitting at a freestanding desk to his right. ‘But she’s busy and you need an appointment.’
‘ Grazie .’ She collected her bag from the edge of the counter and walked over to the woman.
Lucia assumed she was in her mid-sixties, but wished to be in her mid-twenties. She picked at her acrylic nails while watching a YouTube video on her phone, which was perched against a stack of papers. She was indeed busy, as the man had suggested; it just didn’t seem work-related.
‘ Mi scusi ,’ Lucia began.
‘ Sì ?’ the woman replied, not taking her eyes from the small screen.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have an appointment. But I do have a question regarding a property. Are you able to help me?’
‘If it’s quick.’
Lucia exhaled with relief. ‘I’m Lucia Trevisan.’
This alone drew a flicker of intrigue from the woman, who drew back slightly and assessed Lucia with greater interest. Lucia recounted the same spiel she had given the man, but then looked over both shoulders and lowered her voice. ‘Ten years ago that building was broken into by reporters and paparazzi and they used it as a base to surveil me. I’m concerned something along those lines may be happening again.’
‘I remember the story.’ The woman scrutinised Lucia from head to toe, then gestured with a flick of her head that she should take a seat.
Lucia did, and handed the woman a note with La Commedia’s address.
The woman paused her video and began typing on her laptop. After a few moments she grunted. Then tutted. Then handed back the sheet of paper. ‘Do you own this building?’
‘ No .’
‘Are you a tenant in a lease or sub-lease contract at this property?’
‘ No .’
‘Are you concerned that criminal activity may be taking place at this property?’
‘I don’t know.’
The woman’s eyes bored into her. ‘Are you . . . concerned . . . that criminal activity . . . may be taking place . . . at this property?’ She maintained her steely gaze, and Lucia realised that she ought to change her answer.
Apprehensively, she stammered, ‘Y-Yes? Actually, I am.’
The woman smiled. ‘Well, signorina, then we have grounds to investigate.’
Lucia exhaled and her shoulders drooped. ‘ Grazie mille .’
The woman continued to type and swipe her fingernails across the laptop’s sensor pad. This carried on for thirty seconds, until the woman set her hands down in front of her with a flourish. ‘Investigation complete. The property has been owned by the same family for the past sixty years.’
‘The Rigon family? They used it as a restaurant, but moved on when they sold the business.’
The woman tutted. ‘There’s no record of ownership by anyone of that name. Perhaps they leased the property.’
‘ Sì . Perhaps. Is it owned by Vittorio Gatti?’ Lucia asked.
‘There is no ownership by someone of that name.’
Lucia startled. ‘Oh . . .’
‘There may be an unofficial lease in place; unregistered with the comune , but who would know? It’s of no concern to us.’
‘And what of the potential criminal activity?’
The woman took back Lucia’s note and scribbled the phone number 112 on the back. ‘The carabinieri will help you.’ Readjusting her phone, she hit play and the video resumed.
Lucia collected her things and left the office, her nerve shattered.
Coming to the first service canal on her short ten-minute walk home, she dropped to the embankment and sat on the edge of the fondamenta . Lucia let her legs dangle freely for a moment before retrieving the address note from her pocket.
“The carabinieri will help you . . .” They’re too busy to deal with this.
She scrunched the note into a ball and dropped it into the canal.
She watched as the paper absorbed the murky turquoise water, becoming slowly translucent before it sank into the shallow depths.
Out of sight, out of mind , she consoled herself. Eighty-seven days, Lucia. Let’s get back to work .