sei
After a few days of teaching and day-to-day life at La Scuola Rosa, it felt like Wednesday rolled around quite quickly.
Lucia had been contacted by some lenders for further documentation for her pending loan applications, with a few sounding promising based on pre-approval figures. But for now, Lucia, Mariella and Francesco had one thing to focus on: correcting their students’ work.
Mariella had prepared lunch while Lucia and Francesco started on the marking, which was spread across the large mahogany table on the ground floor of the school.
‘No matter how many times I tell them . . .’ Francesco muttered under his breath, attacking one grammar test with his red pen. ‘Irregular. Irregular . How many times . . .?’
Lucia tittered across from him.
‘Corrections aside, per favore !’ Mariella announced, puffing as she made her way down the stairs from Lucia’s apartment. She set Lucia’s cast-iron chef’s pan down on the heat protector pad in the middle of the table. ‘My muscles all have Le Creuset emblazoned across them. Move those papers,’ she snipped again. ‘ Risi e bisi . And vino .’ She walked to the front door and flicked the Aperto sign to Chiuso , and was just about to return to the table when she suddenly caught sight of movement across the calle . ‘Lucia!’ she gasped, waving her hands. ‘Come quick!’
Lucia and Francesco locked eyes briefly before bolting to the front window. Even Foscari wanted some of the action, following behind.
The front door of La Commedia had been partially opened. Perhaps only an inch or two, but there was no mistaking it.
And then, he appeared.
Three curious sets of eyes watched intently as a tall, brown-haired man emerged through La Commedia’s front door. Dressed smartly in navy slacks, dark cropped boots and a long black woollen coat, he wound a grey scarf around his neck before turning to lock the door behind him. Stepping from the landing to the pavers of Calle del Leone, he looked both ways before turning to his right and immediately disappearing from view over the small bridge running over the service canal.
‘We all just saw that, no ?’ Francesco asked, his gaze still fixed across the road.
‘Very much so,’ confirmed Mariella.
Lucia stepped out onto the calle and immediately shuddered in the cold. Foscari tottered behind her, circling her feet with concern.
With an unobstructed view of the empty street on the other side, Lucia knew she was too late. The man, whoever he was, was gone.
She turned around and shrugged at Mariella and Francesco in the window. ‘Gone. Sparito !’
Mariella’s neck craned around the doorframe. ‘Just as well, I don’t have enough risi e bisi for a fourth stomach!’ Foscari yapped defensively. ‘You don’t count, Piccolo ! Now, inside, Lucia.’
With her curiosity now properly piqued, Lucia looked back at the footbridge which crossed the end of Calle del Leone. Seeing the man had brought some sense of relief. If he were a reporter or journalist incognito, he would never have allowed himself to be seen so casually in the open leaving the building, she reasoned. He hadn’t even glanced at La Scuola Rosa.
Where the worry had begun to recede, a desperate desire to meet her new neighbour had taken up residency.
‘Welcome to Calle del Leone,’ she said under her breath, and then turned back inside.
Once Mariella had gone home, and sensing that Lucia needed to keep busy, Francesco suggested they go for an evening passeggiata through Cannaregio. Thankful for the distraction, Lucia rugged up and they strolled arm in arm along the wide bustling streets.
They paused in front of many illuminated shop windows, taking in the intricately decorated displays Venetian retail is famous for. Perfectly poised mannequins displaying folds of silk and handspun Italian threads; locally cobbled footwear and leather accessories, all polished to a glistening shine; waves of faux gloved hands, modelled in unison, as if partaking in a chorus line of Venetian style. Polka dots. Stripes. Block colours. Then there were the windows that made one gasp, among them those featuring hundreds of tiny hand-blown glass figures: flowers, animals and scenes, each meticulously placed and which threatened mass collapse should one so much as blink in their vicinity.
There were also the windows of pasticcerie – the pastry shops – all bursting at the seams with crispy sugary treats of all colours, textures and sizes. Some were dotted with toasted nuts, others rolled in other gluttonous toppings.
Lucia pressed a gloved hand against the window of one pasticceria and practically moaned at the sight of the long tray of galani , Venice’s most iconic Carnevale sweet. The twisted lengths of golden fried, icing sugar–dusted pastries seemed to call to her.
‘Those. Any one of those would make the last few days just evaporate from my memory. Poof!’
Francesco smiled, happy to see some of the usual Lucia restored. ‘Just one?’
Having Carnevale on the horizon meant that Quaresima , Lent, would soon be upon them.
‘What will you be giving up for Quaresima ?’ Francesco asked, eyeing off the castagnole , the sugar-drenched doughnut balls mounded in one delicious heap on the tray next to the galani .
‘My sanity?’ The reply slipped out before Lucia could stop it.
Francesco threw his head back and chuckled. ‘Was that a joke?’
Despite the past few difficult days, Lucia let herself share the lighter moment. ‘I hope so.’
Francesco laughed again, only louder. ‘Signore, Signori, Lucia has attempted some humour! The world shall be right once more.’ He feigned gesticulating to a crowd, but she pounced on him and muffled his mouth with her hand.
‘ Zitto, tu !’ Linking arms again, she drew Francesco back into the swelling masses of Venetians and tourists along Rio Terà Lista di Spagna. ‘Now is as good a time as any to tell me something about the man you’ve been seeing.’
Francesco gave her a sly side-eye. ‘That wasn’t even remotely subtle.’
‘I have learned from the best.’ She grinned at him. ‘Please . . .’
‘I don’t know yet, Lucia.’
‘ Dai. Ti prego . Let me live vicariously through you.’
‘You choose to live this way. You are a wanted woman in this city. You could have any man your heart desires.’
She scowled. ‘And where has that got me in the past, eh ? It’s too hard for me to trust people. To open up to men. They just burn me.’
‘I know. Scusami .’ He squeezed her arm a little tighter. ‘And about my situation . . . I’m just not sure yet.’
‘Sure about what?’
‘Him.’
‘ In che senso ?’
It took a moment for Francesco to register that Lucia had him right where she wanted him. He drew in a hesitant breath, then said, ‘It’s Stefano.’
Lucia’s mind circled. ‘ Our Stefano? From school?’
He nodded. ‘What do you think?’
‘What do you mean, what do I think? I love Stefano!’
His cheeks tightened. ‘But, with me?’
‘It has nothing to do with me, Checco. The only thing that matters is if you like him.’
‘I do.’ His gaze was fixed on his boots as they walked in time. ‘I just didn’t know how you would feel about us being involved. At work.’
‘You’re not teenagers incapable of self-control.’ She shook her head. ‘This is all perfectly fine. Stefano is like a member of the family. A cousin.’
He grimaced.
‘Ok, bad analogy. He’s part of us. And he’s a wonderful, brilliant, intelligent man.’
Francesco’s brows furrowed. He exhaled, then said, ‘Ok.’
Suddenly, Lucia stopped and turned to face him. ‘What’s holding you back? You seem hesitant about something.’
‘It’s not my news to share. And nothing is set in stone yet . . .’ His voice trailed off while he sought permission from his conscience to share Stefano’s news. ‘He may not be staying in Venice. He’s applying for lectureships.’
‘Ah . . .’ Lucia closed her eyes and gave an acknowledging nod. ‘I see.’
‘Please don’t say anythi—’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘He’s applying to Perugia. Bologna. Maybe Roma.’
‘When?’
‘He hopes to be there before the end of this semester. June.’
‘ Tranquillo . You have time to figure this out. And those places aren’t Tokyo, or Cape Town, Checco. A few hours by train.’
Francesco pulled himself free of her grasp. ‘You know me better than anyone, Lucia. I’m a jealous, controlling beast of a man, and I most certainly cannot be in a long-distance relationship.’
Lucia stifled a giggle. The delicate hand that returned to her arm was anything but beastly .
She caught the eyes of a few passers-by who seemed intrigued by Lucia’s presence out in the open with Francesco. She spotted a not-so-covert elbow nudge, a few raised eyebrows; there was even a whistle. But this was textbook public behaviour Lucia was used to, and so she simply allowed them to fade from her attention.
‘Why are you thinking so seriously, though? How long have you been seeing him?’
They rounded a bend.
Francesco frowned, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. ‘Six months. And, there’s no one else.’
‘ Six months?! Six? And you’re only telling me now?’
‘I didn’t want to jinx it.’
‘Checco, you should have told me sooner.’
‘ Non importa .’
‘It does matter. I want you to be happy. I want to share in your happiness.’
‘ Grazie .’ His eyes were drawn to a few seagulls overhead. ‘I don’t think it will matter in the end. I think June or maybe earlier is the expiry.’
Lucia paid this comment no heed. ‘What is it that you like about him?’
‘Lucia . . .’
‘ Dai , Checco!’
With warming cheeks, Francesco began to tell her about how thoughtful Stefano was, how passionate, kind, and how—
It took a few moments for Francesco to notice that Lucia’s pace had slowed, until she eventually pulled them to a stop.
‘There . . .’ she said abruptly, pointing ahead of them. Lucia’s attention had been caught by a glimpse of a dark-haired man darting between the waves of people walking along Rio Terà Lista di Spagna. The man, appearing to wear a grey scarf and black coat, was visible only from the shoulders up. ‘Is that the man ?’
‘ What man?’
‘From La Commedia.’
Francesco squinted. ‘I can’t tell from here.’ They set off again and he continued, ‘As I was saying—’
But Lucia wasn’t listening. ‘I just want to get a better look at him. Come with me.’
Francesco pulled her tight. ‘ No . Don’t worry about him. There will be plenty of opportunities . . .’
As if in slow motion, Francesco felt Lucia’s arm slip from his grasp, and she melted into the crowd ahead of him, disappearing almost instantly.
Francesco stopped in his tracks beside the illuminated gold lettering of a hotel window flanking the rio . He shook his head in frustration, and prayed that this unpredictable behaviour wouldn’t be Lucia’s new ‘norm’.
With agility she didn’t know she possessed, Lucia ducked and darted between people on the rio . She just had to get a better look at the man. She narrowly avoided one gentleman who had stepped out of a pizzeria with a stack of at least seven takeaway pizzas in his arms. Following in the direction she had seen the man take, she bolted over the Ponte delle Guglie and joined the crowds on Rio Terà San Leonardo.
She scanned the heads, backs and shoulders ahead of her.
Nothing.
He was gone.
Realising that her stop mid- rio had caused the halt of foot traffic behind her, Lucia stepped across to the campo on her right and walked defeatedly between the food and market stalls. She made her way to the Chiesa di San Leonardo, where she leaned against its cold render and took stock.
What am I doing? she asked herself, now frustrated by her impulsive decision to bolt through the crowd like that. She felt ridiculous, juvenile. And for what? To see a face? All over a stranger she had no connection to whatsoever. Just to satisfy the curiosity that had distracted her for the past few days.
Just as she was about to tuck her tail between her legs and return to Francesco, she saw a flash of the man in the crowd. He was circling one of the fruit and vegetable stalls, chatting with the vendor. She pried herself away from the wall and moved slowly through the market towards him. Inching closer and closer, she tried to get another look at his face, but it was muted by the yellow streetlights and obscured by the fringe at the top of the stall.
Edging her way around the food cart closest to him, the man finally came into view and her heart sank. This man was significantly older than the one who had set out from La Commedia, and this man had a small child by his side.
It’s not him.
She watched as the man paid for a bag of citrus fruit and turned and walked away, hand in hand with the child.
In his wake, visible a few feet behind, was Francesco. His long slim silhouette stood on the other side of the rio , and Lucia caught his disappointed expression even through the dense crowd of passers-by.
Francesco shook his head at her across the market, then, his shoulders slumped, turned in the direction of the Venezia Santa Lucia train station and left.
The lonely walk home to Calle del Leone was laced with regret and shame. Lucia berated herself for being a terrible friend, for abandoning her beloved Checco in a truly vulnerable moment, all in pursuit of her own selfish curiosity.