otto
The next morning, Lucia made her usual Friday pilgrimage to the Mercato del Pesce di Rialto in search of Miro and lunch. He had sent her a text overnight, encouraging her to come down earlier and to leave Foscari at home.
Just before six, Lucia stepped off the Ponte di Rialto and entered the covered market space. The air was achingly cold, and the murky grey waters of the Grand Canal were still blanketed by a layer of low-lying fog. The sun was yet to break the horizon, so the ornate overhead lighting provided what little illumination it could.
Many banchi were still empty, but the choral thrum of boats and fishermen mooring by the fondamenta reminded her that market time wasn’t far away. The work of the pescatori was indeed early work and would wait for no one.
The market’s pathways were sopping wet, and Lucia noted how a hose had been left to pour water down the aisles. Lucia stepped carefully, to avoid both ruining her boots and slipping in the puddles. Especially as she had an audience.
‘ Buongiorno, cara ,’ came a strange voice from behind her, and Lucia pivoted. What she found was a middle-aged man in his wellingtons, shifting buckets of ice for distribution to the stalls. A few other men, younger and more boisterous, also greeted her. There was something about their leering stares that she didn’t appreciate, so she flicked up the collar of her coat and walked on, heading towards the waterfront.
She was thankful when she heard Miro’s unmistakable raspy voice rise above the noise. ‘Lucia! Eccomi !’ And there he was, standing in the dinghy, while Pietro and Giorgio took stock of their full crates on the fondamenta .
‘ Buongiorno ,’ she greeted them all.
Miro shooed his sons away to their work, Pietro’s cheeks suddenly rosier in Lucia’s presence.
‘What’s going on this morning?’ she asked, peering down at Miro in the dinghy.
‘Get in.’ He offered her his hand.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. I want to take you somewhere.’
Lucia stood for a moment, puzzled. Giorgio and Pietro had since gathered the crates and were already halfway to their usual market stall. ‘ Me get in?’
‘Don’t make me get out and push you!’
Lucia giggled at how the dinghy wobbled as he waved his arms around. ‘Ok, va bene .’ She accepted Miro’s proffered hand and stepped down into the space he made. He grabbed her and held her until the dinghy steadied. She gathered the hem of her black wool coat and sat along the wooden bench at the front of the craft, while Miro made himself comfortable in the rear.
The motor, which had been idling in the water, suddenly whirred to life, and Miro steered them away from the fondamenta and out onto the waters of the Grand Canal.
‘Where are we going?’ Lucia called loudly over the noise, flicking away the strands of hair that blew across her cheeks in the wind.
He mimed zipping his lips. ‘Not until we get there.’ He gestured with a nod that she should turn around and focus ahead of them.
Lucia obeyed, facing forward, and watched as Venice opened up before her. The freezing wind whipped past her, and she hunched further into the protective embrace of her winter layers, dipping her chin and nose into the warm folds of her cashmere scarf and tucking her gloved hands into her pockets.
The dinghy split the water as it pulled them north, and Lucia soon lost herself in the magic of the canal. It was flanked on either side by centuries-old palazzi with their traditional pinched narrow windows and facades of ornate marble latticework. The mix of pastel hues of terracotta, grey, white, muted pink and peach were dulled by the darkness of the morning, but still striking enough to make Lucia catch her breath. Flocks of seabirds dancing and calling out overhead, along with the sound of passing boats, provided the city’s early soundtrack. The calli branching out from the fondamente were dimly lit, but revealed the veins of the city which transported the life-giving water to its many hidden campi .
Between the lapping of the water on the underbelly of the dinghy and the smell of the sweet briny air, Lucia felt alive. More alive than she had since Edoardo’s visit, and certainly since finding Jacopo’s tangled motionless body on the floor.
This was why Lucia could never leave Venice. It was an innate part of her. The waters that had stolen her parents from her were the very same ones keeping her tethered to the city. She could never live anywhere else. Not ever.
With a rumble of the motor, the dinghy began to slow, and Miro steered them to the right-hand fondamenta of the canal and moored the small craft to a weathered wooden pole by the water’s edge.
‘ Dove siamo , Lucia?’ he asked, gesturing to the white church to their right.
She gave him a knowing smile. ‘The Santuario di Santa Lucia.’
‘Did you know that I used to bring your parents here every Friday morning?’
Lucia turned to face him and sat a little taller. ‘ No .’
He got to his feet and shuffled his way to join Lucia on the front bench. Once settled he nodded. ‘Every Friday, without fail. Before you came along.’ His eyes traced lines over the rendered facade. ‘They wanted a baby but were having trouble.’
This was news to Lucia. Having trouble conceiving? She had never known this. But, she reasoned, why would an eleven-year-old know this about their parents?
‘No one else knew. Just me. For years we did this. They would come to the mercato before dawn. I would bring them here and leave them.’
Lucia found her voice, but it broke into the breeze. ‘What did they do?’
‘They prayed. Then they would return to me on foot. I would give them something for lunch, and then in the afternoon they would give their lessons.’
Lucia felt a little winded by this revelation. Something so intimate, something so private, and she never knew. She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. ‘Why here?’ she asked.
‘Because Santa Lucia was a force.’ His eyes rose and met the small glass-domed top of the sanctuary, complete with ornate crucifix. ‘She was proud. Stubborn. Devout in her belief. When they tried to burn her alive, they say the fire couldn’t reach her. It was that resolute faith that your parents clung to.’ He turned and gave Lucia a smile, his wispy beard rising with his cheeks. Pulling his berretto tighter over his head, he added, ‘And when you were born, they believed they were delivered a sign from above.’
‘What sign?’
‘Santa Lucia is the guardian of eyes. People pray to her to restore sight, to heal and nurture it.’ He tapped just below his own right eye. ‘The story goes that when this Lucia,’ he pointed to the sanctuary, ‘was younger, many suitors came to her, basking in the beauty of her eyes. Now, if you believe it or not, they say that one day she removed her own eyes as she wanted to focus solely on her cause.’
Lucia’s infamously green eyes reflected the lights from the sanctuary’s illuminated garden beds. ‘Her eyes were a burden, too,’ she murmured.
‘Not a burden, but the making of her. Without those eyes, there would likely be no Santa Lucia. And without your eyes, there would be no Lucia Trevisan.’
Lucia pressed her lips together as her vision blurred with tears. She nodded.
‘When your parents saw your eyes, these exceptionally bright green beauties, they knew you had been gifted by none other than . . .’ He gestured to the building. ‘That’s why they took on their community work. Opening their doors and the school after hours to those in Venice in need of help. It was paying their dues to this Lucia, in exchange for you.’
She bundled his hands into hers. ‘Thank you for sharing this with me.’
‘Now felt like the right time to tell you. You seemed troubled last Friday, and I thought this might help you remember where you came from. From love. From hope. And from the heart of this very special place.’
Lucia looked up at the sanctuary. Formed in perfect bold lettering was an inscription in honour of the life and martyrdom of Santa Lucia. It faced the Grand Canal, day in, day out. It reminded all who passed by that Lucia would never be silenced. Even in death. That the flames could wrap around her, but her cause would remain strong. Just as Lucia’s eyes narrowed in on her name, ‘LVCIA’, she crumpled.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Lucia told her beloved Miro about Jacopo’s share of the school. Of the twist of fate. And of her fears for the future.
All he said as he awakened the idling motor was, ‘Venice protects its Lucias. Something about your past will return to the present. And it will keep you and the school safe. Have faith, Lucia.’ He pulled the dinghy from the mooring and performed a ‘U’ in the water, heading back the way they’d come.
‘Sometimes I think the universe has forgotten my name,’ she called over the noise.
‘But Venice hasn’t.’ He pointed back at the large inscription, and then they disappeared up the canal, with Lucia’s eyes only leaving her name once they had rounded the bend.
On the walk home from the Mercato del Pesce di Rialto, with a paper-wrapped parcel of pearlescent prawns from Miro and his sons to share for lunch, Lucia surrendered some of her fears to the unknown.
She couldn’t change the situation with Edoardo and the school buyout. She couldn’t control Vittorio Gatti or his intentions. The distraction of the goings-on at La Commedia and the man had only driven a wedge between her and Francesco.
Lucia finally acknowledged that she had to break the tense negative rhythm of her life, escape the four walls of La Scuola Rosa, and give in to the future. Whatever that might look like.
Francesco’s invitation .
Though she felt resistant, the ball would shake her from the slump she was in and toss her back out into the world. Still walking, she reached for her phone and typed a text.
I’ll be there. And I’ll even wear a mask .
The final word triggered an emoji suggestion, which she usually ignored. But this morning, throwing caution to the wind and trying to embrace some of Santa Lucia’s bold, confident spirit, this Lucia selected the little coloured icon. It joined the text and she hit send .
And there, below her act of courage, sat the double mask emoji.