dodici
‘ B uon San Valentino ,’ Francesco said, rolling over in Lucia’s bed.
She gave an indifferent scoff from the stove, lifting the lid on the moka to assess the stream of coffee pouring into the top chamber. ‘You know how I feel about San Valentino .’ She blew a kiss to Foscari, who had emerged from his basket.
Through squinted eyes, Francesco asked, ‘Where did you disappear to last night?’
Lucia’s hair was crinkled and wavy on account of the rain soaking through her braided bun. She finger-brushed it, trying to flatten it back into its usual sleek lengths. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’ She poured him an espresso. ‘Sugar this morning?’
‘It’s a “two please” kind of morning.’
She smiled, spoon already poised over the cup. She took in her friend’s unkempt curls, smeared residual makeup, and dropped a third spoonful in for good measure. ‘ Ecco , this will wake you up.’
Francesco gladly accepted the coffee, propped a pillow behind his back, and snuggled down into the warm linen.
Lucia returned to the moka. She poured herself a shot, then looked forlornly into the little cup. Noting there was more left in the moka, she upsized her espresso to a mug and poured in the rest.
Francesco smirked. ‘Either you had sex, or there was some dramatic twist of events.’
Clearing her throat, she said, ‘Most definitely the latter.’
‘I was hoping you—’
‘I know what you were hoping.’
Francesco grinned and gestured for her to come back to bed. ‘ Allora , tell me.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘I got talking to a man by the bar.’ She sat next to Francesco and took a sip of her coffee.
Francesco sat up a little straighter. ‘ Sul serio ?’
‘Put away those incredulous eyes,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, a real man. A masked man.’ She nestled the mug safely in the crook of her lap and pointed from the tip of her nose to the hairline at the top of her forehead. ‘From here to here. I could only see his lips and chin.’
‘I am suddenly very invested in this story.’ He coaxed Foscari to join them on the covers. ‘Did you hear that? Hmm?’ he teased, and Foscari yipped with glee, his tail wagging.
‘We were finding it difficult to talk over the music. It was so loud.’
To no one in particular, Francesco muttered, ‘Who goes to a masked ball to make conversation? Ugh!’
‘It was never my intention, but he was there, and he was talkative.’
Francesco raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘So . . .’
‘And so, he suggested we step outside to talk . . .’
‘ To talk . Right.’ He rolled his eyes sarcastically.
Her raised hand silenced him. ‘And then before I knew it, he was leading me out and under the portico of Piazza San Marco. There were people around, but he seemed to want to avoid them.’
Francesco’s eyes narrowed. ‘You followed him? A stranger?’ She nodded. ‘This is huge, Lucia.’
‘He didn’t know who I was. I never introduced myself. I had my mask on.’
Francesco leaned in a little more, biting his cheek while he thought. ‘Still . . .’
‘He eventually stopped us at the edge of the fondamenta of the piazzetta. Looking across to Lido.’
‘The place where . . .?’
Lucia nodded solemnly. ‘There was no one there. Just some seagulls. The rain. Then he drew me in close. I wanted to comment on his mask, but he pressed a finger to my mouth. And then, he kissed me.’ She leaned back into the pillow, taking another large mouthful of coffee.
Francesco’s open mouth was so dramatic that Lucia could make out the coffee stains on his back teeth. ‘ You kissed someone? A stranger? You? Lucia Trevisan?’
‘Checco. No one has ever – ever – kissed me like that.’
‘And, what happened after the kiss?’
‘The Campanile chimed midnight, as if on cue. And as the twelfth chime concluded the acqua alta siren started . . .’ Suddenly she trailed off and seemed to withdraw into herself. She took another sip of coffee and gave Foscari a long pat down his spine.
‘What happened?’ He placed a hand on the covers which rested over her legs.
‘He tensed and sort of tightened up. I could see his dark eyes under the mask. They kept looking at the sky. Then to the rising water. I heard someone cry out a warning behind me, so I turned. But when I looked back he was already running away.’
‘He ran away?’
‘Yes. He darted across to Piazza San Marco, and just disappeared down a calle .’
Francesco thought on this for a moment. ‘Did he introduce himself?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. And what did he look like?’
‘I have no idea. He never took the mask off. Neither of us did.’ She set her mug down on the bedside table.
‘And the kiss?’
Her eyes closed. ‘All-consuming. As if he were transmitting life and energy through our contact.’
Watching her curiously, Francesco said, ‘This is incredible. Look at you.’
‘I’ve come apart. The kiss destroyed me. It’s almost as if . . . well, as if that was meant to be my last ever kiss.’
‘An existential kiss?’
‘Yes. Calling into question every fibre of my being. What came before? What will come after? The immeasurable. The insurmountable.’
With a final gulp, Francesco swallowed the rest of his coffee and set the little espresso cup down beside Lucia’s mug. ‘The only question that remains is, what are you going to do about it?’
‘ Do ? There’s nothing to do. What could I possibly do?’
‘Try to find him?’
‘How? With a megaphone atop a gondola? “Sad perpetual singleton seeks man she kissed at a party.” It’s been done before.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘No. Use social media.’
Lucia made to leap from the bed, but Francesco threw himself on her and pinned her to the mattress. ‘Just listen.’
‘No! Francesco, no! You know I don’t do social media. This is why you run all the socials for the school. I can’t put my face out there . . .’
‘Lucia—’
‘Checco, absolutely not!’
‘Ask a few questions. Put some feelers out. Get a sense of who attended that party. You can stay anonymous! In fact, the less information you give, the better your chances are of finding the real man you kissed.’
Now pressed hard against her pillow, she struggled to speak through her squished cheeks. ‘What . . . do . . . you . . . mean?’
‘No imposters. Don’t say who you are, what you were wearing, or give any details about him, for that matter. Don’t say where the kiss took place. Simply put a call out . . . “If you were the masked man who shared a Valentine’s Day eve kiss at the ball”, blah blah, “get in touch. Your kissing partner is looking for Round Two.” Yes? No?’
Lucia kicked him from underneath the covers, and he fell back onto his side of the bed. ‘No. It’s too dangerous.’
‘If you were willing to go more public with your identity, it would be great publicity for the school.’
Lucia glared at him. ‘Don’t even suggest it. That’s an awful thing to even think, let alone say. Using me as bait . . .’
‘Lucia, do you want to find this man?’
She allowed the sensation of the man’s warmth, hold and lips back into her consciousness. Prickles. Then tingles. ‘I would like another kiss. Or more. But that’s not possible. So, out of my mind he must go.’ She threw the covers over her head and moaned from underneath.
Plucking himself from the bed, Francesco moved with speed. Lucia’s costume from the night before lay rumpled in a heap by the foot of the bed. The mask Lucia had worn sat by her laptop on her desk. He picked it up, straightened the black lace ties and arranged it on the billowy blue satin skirt of the costume. Capturing no specific details, just angles and inches here and there, he snapped a quick photo, then returned the mask to Lucia’s desk.
It wasn’t until much later that day – following San Valentino dinner and drinks with Stefano – that Francesco finally headed home to Mestre for the night. The ten-minute train ride from Venice to Mestre almost didn’t warrant taking a seat, but he collapsed back into one all the same.
He looked out over the stretch of water that separated Venice from the mainland, and under the moonlight and blackened canopy of night, he wondered what it might have been like that night .
The night that would forever be etched into Venice’s maritime history. The night that had left many without loved ones. The night where the vaporetto , commandeered by an alcohol-soaked seafarer, had slammed into the embankment running the length of Via della Libertà, causing it to split in two. One half had careened up and over the brick ledge, landing on the stretch of autostrada, while the other, in which Lucia’s parents were trapped, had dropped to the muddy and sedimented depths of the waters below.
And then he thought about Lucia. Scared and scarred. She would forever live her life caught in a web of fear and apprehension. Lonely and alone. Francesco could see no other way out of this cycle. It spun and revolved, and Lucia was too afraid to reach out and break the direction of the swirling current which kept her trapped.
For better, for worse, he would have to be the one to do it.
With just two minutes left of the crossing, he opened Instagram and frantically put together a post featuring the photo of the mask and costume, and the text: Did you kiss her at the masquerade ball on Valentine’s Day eve? Did you leave without saying goodbye? She wants another kiss. And your name. Make yourself known . He chose the first backing track that the Instagram algorithm suggested, and swiped to add a filter. Just as the arrival warning sounded through his carriage, Francesco hit post . The message would be safe enough on his own private profile, he thought. Maybe someone they both knew might know something or someone who could help.
Lucia would be safe there.
He closed the app and dropped his phone into his pocket. He wouldn’t look at it again until sometime the following morning.
And just as he alighted from the train, the post, which Francesco had inadvertently posted to La Scuola Rosa’s Instagram profile, had its first views.