quattordici
Lucia, who had been sitting up in bed facing the window, turned when she heard footsteps approach. All she could do was cry. She wasn’t at liberty to fly into a rage; her securely slung left arm prevented much movement, and the throbbing pulse behind the bandages across her forehead intensified with the beating of her heart.
‘Lucia . . .’ Francesco began, but she looked away. ‘Please. Ti prego . I never meant—’ But Francesco was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
‘ Con calma ,’ came the directive from the tall grey-haired doctor who was exiting Lucia’s room, observation folder in hand.
When the doctor was out of earshot, Lucia whispered, ‘I asked you not to post anything on social media.’ Her eyes were fixed unseeingly on the garden outside her window, which was a mere blur of green foliage and golden rendered brickwork, her vision still not entirely clear from the concussion.
‘I can’t think of any other way to apologise, Lucia, other than to beg for forgiveness. It was a . . . I never meant to . . . You know I would never ever do anything to hurt you.’
Lucia turned, and the reddened whites of her eyes conveyed all the pain and heartbreak she felt in one solitary look. ‘It was completely terrifying.’
‘If I could take it all back, I would. But I can’t. As soon as I worked out what had happened, I deleted the post. It’s gone. But others had already shared it. It’s . . . it’s gone viral.’
Lucia drew in a long breath. ‘But I asked you not to post anything at all , and you did it anyway. I just never thought that you , of all people, would do that, Checco.’
Francesco walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking Lucia’s free right hand into his. She didn’t resist. ‘I am so completely sorry,’ he said.
Seeing his eyes well with tears, Lucia knew he was being genuine. While she understood that he hadn’t intended for the post to reach the general public, she still felt betrayed. And that would take some time to move past. ‘Checco. We will get through this. I know we will. For now, please just give me some space.’
Francesco seemed relieved; Lucia noted how his chest caved a little as he exhaled the breath he had been holding. ‘ Certo . I can do that. But school tom—’
‘Mariella has asked Stefano to cover my classes. Just let me be for now. Let’s speak tomorrow night. They will be discharging me soon.’ She winced, pressing her fingers to the bandage across her forehead. ‘I’m just waiting on one scan.’
Francesco nodded and gave her hand a squeeze. ‘ Mi dispiace tantissimo .’
Lucia forced a thin smile and said, ‘I know,’ before turning her foggy gaze to the window once more.
Returning to La Commedia’s top central window from where he had watched the crowds swell that morning, the man was relieved to find the calle almost empty. Just half an hour before he had seen the well-dressed man with curly hair who worked in the school, who often slept over and who frequently held the dark-haired beauty in his arms, leave a bunch of soft pink flowers by the door.
Now, he noted the way a few journalists still lingered at either end of the street, but the TV crews and curious locals had long gone. They had dissipated after the arrival of the carabinieri , who had moved everyone along and assisted to remove the collapsed woman from the building.
It was almost eight, and by rights, most of Venice would soon be sitting down to dinner. For him, however, it was the start of the day, and breakfast time. He had managed to sleep through the majority of the chaos and noise, despite the initial unwanted wake-up call. Just as he was about to head downstairs to settle in for a night of work, he caught sight of something that piqued his interest: the woman who lived and worked at the school was returning. She was accompanied by the same older woman who had helped evacuate her, and who he had also seen working there – this much he had deduced through his discreet observations. The younger woman had her left arm strapped in a sling, and the older woman was doing her best to collect the flowers, open the door and let them inside as quickly as possible.
A few camera flashes flickered down the street, reflecting off window panes and metal fixtures. But it was too late. She was already inside and out of view.
The man’s eyes followed the trail of lights which turned on in the building, moving slowly upward, signalling that the pair had finally reached the apartment on the third floor. Peering into the window which faced his, he could make out their shadowed figures, backlit by the low lighting within. Then, the older lady appeared briefly at the window. She gave the little black dog sitting by the sill a scratch behind the ears, then closed the shutters. And they were gone.
Taking this as his cue to get on with more pressing business, he collected his earplugs from his nightstand. Despite the rumbling of his stomach, he walked through the kitchen and made his way down the stairs to where he worked. His studio. He didn’t have time to stop and eat – Carnevale was just a week away and he still had a list of orders to fill. His interrupted daytime slumber had caused him to sleep longer than usual, and his time was precious – and expensive. Distractions that broke his rhythm, slowed him down and interrupted his long-standing routine. He was safe behind its structure, its constancy. It was a predictable security, the most logical form of foretelling he allowed himself to believe in.
As if to mock him, the vision of the dark-haired woman with long legs attempted to creep back to his mind’s eye, but he was quick to swat it away. He rolled up the sleeves of his navy knit, revealing a degree of muscular tone which could only be achieved by decades of intricate fine-motor work. Collecting what he needed from his kit of tools and materials, he sat down and tried his best to draw together some logical thought. But his mind clouded and thickened, then wandered again to the woman across the street.
This distraction was unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
It’s just the broken sleep.
But Alex Scarpa could only keep telling himself that for so long.