sedici
Lucia moved contentedly through the maze-like passageways of the backstreets of the city, wearing her beret and sunglasses to divert unwanted attention and with only her donation trolley for company. Weakening shards of light slanted into the calli , which were otherwise darkened by the blanketing shadows of the winter dusk. Lucia stepped through them, enjoying the slight warmth those last rays afforded her.
With Carnevale only a week away, Venice had well and truly begun its magical transformation. The calli were running thicker with tourists, and many pensioni and alberghi had already flicked their signs to No Vacancy . With the sun’s guest appearance that day, many locals had been prompted to do their laundry. Lucia looked on as Venetians leaned over their windowsills above the streets, collecting their linen.
The sky had begun to shift from blue to gold, and upon seeing it, obscured though it was by the patchworked rooflines of the calli , Lucia felt the urge to escape the narrow veins of Venice and breathe the open air.
That meant being by the open water.
Lucia made her way through the more central avenues to break into Piazza San Marco. And there, as she stepped under the portico and was met by a gloriously invigorating breeze direct from the sea, she could breathe again.
The stage that had been erected for the Carnevale performances had now been expanded with wings and a backstage area. A raised catwalk jutted from its centre, and stacks of chairs in their dozens sat in groups on platforms to her right, high enough to avoid the menacing acqua alta . Then there was the electric cabling and technological paraphernalia, which sat in crates under tarpaulins. It all screamed Carnevale, in its most bureaucratic and functional form.
Quickening her pace, Lucia made her way through to Piazzetta San Marco. Almost immediately, the sensation of the man’s lips returned to her mind – the heat radiating from his mouth, the panting breath that had drawn hers into a matching rhythm. She swallowed and continued to walk, trying her best to ignore the remembered feeling of the roughened skin of his hands on hers.
As she reached the fondamenta , her eyes came to rest on the same place they always did: the nondescript grey pavers where her parents’ bagged bodies had been laid out for her to identify. Today the pavers were dry underfoot, unlike the rain slick that had made them glisten under the deluge of that tragic night. Those very same pavers were now also the scene of that kiss.
How is it that the same spot can have two very different meanings for me now? The accident. The kiss . . .
Lucia rolled her mother’s wedding ring around her finger with her right thumb. She had worn it on the ring finger of her right hand as soon as it fit her, and since her late teens, she’d never taken it off. While the yellow gold band was narrow and plain, it held such a special place in her heart. It was a small daily reminder of her parents’ love and union, and now, knowing how hard they had fought to conceive her, it felt all the more precious.
She sighed, then kept moving to the left, following the jostling, vibrating crowd headed in the direction of the Ponte della Paglia. The last of the early evening light was leaching into the horizon over Lido, but that didn’t deter the crowds. Illuminated gently by the ornate three-branched streetlamps, the Ponte della Paglia was full to the brim with tourists, all craning their necks and holding their phones skyward to capture a shot of the Ponte dei Sospiri. Nestled effortlessly between the Palazzo Ducale and the Prigioni Nuove, high above the still waters of the Rio di Palazzo canal, the Bridge of Sighs was like no other in Venice. Its intricately decorated white limestone facade was the perfect blank canvas, absorbing the pale pinks and warm peach colours of the sunset.
Lucia stopped on the peak of the Ponte della Paglia, pulled the trolley to the side, and pivoted on her heel. While the tourists were consumed by the view of the Ponte dei Sospiri over her shoulder, Lucia was distracted by the darkening open waters ahead. She leaned against the thick marble railing, watching as a black gondola carrying an embracing couple turned down the canal and dipped under the bridge, out of sight. The dulcet tones of the gondoliere ’s humming echoed under the Ponte della Paglia, much to the delight of those gathered atop it.
Lucia smiled to herself.
The city was so full of magic; it was around every corner, under every ponte .
She continued on her way, leaving the tourist zone behind her. By the time she reached Riva San Biasio, the path had widened considerably, and Lucia felt comfortable enough to remove her sunglasses and slip them into her coat pocket.
The sun had almost finished setting, and down this end of the fondamenta , only a smattering of locals were about, hunched against the cold. She veered left off the main path and down a narrow canal. Then her destination came into view. Making her way to the large wooden door by the side of the parish office, she gave a loud knock. She gazed at the tarnished metal crucifix pinned to the door as she registered all the familiar sounds from within: the scraping of chairs on the linoleum-tiled floor; the clamorous chatter of many voices; the sound of Olivia’s distinct nasal inflection crying, ‘ Prego ! Avanti !’ to the next diner in line.
But then came the approach of shuffling feet, the sound of the door creaking open on its hinges, and finally Olivia’s wide blue eyes and bouncing dark red curls trapped under a hairnet greeted her.
‘ Vieni ! Vieni !’ She coaxed Lucia inside, relieving her of the trolley. ‘You are just too good to us. Look at all these things! And in this state.’ Olivia tutted then reached out and gave Lucia’s sling a kind caress. ‘I read about what happened. Mi dispiace tantissimo , Lucia.’
Shaking her head solemnly, Lucia said, ‘ Grazie .’ She didn’t want to give the issue any further breathing room, and Lucia hoped that Olivia wouldn’t press the point.
She didn’t. Instead, she made a fuss over a few items sitting on the top of the trolley’s pile, catching the cuff of the black woollen coat. ‘All so appreciated, Lucia, as you know. But it could have waited. Or I could have collected it. You shouldn’t be out like this.’ She gestured to Lucia’s bandaged forehead as they emptied the trolley’s contents into a larger collection bin by the door.
Lucia waved away her concerns with her good hand. ‘It’s the least we can do.’
‘I should be calling you Santa Lucia!’ Olivia half chuckled. ‘You see light and hope where so many choose to see darkness.’
Lucia was about to dismiss the compliment, but instead she just smiled. Part of her wanted to share the news about the school and Edoardo’s buyout offer with Olivia, but there in the soup kitchen, surrounded by a team of volunteers and some of Venice’s most needy lined up to receive a hot meal, she felt that her problems could wait.
The irony of the moment struck her. She had so much to lose on account of being so fortunate. A roof over her head. A business she adored, albeit one she now had to fight for. Then there was Foscari, Mariella, and France— She really was lucky and had so many positive influences in her life.
‘ Ecco .’ Olivia had ducked away to the service counter to collect a small cardboard takeaway bowl of steaming hot zuppa di verdure . ‘Please, take this and enjoy it on the walk home. It will keep you warm.’
The headiness of the vegetable soup roused her immediately, and Lucia’s stomach rumbled on cue. ‘ Grazie mille , Olivia.’ She set the container down carefully in her trolley.
‘ Senti , I can’t really talk properly now. I’ll call you in a few weeks. By then the production at the theatre will be ready for your students to join. If you want them to.’
‘ Certo . We’ve done it for years. It’s one of our most enjoyable traditions. Call me when you’re ready. In bocca al lupo !’
‘ Crepi !’
They shared cheek kisses and Olivia pulled away, rejoining the well-oiled machine that was the serving line.
The icy blast from the open waters was subdued somewhat by the steam rising from the bowl of soup. Having stopped to sit down on the edge of the fondamenta closer to Piazza San Marco, Lucia devoured it in a matter of minutes.
Just as she was about to set off for home, with the now empty trolley in tow, her phone rang. It was Francesco.
‘Are we talking yet? Please, ti prego . This is the longest we’ve ev—’
Lucia smiled and her heart relaxed into the comfort of his familiar voice. ‘We are talking. Sì .’
Francesco blew out his relief in one exaggerated breath. ‘ Grazie a Dio . Are you ok?’
‘I’m fine. Where are you?’
‘At your front door, on the calle .’
Lucia sat up a bit straighter. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been sitting on something all day and I need to talk to you about it.’
Lucia’s interest was piqued. ‘Is it about the school?’
‘ No. No .’
Lucia could imagine him pacing on the spot. ‘What is it then?’
‘If you had the opportunity to meet that man – the kisser – would you want to? Even now, despite all this mess?’
Lucia chewed her lip. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because he has sent me a message.’