‘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 thatthe man?’
‘Whatman?’
‘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 therio. 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 therio. 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-riohad caused the halt of foot traffic behind her, Lucia stepped across to thecampoon 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.Thisman was significantly older than the one who had set out from La Commedia, andthisman 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 therio, 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.
sette
Francesco didn’t respond to Lucia’s pleading texts that night:Scusami tantissimo, andDimmi dove sei. She wasn’t really surprised, given the way he had looked back at her across the market stalls. That shake of the head played on a loop in her mind and it knotted her stomach. Lucia hoped that in the light of day things would have settled between them so she could apologise properly in person. But experience had taught her that Francesco was a holder of grudges, and she, often being too stubborn to apologise, only antagonised him further.
‘Buongiorno,’ she said sheepishly as he arrived a little later than usual the next morning. ‘You never replied to my messages last night.’
Francesco, despite his calm façade, was seething. ‘Lucia,’ he started, ‘I would like to preface what I am about to say with the following disclaimer:Ti amo.’
‘And I love you t—’
