The pair was so distracted by the moment, by the email, that neither noticed the movement across Calle del Leone. La Commedia’s front door opened, then closed. They didn’t even glimpse the man who, after setting off down the street holding a bunch of flowers, stopped momentarily to peer into the front window display of the school, immediately caught by the sight of the dark-haired beauty ensconced in the embrace of her handsome male companion.
They saw none of it.
And they were the better for it.
A storm was brewing, and not just across the wintry Venetian skies.
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.
Manybanchiwere still empty, but the choral thrum of boats and fishermen mooring by thefondamentareminded her that market time wasn’t far away. The work of thepescatoriwas 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 thefondamenta.
‘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. ‘Meget 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 thefondamentaand 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 façades 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. Thecallibranching out from thefondamentewere dimly lit, but revealed the veins of the city which transported the life-giving water to its many hiddencampi.
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-handfondamentaof 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.’
