‘Did you know that I used to bring your parents here every Friday morning?’
Lucia turned to face him and sat a little taller. ‘No.’
He got to his feet and shuffled his way to join Lucia on the front bench. Once settled he nodded. ‘Every Friday, without fail. Before you came along.’ His eyes traced lines over the rendered façade. ‘They wanted a baby but were having trouble.’
This was news to Lucia. Having trouble conceiving? She had never known this. But, she reasoned, why would an eleven-year-old know this about their parents?
‘No one else knew. Just me. For years we did this. They would come to themercatobefore dawn. I would bring them here and leave them.’
Lucia found her voice, but it broke into the breeze. ‘What did they do?’
‘They prayed. Then they would return to me on foot. I would give them something for lunch, and then in the afternoon they would give their lessons.’
Lucia felt a little winded by this revelation. Something so intimate, something so private, and she never knew. She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. ‘Why here?’ she asked.
‘Because Santa Lucia was a force.’ His eyes rose and met the small glass-domed top of the sanctuary, complete with ornate crucifix. ‘She was proud. Stubborn. Devout in her belief. When they tried to burn her alive, they say the fire couldn’t reach her. It was that resolute faith that your parents clung to.’ He turned and gave Lucia a smile, his wispy beard rising with his cheeks. Pulling hisberrettotighter over his head, he added, ‘And whenyouwere born, they believed they were delivered a sign from above.’
‘What sign?’
‘Santa Lucia is the guardian of eyes. People pray to her to restore sight, to heal and nurture it.’ He tapped just below his own right eye. ‘The story goes that whenthisLucia,’ he pointed to the sanctuary, ‘was younger, many suitors came to her, basking in the beauty of her eyes. Now, if you believe it or not, they say that one day she removed her own eyes as she wanted to focus solely on her cause.’
Lucia’s infamously green eyes reflected the lights from the sanctuary’s illuminated garden beds. ‘Her eyes were a burden, too,’ she murmured.
‘Not a burden, but the making of her. Withoutthoseeyes, there would likely be no Santa Lucia. And withoutyoureyes, there would be no Lucia Trevisan.’
Lucia pressed her lips together as her vision blurred with tears. She nodded.
‘When your parents saw your eyes, these exceptionally bright green beauties, they knew you had been gifted by none other than . . .’ He gestured to the building. ‘That’s why they took on their community work. Opening their doors and the school after hours to those in Venice in need of help. It was paying their dues tothisLucia, in exchange for you.’
She bundled his hands into hers. ‘Thank you for sharing this with me.’
‘Now felt like the right time to tell you. You seemed troubled last Friday, and I thought this might help you remember where you came from. From love. From hope. And from the heart of this very special place.’
Lucia looked up at the sanctuary. Formed in perfect bold lettering was an inscription in honour of the life and martyrdom of Santa Lucia. It faced the Grand Canal, day in, day out. It reminded all who passed by that Lucia would never be silenced. Even in death. That the flames could wrap around her, but her cause would remain strong. Just as Lucia’s eyes narrowed in on her name, ‘LVCIA’, she crumpled.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Lucia told her beloved Miro about Jacopo’s share of the school. Of the twist of fate. And of her fears for the future.
All he said as he awakened the idling motor was, ‘Venice protects its Lucias. Something about your past will return to the present. And it will keep you and the school safe. Have faith, Lucia.’ He pulled the dinghy from the mooring and performed a ‘U’ in the water, heading back the way they’d come.
‘Sometimes I think the universe has forgotten my name,’ she called over the noise.
‘But Venice hasn’t.’ He pointed back at the large inscription, and then they disappeared up the canal, with Lucia’s eyes only leaving her name once they had rounded the bend.
On the walk home from the Mercato del Pesce di Rialto, with a paper-wrapped parcel of pearlescent prawns from Miro and his sons to share for lunch, Lucia surrendered some of her fears to the unknown.
She couldn’t change the situation with Edoardo and the school buyout. She couldn’t control Vittorio Gatti or his intentions. The distraction of the goings-on at La Commedia andthe manhad only driven a wedge between her and Francesco.
Lucia finally acknowledged that she had to break the tense negative rhythm of her life, escape the four walls of La Scuola Rosa, and give in to the future. Whatever that might look like.
Francesco’s invitation.
Though she felt resistant, the ball would shake her from the slump she was in and toss her back out into the world. Still walking, she reached for her phone and typed a text.
I’ll be there. And I’ll even wear a mask.
The final word triggered an emoji suggestion, which she usually ignored. But this morning, throwing caution to the wind and trying to embrace some of Santa Lucia’s bold, confident spirit,thisLucia selected the little coloured icon. It joined the text and she hitsend.
And there, below her act of courage, sat the double mask emoji.
