Tiziano tossed down the last mouthful of his coffee and set the cup to rest on the silver tray. It tinkled, and he reached across and took a small biscuit from a white porcelain plate. He took a bite, buying himself a few moments. ‘How is that justifi—?’
Lucia interjected, ‘Your work on the side is andalwayshas been concerned with preserving this city. You have made generous donations in the past to other organisations. Galleries. The hospitals. Consider this in the same vein.’
Tiziano tapped his pen on the desk. ‘And what of acknowledgement?’
Lucia’s throat tightened. ‘You can make your donation public knowledge. But under the guise of it being from the depths of your generous, Venice-loving soul, working so terribly hard to support the lagoon’s most iconic and important businesses. This would ensure the bureaucratic transparency of yourdonation.’
Tiziano brushed the crumbs which had come to rest on the crest of his belly to the floor. ‘Contracts?’
‘No.’ Lucia’s magnetically green eyes locked with Tiziano’s. ‘I just need your word, and for you to stand by it.’
She watched as his jaw clenched. ‘A donation, out of the blue, to La Scuola Rosa, is what you need?’
‘It’s what we couldbothuse. I need the money. You could use the tax cut that the donation would afford you – and the good press you’d get for your generosity never goes astray.’
Tiziano held up a finger and withdrew some papers from a drawer to his right. Lucia fidgeted nervously as she listened to the sound of the pen dragging across the thick card-like paper. But she kept her resolve strong and confident, and was thankful for the deep canopy of the desk which hid her anxious hands and bouncing feet from view.
With a final circle around a numerical figure, Tiziano tutted to himself. Then he reached to the bottom drawer, opened it and withdrew a small lock box. Thumbing the numbers on the lock into place, it flipped open, and from it he took an A5-sized black leather-bound notebook. He swivelled in his chair, so that its back now faced Lucia.
Whatever was in that notebook, it wasn’t to be shared. All she could see were the top two inches of Tiziano’s balding crown from over the top of the chair.
She waited as patiently as she could, setting her own cup down on the silver tray.
After a moment or two, Tiziano turned to face her again. He replaced the notebook in its box, locked it and dropped it back into the drawer. ‘I think, based on these figures,’ he gestured to the initial notes he had made, ‘I can offer one hundred thousand. No more. And only as a gifted donation. We exchange no paper. No correspondence. No further communication of any sort on the donation, except for a receipt of acceptance for tax purposes. Which, as you say, will always come in handy.’
Lucia suddenly felt light-headed. ‘Of course.’
‘And on one other condition . . .’
She swallowed, and held her hands tightly together under the desk. ‘What is that?’
‘The ballmustturn a profit, as I need to clear my overheads. This year has been the most expensive to date. Labour. Wages. Food and beverages. I am collaborating with an investor on this year’s ball who is trialling new ideas to stretch the profits. If you’ve been to one of my balls in the past you will certainly notice this year’s changes.’
Lucia nodded. ‘I understand. And I look forward to seeing it go from strength to strength.’
‘Let’s proceed with this plan. Unless a moretemptingoffer presents itself in the meantime.’ He laughed, and Lucia wasn’t sure if he was serious, or simply taking stock of this unexpected turn of events.
Lucia stood and proffered her hand across the table. Tiziano’s handshake was firm and reassuring. ‘Grazie, Tiziano. From one defiant, proud Venetian to another.’
‘Come see me a week after the ball. We can talk then.’
It wasn’t until Tiziano had watched Lucia exit the palazzo and cross the nearby bridge that he finally rose from his chair. He moved closer to the window and gazed out at the Ponte di Rialto. There were few tourists about on account of the rain, and thevaporettostop across the water was without its usual snaking tail of ticket-wielding passengers. Even the restaurants below on Riva del Vin seemed quiet, with many opting not to open their outdoor seating areas.
Tiziano’s gaze settled on one smaller restaurant across the canal. It was the only establishment that had chosen to offer full canal-view service. Despite the cold and intermittent rain, there was still a demand. People were still willing to pay a premium for the iconic view and cultural experience. He watched as couples and families walked up and down thefondamenta, pointing at the other closed restaurants and eventually joining the rain-soaked queue for the only venue game enough to be different in the face of adversity.
Everything has value, once someone else wants it, he thought.
Clearing his throat, Tiziano reached into his blazer pocket and withdrew his phone. Locating the name he needed in his contact list, he dialled and waited.
The call connected, and without the usual pleasantries, Tiziano said, ‘I’ve just had a very interesting visit you might like to know about. From Lucia Trevisan . . .’
dieci
Monday morning hugs were always restorative. But this particular Monday, bolstered by Tiziano’s promise, the hugs were extra long and reassuringly tight.
‘Brava, Lucia,’ Francesco said over her shoulder, while she wrapped her arms around him. ‘This is very promising.’
‘It all stemmed from your invitation to the masquerade ball,’ she reminded him. ‘So thankyou!’ Turning to catch Mariella in a similar embrace, she noted the older woman’s less than enthusiastic facial expression. ‘Are you ok?’
