The vacuum which had enveloped them seemed to blow wide open, and the real world rushed back in. There they were, existing together. The breeze that rattled the piazzetta changed direction, and manoeuvred between them as the rain fell more heavily. A spark of lightning across the water to Lucia’s left illuminated the square, and Lucia felt herself flinch under the arrival of the thunder that followed.
Noting this, the man reached again for her hands, and this time the sensation of his toughened skin was familiar and comfortable. He pulled her close once more and his lips parted as if to speak. He lingered there a moment, and just as he made to break the silence the piercing cry of theacqua altasiren, alerting Venetians to the arrival of rising flood waters, began to ring out over the city.
The man’s masked gaze pivoted to the sky. Through his hands Lucia could feel his heartbeat race and his skin grow hot. Without conscious thought, she gripped his hands tighter, but he pulled them from her grasp. Again, his eyes grazed the ebony dome above, blanketed now with the shadowed haze of rain clouds.
Turning to the edge of thefondamenta, the pair suddenly noticed the high tide lapping across the piazzetta. They saw the water pool and gather, and within seconds it was snaking menacingly along the pavers. To their left, water began to seep in from the pressure valves dotting the centre line of Piazza San Marco.
Theacqua altawas on its way.
Lucia watched as the man’s eyes darted from the sky to the water, then returned to her. He shook his head, and Lucia couldn’t read if the gesture communicated confusion or fear. But suddenly it didn’t matter.
A warning cry from someone behind her, further along thefondamenta, caused Lucia to turn and squint into the dark. When she looked back, all that remained of the masked man was the sight of his cape dancing behind him as he darted away through Piazza San Marco.
‘Aspetta!’ she wailed into the wind. ‘Come back! I don’t even know your name!’ She groaned in frustration, then cast her gaze to her feet, noting the inch of water she was now standing in. And so, twenty years on and in the very same spot as the night of the accident, Lucia found herself succumbing to the rain once again.
The recoiling echoes of the siren drowned out her cries, heard only by the lingering gulls who were busy scurrying under the porticos of San Marco, seeking refuge from the impending deluge.
dodici
‘Buon San Valentino,’ Francesco said, rolling over in Lucia’s bed.
She gave an indifferent scoff from the stove, lifting the lid on the moka to assess the stream of coffee pouring into the top chamber. ‘You know how I feel aboutSan Valentino.’ She blew a kiss to Foscari, who had emerged from his basket.
Through squinted eyes, Francesco asked, ‘Where did you disappear to last night?’
Lucia’s hair was crinkled and wavy on account of the rain soaking through her braided bun. She finger-brushed it, trying to flatten it back into its usual sleek lengths. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’ She poured him an espresso. ‘Sugar this morning?’
‘It’s a “two please” kind of morning.’
She smiled, spoon already poised over the cup. She took in her friend’s unkempt curls, smeared residual makeup, and dropped a third spoonful in for good measure. ‘Ecco, this will wake you up.’
Francesco gladly accepted the coffee, propped a pillow behind his back, and snuggled down into the warm linen.
Lucia returned to the moka. She poured herself a shot, then looked forlornly into the little cup. Noting there was more left in the moka, she upsized her espresso to a mug and poured in the rest.
Francesco smirked. ‘Either you had sex, or there was some dramatic twist of events.’
Clearing her throat, she said, ‘Most definitely the latter.’
‘I was hoping you—’
‘I know what you were hoping.’
Francesco grinned and gestured for her to come back to bed. ‘Allora, tell me.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘I got talking to a man by the bar.’ She sat next to Francesco and took a sip of her coffee.
Francesco sat up a little straighter. ‘Sul serio?’
‘Put away those incredulous eyes,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, arealman. A masked man.’ She nestled the mug safely in the crook of her lap and pointed from the tip of her nose to the hairline at the top of her forehead. ‘From here to here. I could only see his lips and chin.’
‘I am suddenly very invested in this story.’ He coaxed Foscari to join them on the covers. ‘Did you hear that? Hmm?’ he teased, and Foscari yipped with glee, his tail wagging.
‘We were finding it difficult to talk over the music. It was so loud.’
To no one in particular, Francesco muttered, ‘Who goes to a masked ball to make conversation? Ugh!’
‘It was never my intention, but he was there, and he was talkative.’
