‘Try to find him?’
‘How? With a megaphone atop a gondola? “Sad perpetual singleton seeks man she kissed at a party.” It’s been done before.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘No. Use social media.’
Lucia made to leap from the bed, but Francesco threw himself on her and pinned her to the mattress. ‘Just listen.’
‘No! Francesco, no! You know I don’t do social media. This is whyyourun all the socials for the school. I can’t put my face out there . . .’
‘Lucia—’
‘Checco, absolutely not!’
‘Ask a few questions. Put some feelers out. Get a sense of who attended that party. You can stay anonymous! In fact, the less information you give, the better your chances are of finding therealman you kissed.’
Now pressed hard against her pillow, she struggled to speak through her squished cheeks. ‘What . . . do . . . you . . . mean?’
‘No imposters. Don’t say who you are, what you were wearing, or give any details about him, for that matter. Don’t say where the kiss took place. Simply put a call out . . . “If you were the masked man who shared a Valentine’s Day eve kiss at the ball”, blah blah, “get in touch. Your kissing partner is looking for Round Two.” Yes? No?’
Lucia kicked him from underneath the covers, and he fell back onto his side of the bed. ‘No. It’s too dangerous.’
‘If you were willing to go morepublicwith your identity, it would be great publicity for the school.’
Lucia glared at him. ‘Don’t even suggest it. That’s an awful thing to even think, let alone say. Using me as bait . . .’
‘Lucia, do you want to find this man?’
She allowed the sensation of the man’s warmth, hold and lips back into her consciousness. Prickles. Then tingles. ‘Iwouldlike another kiss. Or more. But that’s not possible. So, out of my mind he must go.’ She threw the covers over her head and moaned from underneath.
Plucking himself from the bed, Francesco moved with speed. Lucia’s costume from the night before lay rumpled in a heap by the foot of the bed. The mask Lucia had worn sat by her laptop on her desk. He picked it up, straightened the black lace ties and arranged it on the billowy blue satin skirt of the costume. Capturing no specific details, just angles and inches here and there, he snapped a quick photo, then returned the mask to Lucia’s desk.
It wasn’t until much later that day – followingSan Valentinodinner and drinks with Stefano – that Francesco finally headed home to Mestre for the night. The ten-minute train ride from Venice to Mestre almost didn’t warrant taking a seat, but he collapsed back into one all the same.
He looked out over the stretch of water that separated Venice from the mainland, and under the moonlight and blackened canopy of night, he wondered what it might have been likethat night.
The night that would forever be etched into Venice’s maritime history. The night that had left many without loved ones. The night where thevaporetto, commandeered by an alcohol-soaked seafarer, had slammed into the embankment running the length of Via della Libertà, causing it to split in two. One half had careened up and over the brick ledge, landing on the stretch of autostrada, while the other, in which Lucia’s parents were trapped, had dropped to the muddy and sedimented depths of the waters below.
And then he thought about Lucia. Scared and scarred. She would forever live her life caught in a web of fear and apprehension. Lonely and alone. Francesco could see no other way out of this cycle. It spun and revolved, and Lucia was too afraid to reach out and break the direction of the swirling current which kept her trapped.
For better, for worse, he would have to be the one to do it.
With just two minutes left of the crossing, he opened Instagram and frantically put together a post featuring the photo of the mask and costume, and the text:Did you kiss her at the masquerade ball on Valentine’s Day eve? Did you leave without saying goodbye? She wants another kiss. And your name. Make yourself known. He chose the first backing track that the Instagram algorithm suggested, and swiped to add a filter. Just as the arrival warning sounded through his carriage, Francesco hitpost. The message would be safe enough on his own private profile, he thought. Maybe someone they both knew might know something or someone who could help.
Lucia would be safe there.
He closed the app and dropped his phone into his pocket. He wouldn’t look at it again until sometime the following morning.
And just as he alighted from the train, the post, which Francesco had inadvertently posted to La Scuola Rosa’s Instagram profile, had its first views.
tredici
Calle del Leone was filled to the brim with trouble the following morning: nosy locals, journalists, photographers and social media influencers. It seemed that most of Venice had turned out for the occasion. Phones and cameras were held high over the sea of bobbing heads, awaiting the first glimpse of her. A few people had even taken to climbing the ledges and windowsills of the neighbouring buildings for a better view. Apparently, according to the mob’s understanding,L’Orfanawas finally looking for love in Venice.
The trouble was, she didn’t know it yet.
This all spelled one thing – disaster.
Lucia eventually awoke and padded to the kitchen where she filled the moka and put it on the hob. ‘Che c’è, amore?’ she asked, noticing that Foscari, perched by the window overlooking the street, was whining incessantly.
