Could this be the way out . . .?
‘Howvery generous?’
‘That depends on a number of factors. La Copertina is hoping to secure this deal exclusively.’
The thought of Edoardo’s papers upstairs in her desk drawer sent a bolt of ice through Lucia’s heart.
It would be the ultimate sell-out. Profiting from the demise of her most beloved, and feeding the ravenous media that had grasped her as an eleven-year-old and thrust her deep into the murky waters of the canal, waiting for her lungs to fill and slowly drown. Just like her parents.
No. I can’t. There has to be another way to find that money.
‘Thank you for coming, Benedetta, and for the offer, but no thank you.Arrivederci.’
‘Just think about it.’ With a respectful nod and wave of the hand, Benedetta left.
Lucia eased herself back down into the window display with her one good arm, and leaned against the inside of the glass. She turned the business card over and over again, before eventually tucking it into the pocket of her jeans.
There was one person she wanted to call in that moment, and one person only – Francesco. He would help her make sense of this opportunity and bring clarity to her cluttered mind. Of this she was certain. But she still wasn’t ready to face him.
Instead, she finished the window to the best of her ability. Lucia suspended the puppets from the hooks permanently fixed to the top line of the inner window box. She posed their limbs as if they were courting in pairs: bashful face-shielding hands; curious turned heads; arms reaching between each other; and bent legs to emulate dancing in unison. The bright silken costumes of the two-foot-long puppets brought a sudden pop of colour to La Scuola Rosa’s usually trademark pink window. It was joyful and merry, and, finished with a swathe of Arlecchino-style colourful patchwork satin to line the bottom of the window, it was complete.
Satisfied, Lucia turned away and her gaze came to rest on the community donation basket nestled between the welcome desk and the edge of the window display platform. Lucia could make out the sleeve of a black woollen coat, the stumpy end of a packet of spaghetti, and a plastic shopping bag filled with sanitary items from thefarmaciaaround the corner. It was overflowing with items and her heart suddenly plummeted with guilt.
It was Monday, and because of yesterday’s incident she hadn’t made her usual Sunday morning donation drop to the community welfare centre at the parish office in Castello.
She checked the time on her phone: 17.00.
Lucia shot a quick message to Olivia Caruso, an energetic and creative woman she and Francesco knew from their high school days, who helped coordinate the welfare centre’s soup kitchen when she wasn’t running the local amateur theatre, Il Camino.
I have the donations, but scusami, they are coming a day late. Are you working tonight?
Within seconds Olivia replied.Never late and always appreciated. Come, I’m serving. Good timing, as I’m at the theatre the rest of the week.
Relieved to have something useful to do, Lucia grabbed her coat, beret, sunglasses and bag, and with her one good arm, emptied the donations into a black fold-out trolley she plucked from the narrow office space.
Right now she had no closure with Francesco and no idea how she would obtain the remaining funds for the school buyout. All she knew was that there was a community of Venetians who relied on her help, and that of La Scuola Rosa. And no matter how uncertainherlife was, she appreciated that many others were doing it much tougher.
You can do this, Lucia. Keep pushing on. Normal life. Normal routine. Nothing will stop you now.
Taking a cursory peek down each end of thecalle, she slipped outside and set off.
sedici
Lucia moved contentedly through the maze-like passageways of the backstreets of the city, wearing her beret and sunglasses to divert unwanted attention and with only her donation trolley for company. Weakening shards of light slanted into thecalli, which were otherwise darkened by the blanketing shadows of the winter dusk. Lucia stepped through them, enjoying the slight warmth those last rays afforded her.
With Carnevale only a week away, Venice had well and truly begun its magical transformation. Thecalliwere running thicker with tourists, and manypensioniandalberghihad already flicked their signs toNo Vacancy. With the sun’s guest appearance that day, many locals had been prompted to do their laundry. Lucia looked on as Venetians leaned over their windowsills above the streets, collecting their linen.
The sky had begun to shift from blue to gold, and upon seeing it, obscured though it was by the patchworked rooflines of thecalli, Lucia felt the urge to escape the narrow veins of Venice and breathe the open air.
That meant being by the open water.
Lucia made her way through the more central avenues to break into Piazza San Marco. And there, as she stepped under the portico and was met by a gloriously invigorating breeze direct from the sea, she could breathe again.
The stage that had been erected for the Carnevale performances had now been expanded with wings and a backstage area. A raised catwalk jutted from its centre, and stacks of chairs in their dozens sat in groups on platforms to her right, high enough to avoid the menacingacqua alta. Then there was the electric cabling and technological paraphernalia, which sat in crates under tarpaulins. It all screamed Carnevale, in its most bureaucratic and functional form.
Quickening her pace, Lucia made her way through to Piazzetta San Marco. Almost immediately, the sensation of the man’s lips returned to her mind – the heat radiating from his mouth, the panting breath that had drawn hers into a matching rhythm. She swallowed and continued to walk, trying her best to ignore the remembered feeling of the roughened skin of his hands on hers.
As she reached thefondamenta, her eyes came to rest on the same place they always did: the nondescript grey pavers where her parents’ bagged bodies had been laid out for her to identify. Today the pavers were dry underfoot, unlike the rain slick that had made them glisten under the deluge ofthattragic night. Those very same pavers were now also the scene ofthatkiss.
