‘If only some of this messaging could reach the people with power! Imagine the possibilities!’ He flapped the book, entitled,Ieri, Ma Domani, orYesterday, But Tomorrow, in the air, allowing its glossy cover to glisten in the morning sun, and Foscari gave a short sharp bark seemingly in support of Francesco’s passion.
‘Here, can you hold this?’ Lucia passed him the wicker basket, which now also contained a few carrots, celery, two yellow-skinned onions, and a small glass jar of saffron threads, all of which she had purchased on her walk back from themercato.
Peering into the basket, Francesco inspected the produce and the two paper-wrapped parcels. ‘From Miro?’
‘Rombo.’
‘Ah,buono,’ he said, raising his eyebrows in approval. ‘Today we shall eat like kings.’
‘Eccole!’ she announced, locating her keys. With a rusty turn in the keyhole, the door’s latch released with a loudclunk. It took the usual three shoulder thrusts into the jamb to open the door, an art Lucia had perfected. ‘Don’t you always eat like a king?’ she asked.
Rearranging the folders of lesson notes and resources in his arms, he winked. ‘Usually. Except for that one time you experimented with therucola e—’
But Lucia was quick to jab him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Zitto, tu!’
They both entered the foyer and she closed the door. The air inside contained the familiar scents of vanilla, wood and photocopied paper, entwined with the heady comfort of Lucia’s lingering breakfast coffee.
Francesco walked through the classroom spaces and across to the wrought-iron spiral staircase nestled in the back corner of the school. He stopped, pointing to the small redStopsign displaying a painted black silhouette of a dachshund, glued low on the wooden newel post. ‘No stairs for you,Piccolo. You know the rules.’ And to save the pressure on his little elongated frame, Francesco readjusted his belongings and scooped Foscari under his right arm. ‘I welcome tips, you know.’
Foscari growled playfully, then tucked his muzzle into the crook of Francesco’s wrist.
As they began their ascent to the second floor, Lucia took a moment to ensure the pinkChiusoplaque was securely in place on the front door’s window. Through the glass pane she could see out onto Calle del Leone.
Directly across from La Scuola Rosa was the disused shell of the once-bustling restaurant, La Commedia, aptly named after the Venetian theatre stylela Commedia dell’Arte, and for the fact that it once, close to two hundred years ago, was a small playhouse. Next to La Commedia was a narrow coffee bar frequented mostly by students of her school, and further along, asartoria, marked by the gold decal of a cotton-threaded needle on the front window.
This was Lucia’s Venice.
Or at leasthercorner of it.
Bringing her focus back inside, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. Her eyes looked heavy and her cheeks were as pale as the lagoon’s sea foam. Fresh anxiety rippled through her. Shaking her shoulders, Lucia pulled herself together and turned the snib on the inside of the door, locking out the rest of Venice.
‘Are you ok?’ Francesco asked from the top of the stairwell. He studied her tired-looking features.
‘Perfect,’ she replied stoically, standing by the mahogany welcome desk. ‘Vai. I’ll just be a moment.’ But even she wasn’t convinced by her performance, and she noted how Francesco seemed to be assessing her suspiciously.
Just as the last view of Francesco’s feet disappeared up onto the second floor, Lucia scanned her surroundings.
La Scuola Rosa. Her pride and joy.
A language school for adult learners from across the globe, it was described as a welcoming home away from home. Many students told her they never wanted to leave.
She allowed a little melancholic sigh to escape her lips as she looked around.
Two commanding tables in matching mahogany sat at either end of the open-plan floor. The tables were paired with upholstered chairs, each featuring the red and goldgonfalone di San Marco; the winged lion standing ever proudly, sword drawn protectively over its city and people. The vaulted wooden ceiling reflected the glow of the hand-blown pink glass sconces which were built into the vast wall of shelving to her right. Bookcases, each filled to the brim with resources and texts, just begged to be rummaged through. The original hand-painted signage made by her mother was still in use –grammatica,esercizi,libri,informazioni,copioniandguide. It was an evolving library of language and words, and students were encouraged to take, borrow, share and add to what they found.
Lucia walked across to the bookcase ladder her father had made, complete with two decommissioned gondola oars fashioned into long handrails. With a gentle push, the ladder travelled along the bookshelf on its castors, coming to a stop by the spiral staircase Francesco had just ascended. The tip of one of the oars was positioned perfectly so that it would ring a bell as it passed by.
But that had been her father. The family tinker.
Lucia took a deep breath and walked to the staircase, resting one hand on theferro di pruathat had been used as an endpiece for the banister. The brass was cold and smooth under her fingers. She remembered the day she had bought it with her father from a renownedmaestro d’asciawho worked in one of the now-closedsqueriin Giudecca. The thought brought the smell of freshly turned wood and waterproofing lacquer to her mind, as well as the way her father’s hand had fiercely gripped hers as he contemplated a new creative endeavour. It had cost a small fortune at the time, but he had assured Lucia that theferrowould be at home at La Scuola Rosa, and it was she who suggested that it live on the capping.
It was as if her parents had never been stolen from her.
They were imbued in the deep hue of the woodgrain. Stitched into the upholstery. Reflected in the views of the Grand Canal seen from the arched windows behind the staircase. Etched eternally in the margin scribbles of texts and papers still lining the bookcase.
They were everywhere, yet nowhere at all.
Suddenly, the air around her began to thicken with dread. It filled Lucia’s lungs to the point of drowning, and all she could do to escape the weight of her worry was to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Up the stairs she went, beyond the second floor, similar to the first, and up to her studio apartment on the third. Francesco and Foscari were waiting for her.
