Checkmate. Your move.
There was a moment of silence. Neither spoke nor moved. The only sound was that of the gulls mewling overhead, taking the city by night to enjoy what the tourists had left behind by day.
It was the man who broke ranks first. Lucia heard him clear his throat before saying, ‘Alex.’
That was it. Presumably his name. He hadn’t framed it with any kind of explanation.You asked for my name, so here it is.
He hadn’t given it the proper Italian opene. It was tighter. Shorter.
This man isn’t all Italian.
Nonetheless, the moment felt like an anticlimax. Lucia had expected some of the banter of their previous meeting: the bravado and sharp-tongued sarcasm. But this was something else.
Before she could stop herself, she replied, ‘Lucia.’
His expression didn’t change, yet his intense stare remained fixed on Lucia at the window.
Lucia couldn’t read what this man wanted from the moment. There was a calmness about him, as if he lacked the emotional range to initiate a response. But it was his turn to speak, so she stayed quiet.
The night air seemed to thicken in the silence, and the few metres between them began to feel somehow charged, loaded. Still Lucia restrained herself, though her determined nature demanded more.
Perhaps sensing this, Alex stood tall and rested his hands on the ridge of his hips, those forearms drawing taut.
Lucia swallowed.
She realised she’d been wrong: he was not devoid of emotion, he was merely serene, comfortable. Taking in the way he stood so confidently, his stance relaxed, Lucia could tell that tonight wouldn’t be the night for a duel.
In unison, both retreated from their windows, closing them gently, and the shadows of the night – just like their mutual intrigue – continued to deepen around them.
venti
Le previsioni meteopromised a reprieve from the exceptionally dark and wet winter. And, true to its word, it delivered a few glorious mid-week days.
What the forecast could not have predicted, however, was the storm of a different kind that was brewing in Lucia’s little corner of Venice. No umbrella could shelter her from it. An extra layer wouldn’t stop its cold penetrating deep to the bone. This storm, unless watched carefully and planned for, would cause catastrophic damage.
But there was no way for Lucia to know this, because all that was on her radar was unseasonal sunshine and clear skies overhead. And that could only mean one thing for Lucia’s planned Venetian history lesson –al fresco.
‘Foscari,’ Lucia began, in her slower-paced, student-friendly Italian. ‘Francesco Foscari to be precise. NotthisFoscari.’ She gestured to the furry shadow at her feet who, upon hearing his name, immediately sat to attention. ‘Tranquillo, amore. We’re talking aboutthe otherFoscari. Your namesake.’ Foscari whined and dropped his head to his paws. Returning her attention to her students, she continued, ‘Francesco Foscari was the longest-serving Venetian Doge. Not the best-looking of them, but a truly faithful one.’ A murmur of giggles spread across the group. ‘He gave more than thirty-four years of service toLa Serenissimaduring the fifteenth century.’ Lucia wove between the students’ chairs, arranged in a circle in the sunshine that beamed down onto Calle del Leone. ‘Think about why that period is significant.’
An American student was the first to pipe up. ‘Is thirty-four a lucky number in Venezia?’
Lucia smiled but shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
Then a spindly framed Spaniard offered, ‘Il Rinascimento.’
‘Sì. Ottimo. The Renaissance. A time of rebirth for culture, philosophy, science, the arts. That was all taking place predominately in . . .’
‘Firenze,’ he added.
‘Bravissimo. Remembering, of course, Italy was not a united republic at this point. That came much later. Here, Venice was its own republic. And Florence – well, that’stheirhistory. The Renaissance eventually made its way here, too. But later. Now, an interesting character that unites theRinascimentoand faithful old Foscari is Donatello.Lo scultore. Remember that a masculine singular noun beginning withsplus another consonant takes the definite article,lo.’ Lucia padded out the syllables. Donatello,lo scultore. Chi è?’
‘The Ninja Turtle!’ cheered a rowdy young Englishman.
This was met with laughter and cheering, which made Foscari bark excitedly.
Then, suddenly, all heads, including Lucia’s, were drawn to the top window of La Commedia, which had opened wide. There, leaning on outstretched arms, was Alex. With his pillow-tousled hair and in his pyjamas, he looked less than impressed. ‘What are you doing, Lucia?’ he called down.
Lucia had to squint and shield her eyes from the midday sun. ‘Scusami?’
