‘Yes. A very dramatic one! Every single message left in one of these was taken seriously. You did not want to find your name in a Boca de Leon. It would certainly be bad news.’
‘What would happen?’ asked the same student.
‘You would be sought out, tried in the courtrooms here in the Palazzo Ducale, and if found guilty, you were punished, detained, or executed for your crimes.’
‘Executed?’ a voice called.
‘It would have been a more dignified end than rotting in the jail cells. Well, depending on the cell. The ones on the lower floors of theprigionewould flood on account of the high water, so any prisoner left in there would drown, trapped and shackled.’
This was met with moans of horror from the students. Francesco tilted the GoPro to catch their reactions, then returned to Lucia.
‘Very few people who entered the Palazzo Ducale for any reason other than a ball or party came out unchanged. Or,at all.’
‘Is this Boca still used, Lucia?’
She laughed. ‘No. Could you imagine if it still were?’ She made her way over to the menacing marble face. ‘The mouth is almost closed over.’
‘Try, Lucia!’ goaded someone from the front.
‘Shall I?’ Lucia giggled. ‘Va bene,’ she said, pulling a notebook and pen from her bag. She scribbled her name and held it up for all to see. ‘Eccomi qua,’ she announced. ‘Trevisan, Lucia. Calle del Leone.’
Looking down at the note in her hand it suddenly seemed ironic that she lived in a sort of lion’s den,Calle del Leone, and was about to cast herself symbolically into a box of the same name.
She poked the note as best she could into the small space the lion’s open mouth afforded. She couldn’t push it all the way in, but figured the gesture was enough to prove a point.
Behind the camera, Francesco asked, ‘Che significato ha il leone, Lucia?’
‘What does the lion represent for Venice?La potenza,’ she replied, smiling back at him. ‘Strength. And power.’ She pointed to Piazza San Marco behind them, and to the burgundy and gold flags featuring the Leone di San Marco whipping in the breeze. ‘Theleoneis everywhere in Venice.’ She turned to her left and gestured to the lion high on the column at the end of the piazzetta. ‘Thisleonefaces back into the square, protecting Venetians from the menacing unknown of the open waters beyond.’
Suddenly, the lion and all its qualities – its proud stance, protective paws, fierce teeth and grotesque face, the name which connected her to her special corner of Venice, her belovedcalle– seemed something of a protector.
She looked to the darkening skies. ‘And speaking of protection, let’s get back to school before the rain arrives.’
Alex alighted from the San Zaccaria – Piazza San Marcovaporettostop just as the heavens opened above the city. Drawing in a breath, he noted how the usual salty-sweet scent of the open waters had been replaced by a mud-laced metallic tang, typical of an impending deluge over the lagoon.
Alex grimaced and pulled his coat closed around his middle. Now that he no longer had his flowers, his hands formed a visor to keep the drizzle off his face.
He darted between the remaining tourists along therio, turning left onto the piazzetta. The cloud cover was thickening, and quickly smothered the trademark peach and golden hues of the Palazzo Ducale’s patterned façade with a dull grey.
Giving in, Alex darted under the covered arcade of the fourteenth-century palazzo, immediately grateful for the shelter. While he wasn’t alone, most others chose to head into the bars and restaurants across the piazzetta, and many simply disappeared, as if absorbed by Venice’s windingcalli.
The icy breeze picked up and forced its way under the Palazzo Ducale’s wide arcade, whistling as it was caught then released by the Gothic arches which framed the façade.
That whistle.
It was enough to torture Alex. His cold hand dipped into one of the inner pockets of his coat, and he withdrew a pair of yellow foam earplugs. He popped them into his ears, muffling the sound of the changing weather so that it was nothing more than a throbbing white noise.
It wasn’t ideal, but it would be enough.
Staring across Piazza San Marco, he watched as workers – who had seemingly been conjured from thin air – rushed to reposition the raised walkway platforms into long stretches across the square’s expanse.
The damn water.
His eyes flicked back to his left, noting how the sea had turned choppy, and Lido island – just across the water – was now obscured by the rain’s opaque haze.
All he could do was wait. He found a quiet nook in the arcade and began to pace back and forth, focusing on how his feet were grounded securely to the patterned pavers underfoot. He tried to distract himself from the rain’s increasing force, which was now gathering in pools along the lower points of the square.
In his mind he berated himself. He should have been back earlier. He had known the rain was on its way. But it was the wind that reminded Alex that the weather had a mind of its own. It rushed past him under the arcade before smashing against the façade of the Basilica di San Marco a few metres ahead of him. He braced himself, knowing it would come hurtling back towards him. And it did, with a fury known only to those who worked on the open lagoon waters during the winter season.
