He had dropped low to the pavers, flattening himself to the ground with his front paws stretched out before him. Letting a low growl escape his clenched jaw, he stayed very still.
‘What is it,amorino?’ she asked, dropping down beside him and running her hand along his back.
But Foscari didn’t budge. Something about the building had made him uneasy. She stood a few paces back and looked up at its two storeys.
No signage. Nothing.
Lucia made her way to the single door and gave it a solid knock, but all that came back was an echo.
It is Sunday morning. Maybe it’s used during the week?she reasoned, but the building’s dilapidated state seemed to dispute that.
‘Follow me,’ she whispered, and Foscari reluctantly obeyed.
They rounded the corner where thefondamentacame to an end, only to find that the building was enclosed by a rear service canal. She scurried along it and eventually stopped by the large double doors at the rear. She reached out and fiddled with the wrought-iron doorhandles, but both were securely fastened.
Ok, it’s closed. No need to pursue any further.
At that moment an elderly gentleman appeared from the residential building opposite the service canal, also with a furry friend in tow.
‘Buongiorno,’ Lucia said, and the man looked up, acknowledging her with a nod. Foscari yipped at the man’s caramel-coloured companion. ‘Do you happen to know if there’s a mask artisan’s workshop here along thefondamenta? I’ve been given the directions of these twofondamente, but can’t find anything.’
The man’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘There was one.’
‘Oh! Really? Where?’
‘In that palazzo there. Right behind you.’
Lucia turned to check. ‘Thisone? It seems empty now.’
‘Nowit’s empty. But it wasn’t for a very long time. Some twenty years.’ He lit himself a cigarette and called his dog back to him. ‘But the workshop closed a month ago. Maybe two.’
‘Do you know who the artisan was?’
The man shrugged, sucked back on his cigarette and disappeared around the corner of the service canal.
Piqued by familiar stubborn curiosity, Lucia returned to the front of the building and peered through the window once again. She scanned the vast desolate space within, and some of her hope and enthusiasm dissolved away.
It’s empty. Go home. Take the donations to the soup kitchen. Go find another loan option, a broker, a financial planner. A life! And put the mask and Nicolò out of your mind. You never need to think about them again. Ever.
trentaquattro
Stefano arrived sweaty-faced and pale at La Scuola Rosa earlier than usual that Monday morning.
The sight of him there, panting and shaking, drew a collective look of concern from Mariella, Francesco and Lucia at the welcome desk.
‘Lucia . . .’ Stefano started, doubling over for a moment, hand poised mid-air as if it would help him catch his breath. ‘Have you . . . Do you know . . .?’
Lucia stepped forward and tried to pull him to standing. ‘What’s going on?’ Her hands had begun that all-too-familiar tremble, and she pinned her shoulders back defensively, preparing for whatever it was Stefano was about to drop on her.
Sensing impending doom, Mariella sidled up to Lucia to hold her steady, while Francesco propped up Stefano.
‘Guarda. . .’ Stefano passed her his phone, and said, ‘Mi dispiace tantissimo, Lucia.’
Lucia refreshed the screen and saw a picture of herself, sitting at a table by a window, looking forlornly at a glass of red wine. What was she looking at? She tried to place the moment. Then suddenly it hit her.
She scrolled up and down the page to orientate herself, finally arriving at the headline:L’Orfana, pronta ad annegare per amore. Holding the phone tightly, she dropped into a squat and her eyes raced along the text.
The Orphan, ready to drown for love.
