They turned onto the broad expanse of the Fondamente Nove, where long queues stretched for the ferries to the islands, and approached the ticket booth. The line there was shorter, and in only a few minutes they were standing in front of the ticket agent.
“Good afternoon, sir. Two tickets, please, for me and my wife. Only the one-way.”
“To where, signor?” The agent didn’t even look up from his newspaper.
“Oh, sorry. To Murano. Two one-way tickets to Murano. If you please.”
Nina glanced at Niccolò, surprised by his hesitant manner. Earlier, talking to her father, he’d been at ease, one educated man speaking to another, but now he seemed another man entirely. He’d grown smaller, somehow, as if he had shrunk in upon himself, and his manner was diffident and unthreatening. Even his voice, halting and uncertain, was that of a man who rarely spoke Italian in place of his local dialect.
It was startling to witness, but she wasn’t so silly as to remark upon it in front of the ticket agent. Niccolò collected their tickets and a few coins in change; she followed meekly in his wake, and only once they were on the vaporetto, and their voices were muted by the grumbling of the engine and the shouts of the crew, did she speak again.
“What was that?”
They’d been lucky enough to get two seats inside, hers against the window, but the woman next to Niccolò had enough bags and baskets to set up her own market stall, and he had been forced to sidle so close to Nina that the only place for his near arm was across her shoulders. His mouth now hovered a few centimeters from her ear.
“It was nothing, really,” he admitted. “I was giving him as little as possible to remember. If anyone comes asking questions, he won’t have any memory of me. I’ll have been only one among dozens of anonymous men who bought tickets today.”
“Do you think it likely?”
“That they look for you? Not anytime soon—Dr. Jona saw to that. But they won’t stop, and they will find what they need elsewhere. Likely they’ll begin with the census of Jews they took five years ago. If they don’t have access to those records already, they will before long.”
“My identity card,” she remembered. In the rush to pack, she’d left it and her little change purse behind. “I don’t have—”
“Not to worry. I have papers for you. Breathe, Nina. You’re safe with me.”
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed him, not yet, and turned her head away so she might look out the window. But she had waited too long, for they had passed San Michele already, and the city, her home, was already hidden.
“You’ll see it again,” he whispered. “When we’re sailing to Campalto. You can say farewell then.”
Who was this stranger who spoke so kindly and seemed to understand, or at least wish to understand, how she suffered? Who was he, and why had he decided to care?
They alighted at the ferry’s first stop, stepping carefully over their neighbor’s baskets, and rather than follow the crowds to the center of the island, Niccolò led them along the Fondamente Serenella, with the salt-laden air of the lagoon to their left and the sulfurous stench of the glassblowers’ kilns to their right. They’d only been walking for a few minutes when Niccolò pointed to a jetty about fifty meters away. “There he is. My cousin Mario.”
A man was crouched on the jetty, his attention on his sanpierota’s mooring lines, and as they approached he stood, his arms outstretched in greeting, his smile wide and startling in his sun-bronzed face.
“So this is your bride?” he asked, embracing Niccolò and offering his hand for Nina to shake.
“Yes. Mario, this is my wife, Nina. Nina, this is my cousin Mario.”
“Congratulations, and welcome to the family. Is this all you’re bringing?”
“For now,” Niccolò said easily. “And leave her alone. No more questions.”
Mario shrugged, his smile unaltered. “Rosa will want to know a far sight more.”
“She can ask as many questions as she likes. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer them. Can we get moving?”
“All right, all right. First we need to get your bride settled.”
Mario helped Nina step into the sanpierota, and without any prompting she knew, like any Venetian native, that the best place for her was just forward of the mast. There wasn’t any sort of seat, but the bottom was dry, and she was low enough that her head was safe from the boom if the wind changed suddenly.
She was content to sit unnoticed as the men busied themselves with casting off and getting under way. Mario stood at the stern, sculling out to clear water, and then he and Niccolò raised the sails without so much as a word between them.
“The wind is with us,” Mario announced, and then, for her benefit, “we’ll keep you dry the entire way. The lagoon is as smooth as glass.”
“Look back now,” Niccolò said, and she pivoted in her seat, peering under the foresail, glad for this one last chance to see her home. The city was no more than a smudge on the horizon, a wavering line that might have been penciled between the inky blue of the lagoon and the shimmering veil of the arching sky. She had only traveled a few kilometers, and been absent for the space of an hour, but her home now felt a world, and a lifetime, away.
Papà would go to the casa soon to help Mamma with her breakfast, and when she finished eating he would leave her to rest and return home. But their house would be cold and empty, for he had sent Marta away, too, and even after he’d moved over to the casa he would be lonely. The staff were so busy already; who among them would make sure he didn’t forget to eat, or stay up all night reading? Who would sit with him when he worried about his patients, his neighbors, and the broken world that no longer had any use for him?
What would become of him now? Who would care for him, and Mamma, now that she was gone?
Niccolò had been crouching at the bow of the boat, but now he came back to sit by her, again seeming to know, without a single word or gesture on her part, that she was struggling.
“He isn’t alone. He’s at the casa with your mother, and the staff there will take good care of them both. He was very certain that he would be safe and comfortable there. Try to remember that if you can.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Niccolò was kind to try to comfort her, but she knew just how cold and lonely her father’s life had become the moment she had left him. And no amount of reassuring words could ever save her from that knowledge.
“Do you remember that summer you and Marco came to stay?” Mario asked. “And we took this old girl out every day and said we were fishing, but all we did was lower the sails and drop the anchor and sleep for hours?”
“Nonna was always so disappointed when we came home without a single fish to show for it,” Niccolò said, smiling as he remembered.
The wind was with them as they came about and began to sail along the inlet, but then, in a heartbeat, it faded to a scudding breeze. “How many newlyweds have their own gondoliere?” Mario asked as he stood at the stern and began to scull. “No need to thank me. Just consider it my gift to the bride and groom.”
She knew that Mario needed to believe she was a newlywed, giddy with happiness and oblivious to the world’s ills, so she tilted her face into the fading wind, let it dry her tears, and turned her attention to the mainland.
She’d lived her entire life only five or six kilometers away, but she’d never set foot in any of the coastal towns; when she and her parents had gone on holiday, they’d always taken the train from Santa Lucia to the mainland. Here, on the outskirts of Campalto, the farms came right down to the water’s edge, with jetty after jetty occupied by variations of Mario’s sanpierota and smaller craft.
As Mario directed the boat toward the only empty jetty, Niccolò took down the foresail and furled it neatly, then did the same for the mainsail.
“See? I haven’t forgotten a thing,” he told his cousin.
“It’ll do. Take the bowline for me?”
It was a short walk from
the shore to the closest of the farmhouses. A woman stood at its door, a baby in her arms, a toddler clutching at her skirts, and as soon as they drew near she smiled widely and waved in greeting.
“Niccolò! Welcome!”
“Good morning, Sofia. I’m sorry for taking up so much of Mario’s time today.”
“No need to apologize,” she said, her smile directed at Nina. “You had to fetch your bride, after all.”
“Nina, this is my cousin’s wife, Sofia. In her arms is Chiara, and the little one is Emma. Sofia, this is my wife, Nina.”
It was startling to be introduced in such a fashion, but she remembered to smile and admire the children, and then Niccolò papered over any remaining awkwardness by making funny faces at little Emma until she began to giggle.
“Are you hungry?” Sofia asked. “You’ve a long way to go before you get to Zia Elisa’s.”
“We’re all right, for now,” Niccolò hastened to answer. “We had breakfast not so long ago.”
“You’re sure to be hungry later. I’ve packed up a basket for you. There’s bread I baked yesterday, some cheese, and some apples.”
Mario had vanished into the stables, but he must have been close enough to hear them. “There’s fresh water, too,” he called back. “I put a cask in the cart. Should be enough to see you to Zia’s.”
“What about Bello?” Niccolò asked.
“He’s here.” Mario now emerged from the stables with a bridled and noisily protesting mule. “I’ll leave you to hitch him to the cart,” he grumbled. “Foul-tempered beast tried to take a bite out of me just now.”
“He never gives me any trouble,” Niccolò protested as he took hold of the bridle.
Only then did Nina look beyond the men to the mule, and for an instant she forgot to be sad. How could she do anything but smile at the sight of such a ridiculous creature? He was almost as big as a horse, but a horse made of sinew and bone and flapping ears and enormous yellow teeth. She laughed, not unkindly, but the animal took offense all the same, stamping his feet in outrage, rolling his eyes, and hawing away like the worst sort of out-of-tune violin. Only when Niccolò produced an apology in the form of a carrot and a hard scratch between the ears did the mule grow calm, though no less wary of the stranger who had thought to laugh at him.
“Nina, this is Bello.”
“Truly? Bello the beautiful?”
“My father’s idea of a joke. Anyone else would have turned him into stew meat years ago, but I’m fond of him. All he needs is a bit of kindness to keep him moving.”
“Isn’t that true of most creatures?”
“It is indeed.”
As soon as Bello had been hitched to the cart, they said farewell to Mario and Sofia and headed inland at a pace that was only fractionally faster than if they’d been walking.
“Bello may be slow, but he’ll get us there in the end,” Niccolò commented. “And we’re only going as far as my aunt’s farm tonight.”
“Oh,” Nina said, and then she couldn’t think of any way to continue the conversation. She did want to know more about Mezzo Ciel, and Niccolò’s family, and the woman named Rosa who, according to Mario, would insist on knowing everything, but not just yet. Not when she was so tired from her sleepless night that she could barely sit upright.
Again Niccolò seemed to understand, and apart from offering the occasional observation about the places they passed, he was happy to let them travel in silence. It would have been a pleasant journey but for the rutted and stony road, which made the cart bounce so endlessly that her entire body felt like one large bruise before the first hour was done. The morning sunshine was relentless, too, and by the time they stopped at midday to water the mule and eat some lunch she had a headache so strong that her skull was in danger of cracking open.
They sat under the silvery boughs of an olive tree and ate the bread and cheese and apples that Sofia had given them, and Niccolò filled a tin cup with water from the cask and handed it to her.
“Go on—drink it all. It will help with your headache. Is it really bad?”
“You noticed?”
“You’ve been rubbing at your temples for more than an hour. If it gets any worse, let me know.”
The afternoon was more of the same, kilometer after kilometer under the baking sun, with the mule’s gait slowing and slowing until they might as well have been moving backward. Niccolò got down to walk by the cart and led Bello by his bridle, which increased their speed the tiniest bit, but all the same it felt like the hours were stretching into days.
Just as she thought she could bear it no longer, Niccolò turned Bello and the cart through an archway built into the low stone wall flanking the road. “Here we are.”
He had stopped the cart in the courtyard of a small farmhouse, its exterior walls neatly whitewashed, its front door open to catch the last of the afternoon sun. An old dog lay under a bench by the door, but after opening a single eye to inspect them, and thumping his tail in approval, he went back to sleep.
“Nico? Is that you?” came a voice from inside.
“Yes, Zia Elisa—we’re here!” he called back.
Niccolò’s aunt came rushing from the house, her arms open wide, and no sooner had Nina stepped down from the cart than she was kissed soundly on each cheek and enfolded in the other woman’s capacious embrace.
“Such a happy day—a blessed day! Felicitations to you both! And never you mind what others may say, for I always thought you were meant to marry, my dear Nico, and have a family of your own. I did, I always did, and if your dear mother were still alive, she would agree, would she not?”
Rather than wait for an answer, Zia Elisa propelled Nina inside and insisted she sit at the head of the table for an early supper.
“You’ll both be famished, I’m sure of that, and a bowl of my best soup is exactly what you need, and there’s bread to go with it, baked fresh this morning, and I’ve wine, too. Is the soup too hot? No? Then eat, eat. Go on, now—eat!”
Nina hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been until her first spoonful of soup. It and the bread were delicious, and the wine softened the edges of her worry, and rather than try to take part in the conversation she simply listened as Niccolò deftly avoided answering his aunt’s questions about how he had met and courted her.
“Another day, Zia Elisa. Better for Nina to tell you the story herself when she isn’t so tired.”
She had begun to feel quite comfortable, and nearly at home in Zia Elisa’s unfamiliar kitchen, when Niccolò pushed back his chair and announced that he and Nina were very tired and would be heading up to bed.
He held out his hand to her and she took it and followed him first to the outhouse—an outhouse, not a toilet, and there were squares of newspaper instead of proper paper, and she had to wait while he used it after her—and then back inside, where they washed their hands at the sink and he gathered up her rucksack and she tried not to drop dead of embarrassment right there on his aunt’s pristine kitchen floor.
He led them to a small room under the eaves. The shutters were closed against the last of the early evening sun, and the lantern Niccolò carried left most of the room in shadows, but she could see it was spotlessly clean, if rather austere. A low bed swallowed up much of the space, its frame homemade and its mattress, if sight alone were a decent judge, lumpier than the farm’s cobbled courtyard. Its sheets were clean and white, however, and its coverlet was embroidered with yellow daisies.
One bed. There was only one bed in the room.
There was a dreadful moment of silence before Niccolò cleared his throat and set the lamp on the table. “May I have one of the pillows?”
She handed it over without a word. He turned away, stretched out on the wooden floor, and settled his head on the pillow.
“You can’t sleep there,” she protested. “You might as well be lying on bare stones.”
“I’ve slept on stone, and this is far more comfortable. I’ll be fine. Now you get ready, and
when you’re done just turn down the lamp.”
After half a minute or more, when she hadn’t so much as blinked, he cleared his throat again. “Nina. We have to be up before dawn. Go ahead and change, and as the Lord is my witness I will not turn around.”
He kept his promise. She changed in a rush, making a mess of her carefully packed bag, and once she was safely in her nightgown, she turned down the wick on the oil lamp until the flame guttered out. Of course the mattress had to make the loudest and most mortifying sort of rustling noises as she pulled aside the sheets and lay down, and she just knew that Zia Elisa was hearing everything and smiling to herself about the newlyweds.
Soon enough she was still, and the room was quiet, and she was alone in the dark, and then it was impossible not to cry, and with no way of finding her handkerchief in the pitch-dark room she could only sniff and blink and sniff again.
“I’m sorry”—sniff—“for keeping you awake,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to apologize. But your father will sleep better than he has in many months. He will miss you, of course, but his heart is lighter tonight. Can you remember that?”
“I think so.”
“Then let’s try to sleep, and if you need to cry just go ahead. But maybe you could try to be quiet? I truly don’t mind, but if Zia Elisa hears, and she decides I’ve upset you, she’ll whip off one of her zoccoli and start hitting me with it. A shoe is bad enough—that’s what my mother used to hit us with—but a clog? She might as well use a hammer on me.”
The thought of Niccolò dodging blows from his aunt, whose head came up to his armpit, shouldn’t have made her smile—nothing should have seemed funny at the end of such a day. But she did smile, and it did make her feel as if she might be able to close her eyes, and when she opened them again it was dawn.
Chapter 5
You’re awake. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
Our Darkest Night Page 4
