by Jill Childs
Your lip trembles and for a moment you look about to cry but you swallow it back and just frown. I wrap my arms more tightly round you and hold you against me, trying to calm my breathing. Your skin is hot. Maybe you’re going down with something. You lie still for a moment.
‘Mummy, will you miss me when you die?’
‘Gracie.’ I twist round and try to make out your face. ‘What kind of question’s that?’ Your eyes are anxious. I sigh. ‘I’m not going to die. Not for a long time.’
‘Not until you’re very old?’
‘Not until I’m very old. You’ll be grown up then.’
Your eyes fill. ‘I don’t want you to die.’
‘I’m not going to die.’ I hold you close, rock you in my arms, press my face against the top of your head and breathe in the clean scent of your hair. ‘It’s all right, Gracie. Mummy’s here. Go to sleep.’
Your limbs slacken and your breathing slowly deepens. I lie in the silence, trying to understand you. Waves of light, reflections from the stirring water down below, ripple across the shadowy ceiling.
As I finally fall backwards into sleep, I’m gripped by a strange sense of timelessness, of confusion, as if the solid lines that usually contain us are warping and shifting, leaving us drifting, any age and all ages, in a world without form.
Thirty-One
We start the next day with a lazy breakfast of coffee and hot brioches on the hotel terrace, overlooking the Grand Canal. You kneel nearby on a low wall and hang your arms over the rail, watching the passing boats and waving at the tourists inside. You say nothing more about Catherine and I don’t mention it to Matt.
Matt places his chair close to mine, his hand reaching often to stroke my hand or the back of my neck as we sit, lazy. The air is fresh on our faces.
‘I thought we could take the vaporetto,’ he says. ‘Out to the islands. They have glass-blowing workshops on Murano. Gracie might like that. Plenty of room for her to run around. Or there’s Torcello.’
I nod, only half-listening. He seems happy to take charge and it’s a relief to sit back and let someone else organise.
‘And this afternoon, do you think Gracie would cope with the Palazzo Ducale, the Doge’s Palace? It’s stunning. You can’t come all the way to Venice and not see it. We needn’t stay long. The artwork is fabulous. Just the ceilings alone.’
I try to imagine you staring at painted ceilings. You’ll probably last about five minutes. But Matt seems so earnest and if we give you a busy morning, you might be worn out by then.
I smile. ‘It sounds great, Matt. All of it.’
* * *
The clouds are low and dull and it’s still too early in the year for most tourists. The first vaporetti we see look almost deserted as they glide past. We take a boat that’s heading straight out into the Lagoon and sit huddled together on a wooden seat at the bow, overlooked by the crew in their elevated glass cabin.
Your nose wrinkles as you face into the salt breeze, your hair flowing out behind you. You’re excited and your eyes gleam. It’s the same fervour I saw in you last night when you talked about Catherine. I should be excited too but, watching you, I feel cold with foreboding. I tighten my grip on Matt’s hand and press closer to him.
We pull steadily away from St Mark’s and the mouth of the Grand Canal and head out into the open swamp. A low mist rolls across the water, veiling everything from sight. The horizon slowly vanishes as water and sky meld together in a formless smudge of white. I have a sense of floating, of becoming untethered, unleashed from the land, from the city, from the modern world.
As the mists thicken, the crew quietens the engine to a purr. It’s the only sound in the muffled air. We creep slowly forward as if we’re explorers, navigating the unknown. One by one, wooden stakes, hammered into the water to mark channels of safe passage, emerge from the banks of cloud. Each seems a relief, a blessing, handing us forward from one to another through the invisible dangers on all sides.
Now we are far out, in open water. The wind whips low and stings my eyes. Matt rubs my arms and reaches to put his jacket round my shoulders. You delight in it. You jump down from the seat and stand forward against the rail, leaning over, trying to reach the dark water far below with your trailing hand.
‘Be careful, Gracie.’
‘Relax.’ Matt smiles and reaches sideways to kiss the tip of my nose. ‘She’s fine.’
The men running the boat, dark-skinned Italians, call to you as they work and laugh amongst themselves.
Matt has taught you to say ‘thank you’ in Italian – ‘grazie’ – and you consider it your own special word because it’s so like your name. Now you say it endlessly, to everyone. One of the men, younger than the rest and thick-set, feeds you sticky red sweets in shiny paper and you’re so delighted that I don’t have the heart to stop you eating them.
Eventually, when I’m stiff with cold, the solid outline of a dock appears and the crew, gathered now on the small deck, set about the business of coming alongside. Matt takes your hand as we bump to a halt and the two of you jump off together onto solid ground.
A boatman, a young Italian inked with tattoos, gallantly takes my hand and straddles the gap to help me disembark. The water sucks and laps as the boat knocks against the wooden platform.
‘Attenta, signora.’ The boatman nods to me, smiles. He is young and sure to break foreign hearts when the tourists arrive in earnest. For now, he makes do with charming me. His voice is a song of Venice, drawing out the vowels as if they were operatic. ‘Benvenuta a Torcello.’
You run on ahead down the long, straight path alongside a canal. The island seems tiny, a narrow, largely featureless strip of land that offers little choice but to go forwards. I fall into step beside you and you reach for my hand.
‘Where’s this again?’ What I really mean is why are we here.
‘Torcello.’ He looks happy and I think how at home he seems here. ‘This is where it all began.’
I look round doubtfully as we walk on past deserted cafés, restaurants and small shops selling canned drinks and postcards and guidebooks. The strains of a solitary radio drift through the air, playing a jaunty Italian folksong.
‘Does anyone even live here?’
‘Hardly anyone. They’ve all moved out.’
Away from the water, the air becomes heavier and more humid. A fly buzzes in my face and swerves away. Insects buzz at our feet in the scrubby marsh grass. Overhead, birds swoop in from across the water and cry.
We approach a small, shabby square. It has an air of neglect, of abandonment.
‘There.’
Matt nods towards two buildings that stand side by side across from us, dominating the piazza. Their walls are made of worn, dull bricks that suggest great age, and the facades are marked out by prominent crosses. The nearest has a colonnade with a low roof, covered with curved terracotta tiles.
A square bell tower rises from the far end of the other, higher building. It soars above everything else on the island.
‘That’s what we’ve come to see. Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta.’
His pronunciation is slightly Anglicised but, like the boatman, his tongue lingers over the music of the Italian. I squeeze his hand.
You’re already there before us, a tiny figure waiting outside the arched entrance, tilting back your head to crane up at the walls.
‘This was the first church ever built here in the Lagoon when settlers first came, all those centuries ago.’ Matt turns to check my expression and hesitates. ‘I know it doesn’t look much but come and see inside.’
Matt buys entrance tickets and we head into the gloom. The mood changes instantly. The sounds of life outside, of the birds, the insects, fall away to silence. The salt air is replaced by the fug of an ancient, crumbling building and the cloying smell of spent candles and incense. The church has only just opened for the day and we seem to be alone.
I lean in to Matt as he joins me, dropping my voice to a whisper.<
br />
‘How old is it?’
Matt shrugs. ‘It goes back to the seventh century, to the start of Venice. I’m not sure which bits are original.’ He looks round. ‘The mosaics are ten-something.’
He steers me forward down a narrow aisle. It ends in a high dome, encrusted with gold mosaics. In the centre, a towering figure of the Virgin Mary in flowing blue robes gazes down at me. The infant Jesus sits in her arms, a chubby hand raised as if in blessing.
Matt whispers: ‘This is what Venetians were busy making while we were being invaded by Normans.’
I don’t answer. I can’t. I stand, enthralled, staring up into the vast sweeping curve of the dome. The Virgin Mary’s tall, slim figure dominates the entire space, isolated in a sea of shining gold. Her face is gentle and her hands, cradling her child, are full of love. I bite my lip.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he says quietly. ‘I knew you’d feel the same.’
When I can finally tear myself away, I turn to find you. It isn’t a vast church but it’s dark with shadow and hidden spaces. Matt, sensing my sudden anxiety, turns to look too. He touches my shoulder.
‘You stay here a bit longer. I’ll find her. She wouldn’t leave without us.’
He strides off at once down the aisle and I turn back to the mosaic, tracing the shapes with my eyes and trying to fix it in my memory. I can’t concentrate. Whatever Matt says, I’m worrying. I need to know where you are.
I skirt the main body of the church, hoping to cover different ground from Matt. The windows here are high and small and the columns of dusty light finding their way through the plain glass barely penetrate the darkness. I walk on, peering behind sculptures and ornate thrones, reluctant to call out to you and disturb the silence.
Then I hear it. A giggle. Ahead, in the shadows. Low and stifled.
I creep forward, craning to see. ‘Gracie?’
Silence. Then the light, high-pitched giggle again. I follow the sound, sensing the barely audible shuffle of a small body creeping to find a new place to hide.
‘Gracie, come out.’
I find myself at the bottom of wide steps. It’s the entrance to the bell tower. A notice, giving basic information and the price in four languages, is tattered. A man sits beside it on a wooden stool. He’s elderly and unshaven.
I hesitate. ‘Excuse me, did a little girl just go up there?’
‘Campanile,’ he says, pointing up the steps with a nicotine-stained finger.
I hold out my hand to show your height. ‘Bambina. Girl.’
He shrugs. I don’t know if he understands me or not but he gestures with an open palm for me to pass, to go and see for myself. The thought of you running up there to hide and possibly falling sends me rushing forward.
The stone path is broad and rises gently, falling to steps at the corners. I climb at speed. Blood pumps in my ears and within a few minutes, my breathing is hard. Here, away from the body of the church, I dare to call out.
‘Gracie!’
The high giggle bounces down along the curve of the wall.
‘Gracie, it’s not funny.’
I press on, determined to catch up with you but you seem always ahead. Fitter than me and more nimble. After a while, I stop for breath and strain to listen. Silence. Then the whisper of quick, shallow breathing drifts down to me from somewhere above. I race on.
I’m tired and cross now. It’s not funny, Gracie. It’s naughty and it’s dangerous. What have I told you about running away? You’re old enough to know better.
Just when the aching in my chest is becoming unbearable, I make a sudden turn and all at once the steps give way to the brightness of daylight and the outside world. Fresh salt air hits my face. I spill out onto the top of the tower and stand, leaning heavily against the wall, blinded by speckled patterns of light as my blood races. I struggle to breathe. Then I turn, scanning the corners of the tower, baffled. I’m alone. It’s deserted.
I walk back and forth across the stone floor. The perimeter is enclosed by wire. There’s nowhere to hide. You are nowhere to be seen. But I heard you. I sensed you. I followed you.
I am only dimly aware of the spectacular view out across the Lagoon, stretching into the mist, of the breeze cooling my flushed face and lifting my hair from it. I stand at the tower wall and peer down, narrowing my eyes, frightened of seeing what I know is impossible. Perhaps you’ve somehow climbed, penetrated the mesh and fallen. Could that be possible? But there’s no tiny broken body far below. Nothing. My legs, exhausted now, give way and I sit on the cold stone, exhausted and suddenly afraid.
* * *
I find you both in a café on the far side of the piazza. You are sitting together at an outside table, keeping watch for me. Matt lifts his hand in a broad arc of a wave as soon as I step out of the cathedral and back into the light.
You don’t look up. Your head is bowed over a sundae and you are busily scooping up chocolate and vanilla ice cream. I see as I approach that it’s nearly gone. You must have been here all along.
‘You OK?’ Matt gets to his feet as I join you. His face creases with concern.
I shake my head, sitting down.
‘I’m sorry.’ Matt looks confused, guilty. ‘I thought you wanted some time to yourself. Gracie had had enough so I thought we might as well…’ He hesitates, uncertain, says again: ‘Sorry.’
‘OK.’ I let out a long breath, not knowing how to explain what happened, what I heard. The giggles. The child’s quick breathing.
‘I thought she’d gone up the tower. I went up after her.’
He lifts his eyes to the tower, square and dark against the sky, and he frowns. For a moment, he looks so troubled that I reach at once for his hand and grasp it, eager to pull him back to the present and to me.
Thirty-Two
It’s the middle of the afternoon by the time we return to Piazza San Marco and go to queue at the entrance to the Palazzo. We’re all tired. You whinge, pulling on my hand and saying as we inch our way forward towards the entrance: ‘I don’t want to see it, Mummy. I’m tired. I want to go home.’
I’m starting to get a dull headache, brought on by the humidity and a glass of wine at lunchtime and I’m inclined to agree with you but Matt seems determined to take us round it.
Inside, you trail up the marble steps without enthusiasm, a dead weight dragging on my hand. You fuss and twist and run away down echoing corridors every time Matt tries to point something out. I run after you, apologising to Japanese and German and every other sort of tourist as we barge past, interrupting them in their quiet contemplation of Venetian paintings and sculptures.
My head throbs and I can feel myself getting short-tempered with you and cross too with Matt for dragging us in here and with myself for letting him. After all, it isn’t really a palace; it’s an art history museum and you’re not even four.
Finally, I decide to call a halt and tell Matt that I’m sorry but you’re too tired and I’m taking you straight back to the hotel. He’s somewhere ahead of us and I take you firmly by the hand and urge you forward to find him, even as you struggle and protest. We plough on, you dangerously close to a tantrum, when you suddenly shake me off and stop in your tracks. I feel your mood change in an instant. You stand, stock still, just staring.
‘Look, Mummy.’ Your voice falls to a whisper. ‘Look.’
The painting is striking. I stand close beside you and gaze.
It’s in muted colours and clearly centuries old. The bottom two-thirds show naked, long-limbed figures against a dark background. Their bodies contort as they gaze in reverence backwards and upwards, guided and encouraged by others, suspended around them, who are robed and winged.
But it’s the top third of the painting to which the eye is drawn, the object of the figures’ gaze. It shows a whirling vortex of light, growing in brilliance as it twists in a cone towards pure white at the far end. A tunnel of brightness.
I crouch down beside you, putting myself at your level. You c
an’t take your eyes from it, just reach a hand sideways to find mine.
‘That’s it.’ Your voice is hushed. ‘What I saw.’ A long pause until finally, almost to yourself and in wonder: ‘How did he know?’
Your face is radiant. I look again at the painting, dramatic with fifteenth-century religious fervour, then again at your ecstatic expression.
‘That’s what you saw?’
‘I went down that tunnel.’ You lift your free hand and point at the light. ‘That’s where Mr Michael is. And Catherine. Don’t you see? Down there.’ You turn to me and break suddenly into a broad smile. ‘The man who did this painting,’ you whisper in my ear, as if you’ve stumbled at last upon a great truth, ‘he must have gone there too.’
Thirty-Three
That evening, Matt announces that he wants to see if he can find a little family hotel-restaurant he remembers, off the beaten track. If it’s still there, he says, it has the most amazing pizzas. He seems suddenly obsessed with finding this place, as if it really matters to him, and I’m afraid to ask why.
We set off with a map. We’re venturing far from Piazza San Marco and we soon leave behind the main tourist routes and find ourselves twisting and turning through a maze of increasingly narrow side streets. At times, these give way without warning to hidden squares, built round modest churches with low lights.
We enter a series of paths along the edges of minor canals that are so gloomy that I call you back and make you hold my hand. The water here smells stagnant and forbidding, its surface barely visible in the darkness. I draw you away from the edge, frightened that if we fell in, we’d simply disappear into nothingness.
There are few streetlights in this forgotten stretch and the buildings look decayed and deserted. Arches and doorways are toothless with missing bricks and bowed by the weight of history. Matt walks on with purpose but his map is useless in the darkness.
Finally we emerge, as if by miracle, into a small piazza. A typical Venetian campo, Matt says, looking round as he gets his bearings. He’s clearly delighted and leads the way with renewed confidence to a tall, narrow house on its edge. It’s barely identifiable as a hotel. It looks dilapidated and cramped but full of character.
