by Elaine Young
Chapter 18
Venice 8th November
Her hotel was quite near the station, so she was able to walk there without having to run the gauntlet of the public transport system burdened with a cumbersome suitcase and portable typewriter. She was suddenly glad that she had purchased wheels that strapped to her luggage. Her sizeable leather handbag was slung over her shoulder. Although it was barely daybreak, there were crowds of people walking past her towards the station. She had read somewhere that most of Venice works on the mainland. The hotel had sent a map of how to get there with the confirmation of her booking. She hardly saw the ornate façade of the Church of Santa Lucia next to the entrance to the station as she trudged along the Lista di Spagna towards the calle Pruili.
In the groggy light of early morning the narrow street looked drab as the dilapidated buildings loomed above her. She found her hotel easily; it announced itself in faded letters above a heavy wooden door. She eyed the few stairs that led to the entrance and realised she’d never be able to haul her burden up there. She rang the bell and after a long wait a head poked around the door. Then the crack was widened and she could see that the head belonged to a spidery young man with patent-leather hair and a small moustache over very red lips. With one single black eyebrow like a second moustache balanced above a prominent nose, he looked like a character straight out of a silent movie. At least he took her case and dragged it into the poky foyer. It was not yet eight o’ clock and her heart sank when she found that she could not take possession of the room before eleven o’ clock.
‘Please,’ she begged, ‘I have had no sleep on the train . . .’ her voice trailed off.
‘I am sorry Signorina, but we ‘ave the regulation. You will ‘ave to come back later. But wait, you can leave your baggages here. We will lock them in the storeroom for you until then. Go, Signorina and look at our beautiful Venezia. Then come back after eleven.’ A languid hand dismissed her from the lobby. She wanted to argue further but she didn’t have the strength. She was shown a small room behind the front desk where she could leave her luggage. She made sure her case was locked and grudgingly walked out of the hotel into the cheerless morning.
With a throbbing head and a sense of being ill-used, she slowly ambled towards the vaporetto terminus near the station, to which the concierge had directed her. On the way she was glad to find a coffee bar open. There is a rule in Italy, as well as in other parts of Europe, that you may choose how much you wish to pay for a meal or drink. If you want to pay double, you indicate this willingness by sitting down at a table. She did not remember this canon as she flopped down into an inviting chair with a sigh. She duly ordered and enjoyed the most incredible coffee and crisp oven-fresh bread rolls and sat numbly watching the passers-by.
Unfortunately, when the time came to pay, all she had was traveller’s cheques in large denominations. The waiter called the manager who refused to change such a large cheque for such a small bill. The next step would be to call the carabinieri. She looked at her watch and realised with dismay that it was still too early for a Bureau de Change to be open. She fought down a sense of panic and she was dangerously near to tears. Then she remembered that Gilly had given her a handful of lire as they had left the flat. Gratefully she pulled these out and put them on the table. The sneer told her all she needed to know.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ a voice asked in accentless English as she tried to remember how to offer to wash dishes in Italian. Libby looked up, relieved to hear English spoken and saw before her a tall and very distinguished-looking man who might have been close to seventy years old. He was accompanied by a glamorous fur-clad blonde woman of indeterminate age. As the man addressed Libby, his companion wound her arm through his in a possessive gesture and fixed Libby with a bold stare. Any female would be a threat to this one, Libby thought, amused in spite of herself. The man had white hair that was still thick and wavy and he was wearing a perfectly cut English tweed overcoat. In his left hand he carried a felt hat and pigskin gloves. He extended his right hand and as she took it she noticed how perfectly manicured it was, though blue-veined and spotted with age. She was aware of a clipped moustache and a charming smile reflected in aquamarine eyes. He must have been fascinating when he was young, she thought admiringly.
Behind them was another, younger rather unremarkable man, who kept eyeing the door. They seemed an incongruous trio. She had spotted them earlier, standing at the bar having coffee. Oh, yes, the other rule is that, if you want to pay less you stand at the bar and eat your breakfast there. If she had done that, she realised, her handful of lire would probably have done the trick. With a very unsteady voice she told him what the problem was. He smiled at the waiter and said something in Italian.
‘Please, allow this to be on me,’ he said to her, bowing courteously. Before she could say anything, he had pressed something into the waiter’s hand with a quick word and left with his small entourage. As they moved down the narrow cobbled street they were joined by another man who must have been waiting outside. She watched them disappear, the old man walking proudly, the woman firmly attached to his arm, while the two men walked slightly behind like body guards. The man who had waited outside seemed vaguely familiar, but her tired brain could not recall where she could possibly have seen him before. He hadn’t been on the train, had he? She shrugged mentally and thought about the gentleman they were accompanying. He’s probably rolling in money. Such charisma and marvellous old-fashioned manners too. The distinguished gentleman’s intervention had won her a reprieve and she enjoyed being able to sit for a bit longer. The waiter, mollified, even brought her another cup of coffee and more bread rolls. That man must have given him a really large tip. She wondered who the old man was. Even though his English had been faultless, she felt certain that he was ‘foreign’; French, maybe? Certainly his accent and his manner were too perfect to be indigenous English. Well, he had turned up at the right moment and she was very grateful. Somewhat refreshed and reinforced with lots of caffeine, she emerged from the café and looked at her watch. It was still early so she gathered what few reserves she could muster and decided to take the vaporetto and do the trip down the Grand Canal. First of all she checked on the Bureau de Change at the station and was grateful to find that it had opened. With her money taken care of, she found her way to the embarcadero facing the station.
By the time she boarded the vaporetto, it was after the morning rush hour, but it was still crowded. She squeezed to the side and clung there as the matchless city flowed around her. The wind was very cold and a haze almost obscured the palaces on either side. This merely added to the ethereal impression of Venice masquerading as an aging courtesan wrapped in a misty veil, loath to let her lovers see her without her face-paint. As they chugged down the canal, the overriding sensation for her was that she was actually floating, not just on the eau de nil tinted water, but above it. The noise of the boat’s engine, the people getting on and off at the various stops along the way, the smell of diesel, the rubbish floating in the water and the periodic whiff of sewage all faded into insignificance as the ancient palaces lining the Canal worked their enchantment on her.
Afterwards she couldn’t remember much else of that round trip to the Lido. She did, however, go into the warm cabin and sit down with the elderly and the mothers with prams for the return journey. A school-boy sat down next to her and began reading a science text book, sniffing loudly all the while. She was nauseated by the snorts, but she didn’t have the energy to change her seat. The rocking of the boat and the gentle bump it made as it docked at each floating station almost lulled her to sleep. It didn’t matter anymore that her headache had returned and she felt as though she was coming down with a cold. She was just thankful to see that it was nearly twelve o’ clock when they docked at the terminus once more.
Frozen from the jaunt on the water, Libby stumbled the short distance to the hotel. She felt wretched. This time the concierge was obsequiously helpful, as though now she had become a pay
ing guest she had the right to his courtesy as well. He had her luggage taken up to her room by a cheerless old crone dressed in black who looked too fragile to even lift Libby’s handbag. Mutely they crammed together into the tiny antiquated lift with steel gates that jerked and shuddered alarmingly as it rose, protesting, to the second floor. Libby was then led down an endless passage, until finally the door was flung open on the tiny ‘room without bathroom’ that she had booked sight unseen, recommended in her copy of Europe on $5 a Day. This slightly shabby place was supposed to be her home for the next few days. At least it overlooked the narrow street, she thought, relieved, and not an airshaft or the kitchen area with all its smells and clatter as she had experienced before in her travels. And in mitigation, there was a wash basin in the corner. She thanked the sombre old attendant and dropped a note into the waiting hand.
She closed the door and flopped down on the bed. Lying there with her eyes closed she could still feel the movement of the vaporetto and it made her feel queasy. As she fumbled blindly in her shoulder bag for some tissues she touched the large parcel. She pulled it out and held it above her head, wondering about the mystery surrounding it. On the train she had crammed it into her large bag without a thought. Now she turned it over and shook it then squeezed it slightly. It gave away no clues, so she stuffed it back into the safety and anonymity of the other debris she carried around with her.
As tempting as the bed was, she decided to first have a bath in the communal bathroom down the hall before having a rest. She thought it would be wise to keep her bag with her and she hauled it to the quaint old bathroom. The bath was one of those old-fashioned deep ones with ball and claw feet. As she turned on the water, a loud knocking issued from the pipes and echoed around the walls. She locked the door so as not to be disturbed and leaned back appreciatively in the hot water with her eyes closed. The steam made her cough and as she relaxed for the first time since leaving Paris, she determined that the only thing to do would be to post Ari’s parcel to his friend and fly back to London in the morning. Feeling warm and ‘pruney’ she finally talked herself into getting out of the bath. There was no sound from any of the other rooms. She supposed that if there were other people staying at the hotel they would be out and about at midday. She heard a distant vacuum cleaner droning elsewhere; otherwise the hotel could have been completely deserted. In her dressing gown she padded down the high vaulted corridor towards her room. As she reached her door she noticed it was open a crack. She was so sure that she had closed it behind her as she had left for the bathroom and she peered cautiously around the door, fully expecting someone to be there and was relieved to find it empty. There were more clean towels on the bed, so it must have been the chamber maid, she thought. She closed the door and locked it behind her. She was hungry but she didn’t have the energy to go out again.
The radiator under the window ticked gently as it heated up. The room was quite snug, with rain spattering on the window pane. She decided not to unpack her clothes into the old-fashioned wardrobe since she would be checking out after breakfast. Although it was not yet two in the afternoon there was nothing to do but to slide under the covers and fall fast asleep.
