by Elaine Young
Chapter 19
9th November
Libby awoke early the next morning as dawn waited in the wings behind the faded damask curtains and the partially open shutters that covered the small window. For a long minute she lay looking at the decorative ceiling, wondering where she was. Feeling quite warm and comfortable, she yawned and stretched luxuriously. There was no sound from the street. She felt herself drifting into sleep again and closed her eyes, then suddenly opened them wide as she realised where she was.
She sat up slowly and found that she was feeling much better. She got out of bed and opened the curtains and the wooden shutters. The sky was scarcely visible from her window but she craned her neck and could see that the clouds were thin and promised that the sun would put in an appearance sometime. As she passed the dressing table she looked carefully at her reflection and wrinkled her nose at the face in the mirror. A bit pale today girl, but a bit of makeup will fill in the cracks! She didn’t see what everyone else saw; pansy-blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes, her full lips that curved easily into a warm smile.
She felt a rush of excitement. Outside that window was the most wonderful city waiting to be explored. She hadn’t felt like it yesterday, but today was new and bright and she felt like singing. Her plan to run home to London forgotten, she unpacked her things and put her case in the bottom of the cupboard. She realised that the only place she would be able to put her typewriter would be on the dressing table. Nothing for it, she would have to get a better place as soon as she could. She dressed quickly in sturdy walking shoes and black trousers, a cream Aran jumper and a brown suede jacket with her black beret pulled well-down over her brow. She was starving, but instead of the breakfast offered by the hotel, she decided she would go out and find the coffee shop where she had breakfasted the day before. Before she went out, she phoned Bragadin from her room. With butterflies in her stomach, she tried to remember the proper Italian greeting as she waited for someone to answer on the other end.
‘Pronto.’ The voice that answered the phone was cracked and indistinct and she didn’t hear what it said.
‘Buongiorno. Voglio, um, voglio . . .’ her rudimentary Italian failed her and she continued breathlessly in English, ‘Sorry! I have a parcel for Signore Bragadin from Aristide Mayer.’ There was silence and the phone went dead for a moment as though a hand had been placed over the receiver. She nervously tapped her pencil against her teeth as she waited. Then another voice, rich and compelling, came on the line.
‘Who is this?’
‘Hello. My name is Libby. I was Aristide Meyer’s assistant at the University. He asked me to bring a parcel to you . . .’
‘We were expecting him yesterday, but we will discuss that when you come. Would it be convenient for you bring it to me this afternoon?’ He hardly gave her a chance to reply. ‘Good. Take the 52 waterbus to the Guidecca. In fact, Signorina, it is not far, but if you get off at the Zitelle stop, walk back the way the vaporetto came along the fondamente Zitelle. Turn left into the calle Della Squero, then turn into riva Del Squero. The house is at the end of the calle. Three o’clock.’ The line went dead.
OK . . . I have no other plans anyway so three o’ clock would be fine . . . the words were still on her lips as she put down the receiver. She dashed down what she could remember of the rapid instruction, then shrugged and took her bag and camera and locked her room carefully. She’d check her map later.
The Lista di Spagna looked different this morning in the pale sunshine. As she strolled along, she recognised the coffee shop and went and stood at the bar this time. Subconsciously she was hoping she would see the man from yesterday. She realised that she had hardly thanked him for his kindness and now she was able to repay him. He did not appear, so she concentrated on the breakfast in front of her, relishing the sublime coffee and fresh rolls. She was a bit alarmed to see that they did not wash the dishes properly; but merely rinsed off everything under a constantly running cold tap behind the bar. Never mind about spreading germs here, she thought, slightly repelled. In spite of that, she enjoyed her breakfast and walked out into the living work of art that is Venice.
She took the advice of her guide book which suggested that the best way to see Venice is simply to wander around, rather than trying to see everything from the water. She felt that with all of her studying of maps of the city she would be able to find her way easily. The city is not very big so that you can’t really get lost. She walked through the maze of small passages and lanes, over bridges and through squares, stopping to look in the quaint shops that lined the antique streets. She could imagine that anyone from the eighteenth century, who came to life in this day and age, would be able to find his way home without any trouble.
Every corner, every bridge, every square is worthy of a photograph. She couldn’t get over the hush of the narrow streets. All she could hear were footsteps and sometimes a snatch of conversation as people passed by, or a quick blare of pop-music from an open window above her. Once, as she walked through a narrow alley, she became aware of the strains of a classical piece and as she entered a small square she was enchanted to see a black-garbed young man seated on the steps of a small Romanesque church that was tucked into a corner of the campo. He was playing Vivaldi on a lute, the hat at his feet mutely demanding acknowledgement. She willingly obliged with all the small change in her purse.
Libby had criss-crossed Venice by the time she arrived at Florian’s in the Piazza St Marco in the early afternoon. She had wandered around the Rialto markets where she had found a suitable place to have some lunch and was delighted to find that she seemed to be the only non-Venetian there. She couldn’t understand the rapid question of the young woman behind the counter, but she pointed at a tramezzino on display and ordered a coffee as she climbed onto a bar stool. It was bliss to give her feet a rest and simply absorb the atmosphere.
The soft sunlight of the morning had long since been swallowed up by a lowering sky. She walked around the Piazza, fascinated by the little shops in the arcades. Reluctantly she passed by the great doors of the church of San Marco, vowing she would come back soon to visit this marvel. Choosing rather to view the Grand Canal from the Piazzetta, she carefully walked along the bridge created from boards so that pedestrians would not wet their feet when the Piazza was flooded at high tide. She realised why she had seen so many people, probably locals, in Wellington boots. The famous view of the Chiesa St. Giorgio across the Basino St Marco was breath-taking, but the breeze off the water made her shiver and it chased her back to the Piazza. The sky was turning to pewter and it had started to rain softly too.
The Piazza St Marco is the undisputed heart of Venice. Tourists seem to congregate there and, even if you are only a day-tripper, you will see the Piazza if nothing else. Its proportions, its arched and pillared arcades, its interesting conglomeration of exotic buildings with the Moorish-looking Doge’s Palace, the oddly-domed Cathedral that looked as though it was imported from some mythical Xanadu, the Campanile Tower, were all strange yet familiar, bigger in reality than they seemed in travel books. She hugged herself for warmth as she hurried towards the shelter of Florian’s. As she turned the corner she saw the tables outside the famous coffee house, forlorn, with their chairs upended against them to prevent them from catching the rain. The whole scene was almost deserted now because of the weather. Mist had started to swirl around the few tourists who doggedly stood their ground. Bedraggled pigeons still wheeled and turned above the square before coming to land once more in the puddles created by the receding tide, to look for pickings.
She took a moment to marvel at the ancient peeling paint of the walls outside Florian’s. It looked as if it had not been renewed since Napoleon’s time. Then she pushed through the door to stand just inside while she caught her breath and removed her jacket in the warmth of the gilded room. The head waiter hurried over to her and courteously took the jacket and gestured to another waiter to take her to a table near the window.
She ordered
coffee and relaxed as she gazed around. With its gilt chairs and mirrored walls, Florian’s is the oldest coffee shop in Europe having been there since the early 1700s. She had a feeling that it was going to be horribly expensive, but just for once it would be worth it. She hoped too, that Yves Lefevre would come as he said he might. She pulled out her note book to jot down thoughts and impressions of what she had seen that morning. As she did so, her fingers reminded her of her afternoon’s assignment. All day she had been ignoring the extra weight in her bag. She was glad that in less than an hour she would be rid of the burden of it. When the Prof had given it to her, she had undertaken the commission lightly. But when Dougie had tried to take it from her under such terrifying circumstances, what had seemed such an easy task had become a fearsome liability. She had no idea of the whereabouts of the young man. Was he even still alive?
She sat quietly sipping her coffee and staring at the pigeons in the sodden square. Really, why don’t I just post the jolly thing? The main post office is just a few minutes’ walk from the Piazza. I don’t need to get involved more than I have to. She pushed those thoughts aside. She had promised Ari she would deliver it and she had already made the appointment with Ettore Bragadin. Moreover, she was almost rigid with curiosity and wanted to know more about the mystery surrounding it. She took out her map and checked the short-hand directions she had jotted down when she spoke to the old man on the phone that morning. It looked straightforward enough.
Suddenly she heard a rap on the window next to her. There, smiling and waving cheekily, was Yves Lefevre. She beckoned to him to join her; it was good to see a familiar face in a strange city and she was glad that he had come as he said he would.
‘Have you had a good first day in Venice?’ he asked as he sat down next to her.
‘I was exhausted by the time I finally got back to the hotel yesterday. I wasn’t able to take possession of my hotel room until after eleven, so I took the vaporetto to the Lido and back. All I did was have a bath and climb into bed, and then I slept for almost eighteen hours! And now I have walked around the city all morning. I’ve taken lots of photos too.’
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes, but you go ahead. This coffee is enough for me. I ate somewhere up near the Rialto.’
‘Well what about a stroll? I know it is drizzling a bit but we can see a few more sights. I have an umbrella as you see. We could get a drink in a cheaper place than this. Maybe have some supper later?’ His eyes held hers in a teasing way for a moment.
Libby was flattered but she said, ‘Well, I just have one more thing to do today. I have to deliver an important parcel to a friend of my boss. After that, my time is my own.’
She was digging in her bag for her wallet as she said this so she didn’t notice, nor would she have understood the expression that flitted across his face before he brought himself under control. When she looked up he was smiling.
‘Where do you have to go to make this delivery?’
‘Over to the Guidecca. I called the man this morning and he wants me to come over at three this afternoon.’
‘Oh, well what if I keep you company there and then maybe we can still have that drink?’
‘You can come with me, but as far as anything else is concerned I don’t know how long I’ll be. But maybe you can call me at my hotel later?’
It was after half past two when they left Florian’s, and the rain was now just a fine mist as they made their way to the vaporetto station on the Piazzetta. The ride across the Basino di San Marco into the Guidecca Canal took no more than a few minutes. They chose to stand on the deck in the moist wind and watch the marvellous sights that floated past, accompanied by the droning of the diesel engines of the transport. Libby wondered what the ancient Venetians would have thought of this kind of boat; the noise and the overriding smell of diesel that was an integral part of any journey on water nowadays. Out on the water though, the panorama of exotic architecture that fronted the Grand Canal seemed untroubled by the depredations of time. The great dome of Santa Maria de la Salute loomed over to the right of them behind the Dogana di Mare, as they headed towards the first stop on the Guidecca side of the Bacino. In no time, the number 52 was pulling up at the Zitelle stop.
‘That bag looks heavy. Can I carry it for you?’ Yves offered, fingering the strap on her shoulder.
‘No, thank you. We’re almost there. Then I’ll be able to hand this parcel over.’
There were several passengers to alight, but she and Lefevre moved ahead of the group. She gathered her coat closely about her, pulled her beret well down and tucked in her scarf as the wind whipped around, as if wanting to sweep them off the fondamente and into the murky waters of the canal. The darkening sky made it appear later than it was. They turned into a small calle that took them through a warren of dingy passages and dilapidated ivy-covered buildings that looked as though they had not seen a pot of paint in generations. At the end of the passage they came to a scabby green-painted door that was almost hidden in the ivy. A huge moss-covered stone lion guarded it.
Lefevre waited as she rang the bell and then he said smoothly, ‘I’ll call you.’ Without warning, he put his arm around her shoulders as though he wanted to hug her. She stiffened involuntarily and pulled away from him. At that moment two people whom she recalled vaguely from the vaporetto entered the small square. They approached the next building and took a bit of time opening the street door. Suddenly, Lefevre turned and rushed off without another word. Libby watched him disappear, too startled to call out to him.
That was a bit weird! At that moment the door snapped open and she jumped with surprise at the loud ‘clack’. Lefevre was forgotten.
