by Irma Joubert
Somehow they always ended up together.
And there were small things: the way he looked at her when she was talking, the way he leaned over her to open the window, his genuine interest in what she was reading, his participation in a conversation about something she found interesting.
He’s a proper Casanova, Lettie decided as the train slowly drew into the last station.
“We’re in Venice!” De Wet said, his green eyes dancing with excitement.
And good friends or not, she thought somewhat helplessly, I’m so weak that I fall for his charm every time.
The taxi dropped them off at their hotel—the Hotel Casanova, Lettie read on the ornate sign.
Well, if that isn’t an omen, she thought.
They signed in, three Fouries and three Romanellis.
“Mrs. Romanelli?” The man at reception asked the same question his colleague in Rome had asked. “You speak Italian?”
“My husband was Italian,” Lettie explained in her best rusty Italian, “but he passed away. I don’t speak much Italian, I’m afraid, but I do understand it.”
And, just like in Rome, Lettie was given the best room.
The Piazza San Marco was abuzz with people in the late afternoon. Large swarms of pigeons were pecking up crumbs at pedestrians’ feet, fluttering up, and landing ten yards farther.
The square was dominated by the Cathedral of St. Mark’s at the eastern end—a large white building with a series of domed roofs.
De Wet walked ahead of Lettie, deep in conversation with Pérsomi. They were completely at ease in each other’s company, just as they should be, Lettie noted. There was a time when she had been able to walk with him that way, relaxed, cracking jokes. Less than a week ago, in fact.
She turned to Klara. “It looks almost Oriental, all these domes and turrets,” she said.
“I agree. There’s a strong Oriental influence, probably because of early trade connections with the East,” Klara said.
She and Klara stood looking at the round-arched portals and the patterned marble slabs. Antonio joined them, pointing out the finer details of the architecture, explaining the bronze Horses of St. Mark, guiding them along the Merceria.
“The most wonderful shops are here,” Klara said enthusiastically. “You can buy everything here, from—”
“Tomorrow,” Antonio interrupted. “We’ll do some shopping tomorrow. Now I suggest we find somewhere to eat.”
Talk as she might, Lettie was constantly aware of De Wet.
She listened with half an ear to Antonio’s description of the houses lining the street and dating from the early sixteenth century.
“The history of Europe is so much older than our own,” Pérsomi said. “In the early sixteenth century Bartolomeu Dias had only just sailed around the Cape.”
“You remember your history well, don’t you?” said De Wet.
“I had an excellent teacher,” Pérsomi said, smiling at Klara.
Klara laughed. “It was 1488,” she said.
“The year you were Pérsomi’s history teacher?” De Wet teased.
“Who would have thought, when I was Pérsomi’s schoolteacher, that one day she would be my sister-in-law?”
“I would have thought,” Boelie said seriously.
There was a short, awkward silence before Antonio said, “There’s a popular restaurant quite close by, the Caffè Quadri. It might be a bit pricey.”
“We’re only young and in Venice once,” De Wet said cheerfully. “What do you old-timers say?”
“This youngster says let’s spend the money our young wives are earning,” Boelie said, putting his arm around Pérsomi’s shoulder.
De Wet turned to her. “Lettie?”
“Do I count as one of your old-timers?” she asked.
“Definitely not,” he said, laughing. “Caffè Quadri, here we come!”
During the meal De Wet was his old charming self—actually, he and Lettie had a lovely conversation. She felt like herself again. Well, almost.
Back at the hotel, the women sat in the deep armchairs of the luxurious lounge and ordered tea.
“Is De Wet making eyes at you, Lettie?” Klara asked after the waiter left, tilting her head as she spoke. She sounded suspicious, almost disbelieving—as if she had just made a great discovery.
“Definitely not. It’s your imagination,” Lettie hastened to reply.
“I think he is,” Pérsomi said calmly, leaning back in her chair. “I know him, and if he’s not making eyes, he’s definitely paying you a great deal of attention.”
Lettie drew a sharp breath. “You’re both mistaken. He’s just being friendly, enjoying his vacation,” she protested. “And remember, the rest of you are married couples, so it’s only natural that we’ll be paired off.”
“Okay,” Pérsomi said, “if you say so.”
But if it turned out to be true, if it was more than just casual attention so that even her friends were noticing . . . Lettie simply couldn’t face the pain that kind of frivolous game would inevitably lead to. The sooner she put a stop to it, the better.
The next morning the weather was sunny, the sky was cloudless and blue, and the Adriatic sparkled in the distance.
They chattered cheerfully as they crossed the square to the Merceria, Klara’s street with the marvelous shops. “We’ll meet at eleven at this sidewalk café,” Antonio said, pointing. “Klara and I are going to a toy shop lower down.”
“I want to show Boelie something I thought we might buy for Lientjie,” Pérsomi said and took Boelie’s hand.
Lettie didn’t want De Wet to feel obliged to spend the day with her. Turning to him, she said, “I want to look at handmade lace. I doubt you’ll be interested.”
“I’ll come with you anyway,” he said easily. “Maybe we’ll spot a Ferrari or Lamborghini going for a song.”
“Yes, or an orangutan.” Lettie laughed.
De Wet stopped to gaze at a display of Venetian glassware and jewelry in a shop window. He turned to look at her with those exceptional green eyes. “Help me pick out something typically Venetian for the girls, please?” he said. “I’m not very good at that kind of thing.”
His eyes are really something special, almost exactly like Klara’s. She nodded. “Maybe I could buy something for my daughters too,” she said as they entered the shop.
They looked at ornate wine decanters and fine glasses, at smoky glass bowls, at porcelain figurines. “No, it’s all too fragile. We still have a lot of traveling ahead of us,” Lettie said.
“You’re right,” said De Wet.
They opted for colorful necklaces made of different types of glass beads. They took care to pick something special to suit each daughter—bright multicolored beads for Anna (“Yes, they go with her personality,” he said), a chunky deep-red string for Isabella (“It’ll make her look very Italian”), a smoky-blue one for Lulani (“She has Christine’s blue eyes”), creamy beads with small hand-painted roses for Leonora (“She’ll always be our little rosebud”). The saleslady carefully removed the ones they selected from among the rest.
“Which one do you prefer?” De Wet asked, poring over the multitude of strings lying on the counter.
She put out her hand to point at a string she had noticed from the start: light-blue glass beads richly decorated in a fine floral design. “Hand-painted,” the saleslady said in broken English.
“Buy it,” De Wet encouraged her.
She picked up the label and looked at the price. She laughed. “Oh no, it costs an arm and a leg,” she said, carefully replacing the necklace. “I’d rather buy a variety of small mementoes. Here in Venice I want to buy some lace. I’ve heard it’s best to go to one of the smaller islands where the women still make the lace by hand. Even there I think it might be exorbitantly expensive.”
“Well, let’s pay for our purchases then,” he said, turning away.
She paid for her two strings, and the saleslady put them in satin bags with pictures of St
. Mark’s Cathedral. She stepped outside to wait for De Wet.
They had only walked a few paces when he stopped in his tracks. “Here,” he said, unceremoniously handing her a satin bag.
For a moment she wondered whether he wanted her to put it away in her handbag.
Then it hit her like a bucket of cold water. Slowly she opened the bag and looked inside.
It was the expensive beads.
She looked up at him. His green eyes looked back expectantly.
Suddenly she felt incredibly vulnerable. His eyes . . .
She shook her head. “De Wet, I’m sorry, but please don’t,” she said, holding out the bag to him. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Lettie,” he said somewhere between solemnity and good humor, “it’s only a string of beads. It’s”—he shrugged nonchalantly—“worldly goods.” He smiled, somewhat embarrassed, his eyes on her face. “Go ahead. Take the stupid thing!”
She hesitated before she replied. “Thanks. It’s truly beautiful. But . . . please don’t, De Wet. It’s . . . awkward.”
For a fleeting moment there was a strange expression in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly. “Fine,” he said, completely serious now. “I understand.”
But he didn’t retrieve the bag.
They met up with the others and walked to the Rialto Bridge, the oldest of the three bridges across the Grand Canal. They boarded a waterbus and traveled the length of the Grand Canal. They looked at the buildings on either side of the canal, dating from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries and reflecting the wealth and prosperity of Venice at the time.
Lettie struggled to focus on Antonio’s stories. After a while she sat down by herself in the front of the waterbus and looked out over the wide canal. There was a light breeze in her face and hair, and the dark wavelets lapped softly underneath the boat.
Slowly she felt her composure return. De Wet had behaved normally after the morning’s incident. He’d been spontaneous and friendly as usual.
And it was what she wanted, she knew with complete clarity. She wanted their relationship to be uncomplicated—without unnecessary problems or pain.
She felt as if a heavy load had rolled off her shoulders.
Sometime later De Wet’s voice drew her attention. “We wondered where you were. We were afraid you might have fallen overboard.”
She laughed. “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” she said and rejoined the rest of the group.
“Boelie, tonight you’ll have to serenade Pérsomi,” De Wet teased as they headed to where the gondoliers were waiting in their brightly colored boats. “If you allow one of those Italians to go first—you know what they’re like—you might as well wave your pretty young wife good bye!”
“I’m lucky to have my own Italian to sing to me.” Klara played along. She pretended to give a deep sigh. “But you’re right, De Wet, I’m afraid Boelie will have to sing.”
“All I can sing is ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight,’ and that certainly won’t do,” Boelie said with feigned seriousness. “Pérs, maybe the two of us should go to the movies instead.”
Pérsomi laughed. “Tonight it’s you and me and that gondola.”
Tonight it’s De Wet and me and that gondola, Lettie thought. But it no longer made her nervous, because things were back to normal between them. She was looking forward to an enjoyable evening in the company of an old friend.
And that was exactly how it turned out. The two of them reclined in the soft seats. Below them the dark water slowly moved past, while above them the sky changed color and the first stars appeared.
“The stars on the farm are so much brighter,” she said.
“Yes, I’m afraid the air over here is polluted,” he said. “But on the farm we don’t have thousands of lights reflected in the water. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
“Lovely,” she said.
“Me sing?” the gondolier asked. “Or me play?” He pointed at his violin.
“Lettie?” De Wet asked.
“Sing, please,” she told the gondolier. To De Wet she said, “Mediocre singing is a lot better than mediocre violin playing.”
“Smart,” he said, leaning back.
The gondolier sang softly, rowing at a leisurely pace. It was a lingering melody, a lullaby of days gone by perhaps.
“Heavenly,” Lettie sighed, leaning back.
“Why don’t you close your eyes? It might be even more heavenly,” De Wet said next to her.
“And miss seeing these stars?” she said.
They sat in silence, occasionally pointing at something or sharing a thought from the past. The Italian night with its unfamiliar northern stars softly enfolded them.
“Me sing opera?” the gondolier asked after a while.
“No, carry on with what you’re doing, it’s beautiful,” De Wet said, his head tilted back.
“You like?”
“Yes, we like,” said Lettie. To De Wet she whispered, “We’re probably in for a hefty tip.”
“Hmm,” said De Wet. “A good thing you’re a rich doctor.”
“Hmm,” Lettie said, too lazy to protest.
“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” The familiar song from her nursery-school days popped into Lettie’s head. But she kept silent. She didn’t want to break the spell. The stream in the song had turned into a dream.
“We here,” the gondolier said much later.
“Lettie,” De Wet said softly.
Slowly she opened her eyes. “Maybe you can use your charm to bargain with him,” she said.
His face wore a puzzled frown. “What are you talking about?”
“The tip.”
He burst out laughing. “I nearly said you’re lovely again, but I’ve been told to behave.” He held out his hand to help her out. “Thanks, Lettie, it was a wonderful evening.”
“It was an unforgettable evening, De Wet. Thank you,” she said sincerely.
“You said you wanted to go to an island where they make lace today,” De Wet said when he met her for breakfast. “Would you mind if I tag along? Boelie and Pérsomi want to take another trip to the farms in the district and”—he smiled—“I’m kind of up to here with Venetian architecture.”
“You’re welcome to come along, De Wet.”
They boarded a ferry to the island of Burano, walked through narrow alleys flanked by tall, brightly painted houses, and stopped at numerous stalls selling handblown glass and lace. “It’s easy to buy the girls presents, but I never know what to buy Gerbrand,” De Wet said. “I’m not good at buying gifts. It used to be Christine’s department.”
“I still have to find something for my sons-in-law,” Lettie said.
“I haven’t even given my sons-in-law a thought,” De Wet said, “not to mention the grandchildren.”
“Okay, Gramps,” Lettie teased. “I’m glad we’re not all as old as you!”
“We’ll talk again when you have grandkids of your own,” he said, his green eyes gentle.
Most of the lace on the island, they soon found out, was made commercially. The handmade lace was too expensive to market economically. “Well, I suppose that means I can buy a tablecloth anywhere,” Lettie said, somewhat disappointed. “Even tray cloths are so expensive.”
“May I buy you a handmade cloth, pleeeease?” De Wet asked, his face screwed up like a small boy’s.
“No, De Wet, you can’t,” Lettie said, smiling.
“Then can I buy you something to eat instead?”
“Fine,” she agreed, laughing. “Let’s find something to eat.”
They found a tiny café with a menu in an Italian dialect Lettie didn’t understand. The chubby woman behind the counter didn’t speak any English. “We won’t have any idea what we’re ordering,” De Wet said, looking dubious.
“We can always order two different dishes and share,” Lettie said. “That way we’re halving the risk.”
While they were waiting, De Wet popped into a shop ac
ross the street to look for something for his daughters.
Lettie read on a sign outside the café that Leonardo da Vinci visited the island in 1481. At the time, the women had been making lace for decades, a skill they had learned at the time Cyprus ruled over the island. Da Vinci bought lace for the chief altar of the Duomo di Milano, the Milanese Cathedral, and so introduced the beautiful lace to the rest of the world.
“Read what it says here,” she said when De Wet returned with a large bag in his hand. For a moment she was tempted to ask him what he had bought, but she controlled her curiosity.
“Hmm, interesting,” he said when he had finished reading.
“Marco was a great admirer of Da Vinci,” Lettie said, smiling at the memory. “He traced nearly everything back to Da Vinci, even contact lenses!”
“Did you know Da Vinci had trouble reading and couldn’t spell at all?” De Wet asked.
“No,” Lettie said, “Marco never said anything about that.”
They ate the food that was placed before them on the rough wooden table in large pasta bowls. De Wet’s order was plain pasta with cheese, while Lettie had a few pieces of seafood in her dish.
“You may have some of my prawns, but it will cost you,” she teased him.
“Hey, who tipped the gondolier?” he countered.
“Okay, that’s worth three prawns,” she said and put half her prawns on his pile of pasta.
Repacking her bag later that evening, she thought about the day. It had been another lovely day, just as she had hoped it would be.
De Wet hadn’t uttered a wrong word, didn’t touch her once, not even when he took her parcels to carry them. They were two old friends again, who enjoyed spending time together.
It was exactly what she had wanted.
And yet . . .
She sank down on her bed beside her half-packed bag.
Suddenly, bizarrely, she felt as if she had lost something.
chapter
TWENTY