by Helen Mcginn
Before long they had docked at a pontoon and as Johnny waved off their water-taxi driver, Flora took in the scene around her. The fading light brought a melancholy air to the city.
They made their way down a narrow passage towards a small white stone bridge. ‘This is it,’ said Johnny. Flora noted the slight note of triumph in his voice.
She followed him through an ornate iron gate into a courtyard filled with shrubs in heavy, weathered stone pots. Two large columns stood either side of the glass front door of the hotel, a balcony above. The building was relatively modest compared with those lining the Grand Canal yet still had that unmistakable air of faded glamour about it. Flora loved it on sight.
The receptionist greeted them like old friends, whizzing them through the formality of signing various forms. She placed their room key on the desk. ‘Room fourteen on the third floor, second door on the right as you come out of the lift. Would you like me to make a restaurant booking for you this evening anywhere?’ she asked, her bright red nails hovering over her keyboard, her short dark hair lacquered neatly into place.
‘Well, we thought we’d start with a drink at Harry’s Bar and take it from there.’ Johnny looked at Flora. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Sounds good.’ Flora smiled.
The receptionist screwed up her nose. ‘Is very expensive there. Twenty euros for a Bellini the size of your thumb.’ She held up hers by way of demonstrating her point.
‘Yes, but it’s got to be done, don’t you think?’ Johnny gave a little shrug.
‘Well…’ She shrugged back. ‘Whatever you think… but just in case, head over the bridge towards Dorsoduro and you’ll find nice places there, too.’
‘Thank you, good to know.’ Johnny nodded enthusiastically, picking up their bags. ‘Right, see you later.’
Standing in the small lift, Flora hit the button for their floor.
‘You OK, Flo? You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m good, just a bit tired, I think.’
‘We can have a rest before we head out, if you like. How about a hot bath?’
‘Actually, I’d love that.’
He unlocked the door to their room. Johnny hit the light switch, throwing a stark white light across the room. The double bed, with its imposing wooden headboard, was draped with a deep red cover reaching the floor. Matching floor-to-ceiling curtains hung heavily in front of the windows, an old dressing table between them and a chest of drawers on the wall opposite the bed.
Johnny put his head around the door of the bathroom on the other side of the bed. He looked back at Flora. ‘Massive bath,’ he called back. ‘I’ll run you one now.’
Flora went to the window on the right of the dressing table, drawing back the curtain. The light was fading fast, the sun now long gone, replaced with an inky blue sky. She looked out at the crumbling pale orange wall of the building on the other side of the narrow canal, so close she felt if she stretched across, she could touch it.
Flora looked back at the bed. Here she was, in the most romantic city in the world, with the man she loved more than anyone. And yet, all she wanted to do was climb under that thick blanket, close her eyes and sleep. Her heart felt heavy; in the pit of her stomach lay a low, dull ache. Much as she’d hoped she might have left that feeling behind, even if only temporarily, it seemed she had carried it with her to Venice like unwanted hand baggage. She gently lowered herself down to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘It’s nearly ready.’ Johnny crossed the room to her. ‘No rush.’
She stood and kissed him gently. ‘Thank you.’
Soon after, Flora lay in the bath, wishing the piping hot water would soak the sadness from her bones.
21
About an hour later they left the hotel, crossed the small bridge and headed into a maze of narrow alleys, the light from street lamps thrown onto the cobbles beneath their feet. This hidden part of the city felt still, peaceful. They passed under porticos, over more small bridges and down a long street where, at the end, Flora caught a glimpse of the Grand Canal. Turning right, they walked under the arches and into the empty space of the Rialto fish market. Wooden poles poked up like giant toothpicks on either side of the canal, numerous small boats tethered to them.
‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Flora asked, noticing Johnny look at his phone, then up, then at his phone again.
‘No, but this does.’ He tapped the screen. ‘It’s this way, over the Rialto Bridge.’ He pointed ahead. ‘We’re crossing there.’
Flora looked up to see the bright white stone of the bridge, lined with archways and seemingly lit from within. They walked across it, the shutters down on most of the shops on either side. She stopped halfway to take in the view, first one way, then the other. The canal reflected back the light from the buildings at the water’s edge, small waves making it dance on the surface.
On they went, down streets and along alleys, across squares with enormous churches suddenly seeming to appear from nowhere, past ornate gateways on to courtyards, hinting at the hidden splendour behind the façades. The air was cool on Flora’s face. She pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.
‘Want to walk through St Mark’s Square before or after we’ve had an extortionate Bellini?’
‘After, definitely.’ Flora smiled.
Arriving at a small wooden door at the end of the narrow street, Johnny pushed it open and waited for Flora to go in first. She walked in, clocking the bar along one side, the dark wood, the waiters in crisp white jackets moving between tables. It was much smaller than she’d imagined. Six bar stools, each topped with a soft padded seat covered in worn light-brown leather ran along the length of the bar, an array of spirit and vermouth bottles lining the shelves behind.
Johnny moved towards one of the small empty tables beneath a window on the far side. They sat and waited, taking in the room and the people in it, a mix of tourists – their selfie-taking an instant giveaway – and locals, talking happily with their companions.
A passing waiter nodded at Johnny and a moment later returned with a small bowl of bright green olives, placing them on the pristine white tablecloth. He looked at Johnny, said nothing.
‘Er, due Bellinis, please?’ He held up two fingers, just in case.
‘Of course,’ replied the waiter, his accent impeccable.
‘I mean, practically fluent,’ said Johnny, grinning at Flora once the waiter had moved away.
‘Uncanny.’ She smiled back. The bar felt cosy, the atmosphere warm. She’d imagined something far grander, given its reputation but, actually, it was perfect.
‘So, what do you think so far?’ Johnny popped an olive in his mouth.
‘Rubbish!’
His face fell.
‘No, it’s a joke. I was being like the two old guys in the box at the theatre in The Muppets. You know?’ She pulled a face and put on a voice. ‘Rubbish!’ She could tell by his face he had no idea what she was talking about, even with a second attempt. ‘Sorry, forget it.’ A short silence fell between them. Flora grabbed Johnny’s hand. ‘Look, I know I’m probably as much fun as a poke in the eye at the moment and I really hope you don’t think I’m being ungrateful. I’m honestly not.’ She looked around. ‘This is amazing. I can’t believe we’re here. I just can’t seem to, you know…’ Flora’s nose wrinkled.
Johnny squeezed her hand back. ‘I know. Well, in actual fact, I don’t know because I didn’t lose a brother and I can’t imagine how that feels but…’ He stopped when the waiter appeared by their side, holding a silver tray. With swift movements he placed a small plain cylindrical glass in front of each of them, both filled almost to the top with the most beautiful light peach-coloured drink Flora had ever seen.
Flora picked up her glass, the smell of fresh peach hitting her before she could even get her nose to it. She put it back down on the table. ‘Johnny, you don’t have to say…’
‘No, Flora. I’m just trying to s
ay that whatever you’re feeling, I might not feel it, too, but I see it.’ There was another small pause, their eyes locked. ‘That’s all.’
She looked at the table, at their hands intertwined. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Now, are you just going to look at that Bellini or are you going to have a sip?’
‘Given the price, I’m going to sip it slowly, that’s for sure.’ Flora laughed a little, raising the glass to her lips. She took a small sip, letting the flavours fill her mouth before swallowing. The bubbles sat briefly on her tongue, leaving fresh white-peach flavours on the taste buds. She swallowed and waited a second. ‘Oh my God, that is absolutely delicious!’ Her eyes were wide, her nose already in the glass to get another whiff of the aromas. ‘Go on, have a sip.’ She looked at him expectantly.
Johnny raised his glass and took a sip, a third of it gone in one go. He swallowed and looked at Flora. ‘Well, I think that was about ten euros worth but you’re right, it is absolutely delicious.’
‘I didn’t have you down as a Bellini kind of guy.’ She laughed again.
The waiter came back to the table with a small plate of croquettes. He put them down, his face still expressionless.
‘Did you order those when I wasn’t noticing?’ Johnny whispered.
‘No, but whatever happens, you’re not sending them back. They smell amazing.’ Flora reached for one. ‘Ooh, hot.’
‘You know, Hemingway used to come here, apparently.’
‘I’m not sure there’s a bar left in any city he didn’t go to. Isn’t there another famous one near here he went to? I’m sure I read that somewhere.’
‘Yes, near St Mark’s Square. We’ll pass it on the way back. What about food? Shall we find somewhere to eat on our way?’
‘I reckon if we order a couple more drinks, we’ll get more of these.’ Flora pointed to the now empty plate where moments before the croquettes had been.
‘Good plan. What would you like after that?’
‘I’m thinking it might have to be a Martini.’
‘I’ll make that two.’
An hour later they left the bar, the cool, damp November night air hitting their gin-and-vermouth-flushed cheeks immediately. Rounding the corner of the narrow street, the sight before them brought them both to a stop. An almost deserted St Mark’s Square seemed to be waiting just for them.
The lights from the buildings lining the square shone brightly, reflected back in the water on the ground left by a recent high tide, and ahead of them, beyond the square, lay the five domes of St Mark’s Basilica, the clock tower to its right. They stood, trying to take in the size and sheer splendour of the sight.
‘Oh, my goodness, it’s just as I remember it,’ Flora whispered.
‘How old were you when you came here?’
‘I can’t remember exactly, maybe seven or eight. Tell you what I can remember: Billy running across here shouting at the pigeons. He’d yell at them, telling them to go away. Then get really cross when they’d take off and land again after a few seconds.’ She pictured him, white-blond hair, blue stripy jumper, running ahead but always looking back to make sure Flora was in sight. She liked being back here, in a space she’d once shared with him.
‘Look, there are people going into the church. Shall we go and have a look?’ Johnny motioned up ahead.
‘It’s worth a try.’
They crossed the square and slipped into the church through the just-open door. Inside, it was in total darkness. Johnny could just make out some folding chairs in front of him. He grabbed Flora’s hand and they took a seat as quietly as they could. Loud whispers in Italian seemed to come from somewhere in front of them.
Suddenly, enormous lights came on at the very front of the church, one after the other. Above their heads the roof turned to gold before their eyes. Then, gradually, as more lights came on, the entire ceiling was revealed, endless domes covered in mosaics now soaked in light.
They sat for a moment, staring at the ceiling, lost in the wonder of it all.
Suddenly, a voice called to them in Italian.
‘Scusi?’
Moving their gaze down from above their heads, Flora and Johnny looked across to see a stern-looking Italian woman walking towards them. Her tour group, sitting quietly either side of her, now all turned to look at the pair of uninvited guests at the back.
‘Sorry!’ Johnny called back, raising his hand and deploying a smile. He looked at Flora. ‘Time to make a swift exit, I think.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Together they sprang up and made for the door at the back, out and into the square.
‘This way!’ Johnny walked quickly, pulling Flora behind them. Turning right and right again, they were soon back in the narrow alleys walking away from the square and on into the maze of streets beyond.
‘I think we lost them,’ Flora panted. She stopped to catch her breath, laughing as she did.
‘I think we did.’ Johnny laughed too.
With air in her lungs and a flush in her cheeks, Flora felt a rush of energy. Maybe it was just the Martini, but she was happy to be feeling something – anything – that wasn’t sadness.
‘You sure you don’t want to find something to eat on the way back?’
‘Actually, I could do with something a bit more substantial. Can we find a plate of pasta somewhere?’ She pushed her hair back from her face.
‘I think we’re in the right place for that.’ Johnny took out his phone and punched in a few words. He scrolled down and read for a few moments. Flora looked in the window of a shop where they stood, filled with carnival masks.
‘It’s like they’re watching us.’ A shiver ran through her.
‘This way.’ Johnny pointed and headed off. ‘It says it’s open.’
They walked through the streets, over a few more bridges and across small squares, their now-growing appetites calling them on. Flora looked longingly at some of the restaurants they passed, the smell and warmth of food wafting from doors, but Johnny kept going. A few dead ends later, they arrived at the place he’d been looking for.
‘Here we are,’ he said, looking up at the sign above the door, the name in wooden letters over the double-fronted window. Inside, couples and families sat at small wooden tables, the walls covered with a jumble of pictures and photographs. ‘This is the one.’
‘It looks perfect.’ Flora was greeted enthusiastically by the owner. She assumed being a tourist would mean the same haughty treatment as at the previous bar but that certainly wasn’t the case here.
They were shown straight to a table near the back and handed two menus. Flora picked a half-carafe of house Valpolicella, conscious of the considerable amount of alcohol already flowing through her veins. She eyed a plate of spaghetti alle vongole on its way to another table. ‘Gosh, that looks good.’
The wine arrived and was poured quickly into tumblers on the table by the young waitress with a friendly smile. Flora marvelled at the cherry pop of colour and the bright, juicy flavours of the wine as she took a sip.
‘What are you going to have?’ Johnny clinked her glass before also trying the wine.
‘I think I’m going to have…’ she looked down the menu, all in Italian, ‘this one. I’m not entirely sure what it is but I think it’s a local speciality, spaghetti and anchovies.’
Johnny screwed up his face. ‘Seriously, I don’t know how you eat those. They’re so salty.’
‘Well, good, then I don’t have to share.’ She grinned back at him.
Johnny realised he’d not seen that look for a while. ‘In that case I’m going to ask for whatever the meat special is and have it even if I don’t know what it is. Mack said that’s the best thing to do here.’
Flora laughed. ‘Did he now? Well, you’re braver than I am.’
They ordered their food and Johnny topped up their glasses. ‘So, what do you fancy doing tomorrow? Anything you want to see in particular?’
‘I’m so happy walking and seeing what we find.
I mean, we should maybe do a museum, don’t you think? And I’m sorry but we’ve got to do a gondola ride at some point. We didn’t do that when we came before. I remember Dad saying it was too expensive and buying us a lolly each instead. Billy was thrilled.’
‘You are such a tourist!’
‘Well, we can’t come all this way and not go for a gondola ride, surely.’
‘We’ll ask at reception in the morning if they recommend any particular ones. What about going out to one of the islands? There’s the glass one Mack mentioned.’
‘We’ve only got tomorrow. I’d rather we just walk around.’
Their food arrived. A plate piled with thick spaghetti was placed in front of Flora, the smell of sweet onions and a faint salty tang punching the air as it passed.
‘And today’s special for you, sir.’ The owner put down Johnny’s plate. ‘Figà àea Venessiana,’ he said with a flourish. ‘Enjoy.’
Flora waited until he’d gone. ‘Do you even know what it is?’ she whispered.
‘Not exactly…’ Johnny looked down, the meat sitting on a pool of creamy polenta. ‘But you know what, it smells incredible.’ He took a forkful into his mouth.
‘This, too.’ Flora lifted her fork, now holding a mound of spaghetti. She shovelled it in, the texture of the pasta and the salty-sweet coating of the sauce making her sigh with pleasure.
‘I’m not exactly sure what it is but whatever, it’s so good,’ said Johnny, still chewing, pointing at his plate with his fork.
As they wiped the last of the sauce from their plates with pieces of bread, cocooned in the warmth of the trattoria, Flora felt a fleeting sense of something she’d almost forgotten existed.
‘Johnny, do you think it might be possible to be sad and happy at the same time? I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but I think I’m beginning to understand how I’ll have to learn to live with feeling sad about Billy – all the time, probably – but that maybe, just maybe it might be possible to live with it alongside happiness too. Does that make any sense?’ She looked at her husband across the table.