Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  His enthusiasm was infectious, his eyes sparkling like flecks of amber, lit by the reflection of the sun off the canal. I did want to be reckless, and yet I held back. I was sensible, dutiful, predictable Clara. I didn’t know how to be reckless.

  His question lingered, unanswered in the air around us, and I was relieved when he changed the topic of conversation and told me about the exhibition he’d been working on. Art was familiar ground. I felt more comfortable there.

  “So, where to next, Miss Sommers?” he asked when we’d finished our coffee and he helped me into my coat. The spring air still carried a chill when the sun slipped behind a cloud. “The Doge’s Palace? The Rialto markets?”

  “Art, of course, Mr. Arnold. The Gallerie dell’Accademia.”

  “Of course,” he said with a beautiful smile that made my heart skip a beat.

  We made our way by vaporetto to the Scuola della Carità on the south bank. I was surprised at how quickly I’d become familiar with the different areas of the city—the sestieri—and felt confident as our guide.

  The building itself was beautiful and we walked in hushed appreciation, each of us taking turns to show one another a piece we admired. I was drawn to the work of Paolo Veronese and Tintoretto. Edward’s eye leaned toward Carpaccio and Canaletto.

  “Look at the use of light and color,” he whispered. “The shadows and depth are remarkable.”

  I found myself as captivated by Edward’s remarks as I was by the paintings themselves, but despite the beauty of the place and the brilliance of the art, my mind wandered, and doubt and guilt stood at my shoulder.

  “Is everything alright?” Edward asked, noticing that I’d fallen silent. “You look like you’re a million miles away.” Concern etched his face.

  I turned to him. “I’m sorry. I am a million miles away.”

  “Might I join you there?” he asked, and it was such a gentle, tender question that it took all my resolve not to fall into his arms and stay there forever.

  “I should go to meet Madeleine,” I said. “It’s getting late.”

  Maddie

  After Clara had left for her rendezvous with Edward, I set off to meet Matthias for coffee, as promised. As I stepped outside the hotel and turned the corner, I saw a group of soldiers gathering in the street. With their polished boots, pristine uniforms, and guns, they were a stark contrast to the city’s ancient beauty and charm, and the atmosphere shifted dramatically in their presence. People darted inside their homes, or hurried off in the opposite direction. I wondered what had happened to make everyone so fearful. An incident, perhaps, that had not made the news? I was certain there were plenty of those. I couldn’t deny the sight of them made me uneasy.

  Picking up my pace, I ducked through the maze of streets, my eye drawn to posters of Mussolini that were pinned to doors and storefronts. It was clear this dictator had a firm grip on Venice, and most assuredly all of Italy.

  But as I approached the Morelli gallery, I calmed again, feeling a little safer to be with a local, and one who I could now call family. The notion still filled me with surprise.

  Matthias was delighted to see me and insisted on taking me to his favorite café. He led me through the winding streets to a quaint little place tucked away in a quiet corner.

  “I would never have found this on my own,” I said as we took a table beside the water.

  “Venice is full of secrets,” Matthias replied, with a wink.

  A waiter brought us two steaming cups of cappuccino and a couple of frosted almond pastries that looked too delicious to ignore, despite the large breakfast I’d had. I’d finished Clara’s meal as well as my own, since she was too nervous about seeing Edward to eat.

  “Clara is meeting her friend today?” Matthias asked.

  “Yes. Edward Arnold. Her art tutor,” I said, licking hot milk from my top lip. “Perhaps he might be more than a friend when she returns.”

  Matthias raised an eyebrow. “Aha. There is a story behind this rendezvous?”

  “Probably not. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He chuckled at my remark. “Venice makes lovers of strangers. You think your sister may fall in love with her . . . friend, yes?”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought, apart from that I wanted Clara to make her own choices. I wanted her to be happy, and if that meant falling for someone else so that she didn’t marry the wrong man—even with the pain and difficulty that might entail—then I would be beside her every step of the way.

  “We do strange things for love, don’t we?” Matthias continued.

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  The truth was I’d never been in love. Not properly. I’d only experienced a schoolgirl’s crush while in college, but it didn’t last. The object of my affections hadn’t been able to keep up with me and my industrious mind, he’d said. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d been afraid of me, in a way.

  “You wouldn’t know about love?” Matthias’s dark eyes twinkled. “But you are a passionate one, yes? I noticed it the moment I met you. Passion like yours, like mine, intimidates some people. They don’t know what to make of it. I have given this much thought over the years. What they are really afraid of is not having that same passion, not allowing themselves to be swept away by their emotions and their dreams, because it might bring them pain.” He paused a moment. “But what we know—you and me—is that, in the end, there is only more pain if we don’t follow what’s in here.” He pointed to his chest.

  “Yes,” I replied softly, awed by the truth of his statement and by how alike we were in our thinking. It struck me, once again, that this man was my grandfather. My family. It was his passion I’d inherited, and suddenly I was filled with gratitude for Violet’s gift of sending us to him, for helping me realize my voracious mind wasn’t what separated me from my family or friends, but what set me apart.

  I touched his hand lightly. “Thank you, Matthias. I’m so happy we found you.”

  “As am I, Madeleine. As am I.”

  He was a fiery man, full of ideas, and I found myself rapt by his stories. He, in turn, wasn’t put off by my many questions and instead seemed delighted to answer them.

  As I drained the last of my coffee, a man wearing what appeared to be a beat-up uniform jacket from the Great War approached the table. He carried a satchel of pamphlets. He nodded to Matthias in a polite gesture, and said, “È per loro,” before leaving a pamphlet on the table and circling the patio to make sure each patron received one.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “This is for us,” he said, picking up the pamphlet. “Ah. He is against Mussolini.”

  So the man was distributing antifascist propaganda. While his cause was noble, I wondered if he shouldn’t pass around his literature so openly, given everything I’d read about Mussolini’s secret police. They’d become notorious after his rise to power in the last decade, threatening or jailing the opposition at the merest hint of dissent. This man’s life could be at risk. So could my grandfather’s. I picked up the leaflet and put it into my handbag.

  “Matthias,” I said, lowering my voice and leaning toward him. “What do you think of Mussolini?”

  He rubbed his chin a moment as if weighing how to respond. “I think he has brought some stability to our country but taken much more in the process. People are afraid of him and his men, and they have good reason to be. We are not free to say what we feel or think. And he appears to be supporting Hitler. Since the Great War, I worry about Germany. They’re making noise like they may incite another conflict.”

  “Do you think Italy will be drawn into a war, if Hitler invades Austria, or Poland?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, but if we are supporting Hitler’s agenda, it cannot be good.”

  I felt a rush of protectiveness for this kind, gentle man. We would leave Venice in a few more days, continue our journey to Austria and leave this all behind, but Matthias must face the uncertainty each day. Though w
e’d only just met him, I didn’t like the idea of leaving him here, in a country run by a dangerous man.

  “I hope you will write to us when we’ve returned to America,” I said. “Should there be any trouble at all, we would help in any way we can.”

  “Si, cara, I will write. You are my family now.”

  But even so, I already knew there wouldn’t be much we could do if things did escalate to war. What I could do, though, was ensure the American public understood what was happening in Europe, and how it affected us. Suddenly, I was more determined than ever to finish the articles I’d begun, and send them out as soon as possible. Surely some newspaper would find the topics worthy of print, especially coming from a person who’d seen the situation firsthand.

  Matthias had given me a lot to think about. Even as we moved on to other topics of conversation and eventually said our goodbyes with a kiss on each cheek and a promise to meet again tomorrow, my heart felt unusually heavy. I watched him walk away with the awful knowledge that time was not on our side.

  * * *

  CLARA HADN’T RETURNED to the hotel by the time I made my way back after an enjoyable afternoon of sightseeing, so I caught up with the day’s news and added a few more pages to my journal while I waited for her. This time, I didn’t hold back and recorded more than just the pretty things I’d seen and the delicious food I’d enjoyed.

  I only wonder what will become of this beautiful city—and Italy itself—should Mussolini take the country to war. Signs forbid unsanctioned gatherings. Headlines speak of Mussolini and his edicts. Posters and pamphlets praise him as if he were some sort of Messiah. Will he continue to look to Hitler should the Germans invade? Time will tell, but for now, it appears as if Mussolini is fortifying his country for war.

  Eventually Clara joined me at our table for dinner, as instructed on the note I’d left for her in our suite.

  She apologized profusely, out of breath as she took her seat.

  “How did it go then?” I asked. “Very well, I presume, given the time?”

  She blushed. “I don’t know . . . I . . . it went well. It was nice to see him.”

  “Nice? Is that all?”

  “Yes. Nice.”

  “You’d forgotten how handsome he is, hadn’t you?” I teased. “Did he kiss you?”

  “Madeleine!” Her face was almost scarlet she was so flustered.

  I laughed. “And the museums and galleries? Did they live up to your expectations?”

  “They were magical! All those masterpieces.” She picked up a menu and studied it intently.

  I longed to ask her what had happened between her and Edward, but I could tell she didn’t want to discuss it. For once, I decided I would respect her wishes and not pry.

  Smiling, I filled both our glasses with a fine Sangiovese before raising mine to hers. “To you.”

  “To me?”

  “For doing something unexpected. I’m proud of you.”

  She laughed as she clinked her glass against mine.

  We ordered fresh gnocchi served with a rich lamb ragù and ate contentedly as we watched the boats rush past and admired the golden light on the buildings that lined the water’s edge.

  “Let’s take a gondola ride,” I suggested once we’d finished our meal. “Have the full Venetian experience.”

  “And at sunset,” Clara said, peering at the sun as it began to sink behind the buildings, casting a rich glow over everything.

  “Perfect,” I agreed. “Just as Violet suggested.”

  We walked along the embankment, where the gondoliers waited patiently for tourists to wander by, calling and whistling at any women who passed.

  “Signorinas? Go for a ride?” A handsome gondolier removed his black beret, held it over his heart, and gestured to his boat.

  “Si, signor,” I said, laughing as I grabbed Clara’s hand and pulled her toward him.

  He helped us into the gondola, and we sat opposite each other on a pair of rich brown cushions. We glided over the water silently for some time, turning down a labyrinth of smaller side canals beside houses where window shutters were open, and neighbors gossiped to one another above our heads. We passed a pair of lovers locked in an embrace on the famous Bridge of Sighs, a small stone bridge that arched over the water between two sides of the Doge’s Palace. I wanted to call out and tell them they were missing all the beautiful sights, but Clara told me to leave them alone.

  “You’ve no heart, Madeleine Sommers,” she said. “Who needs beautiful sights when you have a lover’s eyes to stare into!”

  After almost an hour, the gondolier turned back toward the Grand Canal, passing under several small bridges on the way. As we approached one of the bridges, my attention was caught by a figure standing in the middle, peering out at the water.

  As we drew closer, I frowned.

  It couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  Once again, I recognized the dark hair, the thick shoulders, and a grin that—I hated to admit—had grown on me.

  I tipped my face up and glowered at him as the gondola slipped beneath the bridge.

  Clara turned in her seat. “That wasn’t who I thought it was, was it?”

  I folded my arms crossly. “Afraid so. Dastardly Daniel Miller.”

  “Madeleine?” he called as we emerged on the other side of the bridge. “Madeleine!”

  “Just ignore him,” Clara said.

  I focused on the surface of the water ahead, no longer seeing the beautiful buildings that were hundreds of years old, or the cobbled roads that ran alongside the canal.

  Daniel called out again. “Madeleine Sommers, I need to talk to you!”

  “Well I don’t need to talk to you,” I shouted back.

  As we sailed under another bridge, Daniel ran alongside to keep pace with us.

  In spite of myself, I smiled. “He’s making such a fool of himself.”

  “He’ll fall in if he’s not careful,” Clara added, and we both started to laugh at the thought.

  “We stop here, signorinas,” the gondolier said, pointing ahead as he steadily steered us toward a jetty.

  Daniel raced ahead, stepping onto the jetty as we pulled up beside it.

  “You have to admire his persistence,” Clara remarked.

  “I’m glad I saw you,” he shouted. “There’s something I wanted to say.”

  The gondolier raised an eyebrow as he stepped onto the jetty and began to tie the gondola to the post.

  “Beat it, Miller!” I replied. “You’re not the person I thought you were.” I stood up quickly, prepared to make a dash for it to get away from him. I stumbled as the gondola rocked from side to side, disturbed by the wake of a passing vaporetto.

  “Maddie!” Clara called. “You’re rocking the boat. Sit down!”

  Her warning came too late as a larger wave tipped the gondola again, this time, more violently.

  I lost my footing, leaned too far to one side to try to balance myself—and crashed into the lagoon below.

  Clara shrieked.

  The shock of cold water stole the breath from my lungs. I shot to the surface, sputtering and reaching for my hat that floated beside me, but as my clothes grew heavy with water, my skirt tangled around my legs and I was pulled under the water again. I told myself not to panic and pushed to the surface, just as I had so often as a child. Father had insisted we know what to do should our sailboat capsize.

  Something splashed into the water beside me. I turned to see Daniel’s head emerge and without hesitation, he reached for my arm.

  “Let me help you,” he called.

  “I don’t need your help,” I gasped, pushing him away as I swam to the jetty and hauled myself clumsily out of the water. Cold rivulets ran down my legs and pooled around my sodden shoes.

  “For God’s sake, Maddie, why wouldn’t you let me help you?” Daniel said as he climbed out of the water and fell into a heap beside me.

  I fixed him with a glare. “I don’t need your help. That�
��s why. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  He pulled off his shoes and started to wring out his socks. “You’re infuriating,” he said as he turned to me and let his eyes settle on mine.

  We looked so absurd, the two of us. I felt a smile tug at my lips but managed to maintain a furious scowl.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he began. “I know it seems as if I’m not the person you got to know on the ship and in Paris, but I am.”

  “I don’t really care who you are, Daniel. I just want you to leave me—us—alone.”

  Even as I said it, I knew it was a lie, but I was angry and still felt betrayed.

  Clara, having successfully stepped off the gondola without falling into the water, rushed toward me and placed her coat around my shoulders.

  “Goodness, Maddie! You could have drowned!” She cast a deathly glare at Daniel before turning her back to him. “Come along. We need to get you back to the hotel and into a warm bath. Lord knows what filth you’ve swallowed.”

  I shivered all the way back to our hotel, leaning on the one thing that had been constant my whole life, even when we’d fought and disagreed and hated each other for a time.

  My sister.

  Clara

  As much as I’d enjoyed my time with Edward, it had left me more confused and uncertain than ever. Madeleine’s tumble into the Grand Canal was an almost welcome distraction from the relentless seesawing in my mind.

  We hurried back to the hotel, and after prescribing a warm bath and hot tea, I insisted she rest. She complained of a headache and a light fever, but it was hard to know with Madeleine whether she was really sick or pretending. She was known for her ability to fall suddenly ill to get out of school or one of Father’s dinner party recitals. But as the evening wore on and nighttime enveloped the city, her cheeks became flushed and she couldn’t stop shivering. I spent most of the night listening to her coughing, or going to check on her and make her more comfortable as I willed the sun to rise.

  I must have eventually dozed off in the chair beside her bed. I woke at first light to discover she had worsened significantly.