The Venetian Venture (3 page)

As with Felix and Cedric, Rosy’s arrival in Venice a few days later had also been damp. Alighting at the St Lucia railway terminus she was enveloped by what optimists might term an early morning mist but realists a deep fog. Expecting sunlight and panorama Rosy was ill-prepared for the pall of dankness. Voices were muffled, figures blurred and she was engulfed by a grisly clamminess – a condition the Canalettos had ignored and the guidebooks failed to describe. She felt a stab of irrational pique: was this the vaunted Venice with its romance and vivid pageantry? Where were the gondolas, the sparkling fountains and charming bridges? Where for that matter was the Grand Canal and a vaporetto? She fumbled in her pocket for Dr Stanley’s scribbled directions and peered into the fog.

‘
Signora, posso lei aiutare? Lei è perduta?
’

Rosy was startled by the sudden voice so close to her ear. ‘What? Sorry, I—’ she began.

‘Ah, the signora is
Eenglish
,’ the man exclaimed, ‘I
thought maybe; you have the look.’ He beamed.

What look? Rosy wondered, not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. ‘
Mi dispiace
,’ she faltered, ‘
non parlo Italiano. Dove
—’

‘Do not trouble dear lady, I speak excellent Eenglish. You want vaporetto, yes? I take your case.’ Without waiting for a reply he had seized her suitcase and walked off quickly.

Rosy followed, plunged in apprehension. She had paid a lot for that case. Was it now to be appropriated by some glib-tongued foreigner? Her mind whirled. At best he would expect a large tip; at worst she would never see the case again. If the former, did her purse contain enough loose lire? If the latter, what the hell was she going to do? She pursued him doggedly along the platform, across a concourse, through an archway and then down a flight of shallow steps.

At the bottom of these he set down the case and flinging out an arm announced, ‘
Eccolo, il Canal Grande!
Here you wait, the boat come, you pay.
Benvenuta
in Venezia, dear madam.’ He bowed deeply from the waist, and with a stream of ‘
arrivederci
’s disappeared into the murk leaving Rosy ashamed and relieved.

As the vaporetto chugged its course down the broad channel, weaving from bank to bank picking up early workers, Rosy gazed around at the tall spectral façades rising steeply from the leaden waters. They loomed on either side in unending lines, shrouded and stately in the wafting mist. Yes, this was like the postcards all right; but postcards overlaid with centuries of dust – colour and detail lost in a film of grey. And despite her earlier sense of anticlimax Rosy felt a stirring of interest, awe even, as the canal widened
and opened into a theatrical curve, its serpentine contour giving a cold majesty to the looming palazzi. A few of these she thought she recognised from photographs. Were those the crenelated walls of the Ca’ d’Oro, or that the famed Foscari? And could the Byzantine building to her right be the Palazzo Loredan …? Hazy air and knowledge made identity uncertain.

Gradually the worst of the fog lifted, leaving a veil of mist which while still damp held hints of pallid sun. Rosy checked her watch and saw it was a quarter to eight and hoped that her hostess would not be bothered by the early arrival; although, she reasoned, running a guest house the woman must be used to such disturbance. And in any case, from what little had been gleaned on the crackling telephone in London there had been no objection.

But concern for her landlady’s convenience was quickly eclipsed by the sight of a bridge ahead – a bridge heavily ornate yet stonily solid and crowned with graceful arches. Surely it could only be the Rialto! Rosy experienced a surge of excitement as she surveyed the fabled edifice. So this was Shylock’s stamping ground, the spot where Antonio sought word of his foundering ships and Launcelot Gobbo capered; where deals were clinched, schemes hatched, lovers trysted and gossip flourished into alluring scandal. ‘What news on the Rialto?’… Like generations of visitors approaching the city by this route, Rosy recognised the bridge and with a start of pleasure knew she was nearing the heart of things.

She had disembarked further down at the stop for the Accademia. And following Dr Stanley’s casual instructions had heaved her suitcase over a couple of small bridges and
through a perplexing network of squares and alleyways, until rather to her own amazement she confronted a door set in a high wall and bearing the required inscription
Casa Witherington
. Underneath were four directives:
Suonate
;
Hier klingeln
;
Sonnez
; and
Kindly Ring the Bell
. Meekly Rosy did as she was bid and waited in some nervousness. Two minutes later, with a creak and a rattle, the door swung open; and a very small lady in a very large hat beamed a welcome.

‘Come in my dear, how clever of you to arrive exactly at half past eight! This is when we commence breakfast – a most soothing meal I always think. My regulars rarely appear and those who do rarely speak.
Such
a peaceful time. It quite sets me up for the rest of the day and prepares one for the garrulous supper. And since you have had to travel all the way from ghastly Victoria station I daresay you will be grateful for the quiet.’

Rosy nodded and gave what she felt might be an appropriately silent smile, while inwardly wondering if her hostess always wore a hat at breakfast. (She did; and at most other times too.)

Miss Witherington led her across a small courtyard into the house and up a steep flight of stairs, which, burdened with her suitcase, Rosy found rather more of a challenge than did the seemingly agile chatelaine.

‘I have given you the corner room, it’s quite large and well away from Mr Downing – poor man he does snore so! I always think it must be agony for the children, probably keeps them awake all night.’

‘What children?’ Rosy asked uneasily. She hadn’t bargained on being billeted with a crew of infants.

‘Oh Mr Downing is a resident master at a prep school in
Worthing. He comes here in the holidays to recover.’

She led the way into a semi-darkened room redolent of gardenias and Mansion Polish – the latter presumably specially imported from England. Opening the shutters Miss Witherington exclaimed, ‘Oh look the sun after all. I
knew
it would break through. I win my bet.’ She clapped her hands trilling gaily,
‘I’m in the money, come on my honey
…!’

Rosy was startled, both by the song and its occasion. Was Miss Witherington a bookmaker on the side?

Seeing her surprise the other explained, ‘You see I am awfully good on weather. You don’t live in Venice for thirty years without learning something about its climate’s whims and vagaries – or those of its residents for that matter.’ She gave a laugh and added, ‘And with such
meteorological expertise
it does seem a waste not to put it to some lucrative use. Wouldn’t you agree my dear?’

Rosy said that she entirely agreed, while making a mental note not to be so rash as to bet on anything with Miss Witherington: quite possibly the lady harboured expertise in other areas equally gainful.

When she had gone Rosy unpacked and stared out of the window at the wide expanse of water. Was this still part of the Grand Canal? Surely she had left its banks some time ago. She consulted the guidebook and realised that it was of course the broad inlet south of the city, the Canale della Giudecca, forming part of the lagoon and named after the long island mentioned by Stanley. Over to the left she could discern the dome and spires of the great Redentore, admired by most and hated by Ruskin. To Rosy’s untutored eye it looked pretty damn good … ten times better than
Battersea Power Station that was for sure! She powdered her nose, combed her hair and prepared to go down to partake of the ‘soothing’ breakfast.

In fact it was not so much soothing as torpid. Quiet most certainly: two other guests, male and female, and a cat. The former were engrossed in newspapers, the latter fast asleep. The fare was moderate: some very un-Italian cornflakes and porridge, rolls not quite desiccated and a pot of decidedly weak tea. Looking in vain for coffee Rosy wondered if after all she should have held out for the Danieli.

‘Don’t worry,’ the male guest volunteered, ‘it gets better in the evening. In fact the old girl is a very good cook when she chooses but she never chooses at breakfast. It’s as well to accept that otherwise nerves are fretted and one starts the day at a disadvantage.’ He smiled politely and glancing at the woman said, ‘Wouldn’t you agree Daphne?’

The woman nodded. ‘Yes. Submit to circumstance and then compensate with excellent coffee and ice cream round the corner at Tonelli’s. If you try their house speciality Bomba Garibaldi you’ll never touch a Lyons wafer again.’ Having delivered so practical a tip she returned to silence and her paper.

Rosy glanced at the clock: nine-fifteen. A little early in the day for frozen explosions but something she might well try later on. Meanwhile there were more pressing matters to pursue: Horace and the Pacelli bookshop. Best to start immediately before being seduced by the guiles of ices and architecture. She opened her handbag and consulted Stanley’s plan of campaign.

‘A model of usefulness,’ Rosy said to herself dryly, ‘and how touching to be concerned with my cultural enlargement.’ She finished the cornflakes, scowled at the weak tea, nodded to her fellow guests and walked out through the now sunny courtyard to begin her quest.

Via a series of turnings and mis-turnings she arrived at the Accademia Bridge, climbed its steps – pausing like all visitors and artists to admire the
belvedere
on either side – and
descended in the direction of the Ponte di Rialto. At least, that was what the sign indicated. But she soon discovered that ‘Per Rialto’ was where all street signs pointed in Venice regardless from where you had come or intended to go; indeed sometimes you would be torn in two, frowning over opposing arrows. Initially Rosy was exasperated: ‘Ridiculous!’ she protested to herself. But again like all visitors, diverted by the intrigue of a fresh new world she slowed her pace to a saunter and left it to fate as to where and when she might reach her goal.

In fact the goal appeared quite suddenly, unmistakable and so much bigger than when seen mistily from the vaporetto. It was also much busier: shops, largely jewellers, flanking its sides, while bevies of people scurried, chattered and pottered upon its ancient steps. There was a murmur of voices, Italian mainly, some German and occasionally an exclamatory American. No English – an omission which gave Rosy a perverse satisfaction. She joined the potterers, intrigued by the window displays of pearls, coral, silks and silver. Books? None it seemed unless you counted a rather chi-chi-looking stationer’s. She stared around hoping to see the name Pacelli writ large over some ancient doorway. There was nothing of course. Bound to be near, she thought, trying to share Stanley’s airy optimism, and decided to postpone matters with a coffee. This did much to assuage her breakfast deprivation and she sipped it gratefully on a terrace beside the Canal.

As she sat watching the scene of boats and busyness, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, there slipped into her mind an image of the current Pope. Rosy was startled – she was not in the habit of dwelling on the Vatican and its incumbents. What on earth had made her think of that
fellow? … Ah of course! His name: professionally Pius; privately Pacelli. No wonder those ascetic features had filled her memory. She was amused by the coincidence and wondered idly whether somewhere in the papal cousinship there might indeed lurk a Venetian bookseller. Well pope’s cousin or no, she certainly hoped she could find the wretched man. It had already occurred to her that Stanley’s phrase ‘on or near’ held multiple meanings. If the latter, was the shop left of the bridge or to its right? North or south? On the Canal bank or in some shadowed offshoot … and in any case, exactly how near was ‘near’? She sighed, and leaving some lire on the table set off to investigate.

After ten minutes of aimless wandering she knew that there was nothing for it but to use her meagre Italian and make enquiries. The first person she stopped looked puzzled and then said, ‘
Mi scusi
, no understand English,’ and hurried on. Rosy was mortified, having felt that while her vocabulary might be sparse her accent was good. In this she was clearly mistaken!

A couple were approaching and she tried again, enunciating her words with greater precision, but this too produced a negative response. ‘Say,’ an American voice rang out, ‘not Italian, kiddo. We’re from Texas
USA
!’ They smiled genially and also hurried on. Had she been in England the obvious course would have been to approach a policeman, but no such person seemed in evidence; and in any case she rather doubted whether a Venetian
poliziotto
would be quite as ready as a London bobby to deal with the perplexities of witless tourists.