glint of introspection which had just been ignited began to illuminate an insecurity: her parochial tendencies had been born of timidity, rather than a natural aptitude with the new locality. For all its apparent clarity she found the map bewildering. One location alone had any resonance for her: the Piazza San Marco, Venice’s focal point. At least she knew about that from her teaching of history. She would go to the Piazza, from where the doges had once set out to wed the seas with rings.
Miss Garnet had chosen one of the further reaches of the almost-island-which-is-Venice to stay in and from this remoter quarter the walk to the Piazza San Marco takes time. Despite Signora Mignelli’s instructions Miss Garnet did not yet feel equal to experimenting with the vaporetti and besides, exercise, she felt, was what was called for. She walked purposefully along the narrow calle which led down to the Accademia (where, the Reverend Crystal promised, a wealth of artistic treasure awaited her). At the wooden Accademia bridge she halted. Ahead of her, like a vast soap bubble formed out of the circling, dove-coloured mists, stood Santa Maria della Salute, the church which breasts the entrance to Venice’s Grand Canal.
‘Oh!’ cried Miss Garnet. She caught at her throat and then at Harriet’s veil, scrabbling it back from her eyes to see more clearly. And oh, the light! ‘Lord, Lord,’ sighed Julia Garnet.
She did not know why she had used those words as she moved off, frightened to stay longer lest the unfamiliar beauty so captivate her that she turn to stone, as she later amusingly phrased it to herself. But it was true it was a kind of fear she felt, almost as if she was fleeing some harrowing spectre who stalked her progress. Across another campo, then over bridges, along further alleys, past astonishing pastries piled high in gleaming windows, past shops filled with bottled liquor, alarming knives, swathes of patterned paper. Once she passed an artists’ suppliers where, in spite of the spectre, she stopped to admire the window packed with square dishes heaped with brilliant coloured powders: oro, oro pallido, argento, lacca rossa–gold, silver, red, the colours of alchemy, thought Miss Garnet, hurrying on, for she had read about alchemy when she was teaching the Renaissance to the fifth form.
At the edge of the Piazza she halted. Let the spectre do its worst, for here was the culmination of her quest. Before her stood the campanile, the tall bell-tower, and behind it, in glimmering heaps and folds, in gilded wings and waved encrustations, emerged the outline of St Mark’s. People might speak of St Mark’s as a kind of dream but Miss Garnet had never known such dreams. Once, as a child, she dreamed she had become a mermaid; that was the closest she had ever come to this.
Measuring each step she walked across the Piazza. Although still afternoon the sky was beginning to darken and already a pearl fingernail clipping of moon was appearing, like an inspired throwaway gesture designed to point up the whole effect of the basilica’s sheen. Reaching the arched portals Miss Garnet stopped, wondering if it was all right to go on. But it must be, look there were other tourists–how silly she was, of course one didn’t have to be a Christian to enter and inspect a renowned example of Byzantine architecture.
Inside the great cathedral before her a line of people shuffled forward. Above her, and on all sides, light played and danced from a million tiny surfaces of refracted gold. A dull smell of onions disconcertingly filled her nostrils. What was it? Years of sweat, perhaps, perfusing the much-visited old air.
There appeared to be a restriction on where one might walk, for barriers and ropes were prohibiting entrances here, blocking ingress there. ‘But why are those people allowed?’ queried Miss Garnet. For there were men and women but mostly, it must be said, the latter, moving into the great interior space from which the swaying line of visitors was debarred. She stopped before an official in navy uniform. ‘Vespero?’ he enquired and ‘Si, si,’ she found herself replying for whatever it was she was not going to be shut out a second time that day.
The official detached the wine-coloured rope from its catch and ushered the Signora in the black veil through. ‘Look, it’s our little duchess,’ Cynthia Cutforth exclaimed to her husband. ‘She’s joining the service, she must be a Roman Catholic. See how cute she looks in her veil.’
But Miss Garnet was oblivious to all but the extraordinary surroundings in which she now found herself. Silver lamps burned dimly in the recesses. Above her and on all sides loomed strange glittering mosaic figures, in a background of unremitting gold. A succession of images–lions, lambs, flowers, thorns, eagles, serpents, dragons, doves–wove before her startled eyes a shimmering vision, awful and benign. Like blood forcing a route through long-constricted arteries a kind of wild rejoicing began to cascade through her. Stumbling slightly she made her way to a seat on the main aisle.
There was a thin stapled book of paper on the seat and picking it up she saw ‘Vespero Epifania’. Of course! Epiphany. How stupid she had been. January the sixth was the English Twelfth Night when the Lord of Misrule was traditionally abroad and one took down one’s Christmas decorations to avert ill luck. But here, in a Catholic country, the journey of the Magi, who followed the star with their gifts for the baby who was born in the manger, was still celebrated. That was the meaning of the three kings who had graced the Campo Angelo Raffaele that afternoon.
Later, as Miss Garnet emerged from the service the crescent moon had vanished from the sky and instead a lighted tree was shining at the far end of the Piazza. Along the colonnades, which framed the square, hung lavish swags of evergreen, threaded and bound with gold and scarlet ribbon. They do not bother to avert ill luck here, thought Miss Garnet as she retraced her way home. There was a peace in her heart which she did not quite understand. But, as she paced unafraid towards the Campo Angelo Raffaele she understood enough not to ask the meaning of it.
When she had returned to Signora Mignelli’s apartment, Miss Garnet, who had never in her life gone to bed without first hanging up her clothes, had simply stepped out of them, shoes, coat, hat, blouse, skirt, petticoat, underwear, all, and left them, an untidy pool, in the middle of the marble floor. They were the first thing she found the following morning. Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe to put away Harriet’s hat, her hand knocked against something and the picture of the Virgin and Child crashed to the ground.
The picture itself seemed unharmed but the glass was broken. Dismayed, Miss Garnet examined it. The Virgin’s calm visage stared out through shards of glass. I will have to find a glass-cutter, determined Miss Garnet.
Outside some boys were kicking a football and among them she recognised the tallest Magi. ‘Scusi,’ called Miss Garnet from the balcony and the boy ran across and stood politely below. She held up the fractured glass. ‘Scusi. Broken.’
Surprisingly, the boy appeared to comprehend. He beckoned vigorously, indicating that she should join him. Miss Garnet bundled herself back into her coat and hat. Shoving the Virgin and Child into a polythene bag she hurried down the stairs. Some letters on the mat caught her attention; two had British stamps and she pushed them into her pocket, adjusting Harriet’s veil with her other hand.
Outside, in the cold sunlight, the boy was waiting.
‘You want glass?’ he asked.
Miss Garnet was astonished. ‘You speak English!’ she cried and then, thinking this sounded too like an accusation, ‘you speak very well.’
‘Thank you.’ The boy lowered his eyelashes in appreciation. ‘My father say if I speak English good he send me to Londra.’
‘Oh, then perhaps you would like to speak it with me?’
She spoke slowly but the boy did not immediately understand. Then he favoured her with a perfect smile. ‘Si, Signora, I speak with you. My name is Nicco.’
Miss Garnet, unused to
