smiled showing stunning teeth. ‘You want glass, Giulia?’
With a child’s acceptance he did not ask her how the accident had occurred but simply led her over bridges and along a calle until they reached a shop on the fondamenta where a man with a workman’s rubber apron and a red woollen hat sat over a wide sheet of brilliant blue glass. Nicco turned to his companion. ‘Here,’ he said, proudly, ‘glass.’
Miss Garnet offered the broken Virgin awkwardly to the man in the hat to whom Nicco was speaking rapidly. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘can you mend?’
Seeing the picture the man smiled broadly. Miss Garnet was relieved to notice that his teeth, unlike Nicco’s, were in a state of bad repair. ‘Bellini!’ he exclaimed, ‘Bellissimo Bellini,’ and he kissed his fingers in a way that Miss Garnet had seen only in films or on TV.
‘He likes very much,’ Nicco gravely explained.
‘But he can do it, he will mend the glass?’
In reply the man with the woolly hat held up a thick forefinger. ‘Si, Signora, in wan ower, OK?’ He spoke with exaggerated enunciation, displaying his tarry teeth.
What a relief, Miss Garnet said to herself and then, because she was jubilant that she had negotiated her first Venetian disaster, ‘Nicco, may I buy you lunch?’
Nicco, who did not at first understand her suggestion, became enthusiastic when the penny dropped. He led her to a Trattoria-Bar where he ordered a toasted cheese and ham sandwich and a Coke. Miss Garnet, daringly, chose gnocchi. The gnocchi came in a pale green sauce and was the most delicious thing she thought she had ever tasted. ‘Carciofi,’ Nicco said, when asked for the name of the green ingredient and cupped his hands in an effort to mimic an artichoke. She did not understand and then became distracted by the sudden appearance of a large glass of what appeared to be brandy.
‘For you,’ Nicco said proudly. ‘Is my cousin.’ He pointed at the young man who had produced the drink. ‘He say “Hi!”.’
‘Freddo!’ Nicco’s cousin clapped his arms around himself to indicate cold.
Miss Garnet was not a teetotaller but she rarely drank. A lifetime of abstemiousness had bred in her a poor head for alcohol. Nevertheless it seemed impolite to decline the courtesy. And really the brandy was most acceptable, she thought, as she sipped the contents of the big-bellied glass.
‘My cousin say, you like another?’
‘No, please, it was delicious. Please thank him, Nicco, just the bill.’
Miss Garnet felt unusually jolly as she and Nicco walked single file along the side of the green canal back to the glass-cutter. The light, refracting off the water on to the shabby brick frontages of the houses, bathed her eyes. The brandy had warmed her and a sense of wellbeing suffused her body.
Re-entering the glass-cutter’s Miss Garnet nearly knocked into a man on his way out and almost dropped the purse she had ready, so eager was she to complete the transaction which would restore Signora Mignelli’s picture. The glass-cutter had the repaired Virgin out on his bench but when Miss Garnet began to count the notes from her purse Nicco, who had been exchanging some banter with the departing customer, stopped her.
‘Is free,’ he explained.
Miss Garnet did not comprehend. ‘Three what, Nicco? Thousand, million?’ She prided herself on her mental arithmetic but the huge denominations of Italian currency still tripped her up.
‘No, no, is free.’
‘Oh, but I can’t…’
The glass-cutter was holding up the picture, excitedly stabbing at the Virgin’s face. ‘Bellissimo,’ he insisted, ‘per niente–is now charge. I give yow.’
Following Nicco back along the fondamenta Miss Garnet felt both subdued and elated. The refusal of the glass-cutter to accept a fee troubled her; and yet his powerful assertion of his own autonomy was also exhilarating. Karl Marx, she couldn’t help thinking, would have approved even if he would have deplored the glass-cutter’s motive. A love of the Virgin Mary would have struck Marx as a sign of subjection and yet one could not, really one could not, Miss Garnet mused, trying to keep up with Nicco’s pace, describe the man she had met as subject to anyone.
‘He like this artist,’ Nicco had explained. But Miss Garnet, in whom insight, like an incipient forest fire, was beginning to catch and creep, sensed suddenly there was more to it than that. The glass-cutter, she guessed, also liked the subject of Bellini’s painting and his love of Mary, and the bambino in her arms, was stronger than his love of money. How would Marx or even Lenin have explained that, she wondered as they arrived on the fondamenta alongside the Chiesa dell’Angelo Raffaele.
The Archangel smiled down at her and she remembered she had questions about the boy with the fish and the hound.
‘Nicco, who is the boy up there with the dog?’ She pointed to the stone effigies which were lodged two-thirds up the church’s façade.
But Nicco had other appointments. His pride in his new role as translator and guide was now giving way to peer anxiety. There was a football fixture he could not afford to miss. He shrugged.
‘Tobiolo?’ he said, uncertainly. ‘I see you again. Ciao, Giulia!’
And, ‘Ciao!’ Julia Garnet called after him watching his young shoulders as he ran across the bridge and disappeared behind the church.
The sun was a pale gold disc in the sky. Some words filtered into memory.
When the Sun rises, do you not see a round disk of fire, somewhat like a Guinea? O no, no, I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy!’…I question not my Corporeal Eye any more than I would Question a Window…I look thro’ it and not with it.
William Blake. Years ago she had been invited to contribute a chapter on Blake for a book on Radical Thinkers but somehow the project had never got off the ground. William Blake had been a revolutionary but had he not also been whipped by his father for seeing angels in the trees? Oro pallido, she thought to herself, crossing, in the lowering light, the bridge where Nicco had sped before her. This was not a morning sun on fire, like Blake’s, but pale wintery gold–oro pallido.
The letters which had been delivered from England were from Brown & Noble, the estate agents who had let the flat, and her friend, Vera Kessel. Vera, a fellow member of the Communist Party, had been at Cambridge with Julia Garnet. They had not been close as students but a few years later had recognised each other at a Party meeting and, thereafter, had occasionally gone on holidays to Dubrovnik or to the Black Sea together. The holidays had been bleak affairs, nothing like the trips Harriet had planned for their retirement.
The letters had been, in fact, forgotten until looking for her left glove she found them stuffed into the pocket of her coat. She opened them while the kettle boiled for tea.
Dear Miss Garnet,
This letter confirms a tenancy of six months to Mr A. D. Akbar at a rental of £1,200 p.c.m. We remind you of our terms of 12% to include insurance and collection fees. £1,006.00 (plus one month’s deposit) has been
