The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [35]
Alessandro shrugged, his mind on the door. `It's possible.
Very possible. Ah . . .'This as the door gave way and Leonora followed him into the flat. It was plain, sparsely furnished, but with two enormous windows which looked out onto the campo, and best of all, a rickety spiral stair of wrought iron which led onto a flat terrace, and the crazy rooftops ofVenice all around. Leonora leant on the crumbling balustrade and gazed at the Campanile in the distance. She could hear bells.
I want to live here. I knew as soon as I walked in the door.
Alessandro's no-nonsense approach to practicalities continued to astonish Leonora for the rest of the day. She presumed her choice would result in a further couple of weeks of negotiations, followed by a protracted moving-in period. But Alessandro was on his mobile phone to his cousin at once, speaking in rapid tones. They had barely completed the tour of the rudimentary bathroom ('don't expect hot water all the time; not in Venice,') when the cousin - Marta - appeared. She was a businesslike, friendly woman with glasses, short hair and none of the physical beauties of her cousin. She sat with Leonora at the well scrubbed table, on one of the odd chairs. By the time Leonora had signed the twelvemonth lease, Alessandro had contacted the storage company on Mestre and arranged for an unheard-of Sunday delivery of Leonora's belongings for the next day. Both cousins offered to be present to help with the furniture, Leonora was given the key, and she and Alessandro went to her hotel to pack and check out.
He seemed in no hurry to be elsewhere, nor did he seem overly friendly in the odious way she had detected in her colleagues - the friendship of men who want more. They talked constantly as they walked and worked, mostly of that holy Italian trinity - art, food and football. Once her luggage was installed in her new flat, together with some essential supplies for morning, she began to feel, incredibly, that he was enjoying her company. Her pleasure and confusion grew, as with the arrival of dusk he said, with the brusque, no-nonsense manner she now recognized as characteristic: `Shall we get a drink? We should celebrate. I know a good place:
Leonora raised a brow. `As good as the Do Mori?'
He laughed. `You can't get better than this place I'm thinking of. It is, quite literally, Paradise.'
She looked carefully at him. His eyes did not look calculating, or lustful. They looked frankly back at her. He looked thirsty.
I know I shouldn't go. I know that I'm going to.
Paradise on a Saturday night was a noisy place. Leonora, crushed against Alessandro at the bar, had to scream her order for a Peroni directly into his ear. He emerged from the crush with four bottles ('to save time') and led her to the end of one of the long refectory-like tables crowded with flamboyant young bohemians. Alessandro secured them two seats opposite each other in a dark alcove illuminated by the inevitable candle stuffed in a wine bottle. Gouts of multicoloured wax masked the bottle completely and told the story of the candles that had gone before. As was her habit, Leonora began to pick at the solid mass. By her side, sitting close, a youth with multiple piercings rattled rapid Veneto to his equally punctured girlfriend opposite. Alessandro took a long drink and Leonora looked at him. The noise had abated a little, but she still had to bellow. `What is this place?'
He smiled. `I wasn't wholly truthful with you. This isn't Paradise, it's Paradiso Perduto - Paradise Lost. It's just about the only late bar in Venice - always full of students. It's a bit of a crush, but at least you can get a drink past midnight.'
Leonora smiled wryly into her beer. Paradise Lost.
Have I lost my Paradise? Was Stephen, and Belmont and St Martin's my Paradise? Or have I come to find a new one here?
As if reading her mind Alessandro asked, quite suddenly: `Why did your husband leave you?'
Leonora nearly