The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [63]
She slept badly, and in the morning was sick again. Nerves, she thought.
But I know it isn't nerves.
Leonora entered the modest side gate leading into the University precincts from the Calle della Foscari. Once inside, Leonora was deafened by the antics going on around her. Though it was Saturday morning, a study day for most students, there seemed to be some sort of Rag taking place - Leonora recognized the same misrule, the same anarchic spirit, which had moved her to dress as a nurse and help push a hospital bed down the Charing Cross Road during Rag week at St Martin's.
Eggs and flour were flying everywhere, and she had to duck more than once as she crossed the desecrated lawn.
They must be graduating. I read somewhere that Italian students think that making cakes of themselves is a fitting way to mark their transition to Dottore. Soon they'll all be gone, like the tourists.
She perused the faculty lists on a noticeboard cloistered behind glass, with fading hope, but at last Leonora spotted; `Professore Ermanno Padovani.'
He's head of the faculty for `Storia del Rinascimento'. Renaissance History. I might just be in luck. `Padovani gran dottori' indeed.
She mounted the ancient stairs and trawled the empty corridors reading the names on the history department doors. From here the screams and merriment from outside were muffled. It felt like there was no one in these upper floors at all, so when she reached the Professore's door at last, Leonora felt little hope of him being inside. But when she knocked and heard a faint `Entrate,' muffled by the oak, her insides fluttered with the knowledge that the man inside this room may have some of the answers that she sought. As Leonora entered the sight she beheld almost made her forget why she had come. Ahead was a wide, ornate window, made up of a quartet of the most perfect, intricate, Moorish frames of which Venice was so proud. And beyond - the most incredible vista of the San Marco bank of the Canal Grande, water shimmering at the foot of the splendid palaces, as if in supplication to their grandeur. Leonora was so lost in the view that the voice that addressed her was an audible shock.
`One of the privileges of having taught here for thirty years is that I get the best room in the faculty. One of the drawbacks is, sometimes I find it very hard to get any work done. You must have come in the back way, through the gate? A pity. It is not the best aspect of the place!
Leonora turned to the old man, who had emerged from behind his book and desk with the aid of a stick. Kindly, white-bearded, beautifully dressed and with penetrating eyes, he looked faintly amused. She apologized. `But it's so beautiful, for a ...'
'You were going to say for a University? But it has not always been one. Ca' Foscari was formerly a palace built for the Bishops ofVenice, and you know how prelates like their creature comforts. And surely, Signorina, you have beautiful seats of learning in your own country do you not? Oxford and Cambridge?'
Leonora started. She had flattered herself that her English accent was gone. But she was not chastened - it seemed that this was a man with a formidable intelligence, from whom nothing could be hidden. It seemed all the more likely that he could help her. She took a deep breath. `Professore, I apologize for disturbing you. I'd like to ask you a few ... historical questions, if you have a moment'
The old man smiled, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners. `Of course,' he said. `I can spare more than that for the daughter of my old friend Elinor Manin. How are you, my dear Nora? Or,' the old eyes twinkled immoderately, `is it Leonora now that you have become ... assimilated.'
Leonora marvelled at the quickness of the Professore's mind. Not only had he remembered her instantly, but he had divined, in a few short seconds, that she had changed