‘I suppose, if you’d spent your life in Venice, you might very well expect everywhere to look like Venice.’
‘Why would you wish for anything else?’
And then we were out in the clean blue light of the morning, our surroundings seeming somehow refreshed and made vivid now that we had seen them on old canvases. Those strange top-heavy chimneys were still there, the same accentuated geometry of the buildings and fruit-bowl hues of pink and orange and peachy yellow, the forced perspective of the eastward view from the top of the Accademia Bridge. We took it in.
‘What a place,’ said Freja. ‘It shouldn’t be here, and yet here it is.’
‘There’s a nice café on Santa Margherita,’ I said. ‘If you’re not in a hurry.’
We headed west. Freja had been separated for two years, divorced for six months. ‘The usual story. It hardly bears repetition. He had an affair, and then I had a silly affair to punish him for his affair, and then he had another affair, like some ridiculous poker game. Except that he fell in love with his lover and I did not. To begin with it was awful, a catastrophe. Chaotic and shocking and sad. We had built this business together — we were in the same surgery every day — and all through the day there would be arguments and rows and accusations. Believe me, no one wants to see their dentist cry, not while they’re working. Can you imagine? Tears plopping into your mouth while this hysterical woman is wielding a drill. And of course the children were so furious with us both.’
‘How many children?’
‘Two, both girls. But they had already left home for university, so perhaps things could have been worse.’
‘And do you think that was a factor in the break-up?’ I said, adopting a casual tone.
‘That they’d left home?’
‘And that your work was somehow … complete?’
Freja shrugged. ‘For him, perhaps. Not for me. I loved our family, I was proud of us; it never occurred to me to think of it as work. My husband used to send me crazy, of course, but that was beside the point. The point was we were married and we would be together until we died.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘So it was awful to begin with, screaming and shouting and tears, and the girls went a little off the rails. But then you’re lying in the wreckage — to continue the metaphor — you’re lying in the wreckage and you reach down and feel for your legs, they’re still there, and both your arms and your skull is in one piece. You can see and hear and realise you can still stand up. And that’s what you do. You stand up and you catch your breath and you stagger away. I’m talking a lot. It is because I have said nothing but “
‘I don’t mind. Really.’
We were out of the dark alleys now, into Campo San Barnaba, the church front bright and elegant and unadorned.
‘I haven’t seen this square. I like it a lot,’ said Freja, and as her tour guide I felt rather proud.
‘You must see this,’ I said, the expert once again. On the bridge at the far side of the square, four white marble footprints were inlaid deep into the stonework. ‘It’s a fighting bridge. If you had a dispute with someone, you settled it here. A sort of public boxing ring. The footprints were where the fight started.’
‘You’re a real local historian, Douglas.’
‘I read the guidebooks. It sends my wife crazy. She’s always telling me to put the book away and look up. Look up!’
We placed our feet in the marble indentations. ‘Perhaps I should have brought my husband here,’ she said.
‘Do you get on now?’
‘As well as you can with someone you’ve hated. It is “amicable” — is that the word? Amicable,’ she said and raised her fists.
At the Caffè Rosso our coffees were extruded from an immense brass contraption that hissed and steamed like the boiler of a locomotive. We took them outside to the sunny terrace of that wonderful square, with its lopped-off
‘What happened to the church tower?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Douglas, I thought you would have an interesting story. I thought you knew everything.’
‘I didn’t have time to look it up. Sorry.’
There was an expectant silence. Freja had confided in me, and it was my turn now to offer up some explanation as to why a dishevelled man in middle age was circling Venice in a teenager’s trainers. Instead I found my attention drawn to the young violinist who had begun to play across the square, mournful music in a minor key. Bach, I guessed. If I ever find a piece of music depressing beyond belief, I assume that it is Bach.
‘So, Douglas. You and your wife, are you together or separated?’
I lowered my coffee cup, opened and then closed my mouth.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said Freja. ‘I have been boring you all this time about my life, I thought you might like an opportunity to bore me in return.’
