On the FIRST DAY of CHRISTMAS

Loretta

The woman is drowning. She stands tall inside a glass tank so narrow that her shoulders almost touch its sides. Her hair and dress are both long, flowing and white. Her bare feet are submerged in water and the hem of her flimsy dress swirls in it. Loretta has heard that the water is from the canal, but it’s only a rumour. By the looks of it, though, she suspects it’s true.

A small metal sign rests on the pavers in front of the tank. It bears a solitary word, engraved in a scrawling black font: ‘affogando’.

‘What does affogando mean?’ an American teenager, standing close to Loretta on the steps of the piazza, asks her mother. She mispronounces it.

‘No idea.’ The mother breathes steam.

Loretta clears her throat. ‘It means “drowning”. She is telling us she is drowning.’

‘Ah,’ the mother says. ‘Aren’t we all?’

The teenager turns her back to the performance artist and the Basilica di San Marco. She holds her phone up above her head, purses her swollen, glossed lips together and arches her thickly pencilled brows. Her mother copies the pose. The pouting duo are surrounded by grey: the grey stones of the ground and buildings and archways, the grey clouds above.

Alberto nudges Loretta in the ribs. ‘Shall we take a photo too?’ he says in Italian.

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know, because it’s Christmas. Why not?’ He smiles.

She ignores the request, indicating with her chin at the artist. ‘Look at her, she’s freezing. Her hands are trembling.’

It’s one of the coldest Christmas Days on record.

‘She recognises you,’ Alberto says.

Loretta knows this. She’s always being recognised. She’s been a cover model for Vogue and a guest on too many TV shows to name. But does the artist recognise her or remember her? That’s what she really wants to know.

As she’s considering this, Loretta’s fingers glide across a short bristly hair on her neck. She curses inwardly. Even after she plucked half-a-dozen nuisance hairs in front of the magnified mirror on her dressing table early this morning, already here’s a new one announcing itself, reminding her that she’s old now. She pinches the hair between her thumb and index finger and gives it a few sharp tugs, but it remains stubbornly attached.

Alberto’s loud breathing annoys her. Even here, in the crowded piazza, she can’t escape the sound of his shallow, wheezy breaths. How she wishes he’d quit the cigarettes. She turns to look at him, standing a head shorter than her in his black bowler hat that hides his evergrowing bald patch, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his woollen trench. His face is tired, his skin blotched and yellowing.

He meets her eye. ‘Andiamo, cara?’ There’s a warmth in the way he looks at her that softens her resentment.

‘Let’s go.’ She hooks her arm into his.

The artist hasn’t taken her eyes off Loretta, despite tourists milling about between them. Loretta gives her a small wave as she walks away. She thinks the woman returns her smile but she can’t be certain.

The streets leading back to Hotel Il Cuore are heaving. The souvenir shops are packed with tourists admiring their colourful glass baubles, and the cafe crowds overflow to outdoors despite the cold. Christmas decorations strung high across the lanes form a canopy over Loretta and Alberto as they walk. The hanging lights get more extravagant each year. Every street is different.

‘I wonder when the food writer will arrive,’ Loretta says, more to herself than to Alberto.

‘It’s strange how she’s turning up on Christmas Day,’ he replies. ‘On her own.’

‘She’s coming for work. Of course she’s on her own.’

‘It’s not right. She should be with family at this time of year.’

‘Some people don’t think like that.’

‘Not everyone is as lucky as we are.’ Alberto pats her hand. ‘We’ll make her feel less lonely.’

‘Why do you assume she’s lonely?’

‘She’s travelling alone halfway across the world at Christmas. Of course she’s lonely.’

Loretta doesn’t argue.

A young tourist couple walks past them and the woman’s expression changes to one of stupefied delight when she makes eye contact with Loretta. It’s not often that Loretta leaves the hotel without her sunglasses on, but occasionally, on days like today, she longs to see the outside world not through a darkened lens.

‘Oh my God, babe!’ the woman squeals after they pass. ‘I swear that was Signora Bianchi!’

Alberto and Loretta exchange a smile and keep walking. He sings ‘Silent Night’ and she listens.

Back at the hotel, Marina stands red-faced behind the reception desk.

Loretta hurries to her. ‘Can I help?’ She smiles at their new guests, the Dawsons, who stand on the opposite side of the desk.

‘It would be good if someone helps.’ The sweat drips from Signore Dawson’s bushy white eyebrows onto his ‘I love Venice’ sweatshirt.

Loretta reaches for the remote control and resets the temperature in the foyer. Marina’s overdone it with the heating.

‘Signore Dawson was unhappy with Signore Giuseppe’s singing on the gondola ride.’ Marina’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s hard for Loretta not to snort.

‘We paid a small fortune for that singer and all we got out of it is a thumping headache for my wife.’ Signore Dawson’s crossed arms rest on his belly.

‘One minute please, signore. I’ll be happy to assist.’ Loretta takes off her coat and says quietly to Marina in Italian, ‘Go, go. I can take over from here.’

‘You haven’t had your rest upstairs yet. I can handle it.’ Marina twirls one of her long dark curls around her finger, a habit she’s had since she was a small girl.

‘The artist in the tank has arrived. Go and see before she freezes solid. I’ll take care of this idiot.’ She pushes Marina lightly in the back.

‘Okay, grazie, Mamma.’ Marina scoops up her jacket and bag and practically jogs across the carpeted lobby to the glass front doors.

Loretta reaches inside her turtleneck for the gold chain she wears. From it dangles a medallion of the Madonna cradling baby Jesus to her bosom. It was a gift from Nonna, given to her when she was nine years old, on the morning of her first Holy Communion.

‘The Blessed Virgin always listens. She’ll never fail you if you remember her. Do you hear me, Loretta? Promise me, you’ll remember to pray.’ Nonna gripped Loretta’s shoulders with her knobbly fingers until she made the promise.

But Nonna was mistaken. The Blessed Virgin has failed Loretta many times since that day. Still, out of habit, she holds the pendant and silently prays. Ave o Maria, piena di grazia—

‘Signora Bianchi? Signora Bianchi! You gonna help us out or not?’ Signore Dawson’s face is inches away from hers.

‘Yes, of course, signore. I was only thinking of how to fix the problem. You see, this is the first complaint we have ever received about Signore Giuseppe. He is one of the most respected singers in all of San Marco.’

‘The best singer,’ Alberto interjects from behind her.

She gives him a pointed look. ‘The kitchen bin needs emptying.’

Alberto laughs and disappears into the kitchen.

Turning back to the guests, Loretta lets go of the pendant. ‘I will be sure to give the gondola company your feedback. In the meantime, because you booked the ride through us, I will arrange a full refund from the hotel for you immediately. Is this satisfactory?’

Signora Dawson, a short, thick woman with a close crop of white curls, who wears a matching ‘I love Venice’ sweatshirt, gives her husband a quick nod. She keeps her eyes downcast and her face is flushed. Loretta’s struck by how startlingly blue Signora Dawson’s eyeshadow is and how heavily it’s caked on.

‘Yes, yes, that’ll do,’ il signore says. ‘And let the company know that for one of the most respected singers, I sing better in the shower.’

Loretta doubts this is true, but she nods. When the old couple leaves, she wakes the computer to search for their guest file.

‘Che succede, Mamma?’ Rocco appears from the kitchen, smiling. He’s always smiling, Rocco. It’s one of the things about her son she loves the most.

‘I’m crediting an account for a hundred and seventy euro. Giuseppe’s singing wasn’t good enough for our guest, apparently.’

‘L’Americano?’

‘Who else?’ She brings up the Dawsons’ account.

‘This morning at breakfast he complained his wife had a headache because the walls of the dining room are too pink.’

‘I heard.’ Loretta rolls her eyes. ‘It seems like everything in San Marco gives that woman a headache. Take a small cheese plate to their room for me, will you? Tell them it’s on the house, for Christmas. It might slow down the complaints.’

‘Okay, and I won’t hum anywhere near them, or he might request a refund for their entire stay here.’

‘Yes, be careful.’ She laughs.

She begrudgingly credits the Dawsons’ account and then responds to two email enquiries. Alberto comes back from the kitchen and stands behind her. His breathing is louder and faster than normal, instantly irritating her.

‘Listen to you.’ She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘Keep on smoking, it’s doing you good.’

‘I don’t feel good.’

‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘Loretta,’ he pants, his voice strangled.

She whips her head around to see him leaning on the desk. His face is shiny with sweat. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He gasps and shakes his head.

She clutches his arm. ‘Tell me what’s wrong!’

His knees buckle and he lands in a crumpled heap on the floor.

‘Alberto!’ she screams. ‘Alberto!’ She drops to her knees and turns him over onto his back. He’s a dead weight; his eyes are shut. The loud breathing has come to a sudden stop.