I watch them sitting side by side across the table from me. Jack and Marcella. There’s a warm octopus salad with fennel and potatoes, anchovies with parsley, a caprese salad, and gnocchi in cavolo nero sauce. For dessert Papi brings out a chocolate salami – beautifully dark and nutty. He looks pleased about the way Marcella eats. Her arms are long and white. One of them stretches across the bench she shares with Papi. ‘You always feed me too much,’ she coos. A mock complaint.

Afterwards, she stands by the window in a feline pose, blowing smoke circles away from us. She is a woman contained, nothing like the hysterical Italian female prototype Papi was so fond of conjuring.

‘This city was made for night,’ Marcella says. ‘We should go for a walk.’

We crowd over Papi, making sure he’s warm enough to step out. He has the face of a victim – stoic in his acceptance. Hat, scarf, coat. Marcella leads us over bridges and along small canals where boats are moored and bobbing in moonlight. There’s always music coming from somewhere in the streets of Venice. We are in San Marco now, a place Papi and I hardly ever pass through because of the tourists. It is peaceful at this hour, even though every table is filled. Two competing quartets play on opposite ends of the square. People leaning back in their chairs have a look of deep satiation.

‘Isn’t it strange that it’s never too much?’ Marcella says. ‘It’s always a surprise.’ We walk past the statue of the Lion of Venice, around the corner towards the Bridge of Sighs. Gondolieri are singing the usual songs, and the lights of San Giorgio gleam across the Grand Canal. Now we are back into secret passages. ‘This place has the most divine hats,’ Marcella says, turning to look at me. I’m trying to take note of the shop – a name, or a landmark, but it’s hopeless. I’m lost. All the streets have started looking the same. Night closes in with a gradual September chill, our feet move noiselessly over cobblestones, and all of Venice feels like the inside of a cathedral, sacred and unreal. Here is a perfect scene – a cluster of trees, restaurant tables with red-and-white checked tablecloths, dogs curled at table legs waiting to go home. A man on a saxophone is playing ‘Come Fly With Me’. Papi grabs Marcella by the waist and she emits a small cry, a pretence of not wanting to. But then they move away from me, slowly, in circles and with great care, as though a river were sleeping beneath them, as though they had lungs of glass.

Chapter 29

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