He nodded. “It is a pity it is not an even year. I would have been delighted to escort you around a Biennale. If you are still here when it opens next May, perhaps . . .”

“You think the city will hold a festival of international art if the world is at war?”

“Of course. Venetians would never let a little thing like a war interfere with their art. We live and breathe our art. It is part of our bones.” Without warning, he grabbed my portfolio. “Show me what you have been drawing.”

“No!” I tried to snatch it back, but too late. He had untied the portfolio and opened it. And the first picture was the naked man, drawn in detail. Leo studied it for a second, then flicked through the quicker sketches. He closed the portfolio again and handed it back to me. As I took it, our fingers brushed, and for a moment his hand remained touching mine.

“You are good,” he said. “You have a feel for the human figure. Start working on something for next year’s Biennale. I can probably get it exhibited.”

“I’m sure nobody wants to see my work,” I said. “I’m all right at copying what I see, but I don’t think I have vision to take an object and turn it into my creation like the great artists do.”

“Then maybe you should just draw what you see. Ordinary people, going about ordinary lives. It is important that we also document that, for who knows what the future will bring.”

“I must go and get my lunch,” I said. “I have less than an hour before my next class.”

“Are you sure . . . ,” he began.

“Very sure. Go home to your family, please.”

He nodded. “Very well. But it was so good to see you. Like a miracle, really. When I kissed you goodbye last year, I thought it would be for the last time.”

“It was for the last time,” I said. “I really have to go.”

I could feel tears welling at the back of my eyes, and I was going to get away before a tell-tale tear trickled down my cheek. I staggered blindly out into the sunlight. The heat from the pavement rose up, along with the watery smell of the canal, tinged with the not-too-pleasant odour of rotting vegetation. I crossed the piazza in front of the accademia, over the little humpbacked bridge, and plunged into the deep shade of the narrow calle beyond. Why was he doing this to me? Didn’t he care at all for my feelings? Then it struck me that he, too, was hurting. Tied to a woman he couldn’t love and who clearly didn’t love him. What could be worse? And then I realized there was one thing worse: to be in love with a man I could never have. To be left with nobody.

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 20

Caroline, Venice, October 10, 2001