“I like it where I am right now,” I said. “Signora Martinelli is not the warmest, but it’s convenient for my studies and it’s nice to have meals prepared for me.” I looked up, into those warm, brown eyes. “Is it wise to be seen with me like this? Think of your family’s reputation.”

He shrugged. “This part of the city is mainly students and laborers, and they don’t care who sits with whom. I can assure you that my wife’s friends don’t even know that Dorsoduro exists. To cross the Accademia Bridge, for them, would be the same as going to Siberia.”

In spite of everything, I laughed with him.

November 11

Saturday is always a free day for me. I explore the city. I find quaint and unusual shops. On fine days I ride the vaporetto out to one of the islands and watch the glass-blowing on Murano or the lacemaking on Torcello. Or even the fishermen bringing in their catch on the less attractive Vignole. I try to capture everything in my sketchbook, and during a long vaporetto ride across the lagoon, I find myself thinking whether I want to go back ever. Couldn’t I find a job here in Venice? My Italian is now really fluent. I could visit my child, watch him or her growing up, be an adoring aunt. It did sound tempting, but then guilt about abandoning my mother crept in. Why had I been raised to be the good daughter, always to do what was right?

Saturday morning dawned blustery with the promise of rain later, but I decided to go out anyway. I didn’t like to stay in my small room, and I didn’t feel welcome in Signora Martinelli’s kitchen or sitting room unless I was invited. So I put on my raincoat, tied a scarf around my head, and off I went. As I came out into the square, there was suddenly a loud banging sound behind me. My first thought was gunfire, that the war had entered Venice. I turned to see a group of children, bearing down on me. They were wearing paper crowns, some wore capes, and they were carrying pots and pans, banging spoons on them as they walked. They called out something I didn’t understand, and then a girl held out her hand.

Luckily, a woman returning with a laden shopping basket approached us. She put the basket down, reached in and handed out sweets. The children immediately broke into a song. I couldn’t catch all the words but they went something like:

“San Martin ze’nda in sofita

Par trovar la so novissa

La so novissa no ghe gera

San Martin co culo par tera.”

The Venetian language was still an enigma to me, but I did hear the words “San Martin.”