He takes it like it’s a lump of lead and his dad’s voice booms through the tiny speaker. I can’t make out the words, but Leo seems to be answering some kind of checklist.
‘Sì … No … Non ancora.’
Yes. No. Not yet.
Meanwhile, Veronica takes afritoaand cuts it into dainty pieces with a knife and fork. ‘You must go to the Ca’ Rezzonico museum,’ she says. ‘There’s an eighteenth-century painting of these treats.’
I wonder if she only eats foods that have been immortalized in oil paint. Preferably a couple of centuries ago.
When Leo hangs up, Veronica points her fork at him. ‘Perhaps Leonardo can take you.’
Jacopo slings an arm around my shoulder. ‘We could go together, just me and you.’
I shrug him off. ‘Do you never stop?’
Veronica shakes her head, clearly used to his antics. ‘I’m not sure you would have a lot to say about the art, Jacopo.’
‘Maybe not the painters or techniques,’ he admits. ‘But I could tell her about the subjects – the ordinary people of Venice. The street vendors, the gondoliers, the workers.’
‘Then perhaps you should all go together. Today, preferably. Remember your father is giving that lecture tomorrow, Leonardo.’
Leo gulps his last bite. ‘I’m taking Evie to thecorteo acqueotomorrow.’
Jacopo’s eyebrows lift. ‘You changed your mind.’
‘Ah yes, thecorteo.’ Veronica rests her cutlery on her plate like she’s lost her appetite. ‘Why the Institute must be associated with this Carnevale nonsense is beyond me.’
I stiffen. Jacopo’s taking part.
‘It’s perfect for Jacopo,’ Veronica adds, as I cringe on his behalf. ‘He wants to be a gondolier, like his father.’
At the word ‘gondolier’, Jacopo’s mum says something quickly to Leo, then nods towards me.
‘She wants you to know gondoliers don’t just ferry people around,’ he translates. ‘They tell stories. Keep traditions alive.’
‘And that’s lovely,’ Veronica says. ‘But you’re very sharp, Jacopo. Charismatic. You’d be brilliant in sales or marketing. Have you ever thought about doing a business degree? It would open all sorts of doors. You could travel the world.’
Jacopo shrugs. ‘I already live somewhere people travel the world to see.’
He’s not defensive. Or rude. Just … honest. I’ve never seen him be serious before.
And for a moment it’s like a mask has slipped.
Veronica meant it as a compliment. The same way Griselda does, when she sends me links to scienceworkshops or drops not-so-subtle hints about future earnings.You’re smart. You could go further. Do better.
And maybe they mean well. But they’re still saying this version of you isn’t right. That even if you’re good at something – even if it makes you feel like yourself – it still won’t be enough for them. Jacopo gets it. I see it in the way he squares his shoulders, holding on to the bit of himself Veronica doesn’t understand. I stand like that too.
Jacopo disappears for half an hour, then texts us to meet him at the canal door. He’s not inCatrìn. Instead, he’s in a varnished wooden boat with two oars and no motor.
I eye it doubtfully. ‘You want me to get on … that?’
‘Best way to see Venice.’
I climb awkwardly on board and find a spot in the middle. It’s surprisingly deep and stable. ‘Is this a gondola, then?’
‘Hardly,’ Leo snorts, taking up the oar at the front. ‘This is abatelina. The only time Jacopo touches his dad’s gondola is when he’s cleaning it.’
Jacopo bristles. ‘That’s what apprentice gondoliers do. It’s part of our craft, part of our art.’
