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‘When you fell asleep, about two seconds after we got back here last night.’
Flora looked at him. ‘Oh God, sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m just happy you slept well.’
Flora stretched out under the covers, finding his feet with hers. ‘Thank you, I did.’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept without waking up at least a couple of times in the night.
After breakfast they headed out and over the narrow bridge by the hotel. The pale blue sky was clear, and Venice looked impossibly beautiful with the winter sun on its face. They headed away from the Grand Canal into a warren of quiet streets lined with ochre, orange, yellow and pale pink buildings. Shutters remained closed, the shops not yet open. A few empty tables and chairs sat outside cafés. Flora felt quite disorientated, the painted signs on walls for ‘Al Vaporetti’ the only clue as to the direction of the canal. After a few dead ends the streets began to widen a little and before long they’d crossed a wide square, empty except for the few Venetians, heads down, crossing it with purpose on their way to work.
They passed a church, over another quiet canal lined with empty boats, catching another glimpse of the Grand Canal as they crossed the bridge. Then, with a sharp right followed by a sharp left, they walked alongside another small canal and a great, imposing church loomed into view. Flora looked up at the vast red-brick walls, positively plain compared with the intricate lace-like front of St Mark’s Basilica.
‘Is this the one we’re looking for?’ Flora looked at Johnny.
‘Yep, this is the one. It’s Gothic, apparently.’
Stepping inside, they saw the space was overwhelming. A vast marble floor spread out before them, chequered with orange and white squares. Stone pillars stood solidly, their size drawing Flora’s eyes up to the ceiling. Unlike the painted gold domes of the previous evening, this church roof was a seemingly endless web of arches and beams. Stone figures peered down on her everywhere she looked. Huge paintings hung on the walls, each one forcing visitors to stop and look.
A small boy ran across the empty space in front of them, the smack of his sneakers on the stone floor echoing around them.
Flora and Johnny walked slowly towards the altar at the end, passing another open door on the left. ‘That’s one of the Titian paintings, The Madonna of the Pesaro,’ Johnny whispered to Flora, pointing.
Flora looked suitably impressed. They stopped to soak the picture in, the vivid red, gold and blue colours making it stand out despite its grand surroundings.
‘That’s St Peter in the middle and to the right, Mary. And the family on the bottom left are the Pesaros, whoever they were.’ Johnny glanced from his phone back to the picture.
There was something about the way the baby in the picture played with his mother’s veil, his foot raised playfully, that drew Flora’s eye. He looked so lifelike, she thought he might step out of the picture at any moment.
They carried on walking towards the altar through a stone arch and into a chamber lined with carved wooden pews. Just before she reached the front, Flora caught sight of a line of candles flickering on a small shelf against a wall off to one side. She made her way towards them and stood for a moment looking at the flames, watching them dance as if to an invisible tune. She dropped a coin into a wooden box and picked up an unlit candle, lighting it from another before placing it alongside.
‘You look like your heart is broken.’ An older woman stood beside Flora. She wore a black down coat, her glossy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled kindly, her green eyes glinting.
‘It is.’ Flora spoke without hesitation. ‘My brother died, quite recently, actually.’ She looked back at the candle she’d just lit, its flame now joining the others in their dance. ‘Unexpectedly.’
The woman lit her own. ‘My brother died, too, a long time ago.’ They both looked at their respective candles for a moment. The woman spoke softly. ‘Hearts stay broken. But I promise it gets easier to bear.’ Flora searched for the right words to reply but before she could find them, the woman smiled, turned and walked away.
‘You OK?’ Johnny was now at her side.
‘I think so. A weird thing just happened.’ She looked around to see if she could see the woman again but there was no sign of her anywhere. ‘I was just lighting a candle, thinking about, you know… and a woman came up to me, looked at me and told me: “Hearts stay broken”…’
‘Wow, that’s quite an opening line.’ Johnny looked around for the woman as well.
‘Yes, but then she said it gets easier. She lost a brother too, apparently.’
‘How long were you two talking? You were only gone a moment.’
‘Well, that’s just it. That was pretty much all she said. I just stood there, I didn’t even say thank you.’ Flora looked again. ‘And now she’s not here.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Johnny gently tipped her face back to his.
‘I am. I’m OK.’ And in that moment, she really meant it.
They walked on, up towards the painting that hung above the altar at the front of the church. Another Titian, Flora guessed, the colours as bright as those of the other one, the same movement in the clothes and bodies so beautifully captured in oils.
The space around her felt calm, peaceful. The words spoken by the woman sat in her mind. For months she’d been wishing the feelings would stop. Sometimes pain, sometimes a kind of numbness. Often it could leave her feeling physically sick. And she constantly felt so, so tired. But then there were days when she felt so completely wired she wondered if she would ever sleep properly again.
But if hearts really did stay broken then, perhaps, she needed to learn to carry that grief. To live with it, instead of waiting for it to leave. She thought of the kindness in the woman’s eyes again.
‘Shall we go and find coffee?’ Johnny whispered.
