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‘No, I picked that just for you. I thought it looked right up your street.’
It was the pear and Gorgonzola one, and Flora devoured it in two bites. ‘Oh, my goodness, that’s so good.’ She spoke with her mouth full, eyes bright. ‘Want to split that?’ She pointed to the one with prawns on the top.
‘I think that’s also got your name on it.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
She popped it into her mouth. They sat, sipping their drinks, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of this quiet corner of Venice.
‘Maybe we should do something like that in the shop, with the food?’ Johnny picked up the last of the crostini, offering it to Flora.
She shook her head. ‘No, you have it. How funny, I was just thinking the same thing. We could definitely try that, maybe for summer next year when the town’s a little busier.’ She tipped up her cup, draining the last of her Spritz. ‘And I tell you what, these are definitely going on the menu.’
23
The early afternoon sun shone down, the blue sky now dotted with clouds. Their Spritzes had put a prosecco-fuelled spring in their step. Flora and Johnny headed through the streets back towards the Grand Canal and, on Flora’s wishes, to the Guggenheim Museum. Kate had always talked about it as one of her favourite places in Venice but all Flora could really remember was sitting outside on a bench with Billy, waiting for their mother to finish looking around inside.
‘Let’s just have a quick look. I’m dying to see a Jackson Pollock in real life,’ Flora pleaded, knowing Johnny’s love for modern art did not run deep.
They wandered the calm white corridors of the museum, small statues on plinths around every corner and instantly recognisable paintings hanging in every room, from Magritte to Miró, Picasso to Pollock, much to Flora’s obvious delight.
She stood in front of one of his paintings – a mass of splattered paint, so far as Johnny could make out.
‘I don’t get it, Flora, I really don’t.’ He peered closer.
‘You don’t have to. It’s just not the painting for you.’ She sat down on the small bench in front of it. ‘I like looking at it, and that’s enough for me to enjoy it.’
‘But… doesn’t it make you think you could have done that?’
‘But the point is, I didn’t. He did. You could say that about anything.’
‘I suppose.’ Johnny sat down beside her, his eyes still on the painting. He reached across and took her hand. They sat for a while, just looking, both lost in their own thoughts.
Johnny hoped the change of scene had lifted her spirits a little, that perhaps this break away would bring Flora back to him.
All Flora wished was that she could hear Billy’s voice again.
They left the quiet of the museum and stood on a small terrace overlooking the Grand Canal, now busy with vaporetti carrying tourists as they snaked their way through the city’s canals.
‘What’s going on there?’ Flora pointed to the right where a makeshift bridge bobbed on the water, supported by floating jetties. People streamed across, mostly in their direction.
‘I didn’t think there was another bridge after the Accademia. Hang on…’ Johnny tapped at his phone.
Flora gazed across the water at the famous Gritti Palace, the hotel’s unassuming pale orange brick façade barely hinting at the decadent and luxurious interiors she’d once seen in a magazine. Bright blue poles lined the front of the building, sticking out of the water sentinel-like.
‘It says here the bridge is a temporary one, there for some kind of festival. The Salute festival, something to do with celebrating the end of the plague. Apparently, the locals flock to light a candle in that church up there, Santa Maria della Salute, the big white one we saw from Harry’s Bar last night. Want to go and have a look?’
Flora watched the Venetians crossing the bridge, wrapped up against the chill in thick coats and scarves.
‘Let’s walk past, shall we, but then can we find something to eat? I’m getting hungry. Again.’ She smiled at Johnny before kissing him briefly.
They left the museum and joined the moving crowd of people walking towards the church, the enormous white dome of the Basilica towering above them. The sound of the crowd was gentle. People walked and talked quietly, an air of contemplation around them. They rounded a corner to find the huge steps of the church fanning out from the door at the top like a bride’s train, and covered with people. Temporary market stalls lined the waterfront with traders selling votive candles, their calls to potential sellers punctuating the thrum of the assembled churchgoers. Families greeted one another with waves and gentle hugs.
Flora and Johnny passed the crowds, walking along the front of the church and on towards the point. ‘They’re not afraid to remember the dead, are they?’ whispered Flora.
‘Not by the looks of it.’
‘I mean, the English barely talk about it. It’s like we don’t know how to, but this feels more like a party.’
