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She remembered reading something of the sort. Probably around the time Eduardo had died. It seemed strange in one way, to disturb the dead and move their remains, but then again, who wouldn’t want a chance to rest, at least a while, in such a beautiful setting, with the view of Venice just over the sea through the large iron gates?
‘Matteo’s mother died recently then?’
‘Yes, two years ago, although space is not an issue for my family,’ he continued, leading her towards a collection of small neoclassical buildings. ‘The Barbarigo family has had a crypt here since Napoleonic times when the cemetery was created.’
Of marble the colour of pristine white sheep’s wool, the crypt stood amongst others, but apart, more the size of a tiny chapel, she felt, no doubt demonstrating the power and wealth of his family through the centuries. Two praying angels, serene and unblinking, overlooked the gated entry, as if watching over those in their care, guarding who went in and who came out. Tiny pencil pines grew either side of the door, softening the look of the solid stone.
She took the flowers for him while he found the key and turned the lock. The door creaked open and cool air rushed out to meet them. He lit a candle either side of the door that flickered and spun golden light into the dark interior and took the flowers from her. And then he bowed his head for a moment before stepping inside.
She waited outside while he said some words in Italian, low and fast, she heard Matteo’s name and she knew he was talking to his mother, passing on his cousin’s message.
So true to his word.
So honourable.
So...unexpected.
She didn’t want to hear any more. She breathed in deep and moved away, faintly disturbed that it should bother her.
It was peaceful and quiet in the gardens, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, leaves whispering on the light breeze—so serene and unpopulated when compared to the crowded Centro, and she thought what an amazing place Venice was, to have so many unexpected facets, so many hidden treasures in such a tiny area.
She found another treasure amongst the trees—a gravestone she’d happened upon with a sculpture of a child climbing a stairway to heaven, fresh flowers tied onto his hand, an offering to the angel smiling down on him, waiting patiently for him at the top. She knelt down and touched the cool stone, feeling tears welling in her eyes for yet another lost child.
‘Would you like to pay your respects now?’
She blinked and turned, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, avoiding the questions in his eyes. ‘Of course.’
She followed him into the tiny room, the walls filled with plaques and prayers to those buried here over the years.
‘So many,’ she said, struck by the number of name plates. Flowers adorned a stone on one side—Matteo’s mother, she reasoned.
‘Eduardo is here,’ he said, pointing to a stone on the other wall. ‘His first wife, Agnetha, alongside.’
She moved closer in the tiny space, Luca using up so much of it, and wishing she had stopped to buy a posy of flowers to leave in the holder attached to the stone.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and moved to go past her. She stepped closer to the wall to let him, and it was then she noticed the names on the wall alongside. ‘Your grandparents?’ she asked and he stopped.
‘My parents,’ he said, stony-faced, pointing to a spot lower down on the wall. ‘My grandparents are in the row below.’
He turned and left her standing there watching his retreating back. His parents? She looked again at the plaques, saw the dates and realised they’d died on the same day as each other nearly thirty years before.
Luca must have been no more than a few years old...
He was cold and distant when she emerged a few minutes later, his sunglasses firmly on, hiding his eyes. ‘Ready to go?’ he said, already shutting the door behind her, key to the lock.
‘Luca,’ she said, putting a hand to his arm, feeling his corded strength beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea that you’d lost both your parents.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he snapped.
‘But you must have been so young. I feel your grief.’
He pulled his arm away. ‘You feel my what? What do you know of my grief?’
The pain of loss sliced through her, sharp and deep as he walked away. ‘I know loss. I know how it feels to lose someone you love.’
More than you will ever know.
‘Good for you,’ he said, and headed back towards the boat.
