That Night In Paris Read online

  It’s embarrassing to say this, but I learnt more about Venetian history in those fifteen minutes than I’d bothered to learn in my thirty-five years—and I’d taught The Merchant of Venice the year before. I was such a fraud. Traveller indeed! I vowed to lift my head more often, especially when I was away from my safe little patch of London.

  When they made their way back to me, Lou was bouncing like a little kid, her face flushed. “Oh, my goodness. All of these historical churches. It’s just so unbelievable to think I’ve stood in places where people have worshipped for centuries!”

  Jaelee looked at Lou with affection—also a little off-brand for her, but I understood. Lou was a darling.

  San Marco’s Basilica

  “Okay, let’s head around this way and see the Bridge of Sighs and get the obligatory photos,” said Jaelee the photo queen. “And then we can get off the main drag and get ourselves lost.” The Jaelee who’d come out of the basilica was different from the one who’d stepped off the water taxi. I wondered if, like me, Venice was having a calming effect on her.

  We jostled for position at the Bridge of Sighs along with dozens of others. In truth, I was less than impressed—maybe because I’d seen the Bridge of Sighs in Oxford and the one in Cambridge—Bridges of Sighs?—and they were all pretty much the same.

  Also, I couldn’t help but ruminate on what they each represented, that last glimpse of freedom as prisoners were marched to their deaths. When it was my turn for the photo, my grim thoughts left me confused about whether to smile or not. Was it appropriate to smile? Macabre? I ended up with a sort of grimace on my face—definitely not a photo for Facebook, just proof I’d been there.

  I was relieved when we were done and I forced myself to shelve all thoughts of death. There were other things to dwell on, such as this wonderful city, the warm afternoon sun, and the brilliant blue of the sky.

  Bridge of Sighs

  We escaped into a side street away from the touristy crowds and walked along a canal, Jaelee slightly in the lead. I lagged behind because I couldn’t stop gawking. The further we got from the main square, the more intrigued I became. All of Venice was like, well, like Venice. I’d thought there would be the parts that looked like the Venice I saw in films, but that most of it would be more like the suburbs of other towns and cities—generic, soulless and “could be anywhere”.

  Even the lines of washing strung between the buildings were charming.

  We stopped at a little trattoria which, as Jae had promised, I would never have been able to find again, even if I was pressed. I was pretty sure Google had no idea where we were.

  The trattoria was dark and when my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw fixtures which looked a millennium old and furniture from a previous century. We crowded around a small table and Dani pointed to a chalkboard resting against the small bar. “The pizzas are only six euros. Probably just for one person, don’t ya think?”

  I did think, yes, and I was starving by then, so I wholeheartedly agreed we would each get our own. Also, I don’t like to share—well, food anyway. I detest those restaurants where you’re expected to get an array of sharing plates then split the bill. I want to order what I want and eat it.

  Sarah tells this embarrassing story about me from when we were teenagers. We’d gone to the cinema, and I’d got a bag of my favourite lollies, Jaffas, from the pick’n’mix. Right before the film started, she asked for one and I said, “No. I got exactly the amount of Jaffas I wanted. If you wanted some, you should have said so.” I thought that was perfectly reasonable. She thought it was fodder for making fun of me for the next twenty years. I digress—again …

  Jaelee asked us what pizzas we wanted, and shamelessly ordered for us in Spanish. The lovely older man seemed to understand enough and when our pizzas arrived, we all had what we’d asked for. What we hadn’t counted on, however, was that the six-euro pizzas were enormous. They couldn’t even fit on the table. After laughing nervously at their arrival, we commandeered a second table to make enough room for four fifteen-centimetre pizzas.

  Even more surprising was that after groaning at the sight of them—how am I going to eat all that?—we all ate all of our pizzas. Even Jaelee.

  The crust was thin and crispy underneath and chewy around the edges. The tomato sauce zinged with tanginess and a bit of heat from chili and pepper. The basil was fragrant and tasted a little of aniseed, and the mozzarella was so creamy I practically had a food orgasm. It was, without question, the best pizza I’d ever had, and we mostly ate in silence, as though we were sharing some sort of spiritual experience. Perhaps, in a way, we were.

  Eventually, we sat back from the tables and regarded each other and the empty platters in front of us. Our shared looks indicated a communal feeling of, “Oh my, what have we done?” and I couldn’t help it. I smirked, which soon turned into a giggle, and then there were four of us sitting around two tables giggling like idiots while the lovely older man looked at us sideways—which, of course, made us laugh even more.

  I got the bill for lunch—to thank Lou for looking after me the night before and Jaelee for the tour, and to pay back Dani for the camper-thingie ticket. Speaking of which, it was time to find our way back to the camper-thingie.

  “It’s campanile,” said Dani. “Geez.”

  “Campanile,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It means belltower,” said Jae helpfully.

  “Ohhh.”

  At the campanile, we moved quickly through the queue and I was grateful to see an elevator. It was a very tall campanile and I hadn’t fancied climbing what would have been a lot of stairs, especially as I was weighed down with half a kilo of scrummy pizza.

  To say the view from the campanile was “epic” would be an understatement. With blue skies in every direction, we could see all of Venice, all of the surrounding islands, and the mainland. I was even sure I could make out our hideous campsite and those pokey little wee-ridden caravans.

  The only thing marring the view was the wire mesh that enclosed all the openings. I could understand why it was there and why it was so robust, but the squares were teeny, and it was tricky getting a photo which wasn’t spoiled by grey crosshairs.

  After twenty minutes of oohing and ahhing we collectively agreed it was time to leave.

  Campanile

  “I want to ride on a gondola,” drawled Dani in that half-whine she did sometimes.

  I hadn’t even thought of a gondola ride, but once she said it, it was the only thing in the world I wanted to do. How quintessentially Venetian! “We have to do that,” I said with urgency. Jae looked like she could go either way and Lou’s face scrunched up. “What? What’s that face?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No. Sorry, but that—” I circled my hand in front of her face to make sure it was clear that “that” meant her expression “—is not nothing.”

  She sighed. “It’s just, well, I’ve always wanted to go on a gondola.”

  I was frowning at her, confused and a little annoyed. “Right, and …?” I said in my best kindly-sarcastic-and-ever-so-slightly-passive-aggressive (a.k.a. English) tone of voice.

  “And we always said we’d do that for our tenth wedding anniversary. It was supposed to be Paris, Florence, then Venice.”

  Well, I was a total cow. I’d forgotten.

  “Oh Lou! I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She brushed off her feelings and I tried my best not to be annoyed, because her feelings were important. I looked at Jaelee and Dani for support. Nope. Nothing. Jaelee seemed extremely uncomfortable and Dani, perplexed. It was all on me.

  “Lou, seriously. If it’s too much, we can skip the gondola.” She was avoiding eye contact, but I tugged on her hand and she looked at me. “Really. It’s fine.” It wasn’t really fine, but sometimes being a good friend takes priority.

  A frown scuttered across her face for a seco
nd. Then she shook her head, tucked her hair behind her ears, straightened herself to her full five-foot-ten and said, “No. We’re going. I was supposed to go up the Eiffel Tower with Jackson, and I did that by myself. The Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Duomo, all of it—all supposed to be with him on our second honeymoon, but he messed it up. He did this to us. I know, I know in my heart of hearts, it’s an illness, that he’s sick, but isn’t there something inside him that’s supposed to take responsibility? Do I have to be the grown-up the whole darned time?”

  She had worked herself up and I felt for her so much, my heart was breaking. Lou. Our Mama Lou. Lou, who was always generous and sweet and kind. All she wanted was for someone to be there for her, for her to have someone to lean on. And she deserved that. After being so strong for Jackson. After being so good to us—strangers only a week before—she deserved something just for her. I reached up and hugged her tight as the tears started streaming down her face.

  “Oh, Lou,” I said, my voice muffled by her shoulder. “We’re taking you on a gondola!”

  And we did.

  Apparently, gondola rides are something else you should book ahead in Venice. But most people didn’t have Dani. Dani had mad skills when it came to online searches and figuring out how to get to or into places. She found us a gondola ride for four on Viator. It left twenty minutes after she booked it, and we had to speed walk to the dock, but we made it.

  We stood between two lines of red velvet ropes as though we were queuing to get into a nightclub, and I noticed Jaelee keeping a sharp eye on the gondoliers. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “I want a hot one.”

  “What?”

  “I want us to get a hot gondolier,” she said pointedly.

  I looked at the tightly packed gondolas and the group of men who leapt between them, some pushing back from the dock and some docking their gondolas, all working with grace and ease. They each wore the traditional uniform: black pants, striped shirt and red kerchief. All of them were young(ish), all had jet black hair and olive skin, and there wasn’t one among them who wasn’t at least attractive.

  They were like a boyband—something for everyone.

  “Well, does it matter? They’re a nice-looking bunch.”

  She looked at me as though I’d said, “They all bathe in rubbish and have citrus reamers for penises.”

  We moved to the front of the line and a gondola manoeuvred into place. Our gondolier smiled at us, and the ticket taker helped us on one at a time. We got seated and settled, which was when I learnt two things. One: Dani had sprung for a bottle of prosecco, which she held up with a smile. And two: Jaelee did not think we got a “hot one”.

  “Buonasera,” said our gondolier. He said some other things in Italian, which could have been him reciting his shopping list for all I cared. He was lovely.

  Then, as we rounded the corner of the nearest building and glided into a smaller canal, he started singing! And not just any singing, opera. And he was good! With the acoustics in the canal, his voice echoing off the walls and accompanied by the mesmerising sound of the gondola slipping through the water, it was simply beautiful.

  “I wanted a hot one,” hissed Jaelee.

  Three pairs of eyes pinned her to her seat. “What? There were way hotter ones. I mean, come on.” The eyes remained fixed on her. I gave her what I hoped was my best teacher glare. She rolled her eyes in reply, unapologetic.

  “That’s enough,” said Lou in a low growl I hadn’t heard from her before. “This ride is not about you wanting a hot one. This is about the four of us experiencing something special together. And, darn you, he sings like an angel!”

  Jae put her hands up in surrender and the tension dissipated. Though it may have been because Dani chose that moment to crack open the bubbles. She poured it into four plastic cups and handed them around.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” she said. “To quattro bella.” Jaelee started to correct her syntax, but she closed her mouth when I flashed her a look. I didn’t know enough Italian—or Spanish—to know what Dani was supposed to say, but I understood the toast. I tapped my plastic cup against the other three and drank to that. Four beauties. My friends. My bus besties.

  My phone beeped in my bag and on reflex I pulled it out and looked at it.

  Mum had finally scanned Jean-Luc’s letter!

  Chapter 14

  Ma très chère Catherine,

  I have exciting news. I received an acceptance letter from the University of Lyon to study ethics and foreign relations. I think I said to you this was my first choice, so I am very happy. I was also accepted into the University of Reims and the Sorbonne, which is an honour, but of course I want to stay closer to my family, especially my mother.

  She says she wants me to be close. She will miss me too much. This is okay. Lyon is the best choice for me.

  My father does not understand. Who turns down the Sorbonne? Me! Maybe I am crazy, but Lyon has a very good ethics program. I will learn to solve all the problems of the world – so much work to do! Maybe Australia needs an ethicist? (a look-up word)

  It is hard to believe that you have already been studying for a few months. I wish the European academic year was sooner. I want to start immediately, but you know that is me—impatient!

  I will spend the summer in the south. My father has a friend who is the manager of a resort in Nice. I will work there in the bar and they will give me a small room to share with someone else. Maybe it will be a cute girl. I am joking. Unless she is from Australia and called Catherine.

  The wages is not a lot of money, but there are gratuities (another look-up word). I will save money and buy a car for university. My father says he will give me the same money I save to buy it—so I do not think he is very mad about the Sorbonne. It is possible I will make so much gratuities, I will buy the Venturi Atlantique. If I do, maybe I will let you drive it when you visit. Ha ha.

  PLEASE come for Christmas!!! My family wants to meet you. Also I miss you. Three years is a long time. My friends here are not the same as you. You know this, but I can tell you things that I cannot tell them. It’s hard to talk to them about things that matter—like pressure from my parents to take different paths. I wonder if they talk to each other at all (my parents).

  I miss you, but letters have to be enough for now I think. If you do come, you can stay as long as you want. How much time do you have at Christmas?

  Cecile says hello and thank you for sending the Vegemite. She is the only one in the family who eats it. I still do not like it – I still do not forgive you for making me try it in Sydney. My father was brave and he tried it. He says it tastes like bouillon. My mother would not try it. Her face! She made the funnest face when she smelled it. And she eats anchovies from the tin!

  I kept all the Tim Tams for myself. Most of them were broken—lots of small pieces, but I invented a new way to have them. I put the small pieces in a glass of milk. Delicious. You can try it. If you like it, call it the Jean-Luc after me. Ha ha again.

  Please say hello to Karen and Ron and Sarah for me—my Aussie family. I know I will see you all again one day. Maybe they can come for Christmas too.

  Gros bisous!

  J-L

  “That was nice,” said Lou. Nice? It was confusing more than anything.

  The whole time I was reading aloud, my mind vacillated between Jean-Luc the boy from the photo and Jean-Luc the man I’d kissed in Rome. But the Jean-Luc who’d written the letter, the one who was apparently in love with me, had been somewhere in between. A young man, a man-child.

  I scanned back over the letter looking for the clues. “And he told you the other night he was in love with you when he wrote it?” Jae asked.

  I nodded. “Mmm, yes.”

  “Huh.”

  It was exactly what I was thinking. I looked up from my phone. “Am I missing something? I’m not seeing ‘I’m in love with you.’”

  “Well, he does sign off ‘gros bisous’—that’s
just for loved ones,” said Dani.

  “And there’s the part about the cute girl from Australia,” added Lou.

  “I guess.” I scanned back over the letter. Since the night with him in Rome, I’d been anxious for Mum to send the letter, thinking there’d be some glaring reveal, something I’d missed all those years ago. But at most, there was some mild flirting. Had he always flirted with me? And if he had, how did I not remember that?

  “Give it,” said Jaelee. I handed her the phone and watched her face as she reread the letter. A couple of times her eyes narrowed as though she was scrutinising a particular line. When she was done, she handed back the phone. “He may have thought he was hinting in that letter, but if he was, he did a bad job of it.”

  “What about in other letters? You said you guys wrote all the time,” said Dani.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything like, ‘Hey, I love you,’ so I don’t think he ever declared it or anything.”

  “The most important thing is what he said the other night,” said Jaelee.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  I considered it. “So, he sees me fifteen years later and—”

  “And tells you he’s in love with you,” cut in Dani.

  “Well, that he was. Once.” Jaelee was being pedantic and I did not find it particularly helpful.

  “What about your last letter to him? Do you remember what you wrote?” asked Lou.

  “More or less.”

  “And?” asked Jae, impatience in her tone.

  “It was horrible. Especially knowing what I know now. I said it had been fun being his pen pal.”

  “Ouch,” Jae said with a grimace. Dani raised her eyebrows and hid behind her cup of bubbles, and Lou’s lips disappeared into a thin line. There was a moment of silence while we all considered how much I had screwed up—well, how much younger Cat—Catey—had.

  I wanted to defend her, to say that she hadn’t known how Jean-Luc felt about her, but I knew it was rubbish, because our friendship was far more than “pen pals”. It was awful that I’d assigned such an insipid label to it, as though we were strangers who exchanged polite letters from time to time.