Under a Venice Moon by Margaret Cameron

Author:Margaret Cameron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Australia
Published: 2022-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

The vaporetto thrummed along the Cannaregio Canal, passing Palazzo Labia. I focused my camera for a last shot, then pointed to the dozen or so balconies on the palazzo’s facade.

‘Which one do you think he used? A different one each time, maybe?’ The activities of the rich were more fun to contemplate than the ordinary details of life.

Beside me, Mary bent down and slid her camera away. ‘There was another fascinating owner, you know. Some mega-rich South American bloke. He bought the place as a derelict heap, two centuries after the Lasbias. Completely restored it. Gave parties and invited Sophia Loren.’

She settled into her seat with a smug expression. The tiniest poke of irritation took hold – Mary had one up on me. And after all my research. I weighed back in.

‘It’s impossible to get inside to see the frescos. I’ve asked at reception, but the ballroom is being renovated. Seven years it’s been closed. Nothing happens quickly in Venice.’

I imagined Signor Natalino at my side, nodding agreement. Then I served up my ace. ‘The palazzo is owned by Italian Radio Television. They plan to transform it into an exhibition space.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mary.

Advantage Mrs Cameron.

The wealthy South American was in fact Mexican–French Carlos de Beistegui, fabulously wealthy indeed, and intent on continuing the Lasbias tradition of party giving. He lived in the palazzo for many years and, when not partying, furnished it with eighteenth-century antiques and priceless art objects. None of which were thrown out the window.

The day warmed. Passengers crowded into the vaporetto’s cabin. At each stop, the door to the back deck swung open and hopeful faces searched for an empty seat. I settled further into mine, putting its tenancy beyond doubt. On the opposite side of the canal, beyond the fondamenta, a collection of taller buildings clumped together.

Touching Mary’s shoulder, I pointed. ‘That could be the Ghetto, just over there. I’ve never seen it, but I’m pretty sure it’s around here somewhere. And there are the tall buildings …’

Mary looked towards the fondamenta. ‘It’s still early and we’ve got all day to see Murano. What d’you reckon we get out and have a look?’

Anticipating my response, Mary was already on her feet and moving towards the cabin door. I rose to join her. A scuffle followed as other passengers rushed to claim our prize seats, bottoms lowered in readiness. Once inside the vaporetto’s cabin, we angled first this way and then that, struggling to infiltrate the human blockade. Voices rose in a woven mass through air thick with the smell of moist bodies. My mind reached back to the schoolrooms of my childhood and hot summer afternoons, just after final bell.

From the vaporetto we walked along the fondamenta before turning into a narrow calle. I felt a distinct otherness, a stillness at odds with the surrounding bustle. I had no idea what to expect. Near the entrance to the Ghetto we stopped and looked up at another stone tablet. This was no Molino Stucky honour roll. Set

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