My Passport Back To Venice

Chapter 2a - The Night And The Letter

The day went slow. July heat pressed down on Dorsoduro and made everything feel heavier than it was, the stones holding warmth even after the sun started to drop. I didn’t see Thomas. Not once. But “Friday night” sat in my chest all day anyway, quiet and steady, like he’d left it there when he turned away from the campo last night.

When the light went soft and the bars started filling, I went to Campo Santa Margherita without deciding to. The students were loud again, cheap wine in plastic cups, music spilling out and getting lost in the air. I told myself I wasn’t waiting. I was just walking.

Then I saw him. He was standing near the well, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t moved since yesterday, like he’d been standing there since I left him at the bridge. He looked up when I got close, and didn’t pretend to be surprised.

“You came,” he said. Not a question. Just words, low enough that only I heard them over the noise.

The space between us was small. Close enough that I could smell soap on his skin, something clean that didn’t belong to Venice. He didn’t reach for me. He didn’t step back. He just stood there, and for the first time since the Gallerie, he looked at me without trying to be clever or safe or British.

“Friday night,” I said back, because I didn’t know what else to say, and because saying it to his face felt different than saying it to the Madonna.

He nodded once. Then his fingers brushed my wrist, light, like he was checking if I was real.

“Good,” he said. “Come on. It’s quieter somewhere else.”

The night grew brighter as boat lights drifted around the bench where we sat. For ten seconds, he stared toward the light of the boat he had adored since the first time he met the face of Venice. He chuckled at the arch of my eyebrows and said,

“Così perfetto,” his voice soft, almost like a breath. I said it too, when I stared at his pointed nose.

“Maybe you should start hanging with me,” he said. “Starting now.”

“And why would I?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I can’t be permanent in Venice. I hate the thought of going back without even meeting real people.”

“What do you mean, real?” I replied.

“Real… not the kind of people who live in the street. Not the kind of people who can’t remember a name.”

I insisted, direct to the point. “So what now? I expect something else tonight.”

He laughed for about five seconds and said, “See that Vespa?” as he pointed. “Go there and come back to me. After that, give me the thought you got from doing it.”

“Sure,” I replied with hesitation.

Step by step, I felt the air the way I felt his hair. Not that far, I saw a couple watching me do what Thomas had said. I also heard the harmonica played by the boy for his girl. And then I returned to him, and he watched me like I was the only thing in Venice.

I sat again right next to him and said, “I found myself thinking about someone.”

“Was that all?” he replied.

“That’s everything,” I uttered softly.

“Now tell me who is that person,” he said.

I knew he knew I couldn’t tell him. I stretched my arms to my knees and said, “Myself.” I looked at him and felt his disappointment for not uttering his name as an answer.

Just as he uttered a word, the sound of the harmonica went audibly unpleasant. The couple had just quarreled and broken up. And a few of the boat lights went off.

“Something is happening. I think you lied. I think ‘myself’ is not the answer.”

“I can’t lie to you. Not even to myself.”

That Friday night, he told me everything about him. All of his wants and the shape of his life in London. He did not stop telling stories as the night deepened until I invited him to go back to the house and sleep.

Slow steps in the backyard. We tried our best not to wake anyone in the house as we returned from the campo. I opened the window I had forgotten to close before I went to Campo Santa Margherita. We passed through it and then we were in one room after. The fresh flowers on my table still smelled like morning and the fabric of my bed still smelled like me.

“See you at the dining table tomorrow,” he said as he opened my door to go to sleep.

“Be early. I hate waking you up. You are too serious for bed,” I teased.

Frittata woke me up with its smell like a blanket just pulled from the dryer. I smelled the kitchen and it felt like there was something new, like there was a special air coming up my nostrils. Right then, Thomas in the white grembiule caught my eyes as well as my smile. He was cooking that breakfast for me.

“How’s my look?” he said.

“It suits you very well,” I answered honestly.

“I woke up early and your mom and dad saw me and called my name to cook you some breakfast. They said they know this will make your morning happy, not like how it always was.”

“Really? So where are they?”

“They said they have a meeting with your aunt Belle. They will be home tomorrow. And also they left you a letter on the mini table. They said it’s crucial for you to read.”

I opened the letter and I recognized dad’s penmanship and it said.

Caro Filippo,

Buongiorno, nostra pìcoła tera. Mi e to mare ndaremo da to siora Bela ancùo par saver de pì so la morte de to cusin Vicenso. Savemo che l’è duro par ti acetarlo, ma voressimo che ti restassi normal. E anca, avemo ciapà Thomas come to cuogo ancùo e dighe che semo tanto riconosenti. Vualtri do, stai ben.

Con tanto amor,

El to sol e la to luna

I left the house and went outside and grieved. I left Thomas cooking in the kitchen and he never knew. Maybe a hundred stones had been sunk in the sand of the reef. I threw them the way we actually did it with my dearest cousin Vincenzo. I did it not for grievance but for reminiscence. I didn’t care about the people watching me throw pebbles. All I had in my mind was Vincenzo.

Just as I lay down by the shore, I heard Thomas calling. “Filippo!” As he walked closer to me. He was still wearing the white grembiule. “Where have you been? I have been finding you,” he said as he sat down next to me.

I didn’t speak. No gesture. No eyes to blink.

“I read the letter. I understood a bit of it,” he said.

“Glad you understood it.”

He stood up and reached his hand to me and said, “Get up there, don’t miss the breakfast I made for you.” I took his hand and he pulled me up. We headed together back to the house.

We headed together back to the house. His hand stayed around mine as we walked. The white grembiule was still tied at his waist and it moved with each step he took. The air smelled like frittata and salt. My feet felt heavy from the stones I threw, but his grip kept me from falling behind. He didn’t ask me anything else. He didn’t need to. The letter about Vincenzo was still loud in my head, but the sound of his steps next to mine made it quieter.

By the time we reached the door, the kitchen light was warm and waiting for us. Thomas let go of my hand only to push the door open wider. The smell of frittata hit me again, heavier now, like it had been holding its breath while I was gone. The white grembiule was still tied at his waist, flour dusted at the hem. He moved back to the stove without a word. Plates were already set for everyone, but the chairs of my mom and dad stayed empty. He slid a plate in front of me. Steam rose from the frittata like a small cloud. “Eat,” he said quietly. I sat down. He didn’t sit. He stood there, watching, as if the breakfast he made for me was more important than his own. The letter from my sun and moon was still folded on the mini table. Vincenzo’s name was still loud in my head. But the heat from the plate and the weight of Thomas standing next to me made the room feel less hollow.

“Salty,” I said as I tasted the salt, not the omelet itself.

“I panicked a lot when I found out you were not here so maybe the salt was poured overly. But I will get you something to drink.”

“Chinotto please,” I said.

He shifted the conversation. “So tell me about your cousin.”

“Happy, joker, lovely, dead.”

“That’s life,” he said. “That’s life.”

“He used to call me ‘Ping’ and I never knew why. Maybe he got that name from television. I figured.”

“But ‘Ping’ is a lovely name. I’d love to carry that one.”

“Would you mind if I call you Ping?” I asked.

“Why not? I’d love that.”

“Ping?” I called.

“Yes? And what should I call you?”

“It’s whatever you desire.”

“What about Philip? It sounds innocent, isn’t it?”

“I’d love that too,” I said.

“Philip?”

“Ping?”

We both laughed and our lips moved upward. He stopped smiling. He stepped a little too close to me. His eyes were on my lips and I could hear his heavy, deep breath. I expected something to happen until we heard a great crash from my current room. We quickly went there and we found out that my sketches had fallen to the ground. We grabbed some and put them back in their place. He kept picking up until he stopped at my oldest sketch. It’s a beautiful girl whom I adored when I was eleven. It’s seven years old, living in my room.