The Lovers of Venice
written by: Idil Grace Touré
Whirls of grey permeated the sky over Venice, an imitation of the cobblestone streets routinely stabbed by the scampering and pigmented heels of Venetians and the curious glides of visitors. The heavy clouds, coloured like crushed bones, did not fall upon the heads of those observing; its assured rains didn’t break the trust put into canals by the abutting palazzo, cathedrals, and squares. While thankful for the flood’s restraint, local men and women still steadied themselves on gondolas to avoid the kinks left in the water by mortals and immortals alike.
The deathless cobblestones may have been scratched and torn, but they were never broken. They pervaded each turn and twist, aging alongside its occupiers: heartfelt Italians in a usual congregation, telling a famous tale of woe, a tale of love amidst a doubted supernatural to the walls surrounding them. And so each hollow street became a heart chamber or a sword wound resting upon a corporeal Venice, and the cobblestones were its tangible feet, supported and lifted by hundreds of canals. However, such grey did not dull a town wed to Mediterranean hues. Gothic architecture beguiled a collective gaze with exalted gold; coral and rosewood manifested throughout a blushing megalopolis, Terracotta and Istrian stone shielded from the striking stains of colourful paints, instead revelling in muted whites and browns and only allowing the purified shape of single, descended tears to still be visible.
But such was not the real beauty of Venice. Rather, it was a young girl by the name of Chiara. Chiara— with tresses coloured by the wrung ink of a sonnet, and instead of clay-made, was a levitating ghost inside a patch of blooming flowers, and bestowed a name likened to the sound of God calling an angel — was the most beautiful girl anyone had ever seen. A legend followed the maiden that to look away from her was as sacrilegious as looking away from God himself and risking his wrath, and so no one lowered their gaze. Everyone lionised her beauty.
Perhaps no one loved her as suddenly and deeply as Leonardo did, even her shadow felt abandoned once the sun heaped its light and let the night befall the earth. His love first became windswept in his music class when he once mindlessly murmured her name in a moment of frustration. The broken string of his violin flung about, ruining his attempt at concluding the class in a trance, an instantaneous ending to his composition. Thus, his call for calm stretched to the length of her six-letter name, and though he tried to hide his cemented love, it had been heard by all of his peers, who were less than approving. Soon after he was told she was a scrumped strawberry who would waste away in his hands a minute after picking.
“You wouldn’t even have time to devour her,” one scrawny pianist said insolently. Such brusque words reverberated all through his body but Leonardo maintained an innocent love, unburdened by the burning lechery that had taken so many hostages. His love was pure, and it floated where the desire of others thudded.
Unbeknownst to him, Chiara was not oblivious, for his love had perfumed her for many years, leaving a trail of fever and longing to enliven even the most stoic of people. Chiara would see him sitting alone on a starkly black gondola, fiddling with his violin, far from the scramble of Venetian life pulsating on the little islands. Sometimes she would find herself walking across nearby bridges, hoping he would catch sight of her and invite her onto his gondola, but such an instance never occurred.
In the same way he made note of her existence as parallel to his, she did the exact same. She endured the months he spent playing in Paris and would quietly miss him on Tuesdays, the day he used to play for her beloved, but withering, Aunt Maria. Maria lost her sense of reality many years before and the only thing that could soothe her was Leonardo’s violin and the tremendous music it produced. Chiara would visit every day, not just to hear Leonardo, but also to enjoy Maria’s sporadic lucidity. Sometimes, she would tell Chiara grand stories of growing up with her real mother and on those days, Maria would be cheerful and free of any burden. But then, inevitably, she would stop and revert to the speaking pattern of a confused child. Chiara could guess that her aunt had remembered The Night of The Angel simply from the grief plastered over her face.
That night, made famous by the horror it enacted, was the night Chiara’s parents and a quarter of Venice’s population were taken aboard the Angel of Death’s gondola and into the afterlife. It was the night Chiara and Leonardo both became orphans. Throughout the years, Maria never went into detail about that night. She only spoke of the loss of her sister and the fright of seeing the Angel of Death. The Angel never visited Venice again.
Chiara loved listening to her aunt but today, she was going to see Leonardo after many torturous months, and she hopes, as she always has, to look her best. Chiara would always rush to her aunt’s balcony in her most presentable dress and watch alongside the leering and winged stone lions perched around the palazzo. Leonardo’s gondola, unmistakably black, would loom out of the fog. He would see Chiara under the gold crenellations that decorated the house, awaiting his arrival. She would then sit at the foot of her Aunt Maria’s chair with closed eyes as she listened to the most profound music. There was never any conversation between them, only her demure smile and his incandescent eyes. His return sent shivers down her spine.
Chiara ritually witnessed his crossing of the Grand Canal and then hastened inside as Leonardo strolled in with his violin in tow. It was as if they were performing a play, both determined to personify the role of a curious but careful teenager. Leonardo placed his violin upon an extravagantly designed sofa, solid rosewood in structure and velvet in material, and the instrument, encircled by daylight-enraptured pearls hung on the wall, awakened. He prepared Aunt Maria’s most beloved music, picked up his violin again, and played gloriously for what seemed like twenty minutes before he was interrupted. Chiara gaped at Leonardo, who looked as if he was belabouring with his instrument, from the intense and deeply lined contortions of his face, to the waltz-like movement of his body. He internalised the haunting music he played. “I feel tired,” Aunt Maria whispered, cupping Chiara’s hand. Her groggy eyes were made even more visible by the rays of light shining into the room.
“Maybe you can play for her another time?” Chiara said, darting her eyes toward Leonardo before addressing her aunt. “You should go rest, Aunt Maria.”
She took the frail woman’s hand and walked her up a flight of stoned stairs to her bedroom. As they walked, Aunt Maria found the words to accompany the memories buried inside her.
“Your mother was not supposed to die. I should have told you many years ago,” Maria said, desperate and wide-eyed. “But now you are her legacy in ways you can’t even imagine.”
Chiara smiled softly at her aunt, the way one would at an accidental wound that could’ve been avoided. She wondered who her aunt was before everything happened, back when her mother was alive and the possibilities were endless. “You need your rest, Aunt Maria.” Chiara said.
Although silence filled the room when she came back down, she could still hear the faint echo of a melody. Chiara’s breath slowed to a halt, each step toward Leonardo felt sacrificial. He stood composed in the empty room, his fruitful violin hanging from his hands. Though Leonardo had stopped playing already, Chiara wondered if it was the beat of their rhythmic hearts patterned on the four walls, creating a thumping sound that caved them in. She mimicked that sound in her serrated speaking, sharpening the ends of her most mundane words.
“I’m sorry about that,” Chiara said, walking to the opposite end of the room. “Aunt Maria is not used to too many changes in her schedule, I should’ve been more wary of that before I told her of your return.”
“It’s fine, I’m not in very good shape anyway. I’m glad I have some time to practise after Paris,” he explained, referencing the city that had taken him away. “Do you live with your aunt now?”
“No, I still live with Mary,” Chiara answered. Mary, childhood best friend to her mother, adopted her after the death of her parents. “You must’ve played well in Paris?”
Leonardo’s eyes shot up at Chiara with the most spectacular smile. Crinkles appeared and disappeared as he spoke.
“Yes! I played for the most glorious symphony for so many months,” Leonardo exclaimed, “It can’t be described – that feeling– music was everywhere in Paris. I felt the music, it was tangible.” He sat back down, carefully placing his violin in its custom case, “I played better than I ever have.”
“If you loved it so much, why did you return?” Chiara asked. What was intended as a standard question was conveyed through a voice of indifference.
“My teacher, Prospero, told me to. He said it was an urgent matter but has yet to tell me anything else.”
“Why don’t you go to him and ask?”
“He’s avoiding me. He’s always busy, always teaching or serenading a royal.” Leonardo let out a heavy sigh, “I’m starting to think I should ambush him.” He added a bright smile and a light laugh, but it was unlike anything Chiara ever heard. His voice was many octaves too low and his laugh sounded like the flapping of an eagle’s wings, leaden with exhaustion. Here before her was not the quiet young man Chiara existed alongside in the years preceding his move to Paris. Leonardo had somehow grown and even with the frazzle of his travels, his head still held a little higher, his shoulders remained relaxed, and he carried himself the way a dancer would, his feet were always light, an inch above ground. It’s like he never ran out of words, Chiara mused.
Leonardo clasped his hand around the handle of his violin case and gave Chiara a quick nod, exacerbating her sullen pout . He was leaving already, but she wasn’t one to express her disappointment. She walked with him out of the palazzo and waited quietly at the doorway, watching him board his gondola and quickly take off to another performance. She could already feel the twinge that came with missing him.
Leonardo and Chiara started seeing each other everywhere: they passed by each other in gondolas, they danced next to each other at parties. Chiara could hear his music playing from afar and Leonardo could sense her presence from the wide eyes and audible gasps of those around him. Neither of them had the courage to inscribe their love on their hearts for fear of rejection and so for a few weeks, they remained wordless and ubiquitous in each other’s lives. They must’ve run into each other about ten times each day, resulting in a cruel anticipation, which grew unsettled in the bodies of Venetians. Having grown tired of this dance of love, they were all eager for Leonardo and Chiara to finally discern a simple truth: that their hearts had expanded furiously with love. Chiara was still so stubborn. To her friends she’d say, “In the little time I have known him, in that one conversation…” but she would say no more, trailing off and hoping to find a new way to rearrange the sentence which she was a devotee to.
“In the little time you have known him, you fell in love,” would be the reply no matter who she spoke to: a friend, her adopted parents Mary and William, her two sisters. Chiara would shake her head and muse away to the violinist who played for her aunt. She never dared to acknowledge that they fell in love many years before – in the early spring of their youth – back when they were just children.
It would be another month before Chiara and Leonardo would finally speak. During a sullen night which had emptied the streets of Venice, Chiara was on her way back from her aunt’s palazzo when she came across Leonardo, frenzied by a bottle of wine and sitting across his gondola, soothing the night sky with the fiddles of his violin. She considered running away, yet again, from the possibility of him and the legend of his affection but Leonardo had already spotted her and called out her name, a demand more than a request. Chiara ignored him and continued walking along the canal, prompting Leonardo to grab hold of his oar and follow suit.
“Why are you all alone?” Chiara asked, striding along.
“I was told this is the path you take when you walk home,” replied Leonardo.
Chiara could not look away from the suppressed smile on his face. She quickened her pace but even then, Leonardo somehow kept up with her.
“Hey!” he bellowed, “I have only two arms!”
Chiara laughed and finally slowed down.
“You frequent Saint Mark’s square, right?” Leonardo asked. Chiara nodded.
“Well, we should meet again tomorrow. The corner archway.” he decided. But she simply shook her head.
As Chiara took off, she could hear his voice travelling behind.
“Meet me under the archway, Chiara!” Leonardo bawled.
And just like they agreed, they met again. Leonardo shivered under the archway for some minutes before Chiara came running toward him. This time they didn’t talk, this time they kissed. The incessant cold dissipated in the warmth of their embrace. Every day they would meet under that archway and Leonardo would dream of their life together. His plans, entangled with each kiss he placed upon her face, left her flushed and eager. Chiara would rush to Saint Mark’s square just before dawn and watch the sunrise wrapped in Leonardo’s arms, sitting on the floor completely engulfed with one another. Chiara and Leonardo fell into their love as if it were a pool of water, submerged completely. They scurried through every inch of the city in desperate need to find a private place but eyes still followed them across town. Their idyll only lasted a month; smiles turned into snares and the friendly pats on Leonardo’s back became retreated arms whenever he walked past. They were so engulfed in their love they noticed it much too late, and it was only once Chiara was denied entry into a local bakery that the haze had cleared. Neither made sense of the capricious behaviour they were subjected to. All of Venice, the people they grew up with, were avoiding them. Chiara tried to confide in the girls she knew around town but they all muttered excuses before running off.
“They’re jealous,” Leonardo would dismiss thoughtlessly. He focused more on Chiara’s hands which were always cupped inside his, smiling stupidly whenever she heaved in frustration. Leonardo remained indifferent for some weeks but Chiara’s words began to carry more weight as time went on. She told him of her family and how they barely acknowledged her when she went home, how her friends ignored her and no one spoke to her. Leonardo had endured the condemnations of Venetians, but he was never one to seek out reasons as to why people didn’t like him. Prospero, his mentor and adopted father, had begun to shun him and even then Leonardo maintained a careful detachment, an attempt to deceive himself. Something foreign had occurred and the young lovers were completely in the dark.
The following day Leonardo took a gondola to the Salute, a stunning Roman Catholic cathedral built on the grand canal, which Prospero regularly travelled to. Leonardo looked up at the vast dome overhead as he drew close and noticed the four evangelist statues adorning the main entrance. Despite all his time in Venice, Leonardo had only stopped by as the gondolier that took Prospero from the cathedral to his house. Leonardo looked for the bristled dark hair of the old man, but Prospero was nowhere to be found. He spotted two men rushing past the inward arches holding up the cathedral, and ran after them. He figured they would know if Prospero was recently here, but it didn’t matter how he phrased the question because what he received was not an answer; it was a prayer, uttered in a breathy repetition as the men shuddered into a corner.
“I am not here to hurt you,” said Leonardo. They were the only words he could muster, but they did not offer any relief. Instead the men only quickened their pace. There was nothing to be done and no explanations to justify what was happening, leaving Leonardo with a longing stare and a thirst for answers. He walked back to his gondola determined to find Prospero wherever he may be hiding.
With each passing day the revolt against them worsened. Chiara was thrown out of her family house and without any shelter, Leonardo’s orphan status had become even more transparent now that Prospero was in hiding, and the two of them were enfeebled by their apparent exile. They searched for answers like their lives depended on it. It took a week to locate Prospero; he had been living out of a palazzo on the same grand canal that Leonardo passed through every single day. Inside the palazzo, Prospero looked frozen by the serenade playing down below, carving interest onto his face, wondering if those musicians had once been his students. Then he paced, slowly at first, like he was thinking of the rebuttal awaiting him once he told Leonardo the coveted story but his steps turned into strides his little room couldn’t accommodate, he rushed like he was a horse just learning to trot. Every step he took felt like a strenuous task. His hands, which had reddened from his excessive grip on his window sill, began to tremble as he recalled what he had tried so hard to suppress. The dead weight suffocating him entered the room with Leonardo and Chiara.
“I will bring misfortune if I speak of it.” Prospero foretold.
“But you must.” Leonardo urged, reaching for his teacher in an attempt to comfort him. Prospero began his story through a quaver, saving a long breath for the heavy words in need of an exhaled exit.
“Venice, at the time, was a glorious city, but it was reigned by an iniquitous monarchy and a cruel doge. I saw bodies laid out like decorations on the street more than I saw pigeons. People lived in a perpetual state of hunger — hungry for food, for clothes, for family members murdered by the doge’s knights, hungry for a house, for a business, for a life, for healthy children yet to succumb to the hail of poverty. All of us, all citizens of Venice, were abreast. We wanted the freedom that was denied to us, and we demanded it on The Night Of The Angel,” he said, taking the seat provided to him by Leonardo. He told them a grand tale of leading his rebel group, tasked with killing the doge, and restoring peace and justice to Venice, but on that peculiar night, the doge’s guard learned of the scheme and set fire to the city.
“Is that why the Angel of Death came to Venice?” Leonardo asked. Prospero nodded.
“At Saint Mark’s Square, I saw your aunt,” Prospero looked over at Chiara, “I saw the hysteria consume her. Her eyes were wild, bewildered. Her eyebrows drew close and made a scribble of her glabella. Her clothes were torn and bloodied from her sister and I saw, for the first time, what I had done, and yet I was the one on my knees while she stood tall and followed after her sister and the Angel of Death.” Prospero began to weep. “I heard her scream for her dear sister.”
“Did my aunt offend the Angel? Is that why she went mad?” Chiara questioned. “Is she being punished?”
But Prospero simply put his head down.
“Tell us what happened, Prospero,” Leonardo encouraged. Prospero slowly looked back up.
“Your mother was carrying you in her arms as she walked onto the gondola,” he breathed, so quiet it could be mistaken for a whisper.
“But how can that be? Only the dead follow, don’t they?” Chiara interjected. “I am alive.”
Prospero turned his face away.
“You consumed too much smoke and suffocated. You were both dead.” He let out a heavy breath. “You were only a newborn, and you were being whisked away with the Angel. It wasn’t until I saw your aunt had taken you from your mother’s arms that I knew something had to be done. Your aunt bowed before the Angel, then she begged and pleaded for your life. She wanted so desperately for the Angel to spare you. Having seen that, I ran to my friend and fellow rebel who sat at the front of the gondola with his son, with Leonardo, who was also dead. I took Leonardo from his arms and I begged as well. I pleaded as well.”
Prospero jumped from his chair and swung his arms madly. He spoke of Leonardo’s father, the last victim of that night, and how he wasn’t sure Leonardo would be spared.
“And could you believe it! What a miracle it was. The Angel of Death granted us our wish. He said he will show mercy this once but that he will return for you soon,” Prospero said, his voice reaching decibels from his youth. “But how could I hear him in the midst of my relief, my cheer, my tears of joy,”
Prospero sat down again. “I didn’t believe he would return. I thought you could live a full life, but I was terribly mistaken. He is now to return, to take you away with him.”
“Why were our parents not saved?” Chiara asked.
“Neither of your parents were meant to die that night, and yet they did. Since their deaths, you have been living the rest of their lives, not the beginning of yours,” Prospero answered. “Both of your parents had sixteen years left of their lives but the Angel of Death gave those years to you so that you may experience a semblance of normality, even if for a little while.”
Chiara paused, shock swirling a wave within her body, forcing her to sit. “My aunt told me my mother was not meant to die…” Her eyes teared in crimson. “I can’t do this,” she said.
Leonardo followed her out of Prospero’s office and prepared their gondola. Chiara looked at him; Leonardo, with his eyes shadowed by long, black lashes, and protected from the shine of the rising, winter sun, was jittering against the edge of his gondola. For the first time since she met him Leonardo was not debonair and forgiving of the mishaps life threw at him; now, he refused to accept their fate. Chiara could feel the thump of his beating heart against his chest even from where she stood, above his cowering head. The boy who once held onto every word she said, who listened intently as if all time was made available to him, rushed through sentences like a thief. The life Leonardo thought belonged to him, the one he thought he had control over, was at most rented and his refusal to give it back meant he had stolen it. Chiara’s clasp of the lamp post tightened, her hair twisted into shapeless, loose braids by a brisk wind. Her sight scattered over the dim, quiet city still in slumber. By the time she had dropped her head back down to the gondola, snapshots of peaceful Venice burned through her iris and melted inside her worried brain. She was desperate in her wish to exist in those snapshots.
“There is an island called Torcello that we can go to where no one will find us. We just have to travel that way, but it won’t be for long.” Leonardo said, pointing his finger north. He had such a kind expression on his face as he said those words, a pleading look of love, of protection. ‘They’ll kill us otherwise,’ is what he said next. Those words were carried by an unwavering voice and Chiara knew he truly believed them to be true. She knew she could not say no.
When they arrived, Chiara took notice of Torcello and how it looked empty of any life. Leonardo exited the gondola with a light huff and reached for Chiara. Chiara peered over Leonardo’s shoulder and examined the abandoned house Leonardo walked toward. “It’s not much, but I was told it’s been unoccupied for half a century,” he said and turned to face her. “We can make something out of it.”
“A home?” Chiara asked nervously.
“Yes, a home.” Leonardo concurred. They held hands, and Chiara felt the dread of the past few days melt.
“It needs a lot of work,” Chiara mused, “But the only work I know how to do is baking.”
She was nervous about the daunting task ahead but Leonardo simply wrapped his arm around her and assured her they would succeed. A few days later, way out into the canal, Chiara saw a gondola rocking along. In it were a balding man struggling to steer the gondola and two young men sat uncomfortably at the back.
“Leonardo!” She screamed, keeping her eye on the men. Leonardo appeared dishevelled, he had thrown himself into his self-imposed exile, having strategised how to fix the faltering house.
“Hey! We don’t want any trouble,” One of the two seated men shouted, “We were told to bring you back.” He added once the gondola docked. All three men, reluctant in their physicality, stepped off and stabilised themselves on the dead, green grass surrounding the house.
“We’re not imprisoning you. You just can’t leave the main island,” another of the men said. The lovers tried to fight off the men and Leonardo landed a few punches, but it was meant to end in disaster. They were overpowered and dragged away from the peace they promised themselves. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in the gondola Chiara looked over at Leonardo who carried a solemn expression.
“We will not die. ” Leonardo whispered. They talked amongst themselves for a long time and decided to seek shelter with her adopted parents. Maybe, I can convince them to take me back, Chiara thought.
Once they reached mainland Venice, they set off again, but by the time Chiara entered her house, she was completely alone. Leonardo waited outside for her, knowing she hoped to experience the apologies of her family, the feeling of their flailing arms around her, hugging her so tightly that she could feel the fracturing of her bones. Instead, her family, fronted by the patriarch, ambled inside the open room and declined Chiara’s request to sit down. Chiara found herself circled by her adopted parents, William and Mary, and her sisters whom she loved dearly. She scalded her cheeks with the tears that had reddened her eyes, each droplet trickled down to her quivering lips.
“I have nowhere else to go, mother.” Chiara said.
“I am not your mother,” was the unfathomable reply. Mary stood gingerly and maintained distance between Chiara and her as she traversed the room, baleful in all of her intentions. Her face was hard to read and her frantic words did not make it any easier. “I killed your real mother!” were the only decipherable words Chiara could make out from her blathering. Chiara’s heart began to rage. She trembled in her shock.
“I loved your mother -your real mother- and I did not mean to hurt her,” Mary wept, turning back to grab her husband’s hand and keeping one of her arms twisted behind her back. “I was young, and furious, and vengeful.
“Your mother became a lady-in-waiting days before the night of the Angel.” She laughed through tears. “She took everything from me, and suddenly there was a monstrous fire and I brought that fire to my house. Your mother was visiting me that night.”
“Did you know?” Chiara looked toward William but all she received was a guilty face. Chiara considered fighting with Mary but she was exhausted. The past few days had made her bone-tired. She couldn’t even cry anymore.
“You two…” Mary screeched just as Leonardo walked in. “…have ruined my life.”
If this was any other day, Chiara would have reacted but today, she was determined to walk away. She glanced at Leonardo, letting him know it was time to go, and hugged her arms around her as she turned away, but the gleam of Mary’s knife had come flying across the room, and narrowly punctured her. The clinging of the knife against the floor shook Chiara’s bones. Mary fell to the ground and incoherently wept.
“If you die, he won’t come for me.”
“You are crazy!” Leonardo shouted, kicking the knife away so no one else could grab it.
“I will always love you,” Chiara managed to say despite the dejection from her influenced sisters. Her flushed face had grown tired and she was ready to leave with Leonardo.
“Let’s go!” Leonardo instructed. They spoke again only once they felt safe in the comfort of Calle Tibernia.
“I am so tired, Leonardo.” Chiara said and Leonardo understood exactly what she meant. She wanted to surrender. He, too, lost all hope and was ready to die.
“I am tired, too.” Leonardo replied. Chiara threw her arms around him and wailed. Her stricken face buried in his chest, Leonardo stroked her hair gently. Though Leonardo had come to terms with their fate, inevitable and fast approaching, Chiara stammered through her acceptance, the words incoherent in the pit of her stomach. They held each other for a long time, nestled against the stone wall of Calle Tibernia, a narrow street no one would dare to enter in their presence.
Just a few days ago they were desperate to be acknowledged by their neighbours, to be welcomed and sympathised with, but now, alone and yet together, they were grateful for this one last chance to say goodbye to each other in life, and hope, in the private of their own hearts and minds, that they be reunited in death. Chiara trembled in his arms and tried her best to grasp onto Leonardo, moving her grip from his forearm, to his waist and around his neck. If looked at from afar, they would look as if they were fading into each other. Then, in the same way a butcher prepares to make noise of his knives, Leonardo straightened his back and took a deep breath.
“He’ll be here soon.” Leonardo whispered, lifting Chiara’s chin. He looked into her eyes and found less of the fear that existed just minutes before. Chiara offered him a fallen tear and Leonardo wiped it away gently.
“Before he comes, I’m going to wear my favourite gown,” she said quietly, “We should look our best.”
They set off again and promised to meet an hour later. When they returned to their meeting spot, the blustery wind had become even more ferocious, leaving frost on the surface of their skin and then quickly taking it away with every gust. Chiara could see the fog settle over Venice; the grey had been taken over by the blue colouring of dawn, which illuminated their faces just the same.
“You look beautiful,” Leonardo said with a quivering voice. She was beautiful in her burgundy gown with gold detailing embroidered all the way down. Any movement would cause her hem to flutter; she attained her fate with the grace and flight of a butterfly. He took hold of her hand and together, they walked from Calle Tibernia to Saint Mark’s square and no longer was Chiara shaking in his embrace. They could see a cluster of Venetians gathering in anticipation of their arrival. It was evident they had heard of the decision and wanted to bear witness to the consequence that followed. The guilt had gradually progressed across their faces; their lips no longer spread in the snide smile that ostracised the young lovers. Their noses were not scrunched in fear and their eyes did not ogle like they once did. They each carried a dreadful countenance but even then, they cowered away from the lovers as if to avoid a disease.
“Are you afraid?” Leonardo asked as they waited.
“No.” Chiara replied, at her sincerest in the face of death.
The nervous throng waited impatiently around Saint Mark’s square, occasionally looking out to the centre where Leonardo and Chiara stood, but the water undulated with the quiet breath of the morning. No longer was the first light marred by the demand of a wuthering day. The silence continued for what seemed like a week before the gasp of an old woman was heard; there, turning the corner in a decrepit gondola, was the Angel of Death, and he approached with vigour as he held on to his oar and rowed in an easy sway toward the dock near the square. Leonardo and Chiara took deep breaths and walked so closely that their knees began to rattle but the melted grip of their hands kept them standing, and when the gondola finally docked, the heaviness of their decision made them breathless.
“Does dying hurt?” Chiara asked the cloaked Angel. Her flushed face paled over time and this question rid her of her last tinges of colour. Slowly she was beginning to look like a corpse.
“It will be painless,” said the Angel of Death in a thundering voice. That answer would suffice for both the lovers. They calmly stepped onto the gondola, embracing for a final time. All of Venice watched the Angel as he looked back at the kids, dead behind him, engulfed in the fire of young love and how for a moment, he considered lengthening their lives. He strayed away from the dock and set out to take them to the afterlife, but the doddering gondola continued to glide through the water for another three months.
Venetians would see it being propelled ahead, far out into the Adriatic sea, and then back around by the Angel beneath the snowy veil of winter. In those months no one else passed away and the Angel of Death never stopped to pick up another soul; those that were meant to die waited in limbo and came across the gondola as it floated through narrow canals and under bridges they walked upon. The angel’s conflict became legend in local conversations. One would say, ‘He feels guilty!’ And it would be met with disagreement. ‘The Angel of Death has never felt guilt,’ would be the reply. The truth existed somewhere in the middle.
The Angel spent months trying to find a dimension for the lovers, a reality that avoided the savagery of the underworld, somewhere that shielded them from the judgement of God, where they could live out eternity together. It was only after the rain sluiced the stubborn snow that the Angel made his decision. The gondola vanished just before the arrival of spring, but like the birds and the canals, Chiara and Leonardo became synonymous with the city. The tears that shed for them unleashed the rancorous lagoon and it rose to wash the blood from the hands of Venetians but the stains endured. Their story, which continued to enchant despite time and its haste, was never forgotten, and any time someone spoke of a feverish love, they inhabited the folklore shared around. Together, even in death, they remain as they once were, The Lovers Of Venice.
- The Lovers of Venice - September 29, 2024
