The Venetian Venture Read Online Free PDF Page B

where all street signs pointed in Venice regardless from where you had come or intended to go; indeed sometimes you would be torn in two, frowning over opposing arrows. Initially Rosy was exasperated: ‘Ridiculous!’ she protested to herself. But again like all visitors, diverted by the intrigue of a fresh new world she slowed her pace to a saunter and left it to fate as to where and when she might reach her goal.
    In fact the goal appeared quite suddenly, unmistakable and so much bigger than when seen mistily from the vaporetto. It was also much busier: shops, largely jewellers, flanking its sides, while bevies of people scurried, chattered and pottered upon its ancient steps. There was a murmur of voices, Italian mainly, some German and occasionally an exclamatory American. No English – an omission which gave Rosy a perverse satisfaction. She joined the potterers, intrigued by the window displays of pearls, coral, silks and silver. Books? None it seemed unless you counted a rather chi-chi-looking stationer’s. She stared around hoping to see the name Pacelli writ large over some ancient doorway. There was nothing of course. Bound to be near, she thought, trying to share Stanley’s airy optimism, and decided to postpone matters with a coffee. This did much to assuage her breakfast deprivation and she sipped it gratefully on a terrace beside the Canal.
    As she sat watching the scene of boats and busyness, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, there slipped into her mind an image of the current Pope. Rosy was startled – she was not in the habit of dwelling on the Vatican and its incumbents. What on earth had made her think of thatfellow? … Ah of course! His name: professionally Pius; privately Pacelli. No wonder those ascetic features had filled her memory. She was amused by the coincidence and wondered idly whether somewhere in the papal cousinship there might indeed lurk a Venetian bookseller. Well pope’s cousin or no, she certainly hoped she could find the wretched man. It had already occurred to her that Stanley’s phrase ‘on or near’ held multiple meanings. If the latter, was the shop left of the bridge or to its right? North or south? On the Canal bank or in some shadowed offshoot … and in any case, exactly how near was ‘near’? She sighed, and leaving some lire on the table set off to investigate.
    After ten minutes of aimless wandering she knew that there was nothing for it but to use her meagre Italian and make enquiries. The first person she stopped looked puzzled and then said, ‘
Mi scusi
, no understand English,’ and hurried on. Rosy was mortified, having felt that while her vocabulary might be sparse her accent was good. In this she was clearly mistaken!
    A couple were approaching and she tried again, enunciating her words with greater precision, but this too produced a negative response. ‘Say,’ an American voice rang out, ‘not Italian, kiddo. We’re from Texas
USA
!’ They smiled genially and also hurried on. Had she been in England the obvious course would have been to approach a policeman, but no such person seemed in evidence; and in any case she rather doubted whether a Venetian
poliziotto
would be quite as ready as a London bobby to deal with the perplexities of witless tourists.
    ‘
Signor
,’ she said nervously to a small and sharp-suited man on her left, ‘
Può aiutarmi? Cerco una libreria si chiama
Pacelli e Figlio. E qui in vicino forse?
’ She smiled hopefully.
    The man regarded her solemnly and then said in impeccable English: ‘For one from Perfidious Albion you speak extremely well. My compliments, signora.’ Rosy didn’t know whether to feel flattered or furious. Perfidious bloody Albion indeed! The cheek of it! Her indignation must have shown for with a light chuckle he said quickly, ‘A little joke of course. Your country is charming, I know it well … And yes, I also know the bookshop you seek.’ That was something at any rate and she asked if it was