Read Online Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase by Debbie Rix - Free Book Online
Authors: Debbie Rix
Ads: Link
.
‘Bon giorno, gondoliere.’
‘ Bon giorno, regazzi,’ the gondoliers would shout up to the pair.
‘ Cosa ce li dentro?’
‘Qualcosa per mercata!’ they would shout back. And the children would watch as the gondolieri steered their gondolas through the water towards the Grand Canal. Once there, they would deliver their goods to the markets on the Riva degli Schiavoni, or travel onwards to the shops on the Rialto, to unload goods at the shops there, or to unload them nearby at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi – a large building that combined a warehouse with lodgings for German merchants trading in the city. Here the gondolieri would offload the cargo at the portico, overlooked from an airy loggia above by the merchants and their families. The goods were then shipped out of Venice to the East, or to northern Europe – Germany, the Low Countries and England.
One morning, as Daniele slept on, Maria opened her shutters and gazed as usual down onto the canal hoping to catch sight of one of the familiar gondolieri . A pair of seagulls swooped down the canal, snatching a piece of bread that had been cast into the water. Within moments, she heard the familiar slip, slop of a gondola. This one was painted a brilliant shade of red and she knew the gondoliere by name.
‘ Bon giorno, Fabio ,’ she shouted down to him.
‘ Bon giorno, Signorina. Come va ?’
‘ Bene grazie .’
A young man with fair hair emerged from the little cabin in the centre of the gondola. He gazed up towards Maria’s window. Embarrassed, she ducked out of sight, before reappearing once more as the gondola slipped past. The young man, she noticed, had remained on his feet and as she peeked out of her window once more, he waved at her before disappearing onto the Grand Canal.
The following morning, as she took up her familiar position at the window, Fabio’s gondola appeared once again. But this time the young fair-haired man was seated next to the gondoliere in the open part of the gondola. He waved up at her and smiled. He had long straight hair, a broad face and a kind expression. She waved back nervously. He called up to her.
‘ Bon giorno, Signorina .’
His accent was unfamiliar; he was certainly not Italian. She ducked out of sight again, and sat on the window seat from where she could see but remain unobserved. She spent the rest of the day wandering between her bedchamber and her father’s study, musing on the young man with fair hair. Having been brought up in the Middle and Far East, she was fascinated by people with fair hair. Her family’s travels had occasionally taken them to parts of the Middle East where people had fair hair, or blue eyes. She herself had blue-green eyes. But she had never seen hair that resembled fine gold thread. His skin too was pale, far paler than her own olive skin. Since their arrival in Venice, her father had explained that many of the people who lived in the city came from lands far to the north, and they were more likely to have fair hair and skin. On her walks to the market and Piazza San Marco with Daniele, they came across people of all different races, and she enjoyed listening as the merchants bartered and argued over the cost of goods in a hurly-burly of different languages. But without her father to interpret, she had no idea where they came from.
She yearned to discuss all this with her father. She missed his company so badly. She wondered if he would have been shocked that the young man had called up to her. He would probably have invited the fair-haired man to meet them; he was always interested in meeting new people. She went into her father’s study and sat down at his desk with paper and pen to write him a letter. She thought of the young nun who had waved at her a few days before, and wondered if she was in the garden. She stood up from her father’s desk and peered out of the window.
Directly beneath her stood the nun, gathering pears from a large tree that had been trained against
‘Bon giorno, gondoliere.’
‘ Bon giorno, regazzi,’ the gondoliers would shout up to the pair.
‘ Cosa ce li dentro?’
‘Qualcosa per mercata!’ they would shout back. And the children would watch as the gondolieri steered their gondolas through the water towards the Grand Canal. Once there, they would deliver their goods to the markets on the Riva degli Schiavoni, or travel onwards to the shops on the Rialto, to unload goods at the shops there, or to unload them nearby at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi – a large building that combined a warehouse with lodgings for German merchants trading in the city. Here the gondolieri would offload the cargo at the portico, overlooked from an airy loggia above by the merchants and their families. The goods were then shipped out of Venice to the East, or to northern Europe – Germany, the Low Countries and England.
One morning, as Daniele slept on, Maria opened her shutters and gazed as usual down onto the canal hoping to catch sight of one of the familiar gondolieri . A pair of seagulls swooped down the canal, snatching a piece of bread that had been cast into the water. Within moments, she heard the familiar slip, slop of a gondola. This one was painted a brilliant shade of red and she knew the gondoliere by name.
‘ Bon giorno, Fabio ,’ she shouted down to him.
‘ Bon giorno, Signorina. Come va ?’
‘ Bene grazie .’
A young man with fair hair emerged from the little cabin in the centre of the gondola. He gazed up towards Maria’s window. Embarrassed, she ducked out of sight, before reappearing once more as the gondola slipped past. The young man, she noticed, had remained on his feet and as she peeked out of her window once more, he waved at her before disappearing onto the Grand Canal.
The following morning, as she took up her familiar position at the window, Fabio’s gondola appeared once again. But this time the young fair-haired man was seated next to the gondoliere in the open part of the gondola. He waved up at her and smiled. He had long straight hair, a broad face and a kind expression. She waved back nervously. He called up to her.
‘ Bon giorno, Signorina .’
His accent was unfamiliar; he was certainly not Italian. She ducked out of sight again, and sat on the window seat from where she could see but remain unobserved. She spent the rest of the day wandering between her bedchamber and her father’s study, musing on the young man with fair hair. Having been brought up in the Middle and Far East, she was fascinated by people with fair hair. Her family’s travels had occasionally taken them to parts of the Middle East where people had fair hair, or blue eyes. She herself had blue-green eyes. But she had never seen hair that resembled fine gold thread. His skin too was pale, far paler than her own olive skin. Since their arrival in Venice, her father had explained that many of the people who lived in the city came from lands far to the north, and they were more likely to have fair hair and skin. On her walks to the market and Piazza San Marco with Daniele, they came across people of all different races, and she enjoyed listening as the merchants bartered and argued over the cost of goods in a hurly-burly of different languages. But without her father to interpret, she had no idea where they came from.
She yearned to discuss all this with her father. She missed his company so badly. She wondered if he would have been shocked that the young man had called up to her. He would probably have invited the fair-haired man to meet them; he was always interested in meeting new people. She went into her father’s study and sat down at his desk with paper and pen to write him a letter. She thought of the young nun who had waved at her a few days before, and wondered if she was in the garden. She stood up from her father’s desk and peered out of the window.
Directly beneath her stood the nun, gathering pears from a large tree that had been trained against
Similar Books
