The Pigeon Lady of Venice

Francesca had just settled herself into one of the benches next to her husband Marco when the heavy door suddenly opened and a flock of pigeons rustled in after the old woman. The benches were worn down from the multitude of tourists as much as from the worshippers. In every alcove a shrine held tall candles, flickering before a scene of Christ or the Virgin.

Marco said, “Francesca, look.”

She craned her neck around to see the woman. But Francesca’s nose had smelled the woman before she saw her, layers of dirt clinging to the torn garments.

They had seen her outside in the Piazza San Marco, begging, hands in a question mark, shoulders shrugged. Marco, who always gave to the disadvantaged, had bent down slightly, dropping a few coins in her hand. She had scrunched them together then rubbed the money, as if to test if it were real before depositing it in her colorless bag. Pigeons had gathered around her like a group of worshippers, waiting for her hand to arc out, scattering the seed. Then the arm arced back, like a sailboat against the wind.

The pigeon lady came into the Basilica with a gust of March wind. Venice in the off-season chilled Francesca, as they had come unplanned on a side trip. For they had come from New York to Italy to meet Marco’s grandfather Guiseppe, lost all these years and assumed dead. Marco had discovered him through his new hobby of genealogy research and the old man had written back, inviting them to celebrate Easter with him in the small Tuscan town of Collodi. Easter had always been a special holiday for Marco, a time where his parents had lavished gifts on him and his sister, such as imported chocolates from Italy. And Marco had told her, no expense was spared for the family get together, a large picnic on Easter Sunday.

They had arrived in Guiseppe’s hilltown village, with one single steep street, in the middle of March, anticipating spending a month with the long lost relative. But they had ended up burying him instead, discovering him in his little house hunched over for a few days, the doctor verified. Grandfather Guiseppe had remained alone while the rest of the family had emigrated to America. Just he and Grandma Maria. Francesca had listened to Marco’s many questions since she had known him, such as why didn’t his parents talk about Guiseppe. But when Marco was eighteen they had died in a car crash, and their secret died with them. Now at thirty-five, he was seeking out his roots. But the old man had died before they could sew seeds of a future family. Francesca was four months pregnant and wanted a history on her husband’s side in addition to her own small family, parentless too. For one of the things that had brought them close quickly was mutual loss.

They had not found Grandma Maria in the town of Collodi and there were rumors she had run off months before, or that she had gone crazy. Someone said she had moved back home, wherever that was, because she was not from Collodi. The doctor, the coroner, the local baker—they had asked everyone, but to no avail. The rumors of Maria’s death, in the end, left them with an uncertain feeling. So Francesca had suggested they visit Venice, which she had seen briefly on an earlier trip, before she knew Marco. She wanted to experience it with him and knew it would take them out of their troubles. She had suggested that they come here after their disappointment with grandfather Guiseppe. She had wanted to return to Venice for years—to the canals, the glass blowers, the mist around the palazzos along the Grand Canal, the modern art collection at the Peggy Guggenheim house, and the food. The place had stuck in her mind. And not only had the Basilica this morning fulfilled her expectations, but the walk by herself refueled her reserves, which had dilapidated with the weight of Marco’s disappointment. But she shared the loss with Marco.

Now the old woman shuffled nearer. Francesca was afraid she would approach them. Marco had already given her money—what else could she want. They had no shelter except for the hotel. They had arrived yesterday and on their little walk before coming into the church Francesca didn’t see many homeless along the paths and courtyards. But why should she worry about a stranger anyhow, she thought to herself.

Francesca stared down at the floor of the church. The Basilica was famous for its luminous mosaics, gold leaf covering every inch of wall and ceiling. But the marble floor mesmerized her, with its geometric patterns. Each color, said the Michelin guide, had been brought from a different part of the country, or further afield. Artists had come from Constantinople—so many influences. Green, gray, brown, red, yellow. Pink from Verona—fantastic colors in endless arrangements. Light gray snakelike lines enclosing dark circles of rust red and deep blue, smart black and white checks circling the light gray lines. Petals enclosed animals. She could have continued to stare down at the floor if Marco hadn’t spoken.

“Francesca, my stomach is bothering me. Do you mind if we go?” Marco put his hand on hers.

Francesca promised herself she would return to get her fill. And Marco would want to spend time here too, for as a graphic designer he appreciated patterns, art, and architecture. As they got up to leave Francesca heard the old woman nearby, skirts brushing against the marble softly. As Marco opened the heavy door to the outside, the woman called “Guiseppe—” But when they turned around she had disappeared.

Marco had mentioned his stomach earlier, but they had just assumed it was part of the journey. But now, he told her, he felt worse. They made their way to the hotel, just past the Piazza San Marco, off the Ponte dell’Angelo, and Marco slumped down onto the bed, one hand hanging off the side. Outside the hotel window Francesca heard gondoliers practicing scales, but as she bent over the ledge to watch, she avoided their eyes. She put another sweater on under her coat and gathered the map to go out in search of a pharmacia, for a cure for Marco.

Embarking on her mission, she strode across the piazza. The woman was making her way across it, at the far end. Francesca couldn’t believe how quickly the woman maneuvered, with her heavy skirts and large bag. Plump as a giant mushroom overlapping its stem, the woman should have moved more slowly. Francesca forgot her mission and went after the billowing skirts but after a minute got lost among the twisting and turning pathways. All she could see was one pigeon in front of her, idly working its way between the cobbled surface, searching for another meal. She found that the map was useless, but discovered she liked wandering anyhow, watching the light sparkle from the canals. She remembered just why, years ago, Venice had mesmerized her, as she eyed the hoards of cats, the fish market with fish layed out like jewels, and the produce boats delivering huge pallets of colors to the market. Following the person in front of her, she walked down narrow walkways, which had arrows pointing and destination signs—“Santa Maria,” “Accademia.” She found herself along the sea, where it entered the Grand Canal with the ocean on three sides. Rusted metal bars in decorative swirled patterns lined windows, smells from other islands blew around—fish, gelato, glass—or did she just imagine she could smell it all? She passed pasticcerias which displayed Easter chocolates, cakes, candies, and breads, she wandered past the gelato stands, and the trattorias with their homemade wines. Fountains constantly supplied drinking water. She crossed the Guidecca bridge, where she found a store a block away form the square where she could get the pictures from Tuscany developed. She should have asked back at the hotel desk about a pharmacia. She had forgotten, lured by the pigeon lady. Why was she drawn to her? Many men were named Guiseppe in Italy, so the woman’s utterance back at the Basillica surely meant nothing. Or at least Francesca tried to convince herself.

            Her feet ached and she felt tired by the time she returned to the hotel. They had chosen it because it lay near the action but gave them quiet. Also, by chance, it provided a clear view of an apartment, where she could see a couple tending to their baby. And, she realized as she looked at the map, the waterway out their window led to the Bridge of Sighs, the bridge where prisoners walked from the Doge’s Palace to the prison of tortures.

Marco lay in the small bed facing the wall, heavy breathing emanating from his rumpled figure. His feet hung over the bottom slightly. Let him sleep, she decided. She would go out again and get him a little something to eat in addition to finding medicine for his stomach.

She asked at the desk about a pharmacia and the woman drew a red line on the complimentary map, a short squiggle away. The map didn’t help, even with the red line drawn on it, but she did finally find a pharmacia. Walking in, she scanned her phrasebook for the words, but gave up and put her hands on her stomach for the person behind the counter. But the girl only gave her something for nausea—she could tell by the picture of the pregnant woman on the box. Was she showing already, even under her coat? She tried again, but the girl went into the back and a young man came out. He spoke English and understood “stomach ache,” producing from the shelves a bottle filled with a blue liquid.

As she stepped out into the foot traffic, the pigeon lady haunted her thoughts. Why had she called out Guiseppe’s name? Surely—No—It just didn’t make any sense. Marco’s illness had dampened any curiosity of his own, but she wanted to know. Maybe she would find her in the Piazza now. Francesca put her hand on her pendant, fingering it, which she did often while thinking. She had worn it for the first time when her uncle Morris and aunt Bea picked she and Adam up to take them to his and Bea’s apartment. They had sat down and told them that their parents would not be returning, that they were together, but not here on earth. They had perished in a fire. All she could think was, at least they were together. Her uncle had said they couldn’t take much because they didn’t have enough room. While uncle Morris helped Adam pack his suitcase and Bea gathered together Francesca’s things, she quietly went into her parents room and took her mother’s jewelry box off the top of the bureau and went behind the bed and sat down on the floor. She had to muffle the music box sound with the edge of the quilt as the opened it to remove the heart shaped pendant, running her fingers over the smooth mother-of-pearl surface before stuffing it deep into her winter coat pocket. The marcasite Star of David, set in the middle of the heart, glittered in the dim afternoon light on its way into hiding. She knew it was to come to her. Her grandmother had given it to her mother when she was ten years old, and her mother had promised it to her. But she was only eight. In her new life in her aunt and uncle’s apartment, Francesca began wearing the necklace under her clothes. One day, Bea noticed it and Francesca said, yes, her mother had given it to her last year. She realized then that Bea knew nothing of the legacy, therefore hiding it was unnecessary. She wore it every day.

Since she and Marco had met, she was further losing herself, as he called her Francesca rather than Frances, her given name. But she had immediately loved the Latinated sound of her name. And as Marco’s large family welcomed her into their bosom—many aunts and uncles and his cousins—she began to embrace the idea of creating a family with Marco. But the fullness she felt when she spent time with her new family left her empty as well. She wanted their baby to have both her Jewishness as well as Marco’s Catholic upbringing, but she hadn’t approached Marco yet and wasn’t sure how to talk about it. She had become too much Francesca.

Her hand on the pendant, Francesca realized that the sun hung low in the sky, leaving little time. When she stepped on the small bridge back to the Piazza San Marco, the water beneath it rippled slightly.

She found the woman off to one side of the square, sitting on a step near one of the cafes. Her skirts flung outwards from her body, so she resembled a Turkish dancer. Her clothes, which had seemed black, now appeared upon a closer inspection red and purple. Behind what must have been layers of dirt, a flower and leaf pattern immerged on the large width of fabric. She didn’t venture too close, only wanting to observe.

The face peered down at something in the soiled hands but she couldn’t tell what. Maybe if she got closer.

“Mi scusi, Signora,” the woman said, her eyes suddenly appearing, large dark pupils. Wrinkles surrounded them, deeply cut like scars.

Not knowing what to say, she responded, “Scusi?”

She had relied on Marco for the Italian. He had inherited it through his bloodstream they had decided, because during their conversational Italian class he picked it up easily, while she floundered. No matter how many times she labored over her class notes, verbs escaped and nothing would cling to them. Marco suggested it was because she had studied French in high school instead of Spanish. Sentences would just not form and during their trip she had resorted to one word sentences like “prego” and “grazie,” and gesturing.

Faced with the pigeon lady, she froze. She could only stare. Suddenly, the café owner, a man with a large moustache, shouted at the woman and she gathered her skirts up and clutched her bag, moving quickly across the square and out of the Piazza. Her legs were invisible under the thick long skirts, but somehow in her old age, she slinked like a centipede, smoothly and quickly. By the time Francesca reached the portico, the figure had vanished. She would have to search for her another time. Marco was probably famished if he was awake, and she couldn’t stand the smell of food any longer, having missed lunch. Lining the loggia of the piazza stood numerous food stands where vendors sold delicacies. The guidebook had warned to avoid the touristy areas, but she couldn’t heed that now, and focused on the seafood stand, where she saw men and women with cameras and sporty outfits gobbling down small cups of red shrimps.

The sign said “Gamberetti.” With the delicately spiced seasoning still resonating in her mouth, she purchased two more cups. If only convenience stands back home were this good, Francesca thought. She got some seafood to go for Marco, and some polenta with meat sauce from another stand. She thought the soft cornmeal would settle his stomach and the meat sauce would appeal to him if his stomach had recovered sufficiently. Someone was selling wine, but she couldn’t have any in her condition, so she got a couple large bottles of fizzy water to take back to the hotel. In darkness the Piazza showed no movement. Even the pigeons were gone. Where had the pigeon woman gone for the night? Where did she go every night, away from her brood of birds? Francesca thought she would find out tomorrow.

Armed with an order of polenta and bolognese sauce on the side for Marco, she entered the hotel room. She found Marco lying on the bed, but he faced the window now. He heard her, opening his eyes. They appeared moist and his dark hair seemed like it had grown longer as it lay smashed against his neck instead of protruding outward from his head as he normally styled it. They had taken on a room with a shower and she thought that he could use a freshening up.

“Francesca.” He reached an arm up to embrace her.

No matter how tired or sickly Marco was feeling he always made her feel cared for.

When the verdict had come in from the doctor last month and she had told Marco, he had picked her off the ground and taken her out to dinner to celebrate. She had been unsure of his response, for they hadn’t planned for a family so soon, but he reassured her that he had a good job now, at Lefler and Sons, so she could take some time off from teaching. And she actually looked forward to working on her novel. But somehow Marco’s grandfather’s death and now this detour had changed her. They had been married for six years, and she loved Marco. But she hadn’t always wanted children. She had even thought of not telling Marco when she found out, and aborting the baby. The promise of family would have reassured her that keeping it was the right decision.

Marco asked, his voice cracking, “How long was I out—God, it feels like days.”

“Just since noon. I’m glad you woke up. I found some polenta, if you can handle it, and some meat sauce, but also the medicine—take that first.” She took a plastic spoon from the bedside table and ladled one helping into Marco’s open mouth.

“Not too bad, the flavor,” he said.

“The man at the pharmacia said to take a spoonful every four hours… I—I’m sorry… I couldn’t get it for you earlier, but it’s easy to get lost here.”

“Oh, is that what the wonderful smell is—I’m a little hungry. But I’d better be careful.”

Marco quickly ate every bite, following it with swigs of water. But then he lay back down again.

“I guess I need to rest some more. Do you mind? I’m sorry. I know you wanted to experience Venice together.” He took her hand, smoothing it with his.

“No, no, you rest,” she assured him. But then she remembered what she wanted to say. “I want to tell you about the pigeon lady.”

“Who?”

“Remember, the woman at the church. She called Guiseppe’s name—“

“Oh, I forgot. What, did you see her again?”

So she told him about following her and losing her, of how she felt compelled to talk to her but didn’t know how.

“If you were well, you could talk to her,” she said to Marco. “You could ask her.”

“I’ll be well soon, and I can help. But isn’t it just a coincidence? After all, Guiseppe is a common name, like Marco.”

“Very funny, and yes, I thought of that too.” For Francesca had revised her earlier opinion, no longer viewing the pigeon lady’s outburst as coincidental.

Marco rolled over again. She sat on the chair for a moment looking out the window. The couple in the apartment across the way sat at their table again, the man feeding the baby in its highchair with a spoon. They were so near that she could almost reach out and touch them. Francesca got up and changed into her nightgown. She lay next to Marco gently, as not to disturb him. Moonlight poured down into the room. She slept better with the curtains open and Marco was already asleep, so she left them open. She thought that as much as his illness, maybe Marco needed time alone to process the loss of Guiseppe. She wished he could rouse himself and share the wonders of the city with her. And in a way, she wished he would convince her that her obsession with the pigeon lady was unfounded.

She rose early, earlier than she did back home, and trotted downstairs to the desk for a few breakfast rolls and a cappuccino. At least dinner had sat well with Marco, so he must be feeling better. And the medicine must have helped. She didn’t want to leave him but she also needed to get some fresh air. Leaving a couple rolls on the desk beside the bed, she collected her coat and her bag, letting Marco sleep. His eyelashes looked wet and his lips were open a little bit as a light snore came out. She felt easier going out alone when he was sick, enjoying her forays instead of feeling guilty.

The woman stood in the middle of the square feeding the birds when Francesca arrived. One sat on top of her head, the lookout. To the side of the square were two statues, lions at rest. Standing next to one, a real feline washed itself, one leg stuck out like a stickshift. It looked flea bitten but the white fur against the striped gray was a clean white. The cat looked up at her but continued its morning routine. She missed her cat back home, The Badger, who resembled this foreigner.

Hearing shouting from the Piazza, Francesca looked up to see pigeons scattering as another feline lunged for them. The pigeon lady stood among the scuffle, scolding the fleeing cat, but she didn’t really seem upset, a grin on her face. Anyhow, she must have been used to the cats. While Francesca was curious about her, she still felt hungry, so went off in search of something more substantial than the bread and coffee. Only four months along in her pregnancy, she nevertheless hungered for more than her normal intake. Had she convinced herself she was following nature’s course, or was she really hungry? After stopping at a few of the food stands around the Piazza, she wandered along the main drag, or at least where the foot traffic traveled.

Before heading back to the hotel, she somehow managed to find the store where she had dropped off the film, winding her way and getting lost a few times en route. Marco would enjoy the pictures.

Marco was sitting up when she returned but said, “I feel better overall, but my stomach is still a little topsy turvy.”

 “I hope the meat sauce didn’t upset you more.”

“No, it was wonderful,” he said, reaching up to kiss her cheek. “ But do you mind if I continue to rest?”

She told him, “no, honey,” propping him up and rubbing his back for a few minutes.

She reminded him of their open ticket, that they could linger until he felt better. They had come over via Paris on a consolidation airfare, recommended by Marco’s sister. It had made sense because they didn’t know how much time they would need with Guiseppe. As it turned out they had needed more time than they thought, planning the burial and tying up loose ends with Guisippe’s house. Marco’s employer was amenable to his absence since he had not taken full vacation time in the past three years.

“Marco, there is no pressure.”

Her college had gotten a substitute anyhow, some recent Ph.D. graduate who specialized in Victorian literature. What would her Modern American novel class think of the sub, Francesca wondered. But they could survive a few weeks longer.

“Marco, would you like to go out later—just to the square?”

“Maybe later. You’re right—it might help me feel better.”

“You might take a shower, to refresh yourself,” she said.

He asked her, “What about the pigeon lady—did you see her today?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t keep up with her.”

“What, that old woman?” he said, surprised.

“Oh, I got the pictures,” she told him.

Their conversations often ran rapid fire like this. They knew how to turn the corners quickly.

Pulling the packet from her bag, she plopped down next to him on the bed. He had taken a number of shots of the inside of Guiseppe’s house to show his sister, and eventually to show their child. In addition, they both had taken numerous shots of the countryside, stretching on and on, grapevines, olives, and rustic houses, and the little town’s winding street—the town that Guiseppe had refused to leave. Marco had also taken pictures of the old photos on the walls of the house, of Guiseppe and Maria, of Marco’s parents when they were young. But they were puzzled at a few blank spaces on the walls where the wallpaper was lighter, and wondered who would have taken the pictures.

Marco pointed at the picture of his parents dressed in their wedding clothes, to his father’s face. “See, don’t we look alike?”

“Yes,” Francesca agreed. “Yes,” she said. But it was too late.

He put the picture back in the pile. “I’m tired,” he said, lying back down.

She held him until he fell asleep, but it didn’t take long. Curling around him with her body, worlds away from home, she felt at peace for the first time on the trip. But he was lost. She wanted to do something. So she left him there, his tall frame curled in a ball like a cat.

She found the pigeon lady in the Piazza, pigeons lining her arms, a couple of birds on top of her head. It was almost dark, and Francesca sat down at one of the cafés for a few minutes, until the waiter approached her. She was only waiting for the woman, and didn’t want anything to drink anyhow.

The waiter started speaking. “Café?”

Just then, the pigeon lady began making her exit. Francesca rose, ignoring the waiter. She had to move quickly lest she find only shadows.

Francesca could hardly keep up with her. She felt weighted, as if her unborn child was leading her. Yet she managed to keep sight of the dark skirts just as she rounded each corner. The church from the other day loomed before her—Santa Maria Formosa. She had not ventured much further than this point, so if she got lost she might end up wandering the streets for who knows how long. Marco would wonder, waking in the morning. He would have to contact the police. They would find her huddled in a dark corner somewhere, weak and hungry, days later.

They passed another church, smaller, and then another one, even smaller. Then a larger one. They crossed bridge after bridge. People hurried home from work, dressed in suits with briefcases, or more casually. A man in overalls pushed a heavy wheelbarrow up one of the curved bridges. Groups of kids with backpacks converged at various corners. Francesca had to use her eyes as much as her legs to keep up with the pigeon lady among the increasingly peopled streets. But then the crowds decreased and she saw the woman alone, up ahead.

They walked more slowly now so Francesca could read a sign, “Fondamenta de la Misericordia,” which described how she felt, but unable to give up her mission. She could see what must be the cemetary island—she recognized it as she had taken the vaparetto once before to the island of Murano. Still, she couldn’t get her bearings. They passed a huge brick building, with the sign “Misericordia,” with an incomplete façade. It seemed to her they had been traveling for a while now. Another sign, “Calle Malvasia,” hinted at her feeling of illness too. They turned right onto a black iron bridge, more modern than others she had seen, probably only a hundred years old. When she looked up, the woman had disappeared. Francesca ran—she couldn’t lose her. Running, she caught out of the corner of her eye, down a narrow path, the woman moving father along. Francesca’s feet hurt, she realized, as she stopped briefly. But she had to continue, since she was lost anyhow. What would Marco say?

But in an instant she had lost her. That was all there was to it. Her feet felt weighted, like lead. So she made her way back to the square, which welcomed with its shady trees, unlike the bare spaces she had seen on other walks. The apartment houses surrounding it were the tallest she had seen in Venice. She looked up—like trees they towered, with narrow trunks. She counted the floors—four, five, six—over seven floors. One building had a cupola on top of it, like a hat, and five large windows surrounding it. The Ghetto. Francesca had read of this unmistakable Synagogue in her book. All the Synagogues were built on top of the apartment buildings, making then safe places of worship for Jews centuries ago.

Searching the alleyways with her eyes, she could only see lines of wash hanging over all the alleyways stemming from the square, like spokes of a wheel. Then she saw the woman stooping over a pile. But by the time Francesca could reach her, she had run off, disappearing down one of the alleyways. Francesca tried to find her but could not, and afraid of swirling in the maze, she returned to the square. She sat down on the ledge of a well at first, and she swung her legs off the tall seat. But then she pulled herself up and wandered over to the woman’s belongings.

Breathless, she sat down on the cold cobbled ground, panting. She told herself she would make it back. A few people leisurely crossed the square, chatting, but Francesca could neither get up nor speak. She just needed to rest. The light had faded and darkness almost fully enveloped her except for a small light near the church. She noticed that the woman had quite a heap of clothing. Would she it betray the woman if she looked through them? But then, she led her here, didn’t she? Oh, no, she didn’t lead her anywhere, as she had followed the woman of her own volition.

On top of the heap lay a blanket. Francesca pushed it aside. The old woman must have her sources, for the thick blanket felt like new, soft and warm. Underneath were a pile of clothes, all of them worn thin, and beneath that, a double suitcase, a portmanteau bag. She didn’t know anyone used them anymore. In one compartment the woman had packed plates, wrapped carefully in newspaper. The design looked familiar, but Francesca supposed they were a popular print. “What would a pigeon lady need with plates,” she thought. In the other compartment were pictures in frames. One showed a young girl and her mother standing in an alleyway, much like the alleyways stemming from the square in front of her. The woman may have grown up here, if she was the girl in the picture. The clothes looked like they were from the Twenties in the US however, bare-sleeved and hanging straight down to just below the knee. Wouldn’t that be unusual for Italians living in the Jewish Quarter, the Ghetto, she wondered.

She fumbled for another picture, and instead, against the bottom of the compartment, on the brown velvet, she found a chain. She pulled it out slowly. Pulling it close to her face in the dim light, she made out shiny stones on a smooth mother-of-pearl heart. The stones were in the shape of a star—a six-pointed star. A Star of David. The pendant resembled her own, yet larger and more worn, and felt familiar against her fingers.

Had Marco’s parents known of their Jewish relation but not mentioned it to him? He had told her that he had never seen his grandparents. He had figured out that there must have been a falling out because his parents no longer mentioned Guiseppe or Maria in the last years before the car crash, and every time he had tried to talk about it with them, they changed the subject.

She pulled out another picture. Marco’s parents stared out at her from that frame, from the pigeon lady’s suitcase. How could she—It didn’t make any sense. Francesca had to tell herself to breathe slowly. She had enough excitement for one day. But she couldn’t argue with what she saw. Marco had boasted often of his parents—they had been the first of their families to come to America, and had made a home for the rest of their siblings. She had seen many pictures of them, as newlyweds, as young parents, and with Marco and his sister as teenagers. She would know them anywhere. Who was this pigeon lady?

Another picture showed herself and Marco at their wedding, their eager faces slightly turned towards each other. How long ago had Marco really found Guiseppe? He had told her that he had recently found his grandfather yet the photo was taken six years ago.

She took yet another picture out of the case. Guiseppe and his wife Maria—a similar print to the one Francesca had seen in Guiseppe’s house only last week. But how? She must have been lost in thought, for she didn’t hear the woman at first.

“Uhmm. Uhhmmm.”

Francesca looked up. Who knows how long the pigeon lady had been standing there. Dust swirled around large form. She had her hands on her wide hips and her eyebrows were scrunched together. Francesca felt exposed, her legs splayed out before her with the frames sitting in her lap. She didn’t know what to say, so she held out the picture, offering it up. While she feared her, she also hoped the pigeon lady wouldn’t run off again. Francesca sat back against the heap, hoping her own exhaustion would show—that surely, would argue in her favor. Then, somehow, she remembered a phrase. It must have been from the class.

“Mi scusi. Posse?,” she said softly. “Vi dispiace?”

It meant, do you mind.

The woman came forward, lips pursed, and with her right hand grabbed the photograph from Francesca’s hand with such force she thought that surely her arm should have ripped from its socket. And then the woman started shouting. Francesca for the first time felt happy she could not understand the language. She covered her ears and put her head between her legs for cover. She could not stand and couldn’t fight back. But after a few minutes the yelling stopped. When Francesca looked up, the woman was holding the picture to her substantial bosom. Francesca could not understand. She held her hands out in the air timidly, to say, “What?”

The pigeon lady unfolded her arms and turned the picture around to face Francesca. Pointing at the woman standing next to Guiseppe in the picture, the pigeon lady then pointed to herself. Francesca saw the resemblance. So Marco did have family here after all, and so she did too, and her baby. Francesca reached into the suitcase for the wedding picture of Marco and herself, and pointed to the bride. But she wondered if the woman would understand as she seemed unbalanced. Perhaps her condition was hereditary—

Francesca looked directly at the pigeon lady. The lamp on the other side of the square must have brightened, because she could see the woman’s eyes now, and some kind of recognition, wordless yet distinct in the pupils. The woman came forward a step, hesitantly. But before Francesca could say anything, the wide skirts whisked around and the woman disappeared down the alleyway from where she had come.

When Francesca rose to her feet, she realized she had gained a little energy back. She would have to begin her way back. Surely could remember the route now. It would take time because she would walk slowly, very slowly, but she would make it back to the hotel. And she would tell Marco about the pigeon lady. It wasn’t until she was halfway back—she recognized the Romanesque church near the Guidecca Bridge—that she realized she had the necklace tight in her palm. Francesca would show it to Marco, and when he felt better they would come back together to the Jewish Quarter.