The Venetian Redemption: Philip Gwynne Jones
By the time you read this The Venetian Redemption, the ninth adventure for Nathan Sutherland, British Honorary Consul in Venice, will have been out for just over a week. He took a break last year as I was busy with the first of a new series, The Magus of Sicily, but it felt good to be stepping back into old, familiar shoes again.
Except, it wasn’t quite like that. In the two years since I finished the previous Nathan novel, my life had turned upside down with the death of my dad in 2023, and my mum eighteen months later.
I couldn’t just write another entry in the series without at least trying to make sense of some of the things that were going through my head. I don’t know if you want to call it Writing as Therapy – honestly, I don’t know enough about that. All I know is that there were words that I needed to get down on paper.
And so, here’s the prologue to The Venetian Redemption. I should point out that the novel is nowhere near as grim as you might think. There are some good jokes in there, as well as the usual nonsense with Nathan, Fede, Dario and Gramsci. But I am glad I wrote this prologue….
The Venetian Redemption is now available from Constable.
Prologue
I look down at mamma; and this tiny creature wrapped up in her bedding looks up at me. There’s confusion in her face for a moment but then her expression clears and she smiles.
I take her hand. ‘Mamma, it’s me. It’s – ‘
Her smile widens. ‘I know who you are,’ she says.
I keep hold of her hand as I look around the room. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’, I say. I’ve brought in photographs and paintings from home, trying to make it look as familiar as possible. ‘If you go to the window you’ll be able to see the canal outside,’ I continue, and then wince. There is no prospect of mamma spontaneously “going to the window”. There has been none of that for some years now. ‘I’m sure they’ll take you outside in the Spring,’ I hastily add.
She continues to squeeze my hand. She’s struggling to speak. And then they come. The words I’ve been dreading.
‘Take me home.’
She continues to smile. That’s what makes it so hard. Even now, at the end of her life, she’s trying to be mamma and mamma would do anything – anything – to avoid upsetting her boy. She’s trying to be brave, and that’s the worst thing of all.
And if she’s trying to be brave, then so must I. I pat her hand and get to my feet. ‘I’m sorry mamma. I can’t do that. You understand.’
The smile slips for a moment. ‘But we were managing. Weren’t we?’
I can think of nothing to say. So I just bend and kiss her forehead. ‘I’ll be back very soon mamma. I promise.’
‘To take me home?’
It would be the easiest thing in the world to lie. To say, yes, of course, I’ll be back tomorrow and the two of us will go home and back to our old lives. But I will not lie to her. Neither can I bring myself to say, “This is home now mamma.”
Home. These four walls. For however long it might be.
I kiss her once more and smile. ‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’ She says nothing but her smile slowly fades and her grip on my hand slackens. Sleeping now. I gently remove my hand from hers and get to my feet.
‘Signore?’
It’s the same nurse who showed me in. There’s something about her accent that I can’t quite place. Not Italian. She looks over mamma, and then gently tucks her in, taking care not to wake her.
‘She’s doing very well, signore. All the staff love her already.’
‘That’s good. I’m so pleased.’ My voice is shaky. ‘Thank you for everything,’ I stammer out.
‘Did she say anything to you?’
I know what she means but pretend not to. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
She doesn’t dance around her reply. ‘Did she say she wanted to leave?’
I consider lying. No. Why would she say such a thing? Mamma is very happy here. But I need to be brave, and honest. ‘Yes,’ I say, unable to look her in the face.
‘That’s quite common, signore. Most of our guests say that in their first few days with us. It will pass. I promise you. Your mother will be well looked after here. We will do our best to make her happy.’
‘That’s all I want. Thank you.’ I screw my eyes shut. ‘I’ve failed her, you know?’
She waits for my eyes to open, my vision blurring with tears.
‘You have done your best,’ she says.
—–
Piazzale Roma is crowded as I make my way to the car park. Happy smiling tourists, besuited businessman, young people chatting, flirting, smoking. Eating panini and drinking spritzes at banchetti.
I hate them all. Every last one of them. I hate their happy, blissfully uncomplicated lives.
I walk through the crowd and every face that looks back at me seems to bear the same expression.
Judgement.
I can barely remember where I left the car as I make my way up the multi-storey. The fob jangles in my shaking hand as the door clunks open and I slump inside. I pull the belt around me and then shake my head. Crazy to drive now. I’ll have an accident. Take five minutes.
Take me home.
The tears start to fall now, my body shaking with grief and guilt and disgust.
We were managing. Weren’t we?
‘I am sorry, mamma,’ I say, and cry until there are no tears left in me. Then I take a deep breath and start the engine.
I catch my expression in the rear-view mirror. The same expression as every face in the Piazza.
Judgement.