What Casanova Told Me by Susan Swan Page B

of the old man. He called out in Italian, and some of the audience shrieked and waved their slips of paper at him. Others walked away, their heads down.
    I knew Venice is fond of gambling. No one can miss the colourful windows in lottery offices which display the winning numbers on placards decorated with fantastic figures in blue and red and gold. At night, these windows are well lit with lamps and candles so the Venetians can check their ticket with the winning numbers predicted by the city’s successful gamblers.
    Still, I had never seen two wretched beggars and a half-starved dog holding a lottery in the midst of a civil war.What kept these unfortunates from taking the money for themselves, I wondered.
    Suddenly, the little dog stopped its jack-in-the-box performance and turned a pair of familiar golden eyes on me, wagging its tail. The tall beggar man looked at me warningly. Then he whistled and the little dog trotted to his side, its head down. And I realized I knew the beggar man.
    Francis and I have put Father to bed. I have retired to my room and have brought out my new quill.
    First Inquiry of the Day: Why did Jacob Casanova dress up as a beggar? To avoid Count Waldstein? And why did Father, a suspicious judge of character, believe a man like Monsieur Pozzo, a person he would not have invited to our home in America?
    Lesson Learned: When in a strange country, trust no one, not even your own travelling companions who may be altered by their experiences in new lands.
    Newest Thought I Am Entertaining: I am wiser than my own parent, and this is a melancholy prospect.
    Postscript
    A few hours ago, I heard Father shout my name from his bedchamber. I hurried to his side and found him, his bedclothes a-tumble, his cotton nightcap still on, vomiting into his chamber pot. When I rushed over, he raised his eyes up to me like a frightened child and pointed at his heart.
    “Father, please don’t talk!” I began to wipe his face with a cloth I dipped in the washing bowl. His forehead felt feverish and he was struggling to catch his breath.
    “I must talk, child,” he whispered as he tried to sit up. “Before the pain makes it impossible to speak.”
    “Father, be still!” I pushed him gently back on to the bed and for a moment I thought he might strike me, although he was as feeble as I have ever seen him.
    “You must marry Francis if anything happens to me. Promise me that,” Father said as I pulled the coverlet across his chest.
    “Nothing will happen to you, Father.”
    “Do you trust me, child?”
    I nodded.
    “Then say you will marry Francis if I do not live to see it.”
    I took a quick breath. “Father, I trust you,” I said. “But I do not trust myself.”
    “Is that your answer, little one? If so, it does me no good.”
    “I do not wish you unhappiness, Father,” I said.
    “Then say it—say it, Asked For!”
    “No.” I was shocked by the firmness of my answer.
    A shattered hopeless roar rose out of Father’s throat and he threw himself out of the bed linen. The noise struck me like a hammer blow. He raised both fists, I thought to strike me, but instead he hit his fists with singular force against the front of his chest, and fell backwards on the bed. I knew, before bending to check his pulse, that he was dead.
    When dawn came, I was still lying across his chest. From the street came the cries of vendors selling their fresh melons and strawberries to the late night gamblers. Father, there is nothing you can do for me now, I thought sadly. I am alone in the world. As the sun grew brighter, I washed myself and set out to find Francis.
    On such a day there are no new thoughts or lessons learned. There is only life, as absolute and as unbiddable as death.
    Luce realized that her appointment with Signor Goldoni at the Sansovinian was in half an hour. Where was Lee? Why hadn’t she returned? She put the journal back in its box and checked out of the hospital. Reading about the death of Asked For’s