The Gondola Maker (11 page)

Chapter
17

His Girls. They are his most prized—and most private—pictures.

The Councillor follows the narrow corridor that leads from his study into the small yet ornate chamber that holds these little treasures. He enters the dark room and pulls back the curtain. Sunlight illuminates the jewel box of a space, with its gilded-coffered ceiling and paintings that cover nearly every inch of its scarlet, fabric-colored walls.

Long ago the Councillor commissioned a plush chair upholstered in blue velvet just for this gallery, and now he positions himself in it so that he may enjoy an unobstructed view of His Girls. Each one looks out at him in return from their gilded frames—a private view for one pair of eyes only. From this position, he relishes the memory of each one.

Signorina Faustini was his first, and he begins by looking at her portrait. The artist did well to portray her startling gaze, her large brown eyes and thick eyebrows. The Councillor runs his eyes along the silhouette of her waist. Then there was Signorina Contato, whose hips were luscious though it turned out that she talked too much. There was another one whose name escapes him; he remembers only that her father insisted that the artist portray his daughter as the mythical Flora, with one pale nipple exposed and a flower in her hand. The Councillor chortled at this thinly veiled attempt to imagine the girl, who turned out to be surprisingly ardent, as a coy mythological goddess.

Hmm, groans the Councillor smugly to himself. He plucked each girl like an apple at the peak of ripeness, devouring her sweetness, then discarding her core. Thrilling every time.

In exchange for each virginal deflowering, the Councillor pays a substantial sum to the girl’s father. Only rarely does the father refuse. Inevitably, a reasonable man sees the logic in getting compensated, in lieu of outlaying a sizeable dowry, for his daughter. After the fact, she is no longer be marriageable anyway. Then her father can whisk her away to a convent along with a respectable endowment and plenty to spare for his own pocket. After all, the girl has the rest of her cloistered life to atone for her own sins, not to mention secure a place for her family in the life hereafter. It makes sense for the father, the family, and of course, the Councillor, who never tires of the chase.

In addition to paying off the father, there is of course a pretty penny to pay for the portrait of each girl. Over the years the Councillor has commissioned some of the city’s best painters to craft each one of these little souvenirs.

This very moment, he thinks, his latest prospect may be sitting, shivering in the damp studio of Master Trevisan, whose contract is now signed. He thinks about the first time he noticed her at a party, his eyes drinking in the girl’s flushed cheeks, the nape of her neck. He felt the usual twinge of attraction overtake him, then the obsession grew.

Even though this negotiation was far from normal, which troubles the Councillor somewhat, he is unable to turn back now. No, he must have this dark-haired beauty. At the same time that he anticipates the encounter, he thinks about how he will rearrange His Girls to make a space for a new picture.

Chapter
18

My work as Alvise’s assistant in the
traghetto
has returned to normal, but in truth, things can never be the same, for I cannot rid myself of the image of the girl. I find myself distracted, engrossed in my work yet far away, turning over images in my mind of her face, her eyes, her hair, her teeth.

“This one is yours,
cucco
!” Giorgio’s voice booms across the ferry station. A man carrying a satchel over his shoulder is waiting at the dock. “Take
figliolo
with you.” The two of us board the boat.

“Good day,
missier
!” Alvise flashes a smile and tips his hat with an exaggerated gesture toward the passenger waiting on the dock. “Where may we escort you today?” The man—I take him to be a shop owner because of his costume and businesslike demeanor—steps confidently aboard and ducks into the seat under cover of the
felze
. “Drop me off at the new ferry station in San Polo,” the man rattles off in a brusque voice.

“Of course. Right away,
missier
,” replies Alvise. He places the oar into the lower notch of the oarlock and tilts the oar to the right. The boat responds immediately and pushes away from the quay. Once the craft is set into motion, Alvise moves the oar to the upper lock and plies his strength into it. The gondola gathers speed. The gondolier’s body sways rhythmically as he rows, a natural movement that makes him seem as if he were part of his craft. Soon fanciful façades appear as nothing more than a blur of arches, pink and mauve stripes with wavering mirror images in the canal. Alvise begins to hum a popular tune under his breath, a satisfied look on his face. The humming grows louder, and then breaks into whistling. Alvise rows to the rhythm as he hums and whistles. The boat skims along silently with a gentle rock. For the first time since I left home, I savor the familiar sensation of riding in a gondola, with wind in my hair and the sun on my face. A wave of contentment washes over me. We pass under several bridges, gliding at such a clip that I have the feeling that the bridges are moving toward us rather than the other way around.

Alvise turns the boat into the Grand Canal. The great basin teems with boat traffic. I recognize the flat-bottomed water barges we call
burchi
, surprisingly strong, from which owners sell fresh water by the bucketful. During times of drought, when people’s wells and cisterns go dry, these water vendors make a fortune transporting fresh, clean water from the Brenta and floating around Venetian canals shouting “
acqua fresc
a!” then doling out eight buckets for a mere
soldo
. A hunting boat slides stealthily out toward the lagoon, carrying two patrician men with crossbows. Cargo barges carry firewood, produce, and other supplies. I recognize two public ferries, today unusually empty. Alvise waves to a friend rowing another gondola some twenty yards away and greets other acquaintances with a lift of his chin or a hand gesture I cannot interpret. His body sways rhythmically as he rows, a natural movement that makes him seem as if he is part of his craft. Alvise Pellegrini, rowing confidently across the Grand Canal, is in his element among these boatmen.

Somewhere along that stretch of Grand Canal, I notice that Alvise begins to slow his strokes. He places the oar in front of the oarlock and even swirls the oar in a seeming backward motion. The craft decelerates, and I am confused. Alvise’s countenance remains the same. A grin on his face, he continues to hum his contented tune without skipping a beat. Catching my eye, he winks.

Alvise maneuvers the craft around a bend in the Grand Canal and into one of the
ghebi
, the network of small canals that feed into the lagoon. I recognize this particular
ghebo
as a cut-through from the Grand Canal to the northern basin. Alvise expertly slides the craft into the cramped space, and slips by another gondola moving in the opposite direction. I marvel that the two boats glide by one another so closely without touching, a mere inch or two apart. As the two boats pass, Alvise and the other gondolier extend their arms and wordlessly salute one other with a quick clasp of their hands, a fierce yet fleeting arm-wrestle.

We approach San Polo. Alvise slows the gondola and drifts toward the quay. The side of the boat skims the algae-covered stone wall near a short flight of stairs leading up to the street. The shopkeeper emerges from the
felze
and gathers his belongings.

“Here we are,
missier
! What a delightful ride, if I do say so myself! That’ll be four
soldi, per favore
.”

The man’s bottom lip drops slightly, and he looks at Alvise with a confused expression. “
Quattro
?” the man clarifies. “But you only ferried me from Castello. That should cost no more than two.”

“How right you are, sir,” Alvise replies diplomatically. “But don’t forget, sir, that today is the Feast of San Rocco, so the rates are higher, naturally. And, sir, I don’t know if you remarked—if you’re not a boatman you may not have noticed—but on the smaller canals in this section of town, the current runs east to west when the tide goes out. I was rowing against the tide, sir, and that always takes longer,” Alvise counters. He continues to flash his crooked smile.

The man purses his lips, and his expression hardens. He drops his satchel on the floor of the gondola with an exasperated gesture, then raises his finger to Alvise’s face. “You!” he begins. “You’re trying to extort me! I’m not some stupid foreigner, you know! I’m a Venetian citizen, and I know how much it costs to go from your blasted ferry station to San Polo! It should cost no more than a
bagattin
. I’m giving you two and no more!” He continues to stare down Alvise.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can accept no less than four. I must make my living, you know, with the cost of grain these days.” Alvise crosses his arms and taps his fingers on his muscular forearm.

“You’re nothing but a no-good thief! You boatmen are all the same! I ought to report you to the Great Council!” The man reaches into the pocket of his breeches, pulls out a coin, and flings it on the floor, then scrambles out of the gondola. Standing on the stairs, he turns to address Alvise again. “San Rocco, my ass!” He spits a large wad of saliva, which hits the inside rim of the gondola. I watch the wad of spit streak slowly down to the floor of the boat.

Alvise immediately breaks out of his diplomatic guise and raises his left hand to make an obscene gesture. “Well you can
kiss
San Rocco’s ass as far as I’m concerned!” Alvise powers the gondola away from the quay, a self-righteous look on his face. He turns the craft into a narrow canal, then glances toward me and nearly collapses from laughter.

But I am hardly paying attention. My thoughts still lie in Master Trevisan’s studio.

AT DUSK, THE ARTIST APPEARS at Master Giorgio’s ferry station.

I am polishing Nerina’s keel when I catch sight of Trevisan’s hefty frame moving briskly toward the station hut from the shadows of the alley.

Startled, Giorgio looks up from his solo card game. “Master Trevisan!” he gasps, scrambling to his feet. “What a surprise... I usually expect to see one of your shop assistants! To what do I owe this honor?”

Trevisan motions with his hand for Giorgio to be seated, and the artist pulls up a chair to the other side of the rickety table outside the hut. “I have an acquaintance from the
scuola
—a certain Signor Brunelli of Dorsoduro. You know the type. Connected. Upstanding. Married. Very married—to a woman who is even more connected than he is. He needs a little diversion of the type that only you can provide.” He looks at Giorgio and raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking of those twins you sent to Signor Fonta the last time? It requires the utmost discretion.” Trevisan examines his own fingernails. “My acquaintance is prepared to pay you handsomely, of course.”

“Are you... involved with this Brunelli?”

“Heavens no,” replies the artist, waving his hand. “Strictly business.”

Giorgio nods. “Consider it done, sir. As always, we’ll take care of it. Anything else?”

“Yes, one more thing. Have your dock boy Fabris pack up his belongings and report to my studio first thing tomorrow morning.” From the inside of his cloak, the artist produces a small velvet bag pulled tightly with a cord. He plunks it down on the table in front of Master Giorgio. It rings with the heft of a large mound of coins. Giorgio’s eyes widen.

“If it please you, of course, Master Giorgio,” begins the artist, using his most polite graces, then meeting the grubby station master eye to eye, “release your dock boy from your charge. I have a pressing need for a new boatman. Luca Fabris now works for me.”

Chapter
19