The Gondola Maker (15 page)

Finally, I hear the lock scrape against the wooden door that leads to the artist’s studio. Beppe continues to talk—something about guild elections this time—but I am no longer listening. The gondolier’s voice recedes into the background, and the pounding in my chest takes over. My eyes are fixed on the canal-side door to the artist’s studio.

As the door opens, her face is illuminated in the light. She is laughing at something Trevisan is saying to her as he escorts her down the stairs to her boat, her hand looped through the crook of the artist’s arm. Her maid is following the pair, carrying her mistress’s brown dog. Trevisan leads Giuliana Zanchi to the quayside, where her boatman is now waiting with a gallant gesture to help his lady board the gondola. As they pass, she turns and looks at me. My heart in my throat, somehow I manage to nod to her in greeting.

Trevisan pauses for a moment, then says, “Signorina Zanchi, may I introduce my new boatman, Luca Fabris?” To my surprise, she meets my gaze with her bright green eyes. “Signorina,” I greet her, unlocking my rigid pose. I bow in her direction, which feels awkward and unpracticed—I can’t recall ever having done this before for a lady.

“Signorina Zanchi,” interrupts Trevisan, turning his attention back to her, “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you again on Saturday at the Councillor’s party?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replies.

Beppe extends his hand to help the lady into the boat, and she accepts it, stepping gingerly from the steps into the rocking gondola. Her cloak covers her entire body, but I drink in every detail of her face, her hand, and her foot as she boards the boat. Seemingly aware that I am watching her, she looks directly at me with a curious expression. Behind her, the girl’s maid follows her mistress into the boat. She regards me with a disapproving glance. Trevisan’s assistant now appears at the door, paintbrushes in one hand, and bows slightly to the ladies in the boat. I stand transfixed for a moment, not believing that I have finally encountered this woman, the one who has filled my mind for weeks.

The two women disappear into the passenger compartment of the gondola. Beppe salutes me with two fingers to his forehead, then pushes away from the mooring, expertly backing the boat and turning out of sight around a narrow corner of the canal.

I return to my work in the boat slip, my entire body on fire.

Chapter
23

I uncork a bottle of varnish, draw it under my nose, then make a disgusted face. It is rotten, and I can only imagine how long the bottle has been sitting there, collecting dust in Trevisan’s boathouse. Too bad. I will have to figure out how to procure the ingredients I need to mix a new batch. I am intent on stripping the split wood from the gondola’s hull. Several of the oak planks are water-damaged and warped, a result of sitting partially sunk beneath the surface of the water for so long. I inhale the pungent, moldy scent of the wood, a strangely comforting smell that transports me to the past.

I locate a pair of stiff leather gloves from the back of the boathouse and figure they will suffice to protect my hands from splinters. With the help of a hammer and saw I locate in the jumble, I wrench the pieces of splintered wood out of the bottom of the boat and toss them into a pile on the cobblestones. Those, I think, may be recut and fashioned into wooden nails of the kind I have made ever since I was a little boy.

After a solid three hours of work, I have managed to clean out the splintered wood from the hole. Thankfully, most of the
corbe
, the structural ribs that I know all too well, are not damaged except for two small V-shaped members near the prow, which can be easily replaced. One of the
masse
, the long elm boards that normally run the length of the boat on either side to protect the craft from scraping alongside docks, has been stripped off. It will need to be replaced as soon as possible to ensure the structural integrity of the boat.

What remains of the original upholstery, as ragged and rotten as it is, proves surprisingly difficult to strip. I prop myself on my knees in the bottom of the boat and tug on the faded velvet with all my might. None of it is salvageable, and I move it to another heap.

I test the soundness of the prow by pushing my weight into it. It does not budge, and I smile, satisfied that even on a damaged boat, the techniques of my own family’s
squero
have withstood the test of time. I run my hand up and down the prow as I imagine my grandfather forming this shape on the dirt floor of the Vianello workshop. My fingers bump over the slight notches in the wood, and I am certain that I have held the ax that made these marks in my own hands.

I WEAVE THROUGH boats docked along the narrow canal to Signora Baldi’s costume rental shop. Trevisan’s gondola is laden with two large crates, filled to the brim with costumes that the artist has worn. I recognize the wicker containers as the same ones I picked up some weeks ago, in what I now realize was a test that Trevisan had organized to see if I would prove a trustworthy boatman.

I arrive at the canal-side entrance of the costume-rental shop just as Signora Baldi is helping another client. She references a list scrawled on a large parchment, stretched across a piece of wood, as a gondolier calls out the contents of a box to her. Signora Baldi acknowledges my arrival with a businesslike smile and a nod, and the other gondolier greets me with a silent hand gesture. Behind him, another gondola awaits.

Signora Baldi stifles an exasperated sigh, then finally instructs me, “I’m sorry. Tonight’s party at the Ca’ Leoncino has made me fall behind. Go inside the shop. My daughter Patrizia will help you. We have the crates ready for the artist.” I moor Trevisan’s gondola and climb out, staggering slightly as I ascend the stone stairs to the costume shop, bearing the weight of one of the crates with the costumes inside.

Inside, Patrizia sits mending a shirt with a needle and thread. She looks up from her sewing to face me. She looks startled, then composes herself and smiles. “You’re Trevisan’s man, right? I thought I recognized you from the last time.” She sets down her sewing and, in a self-conscious gesture, smoothes the front of her dress. “Come... I’ll show you where my mother has put aside the new cartons for the artist.”

I follow the girl into the storehouse behind the shop front. As she walks, she reaches up and pulls a pin from her hair. I inhale a floral scent as she lets her hair cascade down her back. She turns her large brown eyes on me and twirls a lock of loose hair with her finger. She gestures for me to follow.

“Isn’t it time we exchanged that waistcoat?” I look down sheepishly at my coat. She smiles. “I think we can do better than that.” Patrizia files through a rack of men’s costumes, fingering a rainbow of velvets, silks, and taffetas. From this bundle of fine fabrics she produces a stylish-looking coat. “Here it is. Try this one.”

Reluctantly, I remove my waistcoat and toss it onto a chair, then thread my arms through the coat that Patrizia holds out for me. She squeezes my arm and leads me to an enormous mirror propped on the storehouse floor. I look at my reflection while Patrizia runs her hands slowly over my shoulders and back, tidying the coat. In the mirror, she peers out from behind my back. “Just as I thought: this jacket is perfect for you, with your eyes—almost like fire! You can borrow it if you like, as long as you think of me when you wear it,” she giggles. “Just return it to me when you come back with Trevisan’s costumes.

I emerge from the storehouse with the large crate full of next month’s supply of Trevisan’s costumes, and load it onto the gondola. “I’ve also packed a separate box with several possibilities for tonight’s gala,” Signora Baldi gestures to another container on the quayside. She watches her daughter follow me out of the shop and stares in disapproval, seeming to take note that she has let down her hair. She frowns, then turned her attention back to me as I load the second crate onto Trevisan’s gondola. “Please have Master Trevisan make his selection, and return the remaining choices to me by next Thursday since I’ll need to have whatever he does not select available for other clients. The other costumes he may keep until next month, as usual.” She waves as I unlatch the boat from the shop’s mooring. “I’m glad to see that the artist has finally found a trustworthy person to carry out his errands. He has had his fair share of tribulations with boatmen.”

I have begun to row back to Trevisan’s house when a thought occurs to me. I pull out of the Grand Canal and into a small side rivulet where there are no boats or people in sight. I moor the gondola to a giant iron ring on the side of a building. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, I lift the lid off one of the wicker crates. Inside, Signora Baldi has carefully folded a dozen or so garments from which Trevisan may choose, each fully accessorized with stockings and hats to match. A red and black ensemble catches my eye. Swiftly, I roll up the costume and sweep it into the storage compartment under the aft deck. I look around again, then swipe the matching hat, a broad-brimmed affair embellished with a single, long gray goose feather.

I make sure that the rest of the costumes in the crate appear undisturbed, then close the lid and row toward Trevisan’s house.

“THERE IS TOO MUCH boat traffic for me to wait for you here, Master Trevisan. I must moor the gondola away from the palace.” With one hand, I grasp a mooring post outside the Ca’ Leoncino.

“Of course,” says the artist. Valentin, Trevisan’s journeyman, climbs out of the gondola first. Next, Trevisan exits the boat with his usual spryness, which surprises me given the man’s age and portliness. A younger man dressed in an elaborate blue cape and an onion-shaped hat greets the artist with a smile as he climbs out of his own boat. Within seconds, Trevisan is surrounded by a crowd of fawning friends, patrons, and acquaintances. The group moves from the docks up to the palace’s canal-side entrance. Another crowd of talkative partygoers makes its way up the side alley to enter the palace from the land-side.

Pushing off from the docks, I glide away from the Ca’ Leoncino and the many boats clustered around it. I round the corner and search the canal for an ideal spot. Not far away, I find a lone mooring pole next to a dark, silent canal faced with narrow houses, all of which have their shutters closed. I approach the pole and lash one of the boat’s ropes to it. I open the aft deck and snatch the costume I have stored there. I duck into the passenger compartment and draw the curtains closed.

In truth, I don’t really know what I am doing, so I follow my instincts. With some awkwardness, I ply myself into the red and black costume. The silk breeches feel slippery across the skin of my thighs, an unfamiliar sensation. The pants, silk shirt, and vest are of course sized for Trevisan and are much too baggy for my lean frame. Improvising, I roll the excess fabric of the waistband, and then fold the extra material of the shirt into neat pleats at my waist. With some care, I place the hat on my head at an angle, appreciating that it is the most extravagant thing I have worn in my life. I have no choice but to wear my old shoes, which look ridiculous with this elaborate outfit. I hope no one will notice.

I exit the gondola and duck down the alley nearest the mooring post. The alley opens to a broader path, and from there, I can hear the sounds of the party—music, laughter, conversation. The great doors that mark the land-side entrance to the Ca’ Leoncino are closed, but warm candlelight emanates from the upper-floor windows. I position myself in the entryway to a grand building nearby, and wait for an opportunity. After a few minutes, a group of a dozen party guests approaches the building, talking amongst themselves. One man pulls the cord outside the door, ringing a bell. I emerge from the doorway and fold myself into the back of the group. When the doors open, I slip into the palace behind them.

While the exterior of the land-side entrance is relatively plain, the interior of the building takes my breath away. Beneath my dusty shoes, the floor is composed of rose and white marble slabs formed into the shape of a giant star. Several people sit under alcoves around the edges of the entryway, on benches festooned with jewel-toned velvet cushions. Mythological scenes are painted on the walls. I look up to a coffered ceiling some twenty feet above my head, punctuated with gilded flowers. Silks embroidered with coats of arms line an enormous staircase, its marble steps gleaming like mirrors.

I tuck myself toward the back of the crowd with whom I entered the house. Ascending the stairs, we reach the main floor with an arched
portego
overlooking the moonlight reflecting on the canal waters. The party is underway. Several men gather around an enormous hearth that is the keystone of the room, a hulking fireplace carved with gilded mythological figures that stretch from floor to ceiling. At a nearby table, guests sip from wide-rimmed glass goblets so transparent they are nearly invisible. At another table, a black man with a turban-like headdress pours wine from a blown glass pitcher in the shape of a ship.

In the center of the room an enormous table overflows with food beneath ornate glass chandeliers. I have never seen such abundance: a vast bounty of fish and fowl, grapes, pomegranates, eggs, eels, and braided breads, all displayed on red fabric with silver and glass candelabra illuminating the feast. I have eaten meat only on a few occasions over the last year, and I have never tasted the game birds that I have seen patrician men hunting with bows and arrows in the lagoons. Now, here before me splay artfully arranged carcasses of peacocks, pheasants, mallard ducks, quail, guinea hens, and partridges, with the feathers of these birds making up part of the table decoration.

My mouth waters as I load my plate with a precariously balanced bounty of delicacies. I duck to the periphery of the room, where I find a gilded, tapestry-covered stool. The sights, sounds, and smells of the party grow dim and out of focus as I savor the unfamiliar flavors that slide over my tongue. With a two-pronged silver fork, I remove what must be a spleen or a kidney from a tiny bird on my plate. I separate a flap of bumpy skin from the sliver of dark meat. The cook has done his utmost to make the bird look appetizing, dressing it with soft sage leaves and a sliver of citrus. The sight of the creature’s innards exposed, its limbs akimbo, the bumps where its feathers have been plucked, makes me squeamish, but it tastes surprisingly delicious. Finally, two crayfish legs and a pile of empty cockleshells are all that remain on my plate.

Satiated, I scan the room. I catch sight of Trevisan’s assistant, the sleepy-looking Valentin. He stands at the balcony of an open window, his elbow resting lazily on the railing. His unbuttoned silk shirt reveals his smooth, shiny chest and a large gem hanging on a chain. An older man has engaged Valentin in conversation, so I don’t worry that he might recognize me. Still, I pull the brim of my hat down lower on my face. I scan the room for Trevisan, but I don’t see the artist.

The party spills into the next room, and I file into another enormous chamber with coffered ceilings and luxurious fabrics draped over the windows. The chairs have been pushed back against the wall. In one corner of the room, a trio of musicians plays stringed instruments while several guests dance in a circle, holding one another’s hands high in the air. Others stand in clusters, chatting, drinking, and observing the dancers.

At one end of the room stands another enormous
portego
. Its lace-like arches frame a view of the Grand Canal. I pause to take in the vista. A full moon hangs in the sky, making shimmering, metallic patterns in the water. A large gathering of boats—mostly the boatmen of the people at this party, waiting for their masters—clusters in the canal. It appears that the boatmen are enjoying a party of their own. Several boats have been lashed together, their boatmen chatting loudly to one another and laughing. Each boat has a lantern suspended from the frame of its
felze
, and from this vantage point, they appear like hundreds of fireflies bobbing on the water.

The music stops and everyone claps. I turn my head, then freeze.

There she is.

I only see her from the back, but there is no doubt in my mind that it is Giuliana Zanchi. She is taking in the same view that I am, standing at the
portego
alongside two men and an older woman. I approach slowly, moving so that I can see her from the side. Her hair is pulled back from her face in fine braids studded with tiny pearls and sparkling gems. A string of beads hangs at her neck, and a pair of platform clogs peek out from the hem of her emerald-green velvet gown. I can make out their white leather uppers pierced with a fine mesh of flowers and leaves, their tree-trunk-like heels making her nearly as tall as I am. My heartbeat reverberates loudly inside my head.