The Gondola Maker (21 page)

It is only then that I realize I do not know when or how I will see her again. I cannot ask now. I can only watch her go.

Chapter
31

For several days, something has been nagging me. As I go about my daily chores, it is there, bothering me, filling my conscience. Finally, I realize what it is. I have no idea how I will come up with the money to finish restoring the gondola. In particular, I don’t know how I will find the funds to purchase the new
felze
and the oarlocks that would be necessary to finish the boat.

If anyone knows the costs of these items, it is I. How many times have I heard my father—and my father’s patrons, too—complain about the high cost of the fittings of these boats? They are among the most expensive parts of a gondola, which is why the truly rich spare no expense in their ostentatious displays. I count my meager boatman’s salary, stashed away in the back of the boathouse. Even though I spend nothing, even though I’ve saved every
soldo
I have earned, at this rate it would take me years, maybe even decades, to earn enough to fit the boat with the proper
felze
, oarlocks, and other fittings. And I’m not even making anything on my side job since I turn over everything Giuliana pays me to Alvise.

I cannot bring myself to ask Trevisan for the money. It seems too much to ask of the man, who has already been overly generous with me, providing a roof over my head, food to eat, and the opportunity to get close to Giuliana Zanchi.

I run one hand along the back of the dusty
felze
that I removed from the old boat. It sits on trestles in the shadows of the boathouse. I allow myself to dream for a moment. If money were no object, I know exactly what I would do. My father had worked with a
felze
maker in Dorsoduro, a man who still took the time to double-stuff the cushions and line the upholstery with silk. In reality, there is no reason to have a brand new wooden frame for the
felze
made, I think, when the old one could be salvaged. I have succeeded in stripping down the old frame to bare wood now, and I run my hands over the walnut wood, sanded smooth. Hands on my hips, I circle the contraption, which I have laid on the floor of the boathouse to consider. I admire the curve of the seat, which looks old-fashioned now after so many years. It is still beautiful. This
felze
frame will not be painted, gilded, or even carved. It will be stained simply, to reveal the beauty of the wood.

Although I would have liked to find a more sumptuous fabric, I decide that even something more modest could still provide privacy and protect the rider from getting soaked in the rain or burned by the sun. I make a note to ask the costume-renter’s daughter for a suggestion.

Now there is the matter of the oarlocks. The front oarlock is simple yet serviceable; it will have to do. The rear oarlock, however, is missing and will need to be replaced. The problem is that I know every
remero
in the city, and more importantly, they know me. Somehow, I must commission one of these pieces without the
remero
knowing that it is the son of Domenico Vianello—now masquerading as a
gondolier de xasada
for the artist Trevisan—who is doing the commissioning. I sigh and shake my head, realizing how complicated my circle of lies has become.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the answer hits me. Even though I have never done such a thing, there is a first time for everything.

I will make the oarlock myself.

ONE OF TREVISAN’S APPRENTICES—the young boy everyone calls Biondino—is leaving the artist’s studio for good. The artist seems visibly shaken by it, though I cannot divine the exact circumstances of his departure. The boy’s parents come for him in a modest water-seller’s boat, which they dock outside the artist’s studio. From the boathouse, I catch snippets of their impassioned argument—something about money, pre-arrangements, family promises. Whatever the circumstances of Biondino’s dismissal, it is a lucky turn of events for me, as it opens a room inside the artist’s house.

“It’s not much too look at,” Trevisan apologizes, “but it’s clean and dry, and you won’t be out of pocket like you are now at the boardinghouse.” I thank my master vigorously, genuinely grateful for the man’s generosity. Signora Amalia shows me to a small garret tucked under the roof of the artist’s tall house. No matter how modest the space, I am thrilled with it. I happily gather my few worldly belongings into a satchel and leave Signora Bondini’s boardinghouse for good.

The room forms little more than a compartment tucked under one side of the sloping roof, accessed by a steep, narrow stairway that climbs three stories from the kitchen. Each step is worn and sagging in the middle, the result of decades of use. I must duck my head to avoid hitting the top of the doorframe. A single window allows light into the room, with a view to a tall, funnel-shaped chimney from another house across a constricted canal, and the sky above. A narrow iron bed is wedged under the sloping roof, and I find the mattress to be softer than the one at the boardinghouse, with a layer of goose feathers tucked over the straw. There is also a small writing desk with a simple wooden chair and an elaborate pewter candlestick holder. A small drawer holds a fresh supply of butter-colored candles. A threadbare but once-fine woolen rug, the kind I have seen the Eastern merchants selling in the markets, covers the floor. One of the walls is made of brick, and I judge that it is the flue of the kitchen hearth since it warms the room with a comfortable, dry heat.

Shelves line one wall, filled floor to ceiling with books. I have never owned a book. I approach the collection with trepidation and respect, running my fingers across the old-fashioned, faded handwritten script scrawled across their spines. Ghost-like goatskin bindings show the pores of the animals sacrificed for these massive books. At night, seated at the small desk in the candlelight, I turn each page in fascination. Most of them appear to be religious books—breviaries, prayer books, enormous monastic manuscripts with marbleized end papers and gilded-stamped words on their leather bindings. I examine the minutely gilded scrolls and swags that decorate the initial letters, as well as the richly colored pictures of noble people with their blue, green, gold, and red robes, crowns, and turbans. I make out many Latin words, but some of the books are written in Eastern languages that I cannot begin to interpret—perhaps Greek or Arabic, but I do not know. I run my fingers along the strange letters, imagining what they might impart if only I could unlock their meaning.

Like the rest of Trevisan’s house, the remaining walls of my new room are covered from floor to ceiling with paintings. The ones in this room hardly compare to the giant, epic stories in the paintings on the main level of the house, but I find them fascinating anyway. There are several old portraits of patrician men and women, their somber expressions gazing out of their frames. From a tiny jewel-like Byzantine icon, Our Lady stares out at me with an impenetrable gaze. One painting of horses seems so old, so dark, that I can only make out the subject by standing very close and tracing the equine forms with my finger. I examine the paintings by candlelight, watching the colors emerge and the varnish shimmer as I raise my small flame.

One painting continues to draw my attention. It shows a nude woman reclining on a bed piled high with crimson-colored bedding and lace-trimmed cloth. She seems nearly asleep or perhaps drunk, her head lolling on her arm, her eyes half-closed. I move the writing desk with the candle so that it sits beneath this small rectangular frame. Now I can lie on my soft mattress and trace the voluptuous S-curve of her waist and hips with my eyes, spotlighted with a flame in a room otherwise cast into darkness.

The room has one window, and I open it and push my body through it. I discover that I can climb out to a cramped space on the rooftop of Trevisan’s house, wedged between the windows, the tall stovepipes, and the metal gutters that dump rain into the canal below. I shove my hands inside the pockets of my woolen coat to ward off the cold air. With my left hand, I finger the slip of parchment that Giuliana dropped into my boat weeks ago. The paper has remained in my pocket ever since she gave it to me. Sometimes I pull it out and examine her handwriting, running my fingers over the words scrawled in a fussy, feminine script.

I hoist myself higher up on the roof tiles so that I can see over the peak of the roof. I suck in my breath at the awe-inspiring vista over the rooftops to the Grand Canal. I feel as if I could take in the entirety of my native city in a single vision, almost as if seeing all of its bridges, domes, bell towers, and squares from the perspective of a bird soaring high above it. The city spreads out like a vast panorama, shimmering on the surface of the water like a mirage. In the distance, I can make out the tower of Madonna dell’Orto in my old neighborhood. In my mind’s eye, I see my sister stoking the fire in our kitchen hearth, my baby brother in the cradle. I imagine my father and my brother Daniele rebuilding the
squero
over the months since the fire. I wonder if they are making new boats, if they speak of me, if they think of me at all.

Chapter
32

I emerge from the narrow staircase into Trevisan’s kitchen to see Signora Amalia wielding a long, skinny loaf of bread like a mallet. “I swear this is the last time I buy bread from that accursed baker in San Marco.” She wags the loaf at me as if I too am implicated, then, noticing my hands raised above my head in easy capitulation, she softens.

“Luca, dear one, would you kindly go and fetch some fresh bread for Master Trevisan? If I must stop what I’m doing, I’ll never get the pear pie finished in time for dessert!” She presses several coins into my hand, then, with a glance toward the artist’s studio, she whispers, “The artist likes his bread crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. If he doesn’t get it, he’ll be cross for the rest of the evening.” She shakes her head and gestures toward the hearth. “I can’t leave my stew and my pie.” I notice the flour-covered worktable with a rolling pin and half-rolled pie dough. Signora Amalia walks over to stir a large pot that hangs from a chain over the fire, with a delicious aroma emanating from it. “Try Baker Salvini, by San Lorenzo.”

My mouth waters, and I smile. “I’ll be right back.” At the stairwell, I press my hat on my head and jog down the old stone stairs to the boat slip.

I steer Trevisan’s gondola from the boathouse into the canal, whistling as I go, my mind anticipating the taste and texture of Signora Amalia’s delicious mutton stew. I row to the market where she said the bakery stood. There I find the baker just about to close his shop for the day. I pay for a long loaf, squeezing it to make sure it is still soft on the inside but crackles pleasingly on the outside. I emerge from the shop and stop to watch a hawk circling in the air above.

“Hello, there, Trevisan’s boatman,” a voice says at my ear. Startled, I turn to see a girl standing awkwardly close to me. Her face is familiar. All at once I realize that it is Patrizia, the daughter of Signora Baldi, the costume renter.

“Hello yourself,” I say, trying to appear composed.

“Imagine... running into you here by chance. Are you fetching dinner?” she smiles and twirls a lock of hair, cocking her head to the side.

“Yes, among other things,” I say. “I was just finishing up.”

“A lovely coincidence,” she replies. “So was I. I was on my way home. Say, could you give me a ride in your boat?”

I hesitate, thinking that Signora Amalia and Master Trevisan are waiting for me, but, unable to think of an excuse, I reply, “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“Excellent. You never know what a girl may encounter on the evening streets by herself. Safer to be in a boat any day.”

“Of course,” I say and am surprised when Patrizia loops her hand through my arm and walks in step with me to the place where I have moored Trevisan’s boat. With one foot in Trevisan’s gondola and one on the quay, I offer my hand to help her into the boat. I open the curtains of the passenger compartment and realize that I have left some of the supplies I was using to clean the boat on the seat.

“I’m sorry, signorina, I left this here by mistake. Allow me to move it out of your way.”

She laughs. “Please, I’m not a noblewoman. I’ve ridden in boats much less accommodating than this one. I do not need to ride in here by myself. All the better, why don’t you stay here with me?”

With both hands, Patrizia grabs the collar of my shirt and sinks down on the seat. With all her might, she pulls me down with her. Reeling, I extend my hand and clutch the back of the seat just in time to prevent myself from keeling headlong into the bottom of the gondola. I sit down hard on the seat next to Patrizia, and she tightens her grip on my collar, pulling my face toward hers.

Shocked, I pull my head back, but she persists until I sink back into the seat. I feel completely disoriented, rocking from side to side in the boat with my entire being consumed by the warm taste of this girl’s mouth. For a moment, I let myself succumb, then find a way to turn my head to the side and utter, “My goodness, you work quickly.”

She smiles, and, still gripping my collar in her fists, she says. “The moment you appeared in the shop, I knew you were the one. Ever since you came to choose the new upholstery for your boat last week, I’ve been looking for the right moment.” She looks at me slyly.

“You mean you’ve been following me?” I ask incredulously.

“As much as it’s possible for a girl without a boat to track a man like yourself,” she says. “My mother is trying her best to match me with the son of one of her wealthy patrons. But who wants to be cooped up in a big house with a needle and thread? I’m better suited for someone who can take me places.” She laughs and finally lets go of my collar, only to press her torso against me and push my shoulders back against the seat with her hands.

I gather my wits and manage to sit up straight in the seat. I clasp my hand over hers. “Signorina,” I say. “I’m very tempted, believe me. But at this moment my master is sitting at his dinner table, waiting for me to arrive with this bread.” I gesture to the loaf that now lies toppled over in the bottom of the boat.

She laughs again, then tugs at the leather laces of my vest, making them fall open. “We’ll just have to be quick, then,” she breathes.

I look earnestly into her face. “If I’m not back in five minutes, Master Trevisan will have my head for dinner instead.”

My face must look grim, or at least sincere, for she loosens her grip on my laces and screws up her face in a dramatic pout. The dejected look on the girl’s face fills my heart with remorse.

“There will be another time for this—um, for us. Just not now.” I make a feeble attempt to reconcile the awkward situation. “Let me take you home, and we’ll figure out a time to see each other again. Agreed?”

She begins to cry. Great tears roll down her cheeks, and she muffles a loud sob with the back of her hand.

“No, no, no!” I wave my hand and wish with all my might that the girl would stop crying. How did this happen? I think, my mind racing. I was just on my way to fetch bread, for God’s sake. I pull a cloth from my pocket and hand it to her. “Let me take you home,” I say.

She sniffs and lifts her head, then assumes an angry face. “Never mind,” she spits. “I should have known better than to trust you. I’ll get home myself.” She shoots out of the seat and climbs out of the gondola, bundling her skirts around her legs as she steps up onto the quay. Then, wiping her nose on her sleeve, she jogs down the alley and out of sight.

Stunned, I huff myself back down on the seat of the passenger compartment. I look down and rearrange my disheveled shirt, then my hair. I pick up the loaf of bread from the bottom of the boat. I emerge from behind the curtain flush-faced and begin rowing as quickly as possible back to Trevisan’s house. I tie up the gondola at the dockside, then run up the stairs to the kitchen, where Signora Amalia shoots me an angry glance.

“Where have you been?” she whispers loudly. “He’s already on his second course!” She snatches the loaf from my hand. Through a crack in the door, I glimpse flickering candlelight inside Trevisan’s dining room, and I hear the clinking of a spoon against a bowl of Signora Amalia’s mutton stew.

“Here we are, Master Trevisan!” Signora Amalia pushes the door open with her toe and waltzes into the dining room. “Finally, some fresh bread, crusty on the outside and soft on the inside, just as you like it, sir.” Through the open door, I catch sight of the artist’s broad shoulders hunched over his bowl, and a large pewter goblet. Several candles pushed into a silver candelabrum illuminate the room with a warm glow, casting shadows onto the fresco paintings that adorn the ceiling and every inch of the walls. The artist dines alone, his whole attention focused on savoring the flavors of his housekeeper’s labors in the kitchen.

I exhale and shuffle up the narrow staircase to my room. Ducking under the too-short doorframe, I remove my hat and let my body flop carelessly onto the narrow bed. I turn onto my side, and my eyes fall on the picture of the nude woman, the one I stare at every evening in the candlelight. I heave a heavy sigh and rub my eyes with the forefinger and thumb of my left hand, trying to push the image from my mind. The salty, earthy taste of the costume renter’s daughter’s mouth lingers on my tongue.

It’s not that I did not find myself tempted by the costume renter’s daughter, I think. It’s only that she caught me completely by surprise, and I realize now how stupid I must have been not to recognize the signs she has communicated to me silently in her shop—the turn of a chin, the twirl of a lock of hair. Now I understand how far away my mind has been. It remains consumed with fantasies of Giuliana Zanchi, a woman who is so far beyond my reach that I must be out of my mind to entertain these illusions. Darkness enshrouds the room and I turn restlessly on my bed.

Finally, I fall into a fitful slumber, my mind flickering with images of Giuliana Zanchi in my boat.