Stealing Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  Shutting out his physical discomfort, his mind turned with pleasant anticipation to this morning’s visit from the Pope’s messenger, and his good mood returned. At eight thirty he would receive the Vatican’s response to his Verdu Mer proposal. It was a mere formality; there was no question he would be granted control over the demolition and reconstruction of that historic neighborhood. He would rebuild Verdu Mer from the bottom of the canals up, and not only revitalize that sector, but also revitalize Venice’s construction industry. Every builder in il Veneto would forge a new relationship with the House of Scortini.

  His knee bends complete, he turned to see his valet, Guiseppe, hovering just inside the bedroom door. Unlike the welcome silence of the stony butler, Salvio found Guiseppe’s enervated and feeble ways infuriating. But in so many ways, he was more tolerable than the overbearing governess who had dressed him as a boy.

  “When I’m showered, I’ll get right into my black tufted twill suit,” Salvio instructed.

  “Sì, but it is already warm outside. Perhaps you would reconsider—”

  “Get that suit!”

  Guiseppe jumped into the closet as if goosed.

  Salvio never allowed his valet in the bathroom, and didn’t allow himself to be seen naked by anyone, including his wife. He felt that a man having a servant’s assistance with grooming was disgusting and smacked of self-worship. Showering was a sacramental cleansing of one’s divine temple, and should be done in solitary contemplation of the Almighty God.

  He stepped under the forceful spray, doused a brush with castile soap, and began his scrubbing ritual. Deliberate not to miss any flesh that cried out for less punishment, he considered an area pure only when it was slightly swollen and pulsing. He turned off the water and dried himself with a rough towel before stepping out onto the marble floor.

  Moving more nimbly now, and slightly inebriated from pain-blocking endorphins, he glided over to the sink to brush his teeth. Although not a vain man, he regarded himself in the mirror. He knew he wasn’t handsome, but didn’t waste time trying to fool others into thinking he was. He had pale skin, smallish eyes, inordinately red lips, and a bulbous nose with large nostrils that frequently flared without consulting him—when that happened, he pinched them back into place. While he took great care when cutting his own hair, it always had an uneven, chopped look, and his eyebrows were unruly. When his mother was alive, she used to humiliate him by smoothing wax over them. Now he simply ran his fingers over his brows in an effort to groom them.

  After pulling on his cotton underwear, he allowed Guiseppe to assist him with the rest of his clothing. Then, leaving the effete little valet behind in his quarters, Salvio slipped silently down the hall toward his office, keeping to the shadowy side of the empty hallway. Once inside, he took a seat behind his desk and broke his fast with water, seed crackers, and a single pitted date. He had just finished when he heard a light rap on his door and felt a flood of adrenaline. He stood up as a show of respect and called, “Show Excelsior in.”

  The butler opened the door for the Pope’s messenger, who offered a nod as a greeting to Salvio before moving to a chair. He sat down and folded his hands in his lap as Salvio retook his seat.

  “Welcome, Excelsior. This is the first time you have come to my home since my father’s passing.”

  “Sì. My condolences.”

  “Grazie. My father always liked you.”

  “Sì, Salvatore was a good man, as was your grandfather.”

  “You come with news of my Verdu Mer appointment?”

  “I come with news that the Holy Father has given the project to Count Gabrieli Verona.” Excelsior stated it with utter finality.

  Mentally smashing his fist through glass, Salvio strove to remain outwardly calm. “Ah, of course I will work closely with Verona. But Verdu Mer falls within the builders’ purview, and my family has always represented the Venetian building establishment. I assumed the Pope would naturally consider it my project.” His mouth was dry, but he refused to lick his lips.

  “Not at all. Verdu Mer is Verona’s, one hundred percent.” Excelsior stood and offered a minute bow.

  Salvio rose from his seat and, putting his hands on his desk, he leaned forward. “Overseeing and leading the Venetian builders is my birthright. I assure you, I am more than fit to step into my father’s role.”

  “I will convey your sentiments to the Holy Father. Now, I must depart. If you will excuse me.”

  Salvio curled his toes and clenched his sphincter in a desperate attempt to keep his rage in check. “Thank you for coming. I am, as ever, the Pope’s humble servant. God be with you, Excelsior.”

  “And also with you.” The messenger walked out.

  Glancing down at the schedule before him, Count Gabrieli Verona was encouraged by how this morning’s business was progressing. The esteemed Verdu Mer consortium members had flown in from all over the world for this meeting in Venice, and many had to catch afternoon flights to other destinations. Every minute together counted, and every expert in the room had their sleeves rolled up tackling the tasks at hand. The enormous fifteenth-century table was covered with laptops, reports, and schematics of cutting-edge technology, while experts were clustered in front of a whiteboard passing sleek tablets back and forth.

  Looking up, he was surprised to see Salvio Scortini push through the doors of his adjoining office suite. He’d never had an interaction with Salvio that was anything short of unsettling. His bodyguard, Tiberius, intercepted the uninvited visitor smoothly, while Gabrieli stood and addressed the group.

  “Please excuse me a moment.” Stepping away from the table, he nodded his intent to Tiberius, who allowed Salvio to enter.

  “Verona! I made it as soon as I could.” Salvio’s voice was brittle, between a shout and a cry, his words tumbling out. “I know you agree that nothing should delay our work on Verdu Mer, so I’m here to work with you as our families always have.”

  Gabrieli approached him, but was careful not to shake his hand. The count had once seen Salvio misinterpret a handshake as an agreement, and he was not about to make that mistake.

  “This is a surprise, Salvio.”

  “I have just been paid a personal visit from the Pope’s emissary, and am here to set up our protocols for demolition of the old sector.”

  “You can’t mean Verdu Mer,” a voice at the table challenged. “You are mistaken, signore.”

  Hoping to avoid a conflict, Gabrieli stepped in. “Allow me to introduce Yani Chizzoli. He and his team will be rebuilding the foundations of the entire Verdu Mer neighborhood.”

  “Ah, certainly. I have heard of Chizzoli.” Salvio reached up and pinched his nostrils like he smelled something offensive. “I am well aware that Venice is sinking.”

  Chizzoli blinked and offered Salvio a bland stare. “You joke of course, signore. It has been more than thirty years since measurements proved that Venice is not sinking.”

  “Perhaps he is not familiar with global warming and the practice of factoring future subsidence,” another voice at the table suggested in an exaggerated stage whisper.

  Salvio’s whole body jerked as he turned back to Gabrieli. “I must get moving on my end with the demolition plans. You can just send me the blueprints and I can begin immediately.”

  “No.” Gabrieli took care to speak clearly. “We do not require your efforts.”

  “Oh, it’s no imposition. The builders of Venice are standing by, waiting for word from me.”

  Gabrieli remained impassive. In an effort to end the conversation, he refrained from repeating himself.

  Salvio’s lips stretched and his voice lowered. “Building is my business, so I’m offering my assistance. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “I’m afraid this is not open for discussion, Salvio. The Verdu Mer consortium will not include you.”

  Salvio’s lips stretched farther into a smile, but his eyes were dead. “I will work through papal channels as always.”

&
nbsp; “I would expect nothing less. Now excuse us, we are on a tight schedule.” He gestured toward the exit.

  Tiberius opened the conference room door, and Gabrieli returned to his seat at the table, but Salvio showed no sign of leaving. At a nod from Gabrieli, Tiberius moved forward to usher him out. At first Salvio took awkward steps toward the door as if struggling against a strong wind, and then he spoke up.

  “May God guide you all. I must be off to my own meetings.”

  A silent security guard joined Salvio as he left the now-hushed conference room.

  Giselle looked out the taxi window and noticed that the leaves of the trees in Square de la Roquette were just beginning to turn gold. “It’s been unseasonably hot recently, but you’ve arrived just in time for autumn, Markus. I think it’s the best time to be in Paris.” She turned to meet his eyes. “So, you’ve told me about your father. Tell me about your mother.”

  “I never knew her. She died of the flu when I was a baby.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry she died, Markus.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

  “Thank you. But now, living with the Czerneys, I am not alone.”

  “You said Yvania works for the embassy. What does she do there?”

  Markus paused and looked down, as if deciding how to answer.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He gave a small shrug as if it were nothing. “It is not something we talk about.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  Their cab pulled up to a red brick building with all the earmarks of a small factory from a bygone era: the faded remains of signage, a large, solid entry door, and a flat roof. Markus paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. Reaching back to assist her, he walked Giselle to the door.

  “This is where I am living.”

  “You live in a factory?” She liked the look of it. “Perfect place for an artist.”

  Markus produced a skeleton key and inserted it into one of the door’s iron locks. When it released with a satisfying click, he gave the big door a light push, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. A bell tinkled softly overhead, obviously a holdover from when customers had used this door. She stepped into an entryway bathed in amber light that filtered through antique windows set high up on the walls and through skylights overhead. The furnishings for this former place of business had been removed, and it was empty now. But looking at the well-worn floor, she could see the outlines where a counter and file cabinets once stood. Every surface was scrupulously clean, yet tiny dust motes danced in the light. There were polished wood stairs with well-worn steps and railings off to the left, a hallway straight ahead, and doors off to the left and right. Giselle inhaled a complex aroma of stew that made her mouth water.

  “Tse ty?” called a man’s voice.

  “Da, I am back,” Markus responded.

  “How did it go?” Giselle heard the purposeful clicking sounds of a metal walker approaching. “Did you find her?” A stout, white-haired man appeared in the doorway to her right. She guessed he was in his seventies, and he was dressed like Markus, in soft grey work clothes. His face was wizened with age, but he looked to be in good health and his silver hair was worn in a tight military brush-cut. When he caught sight of Giselle, the walker pitched forward out of his grasp and clattered to the floor.

  “Ivar!” Markus was at the old man’s side in an instant.

  “What you do, Markus?” His voice was forceful, but not angry. “You bring a royal goddess to our hovel? What is your sense, boy?” He shuffled past his forgotten walker and stretched his hands out to Giselle, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

  She heard heavy wooden shoes approaching fast from down the hallway, and a little fireplug-of-a-woman in a white blouse, grey skirt, and faded flower-print apron skidded into view.

  “What now?” She looked past Markus to her husband, and then saw Giselle. Peering over the most improbable rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye glasses Giselle had ever seen, the matronly woman’s mouth fell open. “Oh! Such a beauty! No wonder Paris is in love with you!” She had a heavy accent but her pronunciation was succinct. Grasping her hands in front of her, she gave a tiny bow. “Bonjour, Countess Verona. It is you who makes my husband have the surprise. He is lucky you do not stop his heart!” Her eyes traveled up and down Giselle in admiration, paying special attention to her red heels. She swiveled on her clogs and smacked Markus’ shoulder.

  “I would have make nice food for Countess Verona! You will have me serve midday goulash to a great woman? How will I find you the wife if you are not sensitive to making the preparation?”

  Markus held up his hands against his tiny aggressor. “I am sorry, Yvania.” He kept his defense up as she rapped him on the bicep. “Giselle asked to see how I work so…” He gestured vaguely toward the back hall.

  Yvania tapped her upper lip with an index finger. “Well! This is true, then. Not to be rude. Of course, then. You bring.” She spun back to Giselle and fanned her face. “Countess, you must be making the cars to crash when you are walking!”

  Markus made the introductions. “Giselle, meet Ivar and Yvania Czerney.”

  “Please excuse how we are acting, Countess,” Ivar said. “Welcome to our home. Will you honor us by sharing our lunch?”

  “Hello, Yvania and Ivar. Please call me Giselle.” She reached out to shake Ivar’s hand, and then turned and took Yvania’s. “I would love to join you for lunch. Merci.”

  “Hoh-kay young ones, you will go to the workshop.” Ivar gestured farther down the hall.

  Giselle followed Markus and stopped just inside the door of the big workshop, thrilled by the space. “Now this is a workshop!” It smelled of old wood, iron, oils, and solvents. The light poured down from more skylights and high windows, and each bench had a long fixture of halogen lights suspended above it. Cabinets filled with tools and supplies stood on wheeled casters here and there, able to be repositioned anywhere in the gymnasium-sized room with an easy push. Glancing up, she admired the turn-of-the-century ceiling track with chains that could move large objects about with the press of a button. Beautiful, practical, professional, and exciting.

  “Mmm, now I’m in my element.”

  “Ah, you like it. Good.” He pointed to a nearby work area. “Here is where I am working now.” He led her over to a crowded workbench that held part of a small glass-and-metal sculpture. “What do you want to know about my process?”

  Giselle admired the sculpture before her. “Can you work while you answer questions? I really want to watch your process instead of just hearing you explain. Is that all right?”

  They sat side by side on wheeled chairs, and she watched as Markus selected a tiny etched pane of glass, placed it into a frame made from a tiny ribbon of copper, and secured it.

  “It is the same idea as Ivar and my father’s glass craft. But I like to make art, not just windows for buildings. Making windows is good money, but not interesting for me.”

  She was impressed as she watched him deftly attach the tiny piece to his sculpture. “Well, this art of yours is something special…like attaching glass flower petals to twisted metal.”

  As he worked, his leg rested against hers in a comfortably friendly way. He fashioned a new copper ribbon, slipped another tiny glass pane into it, and then used a rubber-coated flat-edged screwdriver to crimp the copper around the glass. She studied his movements as he attached the piece to the sculpture and began the process again, and noticed he stole a glance at her legs now and then while working.

  “I hope I’m not distracting you too much.”

  “Not too distracting. No.”

  “I don’t like anyone around when I work. My husband complains that talking to me while I’m working is like talking to a fork. He even gave me a little fork pendant as a joke.” She fell silent and studied everything Markus’ hands were doing. After a while she said, “You possess a rare economy of movement.”

  He reached for a small tool and snipped a notch into a
malleable ribbon with a soft click. He performed the task smoothly and without adjustment. Giselle studied his profile. He appeared to be relaxed—clearly not a tortured artist.

  “You’re not like artists who can’t help second-guessing themselves.”

  He pivoted to look her in the eye, one of her knees now nestled between both of his. “I see clearly and do not hesitate to act. Ever. It has always been so with me.” He licked his lips and then bit his bottom lip as though expecting a response.

  “Nooo…you’re certainly not one to hesitate.”

  A corner of his mouth drew up and he quirked an eyebrow. He released her knee from between his and turned back to his sculpture.

  “I have never understood the artist who does a bit of work and then throws down their tools and then paces and runs hands through their hair in frustration and then goes away and drinks too much wine.” He rubbed his hand over his head to mimic the angst. “I am not like that.”

  She laughed. He’d completed one side of his sculpture, and he started on the other side. Giselle glanced at the next workbench.

  “What are those bottles and brushes over there?”

  “My etching solutions. I will show you how I etch the glass.”

  After a few hours of work, Giselle heard Yvania’s clogs approaching. The bun on the top of her head bobbed as she bustled into the workroom. Drying her hands on her apron, she beckoned.

  “Come. We eat.”

  Giselle followed Yvania to the back of the building, with Markus close behind. The kitchen was well equipped with pots, pans, and knives of all sizes. Lunch was arranged on a wooden trestle table with bench seating. Steam rose from freshly baked bread, and a little crock of home-churned butter sat on the cutting board next to it. Ivar was ladling four bowls of deep-red paprika stew. The fragrant mix of spices was heady, and Giselle couldn’t recall smelling anything quite like it before. Markus helped her get situated on the low bench, and she appreciated that he was gentleman enough to avert his eyes as her hem rode up in the process. She smoothed it down quickly, and feeling the rumble of hunger she breathed, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to taste this.”