Magic Island: What Happens In Venice: Book Three

by Diana Cachey

  Massimo couldn’t see anyone in the foggy dusk.

  “I don’t know where to start,” said Massimo. His skilled policeman’s eyes darted through the mist. He performed a doctor’s scan of the area, recording details like a robot. He saw pink.

  “You might start by listening,” continued the voice, “the hardest part with words is understanding.”

  “Who are you?”

  “What’s the use in trying to say what always needs to be expressed in another way, whatever way you mean it?”

  Massimo laughed at the disjointed thoughts coming to him from he knew not where. Words he didn’t comprehend. Either from a ghost who communicated in riddles, puzzles or from a psychopath.

  “Anything else?” Massimo asked the air about him.

  “Forget the words. Close the curtain. Looks like you forgot how to say, ‘Goodnight,’ again.”

  “No kidding,” Massimo said to whomever was there.

  Massimo’s precision perception clocked the entire area. No human presence found. Only pink haze within the mist. He was certain a phantom had arrived to help him. Maybe even two ghosts — the strange man and his nonno. They wanted this for him, they wanted him to find love. They yearned for him to secure the love he felt for Barbara.

  Massimo knew Barbara loved this other man, this phantom, when he was alive. The man appeared to Massimo while he lay with Barbara in his arms. He saw great affection in those ghost eyes at the palazzo this morning. This phantom loved Barbara, this much Massimo knew to be true. He knew little else.

  Massimo stood motionless for a moment, sensing an eerie presence. His body shook.

  Poor Massimo never allowed himself to feel emotion. He could only feel conflicted. Why wait? Why move on?

  Run away. Stay. The way of destiny stretched out ahead.

  He turned the corner from Via Garilbaldi onto the lagoon front, not looking back but things blocked the way--a dog walker, tourists, bridges--and salt fell upon the shadows. Smiling statues all, it meant nothing. Faces not happy, places unfamiliar, the scenery has changed rapidly. First barren, now busy. Full then deprived.

  Redemption lies in buried promises, he thought. What promise had Barbara and the man made to each other?

  He tried to forget Barbara and her ghost man, to enjoy simple entertainment, watching other people’s habits, while he sat on a bench. All the while the wind revolved, blowing past him. No one participates, the ashes remain stationary at the bottom of the canal.

  Words flooded his mind, things he wanted to tell her, things the ghost man wanted him to tell her. He remembered seeing her on the dock that day, scattering some ashes.

  His mind, then as now, muddied with the dead man’s words. A poem? The words instantly became his own that day long ago, watching her.

  His heart had bounced across the Grand Canal in sympathy and love for this unknown woman. He remembered observing her, her with newly broken heart for a man she would never see again. Massimo remembered those words perfectly, embedded within him, given to him, by the fantasma that night. He could not forget the poem or the sight of Barbara, the grieving woman:

  Where’s your mind at, I wonder from afar,

  Yet your eyes aren’t empty and your heart’s door is ajar.

  I feel your full anguish, it is heavy and tart,

  Your half smile belies your sunk and sullen heart.

  I sit nervously searching for words just right,

  While your vulnerability needs protection, a shield from fright.

  Yet my own closed numbness shields me from your light,

  It prevents me from moving or playing your knight.

  Where’s the way to tell you my innermost taunts,

  If my lips tighten when I open buried haunts.

  I don’t understand our connection, known only by sight

  A fire has consumed me, a flame you ignite.

  To feel my heart sing like this just causes me despair,

  For such unfamiliar tones, I have had little care.

  To love you is forbidden, to love you is a snare.

  I fear to love another. To love you, I do not dare.

  The same words were whispered to Massimo last night while he lay with Barbara after an incredible night of seemingly endless passion and lovemaking fury. He’d asked for guidance before falling into fitful sleep.

  “Please tell me how to love her,” he’d asked in prayer.

  The answer he heard was the poem.

  Who spoke to him last night? A fantasma, his nonno or the stranger who loved Barbara? Perhaps it was God.

  At that precise moment, fronting the lagoon on a small bench, new words floated to Massimo from something, somewhere, from someone else.

  “Sorry, I cannot write, or even tell you, and won’t think of showing you, when I couldn’t possibly.” An eery voice echoed against the centuries old palaces.

  “What are those words you say to me in the mist tonight?” Massimo was begging. He never begged.

  “Ode, Ode, Ode to unapproachable.”

  Was Barbara unapproachable? Was he, Massimo, unapproachable?

  Church bells nearby rang out. The low sad toll that indicated a funeral mass was about to begin. Massimo shuddered uncontrollably.

  Was the dead man, the ghost, unapproachable? Who was the ode about? To whom was the ode written?

  “There are ... no ... answers,” Massimo heard the wind or something whisper in his ear in English.

  “I need answers.”

  “Stop thinking,” the spirit cackled. “You must live.”

  Massimo saw a short Venetian woman wearing a fur hat and long mink coat. She smiled at him and nodded. She walked over, held out her hand and offered him a chocolate.

  “Prenda la,” she said. (Take it.)

  “Perche?” (Why?)

  “Perche tu sei solo, tu sei solo. Ma perche tu sei solo?” (Because you are alone, you’re alone. Why are you alone?)

  She cocked her head and she shook her index finger at him, in the Italian way, making a “tsk” sound they make when they mean to say, “no good.”

  The funeral bells rang again. She looked up at them and back at him.

  “Time is running out.” She started to walk away but slowly turned to him. She motioned for him using the Italian sign language, a side-wave.

  Go. Where? He wondered.

  The old Venetian woman turned again and motioned as if she were writing and waited for him to do something. She motioned again as if writing, signaling for him to write.

  He checked his pocket to find a pen. At this she turned on her heels and quickly moved towards him, frighteningly fast. She slapped parchment paper on the bench to which was clipped a fountain pen and stared at him.

  “Adesso,” (Now) she said, this time in the voice of a man. She, or he, wanted him to write now. Then she left twice as fast as she appeared. In a flash she slipped away into the shadows of the Venetian maze. He picked up the paper and a pen and felt a pull so strong as if in a current, even stronger, a wave, stronger, a flood.

  “Go to her,” whispered someone but no one was there.

  The paper rattled in his hands and the pen filled with ink but there was no ink well. Some force took the paper still in his hand and laid it on the flat surface of the wooden bench. His hand moved without effort, he wrote, or rather something wrote for him, and although he heard the words in his head in Italian, he wrote in English:

  To look upon you like this,

  Far away, never near, enough,

  Gone from the light, behind the painting,

  Frustrated, looking upon in awe, amazed.

  Oh what the imagination can do!

  To think about your ways, the sweet lips and eyes,

  Of solace, always alone, gazing out at reality,

  Formulating simple sentences to give to you.

  Oh what you neglect, what fantastic times!

  We could, and you holding my shining smile, kissing

  In moments, savoring your salty sk
in, breathing

  With you, and knowing what is rare, not missing,

  What only my mind can see,

  A night of love with thee.

  When finished, he looked at it confused. He crumpled the paper in a ball and tried to throw it but could not. His arm jerked back. The paper unfolded itself out of a ball and he was again holding it flat between two hands. Quickly it folded into three folds closed. A burnt edge appeared, like Massimo was fond of doing on his letters. Special letters. A seal of wax with the initials, M.E., finished in his own hands.

  Massimo’s initials. Initials in the same script as a popular Venetian shop sold them, had them on hand in every combination, and which Massimo possessed. A red wax seal with gold letters, like Massimo used.

  “Go to her,” someone whispered.

  No one was there.

  He looked at his hands, still holding the paper, but where was the pen? He looked up again. He glanced back down at the folded, wax sealed, letter with his initials and burnt edges.

  He knew what he must do. He mustered the courage to act on his love, for Barbara.

  Fear. The first word that came to mind when Louisa departed the store after the tarot card reading. Fear, it ruled her.

  Fear of death, fear of life, fear of money, fear of poverty, fear of commitment in relationships, fear of being alone, fear of heights, fear of not climbing high enough, fear of missing what lies ahead, fear of what lies ahead. Fear, fear, fear, all forms, facets. Fancied and future fears. Behaviors manifested by unconscious fears. Oh the many forms of fear.

  But I’m not afraid of ghosts.

  Strange.

  It began years ago when Louisa learned to read the tarot. She did tarot card readings for friends like a parlor game, which tarot cards were at one time, a game which eventually evolved into ordinary playing cards.

  A deck of tarot cards proposes to tell someone’s future and the reading either eases or causes fear of that future. Louisa learned to watch a person’s facial changes, which could divulge as much or more than the cards themselves. It’s easy to fake a fortune telling. If the reader mentions money, career, love, creativity, she can see what lights the person’s face up and it often illuminates their thoughts. Words that cause a shift in body language reveal the object of the subject’s concern at that moment.

  Read the face and body while reading the cards and you read the mind, thought Louisa.

  An ace often evokes a strong response and the ace symbolizes a beginning. In poker, it trumps all others, in blackjack it helps any face card become a winning hand. An ace can also be used in card games as either a one or an eleven, versatile to the player, thus making it even more valuable because it can change its value to suit the player’s needs.

  They called it fortune-telling but it is really future-telling. What does my future hold? What is my future purpose? Specifics are ordinarily not discussed by the reader and subject for that is what the cards are expected to do, to tell the specifics, to detail the unknowable. Therefore, before laying out the cards, while the cards are shuffled and cut, the tarot reader tries to tune into the subject’s fears. Fears control the future.

  Fear of future is the number one fear, Louisa thinks, although most people don’t realize it. When they list their fears most people say that their worst fear is of public speaking, but once a person starts speaking, that fear usually vanishes. So it’s really the fear of the future, of the anticipated speech, that debilitates them.

  Likewise, Louisa’s fear the next day when she awoke in Venice was of the unknown, her unknown future. In her years of readings tarot cards, this relatively unspecific fear of the future drove many people to seek out readings. Today the fears evoked by the reading were her own. Louisa didn’t fear the supernatural before today. To her it had always been a game. But today her tarot cards were not a game. Today’s reading was extremely revealing.

  And Louisa knew the moment she awoke that fear gripped her. A veil of translucent grief hung over her. It nagged her to fall back asleep, forget the day. Fear, depression, grief, regret, all held the covers over her head, smothering her.

  She also knew Barbara’s future with Massimo played in this mix. Somehow at some point during this trip, Barbara’s future had clouded over too. As Louisa laid in bed, mentally cutting, reshuffling and laying our the tarot deck in her head, it hit her.

  Why go home? Why not stay in Venice? What to do?

  “What?” Louisa screamed out loud when she heard someone in the kitchen rustling with coffee.

  “Nothing,” replied Barbara.

  Louisa laughed. The smell of fresh ground espresso being brewed by her sister lured her out of bed. When she entered the kitchen, a delicious cup of cappuccino with delicately laid steamed milk on top, sat waiting for her along with her best friend and loyal sister.

  Louisa realized she had nothing to fear in this moment. Or were the voices in her head lying about that too?

  That was the thing about coincidences. They left many options, scenarios and significances to either discount or consider. One coincidence might lead around a corner or another sign might point down one avenue, while another directed her backwards. One wrong choice would get you lost.

  Not unlike Venice itself.

  Were there really any wrong choices? Science taught her that many a worthy discovery came from mistakes in the lab.

  My latest trip to Venice might prove to be a mistake in the lab, thought Louisa as she gulped down her carefully brewed and lovingly poured espresso.

  Cortina D’Ampezzo, known by Italians as Regina di Dolomiti (Queen of the Dolomites), rests north of Belluno and south of Austria. It is toughly two hours by train plus a bus from Venice. Differences between Cortina and Venice abound -- the dialect, the food, the weather, the terrain, the architecture, the altitude. But there’s one glaring similarity — both cities are filled with Venetians. Due to their proximity to the Alps, many Venetians possess world-class skiing and climbing skills. Armed with skis and pickaxes, Venetians crowned this mountain the Queen, as did Allied forces who gained significant advantage during World War II when they trudged up and down her rugged, chiseled face of beauty. Like the Venetians, soldiers toted skis and pickaxes but also carried guns over the steep rock of Cortina to save Jews and others from certain death.

  Rouge, Barbara and Louisa lacked skies and pickaxes when they piled their overnight bags into a vaporetto en route to the train station. All three were headed for La Regina to save themselves from certain men and all three sat outdoors, unzipped their parkas and took off gloves and hats.

  Only one of them carried a gun, Louisa, who was packing the revolver given to her by the pigeon killer.

  “Figures,” said Louisa looking up at clear skies. “It is sunny as July here today but we head north to the Alps.” Louisa didn’t enjoy leaving Venice and didn’t want to go to Cortina, especially when commanded to do so by a tarot card reader of dubious lineage. Yet all she’d done since she met Antonin was spy around Venice hoping to spot him. She needed to go. To get away. To stop obsessing about a man she hardly knew.

  “It is your favorite ski town in the world,” Barbara replied.

  “Hottieeees,” said Rouge in the singsongy way she referred to men.

  “New blood. I’m fed up with the men in this town,” added Louisa.

  Barbara nodded in agreement. She had not heard from Massimo since he left her alone in his bedroom with their love-making fire extinguished.

  “I wanna find me a mountain man,” said Rouge. Barbara and Louisa both nodded, neither doubting that Rouge would find one.

  Louisa was fed up with men in Venice too and she’d been fed up with not being able to tell Barbara about the results of her recent sleuthing, her sneaking into Arsenale. Louisa also hadn’t told Rouge about her possible role as decoy in future visits to the naval yard. She was also fed up with not knowing how, when or if her plan would be carried out.

  She was fed-fucking-up.

  What was her plan? Di
d Louisa have a plan? She knew she had to call Antonin for help. Antonin, her Tony baby Tony, as she’d taken to calling him in her frequent fantasies.

  Tony remained another secret she hadn’t told Barbara and she wouldn’t think of telling man-grabber Rouge about either.

  She needed Tony. Not in a sexual way. Well, yes, in a sexual way, but mostly to help her. He said he would, he said he would protect her. He gave her his phone number. She hadn’t called him yet.

  She didn’t want to admit to herself that fear arose within her at mere thoughts of being near him. Not a fear of what he might do. Fear of what he would do, of what she would let him do, of how she would love it. She shivered.

  She shivered in a parka, in the sun, in sixty-eight degree weather. Then she started to sweat. Every time she thought about him this happened. Shivers then sweat. Just looking at that man in that attic was enough to make her . . .

  “Hello-o,” said Rouge, “Where, oh where, has Louisa gone? We gotta get off now, Louisa.”

  Oh I’m getting off. I’ve been getting off thinking about Tony for days now.

  “Earth to Louisa. She’s been in a trance since I got here,” said Barbara.

  “She’s worse today.”

  “You’re right.” Barbara’s guess? A man. The culprit? Not sure who. Matteo? Barbara didn’t think Matteo was the man who now occupied Louisa’s mind because, if it were Matteo, Louisa would be either gushing or ranting. Yet here sat Louisa, who uttered not a peep. Total silence.

  Barbara and Rouge both knew about the gondolier Louisa met at Accademia, the one whom Rouge attempted to unearth for herself since hearing of him. Yet Barbara knew Louisa would stay away from any man that peaked Rouge’s curiosity so it wasn’t the gondolier either.

  Whom had Louisa met and when? Where?

  “The bitch is in love, huh?” Rouge whispered to Barbara who opened her eyes wide in agreement.

  The three of them rounded up their bags for the short trek from the boat to the train station, Venezia Santa Lucia, named after Saint Lucy. They headed for the handicapped ramp, blew by tourists who lugged their bags up stairs.