That was the last coherent thought I had for a couple of hours. The tourists came through the Customs like a football crowd. We couriers held up our placards and bleated our firms' names, me caroling "Cosol Tours, folks." The whole row of us was overrun within seconds. I was engulfed by a motley mob, all ages, that plucked at my clothes, explaining mistakes, complaining, waving documents, showing me passports and tickets. One woman had lost a child and expected me to find it. One bloke had acquired two infants and wanted to hand them to me. One senile old crone had left her hand luggage in Zurich. A tiny psychopath nicked my clipboard to play with. It was a nightmare. "Cosol," I kept calling, holding my stick aloft to attract more of these psychotics.
Cosima had to rescue me finally because I couldn't match up the sea of expectant faces with the names.
"They're all foreigners," I whispered frantically. "They aren't English or Italians."
"German, American, Danes," she whispered back. "Talk English slow."
She made me stand by the door and tick them off. Apparently the greatest mistake of all is to take away tourists from some other courier's group, because you can never completely undo the documentation. Cesare loaded their cases—my God, did they bring frigging cases—until his boat was heaped high with the damned luggage. Cosima hung back to settle a Customs officer's apoplexy over something a young couple were bringing in, while I tried to put the flock into the boat in some sort of order. We had two hotels to call at, eighteen people all told. I almost lost an elderly bloke with a bad leg—another boat looked easier to board and he nearly escaped. It was only when Cesare noticed some old bird's anxiety that we re-counted, and I went running hectically among the other water taxis yelling the old bloke's name to get him back. Silly old sod. My head was splitting as we made space for Cosima and set off south towards Venice.
Trying to be a typical courier, I assumed a boisterous Italian accent and pointed out landmarks, mostly wrong, and giving out exotic snippets I'd picked up about Byron, so much a part of Venice. That started them all asking breathless questions. Odd how people go for extravagant behavior. We're all a bit like that, deep down, wanting to hear about Byron's Venetian roistering, scandals, his wild affairs. People are weird. Like, it's exciting to hear of the great poet-hero's splendid triumph in the swimming race from the Lido all the way up the Grand Canal. It's somehow less pleasant to hear that he loved to display his superb grace in the water because his ungainly club-footed lameness was so obvious on land. Hence his love of the night hours. The superstitious Venetians of those days would not stand within thirty paces of the deformed. I had the sense only to mention the posh bits.
We passed the cemetery island of San Michele that Napoleon got organized, and penetrated Venice proper. From then on it was bedlam. We separated our mob into two groups, luggage and all. Distributing them into separate hotels took us over an hour. Two people had not arrived on the plane and we had hell's own job persuading the second hotel we hadn't sold them into slavery or— worse—to another hotel.
That gave us fifty minutes before I re-zoomed to the airport for the next horde. Cosima sat with me at one of the Riva caffs and went over the procedure. We were still very proper with each other, but I didn't mind. She would look after this morning's lot. The Ami tourists now due would be my sole responsibility.
"I like Yanks. I'll guide them round Byron's haunts."
"You can't do the guide's job, Lovejoy. They're two different roles in Venice. I suppose they're combined in Portugal?"
"Mmmm? Oh, mm."
More bad news. She saw me off in Cesare's water taxi, calling worried last-minute guidance till we left earshot. I gave her my most confident grin and waved. She wore fawn and cream. All the way, till Cesare gave a bad-tempered swing of the bow taking us behind the Arsenale, I could see her slender loveliness showing against the pastel-colored buildings. Well.
Cesare said very little on that trouble-free run back to the mainland. Almost as if he was furious at something. Still, the guidebook said Venetians were secretive, so I tactfully didn't ask him what was up. Deep down I'm a pretty sensitive sort of bloke.
That afternoon everything went right. Unbelievably, I found myself ahead of schedule. By two o'clock my tourists were ensconced in the hotels, signed for, the desk registries satisfied, Cesare's books made up, the Cosol dockets filled in on Cosima's clipboard, and not a single family in Belgrade. I kept my phony Italian accent to lend authenticity, and it worked quite well as long as Cesare wasn't too near and giving me the bent eye.
Even better, they were a talkative friendly bunch, as Yanks tend to be, and wanted me to be in the downstairs bar at three to advise on restaurants and other aspects. A pleasant shapely bird called Nancy, mid-thirties, caught my eye, with Doris and Agnes, two attractive blue-rinsed middle-aged women, all towing a mild-mannered tubby bloke called David and forming a separate mini-group "being from California, y'see." Nancy explained she was David's secretary from Sherman Oaks, saying it as if the rest of California were a suburb and getting a laugh.
We reassembled downstairs in such high spirits I was more than a little narked that Cosima wasn't there to see how well I was doing. I dished out Cosima's Little pamphlets full of shopping and dining hints, and gave them all a brief account of the tourist map in that dulled voice couriers use when they've said it a million times before. Though I say it myself, I was very convincing. The one hassle was something to do with a bathroom plug, easily passed on to the desk clerks.
David Vidal, the tubby Californian, suggested we take a quick stroll "to catch the light," whatever that meant. Doris and Agnes eagerly agreed, and I was co-opted to lead a small schismatic group out there and then, even though I explained their guide would be along to give them their private countdown at breakfast tomorrow. I must say, they're keen in California, and nearly as hot in Florida—two elderly Miami couples wanted to come along too. So it was that, under Cesare's sardonic eye, I emerged onto the Riva leading a party of eight towards St. Mark's with David turning around, judging the sky, and holding up three little cameralike gadgets he had hanging on him. Still, it takes all sorts.
They wanted to dash into the Doge's Palace. Going all debonair, I paid the pittance entrance fee, pretending it was my pleasure to treat them. Actually it broke my heart, but I was desperate to wheedle my way into favor. Maybe they'd insist to Cosima that I be promoted to a guide.
In the mad dash around the Palazzo Ducale before it closed, I was a real ball of fire. The faster we went, the more pleased my mini-mob became. We saw the Great Council Chamber, the Lion's Mouth letterbox where you slipped denunciations of treason—in the days of the Doges, Venetians got a hundred pieces of gold for each accusation, so a lot of it went on—and the exquisite ceilings. I was practically in tears as we zipped in and out of the chambers, corridors, prisons, galleries. To me speed is the modern disease. Dashing past Veronese's Juno Offering Gifts to Venice is a crime. It's the only genuine one of that set, as I pointed out to Nancy. The French kept the rest after 1797, though you're not supposed to notice. We were lucky and got into the Room of the Three Inquisitors, but Tintoretto's ceiling paintings have been replaced. David Vidal sympathized with my abject disappointment when I told him what was the matter.
"Look okay to me," he said, quizzically peering upwards. He simply hadn't stopped judging the sky. Even surrounded by these massed treasures, he was still glancing at windows, the bum.
"What are these things?"
"These? Light meters."
"You a photographer?"
Agnes laughed. "David's a moviemaker, here on assignment. We—"
A quick glance from David cut her prattle. I pretended not to notice and carried on my distilled guidebook patter. I had a few successes—the Bridge of Sighs, the prisons from which Casanova escaped in 1775—but mostly missed out. David was mad at Agnes. Agnes was pale. I was still trying gamely as we emerged on the quayside of St. Mark's Basin, pointing out which of the thirty-six palace capitals were real medieval
stone carvings. Nancy was up in arms at the idea that half were modem replacements.
"That's cheating, if the guidebooks say only three are reproduction!"
I had to smile. Trust a woman. "Mostly a harmless trick, love."
"Well, as long as somebody keeps records."
"I'm sure somebody probably does."
'Don't you know?"
'Of course," I said smoothly, thinking. Oh, hell. I'd forgotten for the minute I was a Venetian. "Erm, in the, erm, Venetian Antiquities Section of the, erm. Buildings Ministry."
"Well, that's a relief!"
David examined one of the phonies closely. "How can you tell the difference?"
"They feel, erm ..." I recovered quickly, and gave a convincing laugh. "Well, actually, we couriers are given Ministry notices."
He looked doubtful. "If you say so, Lovejoy."
The Floridans wanted to tip me as I got them back to their hotel in the gathering dust. I refused, all noble, saying it was my pleasure. Tom, an elderly Miami boatbuilder, said how well I'd learned English for an Italian. Nancy was the only one who'd cooled appreciably during the brief walkabout.
"Almost too idiomatic," she said sweetly. She was having a good laugh inside, the way women do when they've rumbled that you're up to something.
"I spenda two years inna London." I did some hurried bowing and scraping, but she gave me a sideways glance.
They thronged the bar. I escaped by pious pleading that it was too early for me to drink intoxicating fluids. I was knackered and tottered into the lift amid a chorus of bye-byes. My room was 214. It overlooked Ferrari's rotten garish statue of Victor Emmanuel, but you can't have everything.
I practically fell inside, looking forward to a hot soak, a brief kip, then a long read about Venice and a quiet nosh at the boatmen's caff near the San Zaccaria. The light in my room was on.
Cosima was sitting on my bed, reading my Venice book.
"Lovejoy. Where've you been?"
"Working," I said. "You?"
12
The next two days I worked like a dog. We handled six planeloads of mixed tourists, two on charter flights, which necessitated taking on an extra two water taxis for those. Cesare saw to them. He was great but ever more taciturn, not at all like the cheery bloke I'd met on my first day. The better our little trio functioned the surlier he became. Odd. That earlier banter we had enjoyed was gone. Cosima on the other hand was blossoming, looking more radiant every day. Shrewd as always, I supposed her bloke had finally showed and that after working hours she was enjoying life to the full. Though I must say she wasn't getting much of his company the rate we were going. We hardly had time to snatch a bite in the waterfront caffs. We noshed like a Biggin Hill fighter squadron waiting for tannoys to shout the scramble.
For all that I was oddly happy. It was as if I'd found a safe niche where the problem of Crampie and Mr. Malleson, and the scam which old Pinder's granddaughter and her killer boyfriend were supposedly helping the old fool to plan, could be comfortably forgotten. Maybe it was Cosima's accusation which had cleared the air, something like that.
That night I got back after showing Nancy and David and their pals the Ducal Palace; she had chucked the book aside but stayed on my bed and demanded to know where I'd been. Women always have me stammering, as if I've really been up to no good. And honestly, hand on my heart, I honestly hadn't even thought of Nancy like that until Cosima said her name.
'I was only out walking," I'd explained.
'With eight of the Americans," she blazed. "Including that fat bespectacled Waterson woman who fancies herself."
Nancy wasn't fat. "They wanted to see the San Marco. I thought I was helping you out."
"Lovejoy." She swung off the bed, furious but pretty as a picture. "I've seen the way you look at these overdressed tourist bitches. Well, just let me tell you that if you step one single inch out of line, I'll have your courier registration canceled. On the spot! Do you hear?"
"But—"
"But nothing! Couriers and tourists are not allowed to . . . to . . .”
The trouble is, pretty women have the edge. They make you tongue-tied even when you're honest. It's bloody unfair.
"Look, Cosima, love," I said brokenly, taking her arms. "I didn't want to do this job. I was on holiday, remember? It's only that I, well, falling for you like I did makes me—"
"All right, Lovejoy!" She pushed away, but not at all mollified. God, she was lovely. Her hair was sheer silk. I'd never seen any hair lustrous as that. I bet it would be lovely spread out on a soft white pillow, just like Margaret's and Helen's and Liz's. "All right! But you just remember."
"I was only trying to do what you said, love."
She spun round on her way to the door. "What I said?"
"The tourist is always right." Biting my lip, I subsided on the bed, clearly misunderstood and close to heartbreak.
She hesitated. "Well, yes. I know I did say that . . ."
I shrugged, deeply hurt. "You don't know how it feels . . ."
“Look," Cosima said, but less firmly. "I don't want you to take it too much to heart, Lovejoy. I just had to speak out before you got, well, drawn in. I've seen it happen."
"I'll remember," I said bravely, Gunga Din on the battlements.
"Very well. Then we need say no more about it."
There was a brief pause. I didn't raise my eyes, because we Gunga Dins are soulful creatures and don't particularly want our innermost feelings revealed.
She too was hesitant now. "Lovejoy, have you had time yet to find any more of those restaurants I listed for you?"
"No." I heaved a sigh. "I was going to have a bath, then go out with the map."
She said seriously, "As it happens, I was intending to, well, take a quick walk round the Cannaregio. Since neither of us has really eaten properly today, it might be convenient to take the opportunity—"
"As long as you're my guest," I said. "Please. It would give me such pleasure."
"Very well. Eight o'clock at the Fondamenta di Santa Lucia? We needn't be too late."
"Thank you, love."
I waited until the lift doors clashed before recovering from my heartbreak. Already I knew enough to know that the Cannaregio Canal was not really a tourist area. If anything it was somewhat out of the way. Still, another crisis was averted by the simple tactic of agreeing to spend the evening with such a beautiful bird as Cosima. Painless.
In the bath I bellowed some Gilbert and Sullivan, making myself laugh by trying to translate the words into Italian as I went.
What with the hectic state of our affairs, I saw very little of my favorite group, that mini-mob of eight who had rushed and talked me off my feet in the Doge's Palace. Only after those two endless slogging days did I happen to bump into Nancy Waterson in the bar. Honestly it really was accidental.
It was pretty late, going on midnight. As I entered the bar, worn out, a lovely but older woman beckoned me. Lovely perfume, bluish eyes, dressed to kill with that elegance middle-aged Italian women capture so perfectly. And tons and tons of makeup—always turns me on, that. She wore a seventeenth-century Florentine crucifix as a brooch pin, not quite her only mistake. A two-carat central stone of j that rarest of gems, Royal Lavulite, a translucent luscious purple, carried off its misplaced setting in the crucifix's center with utter nonchalance.
She looked me over like they do horses. "You the guide? Get me a rusty nail."
"What for?"
She pulled me round. I'd been walking past. "You're supposed to be a guide and you don't know the great Italian invention of the cocktail?"
The penny dropped. A rusty nail must be a drink. That wasn't quite as important as the fact that this high-class bird thought I was a serf. I shook her off. Venice was full of people she could order about without starting on me.
"French tradition, please. Amedee Peychaud was a Froggie pharmacist in New Orleans, love, and he invented the cocktail." She still looked blank. "'Course, he did it mostly with
absinthe and cognac in those natty little eggcups— coquetiers —now so highly prized as collectors' items—"
"Who are you?" she said, wondering.
"My grannie said not to talk to strange women in honky-tonks."
I moved on, her chain-saw laughter following me as I pushed in. The barman tried, "Lovejoy. A rusty nail's half-and-half Scotch—"
"Great news," I said. "Stick at it, Alessandro."
The presence of Nancy in the far corner straightened my gaze. The older woman departing, that left nobody else about except the barman watching a telly screen and Nancy. She flagged me over and gave me a glass of her wine. Her bar table was covered with notebooks. Too casually she shut them one by one. David, I learned happily, was out.
"Look," I said. "I didn't mean to get Agnes in trouble by asking—"
'That afternoon? Forget it. Movie people are like that. Touchy."
"You too?"
She finally could not hold back and burst out laughing. And I do mean rolled in the aisles. She was helpless. The night barman smiled with the distant politeness of his kind but kept his eyes on the video-recorded football match.
"Your accent's slipping again, Lovejoy."
Well I was so tired I'd become confused. So many faces, nationalities, different hotels. I was bushed. And I'd told different stories to each lot. To the Danes in the Danieli—or was it the Londra?—I was a penniless music student working out my tuition fee. To the West Germans in the Firenze—or was it the Bisanzio?—I was an Australian spinning out the grand tour. To the Americans, I was an Italian ex-waiter scratching a living.
Narked, I sat glowering while Nancy dried her eyes and made a gasping recovery, clutching her ribs. "Oh, Lovejoy! That laugh did me good!" She touched my hand and refilled my glass. "Don't be annoyed, honey. Only, it's so obvious. What exactly's going on, for heaven's sake?"
"Nothing." Do Yanks really say "honey," or was she mucking about?
The Gondola Scam Page 8
