by Vivien Vale
“No.”
I protest and realize I spoke a little too loud. The Italian gondolier is looking at me.
“He’s none of those things. Just because he gives me guidance and direction in my life doesn’t mean he’s controlling.” I keep my voice a little lower.
“Is that what you call it? Guidance my ass. He even tells you what you can and can’t eat. He doesn’t let you drink alcohol and all the while, he drinks enough for the two of you.”
“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “First, most people have been telling me what I can and can’t eat all my life. At least since I started entering all those beauty pageants. Second, he’s just looking out for me. And—”
I’ve run out of things to say.
Besides, I’ve just seen us turn into the Grand Canal, and I can see the hotel come into view.
I hold my breath.
It’s even more magnificent in real life than on the Internet.
The pictures can’t do it justice.
I must sketch it. I vow I’ll do it before Ryan gets here. Surely there’s going to be a place in this city where I can purchase some sketching pencils and a drawing pad.
“Look.” I grab Allison by the elbow. “We’re nearly here.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it.”
Instead of an answer, I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly.
“Let’s not talk about it Ally. Let’s just have fun. Please?”
I give her my best puppy dog eyes and feel my heart lighten when she smiles.
The gondola glides slowly toward our destination. With each passing moment, we draw nearer to the magnificent old building; I feel my heart beat a little faster.
I’m almost tempted to tell Allison to pinch me, to make sure this isn’t some dream I’m having; to make sure I’m really in Venice about to embark at one of the most exclusive hotels.
Our gondola has slowed right down. It allows me to ponder the wonder of the city a little longer before I’m going to be overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of the hotel.
It occurs to me the city is like an M.C. Escher moving set of staircases. Elaborate and interesting on the eye.
Tiny canals and alleyways crisscross through this magnificent medieval city. One minute you’re staring at lonely cobblestones, and then, a busy market scene assaults your senses. And all of this can be seen from the waterways.
Briefly, I imagine how great it would be to live here and go to work by water taxi every single day. Would the novelty wear off?
I shake my head, answering my own question.
It couldn’t. Something as unique as this could never be boring.
I see our gondolier steer past a boat atop which is a small round table with a couple sitting around it. Between them is a bottle of wine, and they’re about to toast each other.
Would Ryan take me on a little luncheon in a boat after we’re married?
I recall he said he only had a few days to spare so not to plan too much after the wedding.
With a sigh, I try and push Allison’s words from earlier out of my mind.
She was simply wrong.
Ryan was nice.
Dante
I check my mobile.
Nothing.
I had expected to hear from Ryan by now, but nothing. Dead silence is what greets me every time I check the tiny screen of my phone.
This annoys me. It shouldn’t, but it does. You’d think the least he could do is contact his best man and tell him when he was planning to arrive.
So far, he’s told me where everyone is staying, and I’ve booked my own room at the Aman. He told me I had to write his wedding vows. Apparently, this woman who’s managed to finally drag Ryan to the altar insists they’ve got to write their own vows.
According to Ryan, he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. Refusing this part of the best man job had fallen on deaf ears. I had to do it, as simple as that.
No ifs, not buts, and definitely not a no.
Maybe when I get a look at this woman, I might find inspiration. So far I’ve got ‘I, Ryan,’ and nothing else.
I mean what the fuck is wrong with the traditional marriage vows anyway?
I hope Ryan hadn’t pulled some new age chick out of the gene pool, one of those hippie types. That would explain a lot. She probably used some type of incense to bewitch Ryan and then pounce upon him in his weakest moment.
With Ryan only telling me about this engagement and upcoming wedding a few weeks ago, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.
And now, he isn’t here. Where the fuck is he hiding?
If the bastard won’t show any time soon, I may as well visit the exhibition at the Punta della Dogana. The art gallery is renowned for what some consider as the largest private collection of twenty and twenty-first century art.
It’s not like I’m going to get to see it with Ryan. He’s not into art, and when he finally shows his face here, he’ll no doubt be busy entertaining his bride.
Along the way, I study my tourist guide. The art galleries to visit beside the Punta include the Guidecca 795 Art Gallery, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, and Galleria l’Occhio. The Punta takes my fancy because of the historical significance.
History fascinates me, particularly European and art history.
The Punta is situated in the old customs house, built in the 1600 at the most appropriate spot in Venice for its use. The Sea Custom house was built at the very entrance of the Grand Canal, to ensure no ship coming into the city would go without paying its duties.
It’s still is in its original position where the Grand Canal and the Guidecca Canal meet.
I take the gondola to get there. From the gallery, the hotel is also within a gondola ride. I mean if you’re in Venice, you simply must make use of these watercrafts.
Venice is definitely not the city to visit if you don’t like water or have a fear of boat rides.
Personally, I love being on water. It has a calming effect on the mind. It’s almost meditative for me to be on water.
When I get to the Punta, I check my phone yet again, still nothing from Ryan.
Should I worry?
I take a deep breath and decide that it’s a little early to start worrying. There’s more than a day to go ‘til the wedding, plenty of time for the bastard to get here.
Maybe he’s just making the most of the last few hours of his single life.
Why anyone would want the shackles of marriage around their dick is beyond me. Why have just one when you can have several?
Thinking about marriage sends a little shiver down my spine. It would take one very special lady to drag this man down the aisle. I doubt such a woman even exists.
Freedom.
Single life brings plenty of freedom with it. And I’m not only talking about the freedom to choose pussy. No, sir.
There are other freedoms, more important ones; like watching what I want on television, listening to the kind of music I want to listen to and when I want to listen to it, and visiting whatever art gallery I want to visit.
As I pay the entry fee, I grab a brochure. It talks about the extensive and elaborate renovations carried out on this ancient building. Apparently, it was a combined effort.
Japanese architect Tadao Ando was responsible for the renovations, funded by French billionaire Francois Pinault.
“Enjoying the art, signore?”
I turn around and find myself facing an attractive gallery attendant.
Quickly, I look her up and down. She’s got black hair, delicious looking red lips, and the darkest chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen in a woman. Her lips are curled up a little at the corner into the tiniest hint of a smile.
“I’ve only just started,” I reply and go to walk on.
With the imminent call or text from Ryan, I decide now isn’t the time.
Like a lost puppy dog, she follows. She’s clutching a clipboard to her chest. I notice her tight white blouse gape at the button just above
the gap between her breasts.
Briefly, my eyes linger there before they travel back up to her eyes.
“Signore staying long in Venice?” she asks with a thick Italian accent.
I smile and shake my head. If it weren’t for the sign attached to her blouse stating her name and job as gallery attendant, I’d be inclined to think she was in another line of work.
“A few days,” I reply and stop in front of a tiny replica of a balloon animal.
“In those few days, you may need to have special entertainment?” she blinks suggestively at me as she says this.
Resisting the temptation to burst out laughing, I choose to ignore the invitation.
Sure, she’s pretty enough, but not my type.
And I’m not in the mood. Ryan’s sudden wedding, I hate to say, has left me rattled. I’m still trying to come to terms with it.
Sure, in my heart, I know it’s not unusual for a man to start thinking about settling down with one woman, but for this man to be Ryan is hard to swallow. Out of our group, Ryan is the last person—besides myself—I would’ve picked to be the tie-the-knot type.
“If you’re interested, I could show you something special out the back?”
Her hand with blood red nail polish rests on my forearm.
Wow.
Was she really offering to give me a quickie at the gallery?
“Let’s see,” I evade, giving her a direct brush off.
I don’t like to be rude. And you never know what might happen as we meander through the gallery. My eyes move from her to the artwork on display in the room I’ve just entered.
The piece of art intrigues me. Before I can flick through my art guide to read about it, my uninvited guide offers her explanation.
“You’re privileged enough to see here an original Dan Flavin work of art. He’s an American artist.”
I cough to hide my laugh.
Either this woman hasn’t been given any training, or she’s an imposter.
“Unfortunately, I have to correct you there,” I start and consult my brochure to be sure. “You see this is a piece from Jeff Koons, not Flavin. Both are American artists, though.”
I get no further. The young lady’s eyes have zeroed in on another solo male tourist.
With a shake of my head and a little chuckle to myself, I continue on my own. It’s just as well. If she had not decided to leave me to it, I would’ve had to give her the brush off.
A couple of hours later, I leave the gallery.
There’s still no word from Ryan. Bastard. At the very least, he should have the decency to fill me in on his movements.
It occurs to me I’ve only checked for message on the phone, not my emails. But this mistake is quickly fixed. There are plenty of new emails, and none of them are from Ryan.
As I wait for a gondola to take me to the hotel, I wonder what the fuck was going on.
At first, I mentally double-check all I know.
Ryan had sent me a message that says I have to be at Venice the day before Carnival starts. The reason was his upcoming wedding.
So today was the day before Carnival, check.
And I’m in Venice. No doubt about it.
I jump into the gondola just pulling up alongside the footpath and tell the gondolier where I want to go.
What if the bastard changed his mind already? I mean what other reason could he have for not being here yet?
As far as I can tell, there are only three possible explanations for his absence.
The first is death. If he’s dead, he won’t be here, and he wouldn’t be able to send me a message.
Second could be a serious injury, and again, he might be so badly hurt, he can’t use his mobile.
The third—and the most likely, is he’s changed his mind.
Of course, I wouldn’t blame him one bit.
I mean I can’t see myself marry, ever.
Nicole
I can hear music.
Is it Vivaldi, Rossini, or Puccini? It’s difficult to say with certainty. It’s so faint I can barely recognize anything other than that it’s classical.
Briefly I close my eyes and revel in the breeze caressing my face.
As violin and cello tones drift my way, I open my eyes again and stare into the water. Okay, so it’s a little murky, but that doesn’t detract from the overall beauty of the place.
The golden rays of sunlight hit the water’s surface, and millions of crystal-like reflections bounce off it. I imagine being one of the crystals, floating weightless through the air, seeing and hearing everything.
I really should be visiting the Opera while I’m here. Darn, there are so many things to do in this romantic city, and yet, so little time. Perhaps Ryan will change his mind once he’s here and come on some sightseeing trips with me.
What use is it, getting married in Venice and then not being able to visit any of these must visit places?
I’ve studied the tourist guides, browsed the websites, and made several lists of the top fifty must visit places whilst in Venice.
As the sun tickles my nose, I sigh. I run my right hand through my long hair and pull it out of my face.
“Not too late, not too late,” Allison chants as if she can read my mind.
I shake my head. She was impossible.
“Favorite color?”
With a scrunched up face, I shrug. “He doesn’t have one.”
“Favorite book?”
“Not fair. You know Ryan’s a busy man and doesn’t have time for reading.”
Instead of a reply, she rolls her eyes.
“Face it, girlfriend—he’s a dickhead, and you deserve better.”
I put my fingers in my ears.
“Not listening,” I tell her and pretend to sing.
“Just remember—I’m here for you when you change your mind.”
“Still not listening.”
Someone gliding past on their gondola, swearing, makes us both laugh.
“What’re we going to do once we check in?”
There are so many things I want to do, it’s difficult to pick just one or two.
“I’d really like to get something to sketch with,” I say and brace for a further verbal onslaught from Allison. But it doesn’t come.
Either she’s ignoring me, or she’s gone back to studying the muscles of our gondolier.
I take the moment of silence to send a text message to Ryan. First, I pull out my phone and take a photo of a passing gondola.
Then, I secretly and quickly type my message.
Hey Ryan, as you can see, we’ve arrived. Missing you and wishing you were here. I also thought it might be nice to include some special sightseeing after the wedding what do you think?
Love, N xx
After I press send, I wait for my phone to confirm it was ‘delivered’ before I keep staring at it, almost willing it to change to ‘read’. But nothing happens.
Dark clouds build up in the pit of my stomach, and I notice my hand start to shake a little.
Has something happened to Ryan? Is he alright? Or is he lying dead in the morgue with no one able to identify his body? When would I get the call to ask me to come and identify him?
My thoughts get gloomier and darker by the second.
A sudden thud against our gondola unbalances me, and as I try and steady myself—but then my phone drops onto the wet ground.
With a shriek, I leap forward to retrieve it. As I dive onto the floor of the boat, there’s another thud, followed by shouting.
All I care about right now is getting my mobile before it slides into the puddle of water. It seems to be heading right for doom and destruction. I mean, we all know what water will do to a mobile phone.
With one mighty lunge forward, I grab it and hold it up triumphantly.
Yes! Touchdown.
Now I can turn my attention to the loud voices, which are only getting louder.
It seems that someone, another gondola has run into ours. Allison i
s watching open mouthed as the two gondoliers are gesticulating and shouting at each other in Italian.
The language is truly a romantic language, and I can see why Opera is written in it. Even these two shouting at each other sounds pleasing to the ear.
Words like ‘accidenti,’ ‘madonna,’ ‘dio santo’, and ‘porco cane’ fly past my ears as I try and understand why everyone is shouting.
Allison sits and watches.
“What’s going on?”
She chuckles.
“The gondolier of the other gondola wasn’t watching where he was going and ran into us. I think he was checking out the blonde on his boat, hence the moment of inattention.”
She has to stop because now, she’s laughing.
“But nothing happened?”
Allison nods.
“I think our gondolier is milking it to show off to us.” She throws me a sideways glance. “Okay, he’s showing off to me. And you know what? This is better than television.”
After a few more insults, we move off again. For the first time since we’ve slowed right down, I look around.
There seems to be a steady stream of gondolas waiting to unload passengers at the Aman hotel, hence the delay. I’m not sure, but it looks like we’re in some kind of queue and are waiting for our turn.
With the tumult died down again, I turn my attention back to my mobile. Luckily, it’s no worse the wear. It seems to have sustained no visible damage, and the display is still lit up. But there’s no message from Ryan.
Best as I can I quash those rising fears again. The picture of his pale dead body with the identification tag tied around his big toe won’t go away. Try as I might, I see the morgue clearly in my mind. The way the man clad in blue pulls out a large silver drawer with Ryan’s dead body in it.
I shiver.
Stop being silly, I tell myself and rummage around my bag. My fingers search for a pen and a scrap piece of paper. All I can find is the boarding pass.
I start making a rough sketch of the gondolier perched at the end of our gondola holding the oar. As a backdrop, I pick one of the tiny alleyways. As my pen moves swiftly across the scrap piece, the monkey of my mind is calming down a little.
It’s silly, really, to imagine the worst. Ryan was just busy and would get here when he did. And he would no doubt contact me when he finally got some time.
