I freeze, letting my father’s words sink in. I am remotely aware of my own heartbeat. It grows into a dull throb, leading down my arms and legs, through the tips of my fingers and toes. Anger that I never knew I had in me begins to well up from the depths of my soul.
Then I hear the rushing sound, as if I can hear my blood coursing through my own veins. It starts at my feet, then rises up through my legs, into the pit of my stomach, and up through my face. Finally it fills my head, deafening my ears to the world outside my body. It grows louder until it makes my scalp tingle. All the hairs on my head seem to stand on end.
And then, the rage spills over.
With a single, violent sweeping motion, I brush my father’s papers, tools, and parchment off the workbench. My father recoils from the sudden rage and force of his normally sullen child, a gut reaction that makes him hunch his shoulders, draw his hands near his breast, and transform his normally proud face into a twisted, startled expression. The torch crashes to the floor.
In less than a second, the torch flame leaps from the ground. It flickers in the draft, then dances onto a nearby cloth soaked with the varnish we have been using to waterproof another gondola under restoration. The stain-soaked cloth ignites with a sound like a dragon exhaling, then flames begin to leap wildly from it. A scrap of the singed canvas rises in the draft, then drifts like an autumn leaf to a drop-cloth piled haphazardly on the floor at the back of the studio. From there, it jumps to a pile of oak scraps, and curls of smoke begin to rise from the stack of wood. Within seconds, the entire back of the workshop is ablaze.
During those few short moments which seem to progress over hours, my father and I stand transfixed at the unreal sight of the flames catching the wood and cloth on fire at the back of our workshop. Then, Domenico Vianello snaps out of his startled daze and leaps into action, pulling off his waistcoat and beating wildly at the flames. He calls for Uncle Tino, his voice growing louder and more panicked as the seconds pass and the flames grow unabated. The leaping flames make my father’s frenzied face glow, and for a moment he looks demonic, his skin red and twisted in anguish, and his black eyes reflecting shimmering flames. In the distance, I hear iron locks and wooden doors scraping open, and the sound of men’s frantic voices outside the boatyard.
But I can see that it is already too late.
The flames make crazy dancing patterns, and I stand transfixed for a moment as I watch my family boatyard, my destiny, my whole life, disintegrate.
I turn my back and run.
Chapter 7
Boatmen. The mere thought of them is enough to make his blood boil.
The Councillor stands at the window, gazing out onto the Grand Canal. On the quayside below, a row of private gondolas lines up at the mooring. The Councillor watches a boatman escort one of his colleagues, their meeting now adjourned, into a boat adorned with gilded birds. The man disappears behind scarlet curtains, then his boatman steers the gondola into great basin that extends between the Piazza San Marco and the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. Beyond, several dozen cargo boats, private gondolas, and public ferries traffic the canal.
Deep creases form on either side of the Councillor’s thin lips. Those in the watercraft trades outnumber any other single class of Venetians. That’s what makes it such a threat to peace and order when these scoundrels break the law. How many times has he preached this message to his fellow members of the Council of Ten? Besides regulating coinage and sodomy, public order is the Council’s primary duty to His Most Excellent Prince. Keep boatmen under control, and the Most Serene City will run as reliably as the clock in Saint Mark’s Square. He sighs. Keeping them under control is precisely the problem. Every day, the Councillor receives news of some infraction involving boatmen. A fruitseller’s daughter, raped under the tarps of a cargo raft. Gondoliers paid off handsomely for illegal smuggling among the merchant ships in the lagoon. Kickbacks earned in support of the prostitution trade. Gambling competitions that begin at the ferry stations and end in unrestrained cursing, fistfights, or blood spilled in the canal.
Blasted. There it is again: that old familiar burning sensation that begins somewhere below his ribs, then wells slowly, tortuously upward into his chest. When it reaches his throat, he knows, there will be painful regurgitations and the taste of sour eggs. The left side of his mouth twitches. The Councillor strides to his desk in the corner of the room, his robes flapping, and slides open the drawer. With long, elegant fingers, he fishes around until he locates a small paper packet with powder in it, an ingenious blend that the pharmacist has prepared for him. He pours the powder in his mouth and sucks on it with great force, softening the sand-like mixture on his tongue.
Boatmen. Criminals, every last one of them.
While he waits for the concoction to take effect, the Councillor paces across the marble floor of his chamber, taking in each one of the dozens of oil paintings suspended on the walls. These pictures never cease to bring him pleasure, none so much as those painted by the artist Gianluca Trevisan, a master of color and light. The Councillor stops before a small picture of Venus and Cupid that Trevisan painted for him some five years ago. His eyes run over the vibrant, pink flesh of the nude Venus; he drinks in the ponderous hips and delicate hands. At last, the Councillor feels the burning in his chest begin to calm.
His mind sufficiently distracted from the vagaries of the canal and toward the dual pleasures of art and the flesh, the Councillor summons his secretary.
“Baldoni!” he calls, and almost immediately, a portly man with satin buttons from his waist to his chin enters the room and bows.
“Magnificence?”
“Today we must complete the draft contract for the latest painting from Master Trevisan.”
“You speak of the portrait of Signorina Zanchi that you have commissioned?”
“Yes,” he says, feeling the familiar hunger returning. “I am most eager for Master Trevisan to begin the picture.”
“Right away, of course,” the secretary says, and he retrieves the inkwell and a fresh parchment folio from the cabinet.
Chapter 8
For four days, I have hardly eaten, surviving on the occasional scrap of cabbage lodged in the crack of a cobblestone, the detritus of market day in Rialto. I have done my best to stay hidden during daylight hours, observing, waiting—for what, I cannot say. I have drunk water from public fountains, cat-napped under the shelter of an arcade or against the wall of a vacant alley. At night I have wandered, a ghost-like spectator of the dark underbelly of Our Most Serene Republic.
Over this time the burden of truth has laid itself bare inside my head. For all I know, my childhood home is destroyed. I do not even know if my family survived the fire. And if they have, who would claim me now? Not my cousins, my uncle, certainly not my father. My brother and sister might find some compassion in their hearts for me, but they will not stand up before my father. And my mother—the only person in the world who might have defended me before them all—is gone. On top of it all, I am a criminal, an arsonist. What I have done must be bad enough to make me a candidate for the slave galleys or even the Doge’s prisons. The authorities are probably looking for me—a fire-starter, a traitor to my own family.
I consider my choices.
I have experienced enough to know that I cannot go on living like a phantom in my city, a pariah to society. It goes against every grain of my body, and I know that I don’t have it in me to hide indefinitely. I also know that I cannot leave Our Most Serene Republic. I have no papers and nowhere to go. I know no one on the mainland. The only possibility to leave the city is to volunteer on one of the merchant galleys, a life that amounts to little more than slavery. No, I must stay in Venice. Besides, I cannot imagine leaving My Most Excellent City. I love it with all my heart and cannot imagine living in a place that isn’t permeated with waterways. The city is part of me, and I part of it.
Is there a
path for me back home? Is it possible that I might overcome my enormous failings—that I may find my family willing to forgive me, that I might rebuild the squero and resume my place?
Seemingly by instinct, I walk in the direction of my old neighborhood in Cannaregio, in the direction of the one person left in the world with the power—and perhaps the will—to answer these questions.
I RECOGNIZE THE oarmaker’s studio from its second-floor balcony, which, though rickety, boasts an expansive vista over the Sacca della Misericordia, a view the remero brags is better than that of any palace on the Grand Canal. On the lower level, a ramp slopes into the canal, making easy access for boatmen to moor and have their oarlocks fitted, restored, repaired, and replaced. The building could almost pass for a squero.
I choose an isolated spot in an alley where I will not be noticed, and I squat so that I can watch the back door of the remero’s studio. I wait. At dusk, just as the sky begins to turn pink, I hear the familiar ringing of the church bells at Madonna dell’Orto, signaling the end of the working day. Moments later, I spot two of the remero’s assistants leaving for the day. The men exit the back of the studio, chatting as they stroll down the street near to the spot where I wait. Another five minutes pass, then I see Samuele, Master Fumagalli’s new apprentice, dash out the door and down the alley.
It is time to make my move. I approach the remero’s studio, rapping quietly on the back door.
After a moment, I hear footsteps. “Who’s there?” Signor Fumagalli’s voice calls from the other side of the door.
“It’s me, remer. It’s Luca Vianello.”
“Mother of God!” I hear fumbling with the lock. The door swings open and Signor Fumagalli, with his sour apple face twisted in alarm, reaches around and snatches me by the collar with a firm grasp that takes me by surprise. He closes the door as quietly as possible and leads the way into the back storage room, which occasionally doubles as a bunk for assistants, firmly gripping my forearm. He pulls me down to sit on a straw-filled mattress, and immediately takes my face in his wrinkled hands.
“My Lord, son, I hardly recognize you.” In the days since the fire in the squero, I have grown nearly a full beard. My hair is greasy and tousled. I peer down ashamedly at my filthy clothes. “The whole neighborhood is talking about the fire at the great squero of Master Vianello. The boatyard is burned nearly to the ground.”
I stand up with a start. “And my family...?”
“No one was injured in the fire, son,” the remero says. “By the grace of God alone, they were able to escape the flames in time. Your brother, your sister, the baby—they are all sound, at least physically. Even the house and those of the neighbors are standing. But the squero is a God-forsaken mess, every boat reduced to ashes. And your dear mother was buried on Murano yesterday. The Rosmarin brothers sent one of the finest gondolas from their squero to your father to bear her body away. It seems that the old rivalries can disappear in times of calamity.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and cup my hands over my ears. “Please! I cannot...”
The oarmaker stops and grasps my forearms. “Boy! What the hell were you thinking?”
I slump on the edge of the bed, and the words begin to flow out of me. I recount to Master Fumagalli all the events that led to my careless act—my grief, the blame I placed on my father, my lashing out against him, the flames bursting and leaping out of control. The oarmaker watches my eyes as I speak, but does not say a word until I finish.
Finally the remero sighs and rubs his palms over his head. “Your brother has already come to me in tears, certain that I must know something of your whereabouts. I could not imagine where you had gone.”
“I don’t know what to do now, remer. How could I ever redeem myself after what I’ve done?”
The oarmaker remains silent for a time, contemplating the weight of his response. “My dear boy,” he says finally, “we are human beings and, true to our nature, eventually our judgment fails. You are no different. But as for going home now, I fear that I cannot advise it in good conscience. Your father...” Master Fumagalli rubs his face with his hands, then looks at me with a pained expression that tells me more than any words he could have chosen.
My shoulders slump and I sink into the mattress.
“Stay here,” he says, and pats my shoulder. “I will bring you something to eat. You must be starving. Don’t make a sound, you hear? Until we sort things out I don’t even want my cat to know you are here!” He rises and heads toward the door that leads to his studio. “Mother of God!” the oarmaker exclaims in a loud whisper, then disappears. I collapse onto the bed, and for the time that Master Fumagalli is out of the room, I drift in and out of sleep.
Finally I hear the lock turn, and I see the stooped frame of Signor Fumagalli in the doorway. He hands me a burlap bag without a word. Inside I find a piece of warm bread and some cured ham, along with an apple and a wedge of soft cheese. I silently devour it and thank the remero again for his kindness. For a time we sit together in silence.
“Perhaps for now I may find work as a day laborer in the Arsenale shipyard,” I say finally.
You? A fachino?” The oarmaker looks at me skeptically.
“Why not?” I say. “I am an able-bodied man. I could load and unload cargo on the merchant galleys. It would just be for as long as it takes for me to sort things out.”
Signor Fumagalli rubs his shriveled jaw.
“What else am I to do,” I ask, “join the inmates who row war galleys to Crete and the Barbary Coast?”
The oarmaker contemplates my face with concern. “Luca, look. I want to tell you something I’ve never told you before,” he says. “Whatever success your father has won as a boat-builder has come to him through nothing more than sheer determination. Casso, maybe a little bit of arrogance, too. But you, my son, you are the one with God-given talents in your hands. I have seen it myself; in fact, I would have engaged you as my own apprentice from the time you were eleven years old, if you were not already the gondola maker’s son. I would never tell your father this, of course. He has his pride. But you should know it. You are the one with the magic in your own hands. I have known many artisans in my time, men who inherit a workshop but not the passion, the natural ability for the trade. You, my boy, are different. Yes, of course it’s your destiny to inherit your father’s boatyard. But most of all, son, it’s what you were meant to do. If you are able to open your eyes long enough to examine the depths of your soul, you will know that what I say is true.”
“That means more than you know, remer. Thank you. But clearly I cannot return to my place as the heir to my father’s squero. Not after everything that has happened.”
Signor Fumagalli shakes his head. “Thinking of you working as a dockhand in the Arsenale... It’s just that you are meant for much more than that in this life.” The oarmaker manages a grin, and for a moment I glimpse the jovial character that I have always known. “You must stay here with me until we resolve all of this,” he says.
“Thank you, zio. God bless you, Master Fumagalli, but for the sake of our families’ friendship, our history together, for the peace of my mother’s soul, I would not bring that on you. If my father finds out you are harboring me, he might murder us both with his bare hands. At a minimum, he will never do business with you again.”
Shadows pass over the oarmaker’s face and he turns grim. “For now, what is important is that you need some rest.” He squeezes my leg with a firm grip. From his perch at the end of the bed, the remero watches me. The old man’s face, heavy with worry, is the last thing I see before sagging into a deep and dreamless sleep.
At dawn, I awaken to a faint glow outside the window. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is turning from black to pink and yellow. Soon the master will awaken, then his assistants will arrive, and the workshop will begin to stir with the day’s work.
My mind is clearer than i
t has been in days. I must not bring more trouble to the oarmaker than I have already caused. I must move quickly now, disappearing before anyone catches sight of me. The damp morning air cools my face as I emerge from Master Fumagalli’s house. Behind me, I ease the door closed, and I hear its iron bar scrape into the locked position.
THE STENCH EMANATING from the public latrines is enough to make passersby swoon. I have only been inside once, taking up two friends on a dare when I was twelve years old. Ever since, I have avoided these disgusting-smelling outlets at all costs. If I am away from my family boatyard and feel the call of nature, I do as most boys and men do: I relieve myself in the canal.
My current predicament in a crowded street gives me little opportunity to be selective. I breathe in a nose full of fresh, damp air, then hold my breath as I duck into the dark entryway of the below-ground latrine. I pause for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. After a moment, I make out a bench-like structure with four equally spaced holes. A small shaft of light appears from a hole where one wall and the ceiling meet, but otherwise the room is dark. The odor is overwhelming. Then I perceive movement from the corner of my eye, and I flinch as I see a figure coming toward me from the corner of the stench-filled room. It is a man, staggering toward me, and I immediately realize that he is drunk. “Excuse me,” slurs the man, and as he moves toward the light of the door, I see his bulbous red nose, lined face, matted hair, and soiled cloak. I back up to the wall to let the man pass. When the man exits, I proceed to the back of the latrine and relieve myself as quickly as possible, then exit.
The Gondola Maker Page 5
