We turn into the canal where Trevisan’s house stands. The early morning light penetrates the shadows of Master Trevisan’s cavernous boat slip. Through the streaks of sun, I can make out the artist’s two gondolas—one fine, one dilapidated—hulking beasts penned behind the great wrought iron gates. As Alvise and I glide slowly by the boat slip in Giorgio’s old skiff, Alvise regards the fine boat, shakes his head and whistles in quiet amazement. “What did I tell you? Lucky, lucky fionàso, you are.”
“Thanks for the ride, cucco,” I joke, handing him the oar. “And for everything else, too.”
Alvise claps me on the shoulder. “Maybe you can talk your new boss into paying off Giorgio for me, too!” We laugh, then I heave myself out of the boat and walk up the stairs to knock on the artist’s studio door. “Just remember to watch your back!” Alvise adds.
“You too!”
Alvise salutes me with two fingers, then shoves off with the oar, whistling to himself as he rows out of sight.
Trevisan greets me at the door of his studio with a strong, amicable grip of his hand and leads me inside. The artist’s breeches alternate red and blue satin stripes, and his gold sleeves billow. His portly stomach threatens to burst the buttons off his blue waistcoat. He wears a two-toned cape and an elaborate hat with feathers on one side. His clogs clomp on the shiny tiled floor. On one side of the studio, a woman crouches on her hands and knees, wringing out a rag over a bucket of water.
“I have an important meeting with a patron this morning. You will take me there in my boat, and wait for me.”
“Yes, of course, Magnificence.”
“Luca, this is Signora Amalia, my housemaid. She can help you get settled and provide you with anything you may need.” Signora Amalia is about the same age as my mother was, I judge. She is thin, with a lined face, and her ashen hair sweeps back from her face in a tight bun with waves around her brow. She greets me with a warm smile but does not rise from the floor, where she is using a wet rag and a stiff-bristled brush to scrub a paint stain from the wooden planks.
The artist opens a small door on one side of the workshop and gestures for me to follow. The door leads to a spacious kitchen, where dry heat emanates from an enormous hearth. Dozens of ceramic plates hang above a window along another wall, overlooking the narrow canal below. A wooden table occupies the center of the room, and on it lie three half-chopped onions and a carrot. On the right, a narrow, curved staircase leads upstairs. Through a slightly open set of double doors, I catch sight of a dining room with a round table that has an elaborate centerpiece and a chandelier above it, both made of blown glass from Murano. Even in the kitchen, there are oil paintings, at least two dozen hung floor to ceiling, just as in the artist’s studio.
On the far side of the kitchen, Trevisan leads the way to an exterior door and opens it to reveal a narrow stone staircase. I catch a whiff of the cool, dank canal and understand that this door is the inside entrance to the boat slip. We descend into the shadows of the damp stairwell.
The artist unties one end of the canvas cover that protects his fine gondola moored in the slip, and I untie the other side. Trevisan lifts the cover with a dramatic gesture. This gondola, I note, was made in one of our rival boatyards, but it is a beauty all the same. The oarlock, the prow iron, and even the upholstery seem brand new, as if they have never seen the light of day. The rest of the boat is dusty and cluttered, but with minimal effort it could be a showpiece. What I admire most about the craft is that Trevisan has outfitted it so that it conforms to the Republic’s laws about gondola ornamentation, yet at the same time it is more elegant than most fine boats on the city’s canals.
Trevisan produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the tremendous padlock of the wrought-iron gate. It creaks as it opens outward. “You’ll find an oar on the wall there,” instructs the artist, climbing into his boat. In fact, there are a half-dozen oars hanging from a rack on the wall, some older than others. Instinctively, my eyes are drawn to one with a sharp, blade-like protrusion running from the handle to the paddle, the kind that my old friend the oarmaker always considered the most effective tool for rowing a standard gondola. I pull the oar from the wall and step into the back of the boat, using the oar to balance myself as I get into position to row.
“We’re going to the Scuola Grande di San Teodoro, son. You’ll want to approach it from the Grand Canal side.”
Tentatively, I push off with the oar and emerge from Trevisan’s boat slip into the sunlight. My heart flutters, and my chest swells with nervousness and pride. How did I manage to become a private boatman in a single day? It seems unfathomable, a pure stroke of luck. I row with purposeful strokes, not wanting to do a single thing to disappoint Master Trevisan. I hope that the artist cannot see how nervous I am. I try my best to look competent with the oar, but in truth I know that it will take some practice before rowing this particular grand craft becomes second nature. They say that rowing a gondola is like riding a horse; you may know how to do it, but each one is an individual. It takes time to develop confidence with each beast.
During the journey to the Scuola Grande, the artist does not utter a word. He remains inside the passenger compartment with the curtains tied open, either lost in thought or sketching with black coal on a piece of parchment. He sits confidently with one leg crossed over the other, as a gentle breeze tousles his silver curls. Even though his fingernails are perfectly filed and buffed, the artist’s hands belie his true profession, marred with paint stains that must be impossible to remove. Otherwise, the man is impeccable and could be mistaken easily for a patrician.
When we arrive at our destination, I guide the gondola among the jungle of mooring posts that stand at odd angles at the entrance to the scuola. Trevisan instructs me to moor the gondola with a rope to an enormous metal ring driven into the stone quayside and to wait for him.
Trevisan is gone for most of the morning. During the long hours, I explore his boat in detail. In the light of day, I recognize that the gondola, though fine, is neglected. Dust has collected on the decks, probably as a result of the boat being grounded for so long after Trevisan’s last boatman left. I make mental notes. The paint needs to be refreshed. Part of the hull should be waterproofed to prevent leaks. In the storage area under the aft deck, I discover a pile of dirty rags and tools thrown haphazardly into the space. I empty the storage compartments in the fore and aft decks and reorganize everything into neat piles. Then I set about shining the prow with a rag.
Throughout the morning, a steady flow of gondolas stops at the mooring to discharge passengers. Some are private gondolas with two rowers, which carry wealthy men and women. Others are plain black gondolas for hire like the ones from the ferry station. Each time a gondola stops, its gondolier greets me with an amicable “come xea” or one of many salutatory hand gestures that I have learned to interpret, thanks to my time on the canals alongside my mentor Alvise. It is as if I have joined a private alliance, an inner circle. I feel a double impostor now, for I do not consider myself a real boatman. With my hat pulled low over my brow, I return the greeting in a manner that becomes only slightly more confident as the hours pass.
As it nears time for the midday meal, Trevisan reappears. Another well-dressed gentleman walks alongside the artist, both engrossed in their conversation. The two men board the boat, and Trevisan instructs me to transport them back to his studio. Trevisan is so preoccupied with his conversation during our journey that the artist does not notice my efforts to beautify his boat. “Luca, you may wish to reorganize my boat slip as you see fit. After some time I’m sure to find it as organized and tidy as you made Master Giorgio’s boathouse,” says Trevisan as he and his guest exit the boat. I carefully steer the gondola into the artist’s boat slip.
The silence of the cavernous space is broken only by the lapping of water against the stone walls. In the shadows, like a lurking behemoth, stands the now broken-down boat my grandfath
er made. I force myself to avert my eyes from it, wanting to take in the rest of the space first. The walls of the boat slip are covered in lichen, accounting for the dingy appearance and dank smell that fills it. Drips of water echo off the walls. Along with an impressive selection of oars, I note the three types of brooms hanging from the wall, and I put cleaning the boat slip on the top of my list.
In the far reaches of the covered area, I discover a lightweight felze of the kind used in the summer to protect passengers from the sun. Its wooden frame sits high to allow breezes in, and its sides are made of a lightweight silk fabric in light green. The silk is beginning to rot. I find another old one, covered in midnight velvet, that is used in winter, low and broad to keep off the rain but now ragged and rotted. I doubt that the fabrics can be salvaged, but I might be able to reuse the frames. I take stock of discarded supplies jumbled on shelves along one wall. Gels and varnishes, coated by years of dust, lie still in glass jars. I recognize turpentine and several types of oil, but I will need to open the jars and smell to be able to identify some of the others.
The dry dock extends far into the depths under the house, lit by lanterns along the wall. A narrow stream of light from a tall shaft illuminates the back of the dry dock. I follow the light and soon emerge into a small courtyard littered with belongings—discarded wrought-iron doors, a pile of scrap wood, sculpted stone capitals dating back what must be hundreds of years. In spite of the clutter, the space is usable, and I judge that I will be able to work here.
Finally, I return into the boat slip and approach the old gondola stored upside down on trestles. I take a deep breath to summon the nerve to push back the old canvas cover that conceals the boat. I close my eyes and run my hands along its hull, recognizing only by touch its familiar shape and curves, as if it were a long-lost lover. My fingertips divine its familiar surfaces, textures, its musty scent, its imperfections, its singular beauty. The sensation brings images, clear as day, flashing to the front of my mind. I see my grandfather varnishing a boat while I, just a small boy, run circles around the great black craft. My mind forms an image of my grandfather’s lined and suntanned face, his subtle grin, his genteel voice, his old-fashioned Venetian words now rarely heard. He is telling me how the lumber must be stacked carefully in the téza and left to season for at least a year.
The pungent scent of varnish reminds me of our family squero in the spring, when people would bring their boats to us to be cleaned and revarnished. My mind races with images of our clients rowing their boats—a gondola, a sandolo, a puparin, a fishing boat they call a scípion—to the Vianello boatyard to have their keels cleaned. As if watching myself in a dream, I see my father and brother pulling the crafts out of the water up the ramp, then propping the boats on their sides. From this awkward position, we spent days scraping off canal grime, then coating the keels with sottomarino, a special kind of varnish that makes the boat watertight. I see the camaraderie among the men who bring their boats to be cleaned. I smile as I see my grandfather lightly tap these visitors on the shoulder with the back of his hand as he speaks to them, as if he is incapable of talking without touching.
I inhale the boat’s scent, a musty mix of aged varnish, decay, and dank moss that transports me back to the reality of Trevisan’s boat slip. Carefully, I tip the boat on its side so that I can view the inside of its hull. I recognize the planks of oak, walnut, and cherry that make the hull strong yet lightweight. The wood is in dire need of restoration, but I marvel that in spite of its damage, this old boat has stood the test of time.
At dusk, Trevisan appears at the door of the boat slip to find me mucking the lichen off the stones. He stands silently for a moment, watching me. He descends the stairs and clears his throat. “Luca, Signora Amalia has prepared some bean and barley stew. You may join her to dine in the kitchen. Afterward, she will explain to you how to find Signora Monti’s boardinghouse, which is not far. I’ve already reserved a room for you there. I apologize for not being able to accommodate you here. I’ve had to pair up my four apprentices in my extra rooms in order to lodge them in my house. Unfortunately I have no space left. For the boardinghouse, I deducted the rent out of your first week’s salary. Starting next week, you may pay the proprietor, Signora Monti, directly from the salary I pay you on Saturdays. Agreed? That is, unless you have some other accommodation for yourself.”
“No,” I respond quickly. “That is fine. Thank you, Master Trevisan, for your kindness.” Glancing beyond the artist’s shoulder, I see a narrow slice of the kitchen and the hem of Signora Amelia’s skirt, then the aroma of the stew curls through the air. I replace the broom then climb the stairs to the kitchen, where Signora Amalia is ladling steaming broth into a bowl.
Trevisan continues, “I’ve also arranged for Signora Baldi to provide you with a selection of clothing from her stock, something suitable to a boatman in my charge. These will get you by for the short term. I do have a certain image to uphold, you know.”
Chapter 20
The artist’s house runs more like a manufactory than a residence.
On my third day with Trevisan, the artist finds the time to bring me into his studio and introduce his new boatman to his assistants. When I visited the artist’s studio the first time, I was so overwhelmed by its rich appointments and by the painting of the mysterious girl that I lacked the time to appreciate the organization and operation of the workshop itself. Several stations manned by assistants occupy the corners of the enormous room. Trevisan’s easel stands in an open space, placed so that the artist may sit with his back to the window to allow in light. Instinctively, my eyes travel to the painting on the master’s easel, but just as before, it is covered with a drape and turned toward the wall. Under another window stands a rustic worktable and a shelf filled with glass jars and different-colored powders; it brings to mind an apothecary shop. In a shadowy corner of the room, a large board is placed on trestles. On the far wall, paintings in various stages of completion are propped against the wall, some turned outward, some turned toward the wall so I can see the wooden frames across which the canvas is stretched. A second easel is set up near the great hearth, where one of Trevisan’s assistants applies paint from a smudged palette in delicate stabs.
I count three assistants in the room and wonder how many more the artist employs. Quickly I surmise that Trevisan’s highest-ranking journeyman is a young man named Valentin, who looks near my own age. Valentin stands before a large easel, painting a tree in a landscape that forms the background of an incredible picture of a saint in agony as he is being crucified upside down. The boy seems to work in slow motion, in intense concentration. I catch a whiff of the boy’s perfume, a heady combination of flowers and musk strong enough to be detected even above the smell of paints. His wheat-colored hair is cropped neatly at his chin, and his jaw is clean-shaven and soft. Suddenly aware that he is being watched, Valentin looks my way and smiles a faint smile. The boy’s eyelids are heavy, almost as if he were sleepy. His shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a smooth chest, so smooth that it seems glossy. I can make out the boy’s collarbones and the taut muscles of his breast. A silver chain hangs around the boy’s neck, and on each hand, he wears gold rings with small gems on the thumb and index finger.
In addition to Valentin, a younger apprentice named Cesare, a boy about fifteen, stands quietly at a worktable wedged along the wall under one of the studio windows. With a mortar and pestle, he grinds an emerald-colored paint pigment, then wipes the extra powder from the side of several glass jars on an adjacent shelf. The boy appears older than his fifteen years, as he walks with a slight limp like an old man. Hobbling to the makeshift table constructed of a large board on trestles, he wraps a large framed canvas in blue paper.
The youngest member of the studio is a slight boy with a cowlick and widely set blue eyes, no older than ten. He is introduced to me as Biondino, little blonde boy, but I don’t learn his given name. The boy’s main job is to clean up af
ter everyone else. He wears an apron and sweeps the studio floor as the other men work, occasionally stopping to wipe his nose on his sleeve or look out the window until one of the older assistants tousles his hair and reminds him to return to his chores. Biondino is also dispatched to answer the studio door when the bell rings at the canal-side that borders Trevisan’s house. All day long, it seems that someone—usually a neatly dressed messenger or boatman—is clanging the little bronze bells suspended above the canal-side and land-side doors. The ringing is incessant, and Signora Amalia or, if she is occupied on the upper floors, Biondino, is constantly opening the doors, accepting invitations and messages scrawled in elaborate script addressed to the artist, delivered by private messengers.
In spite of the presence of Trevisan’s many assistants, it is clear that Signora Amalia is the one who keeps things running in the house. She cleans and cooks all day long, scrubbing floors, stirring pots, fluffing bedding, chopping parsley with a mezzaluna blade, dusting windowsills, heating milk. Beneath this tough exterior, though, I sense a warm heart. I like her immediately, and finally, it occurs to me why. She reminds me of my own mother.
“THE PROBLEM WITH BOATMEN is that they become more interested in profiting from their side jobs than being paid for their primary one.” Signora Amalia pauses from chopping onions at the massive table in Trevisan’s kitchen and points her knife in my direction. “I have served Master Trevisan for nearly thirty years. During that time I have lost count of how many boatmen have come and gone; finding a reliable one has not been easy.” She pushes the fruit bowl across the table to me, then resumes chopping the onions with great force. I select a ripe apple.
“Master Trevisan had one boatman who became so involved with a gambling scheme that he showed up less and less for the artist,” she continues. “Finally he disappeared without a trace. Another one became so successful running a prostitution ring that involved some of our neighborhood wives that he no longer needed to work as a private boatman. Ha!” She shakes her head. “Later Trevisan got word that the man ended up in prison.” I taste the crisp sweetness of the apple. “And if they’re not criminals they’re just plain lazy,” she complains.
The Gondola Maker Page 11
