The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  “Isn’t it time we exchanged that waistcoat?” I look down sheepishly at my coat. She smiles. “I think we can do better than that.” Patrizia files through a rack of men’s costumes, fingering a rainbow of velvets, silks, and taffetas. From this bundle of fine fabrics she produces a stylish-looking coat. “Here it is. Try this one.”

  Reluctantly, I remove my waistcoat and toss it onto a chair, then thread my arms through the coat that Patrizia holds out for me. She squeezes my arm and leads me to an enormous mirror propped on the storehouse floor. I look at my reflection while Patrizia runs her hands slowly over my shoulders and back, tidying the coat. In the mirror, she peers out from behind my back. “Just as I thought: this jacket is perfect for you, with your eyes—almost like fire! You can borrow it if you like, as long as you think of me when you wear it,” she giggles. “Just return it to me when you come back with Trevisan’s costumes.

  I emerge from the storehouse with the large crate full of next month’s supply of Trevisan’s costumes, and load it onto the gondola. “I’ve also packed a separate box with several possibilities for tonight’s gala,” Signora Baldi gestures to another container on the quayside. She watches her daughter follow me out of the shop and stares in disapproval, seeming to take note that she has let down her hair. She frowns, then turned her attention back to me as I load the second crate onto Trevisan’s gondola. “Please have Master Trevisan make his selection, and return the remaining choices to me by next Thursday since I’ll need to have whatever he does not select available for other clients. The other costumes he may keep until next month, as usual.” She waves as I unlatch the boat from the shop’s mooring. “I’m glad to see that the artist has finally found a trustworthy person to carry out his errands. He has had his fair share of tribulations with boatmen.”

  I have begun to row back to Trevisan’s house when a thought occurs to me. I pull out of the Grand Canal and into a small side rivulet where there are no boats or people in sight. I moor the gondola to a giant iron ring on the side of a building. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, I lift the lid off one of the wicker crates. Inside, Signora Baldi has carefully folded a dozen or so garments from which Trevisan may choose, each fully accessorized with stockings and hats to match. A red and black ensemble catches my eye. Swiftly, I roll up the costume and sweep it into the storage compartment under the aft deck. I look around again, then swipe the matching hat, a broad-brimmed affair embellished with a single, long gray goose feather.

  I make sure that the rest of the costumes in the crate appear undisturbed, then close the lid and row toward Trevisan’s house.

  “THERE IS TOO MUCH boat traffic for me to wait for you here, Master Trevisan. I must moor the gondola away from the palace.” With one hand, I grasp a mooring post outside the Ca’ Leoncino.

  “Of course,” says the artist. Valentin, Trevisan’s journeyman, climbs out of the gondola first. Next, Trevisan exits the boat with his usual spryness, which surprises me given the man’s age and portliness. A younger man dressed in an elaborate blue cape and an onion-shaped hat greets the artist with a smile as he climbs out of his own boat. Within seconds, Trevisan is surrounded by a crowd of fawning friends, patrons, and acquaintances. The group moves from the docks up to the palace’s canal-side entrance. Another crowd of talkative partygoers makes its way up the side alley to enter the palace from the land-side.

  Pushing off from the docks, I glide away from the Ca’ Leoncino and the many boats clustered around it. I round the corner and search the canal for an ideal spot. Not far away, I find a lone mooring pole next to a dark, silent canal faced with narrow houses, all of which have their shutters closed. I approach the pole and lash one of the boat’s ropes to it. I open the aft deck and snatch the costume I have stored there. I duck into the passenger compartment and draw the curtains closed.

  In truth, I don’t really know what I am doing, so I follow my instincts. With some awkwardness, I ply myself into the red and black costume. The silk breeches feel slippery across the skin of my thighs, an unfamiliar sensation. The pants, silk shirt, and vest are of course sized for Trevisan and are much too baggy for my lean frame. Improvising, I roll the excess fabric of the waistband, and then fold the extra material of the shirt into neat pleats at my waist. With some care, I place the hat on my head at an angle, appreciating that it is the most extravagant thing I have worn in my life. I have no choice but to wear my old shoes, which look ridiculous with this elaborate outfit. I hope no one will notice.

  I exit the gondola and duck down the alley nearest the mooring post. The alley opens to a broader path, and from there, I can hear the sounds of the party—music, laughter, conversation. The great doors that mark the land-side entrance to the Ca’ Leoncino are closed, but warm candlelight emanates from the upper-floor windows. I position myself in the entryway to a grand building nearby, and wait for an opportunity. After a few minutes, a group of a dozen party guests approaches the building, talking amongst themselves. One man pulls the cord outside the door, ringing a bell. I emerge from the doorway and fold myself into the back of the group. When the doors open, I slip into the palace behind them.

  While the exterior of the land-side entrance is relatively plain, the interior of the building takes my breath away. Beneath my dusty shoes, the floor is composed of rose and white marble slabs formed into the shape of a giant star. Several people sit under alcoves around the edges of the entryway, on benches festooned with jewel-toned velvet cushions. Mythological scenes are painted on the walls. I look up to a coffered ceiling some twenty feet above my head, punctuated with gilded flowers. Silks embroidered with coats of arms line an enormous staircase, its marble steps gleaming like mirrors.

  I tuck myself toward the back of the crowd with whom I entered the house. Ascending the stairs, we reach the main floor with an arched portego overlooking the moonlight reflecting on the canal waters. The party is underway. Several men gather around an enormous hearth that is the keystone of the room, a hulking fireplace carved with gilded mythological figures that stretch from floor to ceiling. At a nearby table, guests sip from wide-rimmed glass goblets so transparent they are nearly invisible. At another table, a black man with a turban-like headdress pours wine from a blown glass pitcher in the shape of a ship.

  In the center of the room an enormous table overflows with food beneath ornate glass chandeliers. I have never seen such abundance: a vast bounty of fish and fowl, grapes, pomegranates, eggs, eels, and braided breads, all displayed on red fabric with silver and glass candelabra illuminating the feast. I have eaten meat only on a few occasions over the last year, and I have never tasted the game birds that I have seen patrician men hunting with bows and arrows in the lagoons. Now, here before me splay artfully arranged carcasses of peacocks, pheasants, mallard ducks, quail, guinea hens, and partridges, with the feathers of these birds making up part of the table decoration.

  My mouth waters as I load my plate with a precariously balanced bounty of delicacies. I duck to the periphery of the room, where I find a gilded, tapestry-covered stool. The sights, sounds, and smells of the party grow dim and out of focus as I savor the unfamiliar flavors that slide over my tongue. With a two-pronged silver fork, I remove what must be a spleen or a kidney from a tiny bird on my plate. I separate a flap of bumpy skin from the sliver of dark meat. The cook has done his utmost to make the bird look appetizing, dressing it with soft sage leaves and a sliver of citrus. The sight of the creature’s innards exposed, its limbs akimbo, the bumps where its feathers have been plucked, makes me squeamish, but it tastes surprisingly delicious. Finally, two crayfish legs and a pile of empty cockleshells are all that remain on my plate.

  Satiated, I scan the room. I catch sight of Trevisan’s assistant, the sleepy-looking Valentin. He stands at the balcony of an open window, his elbow resting lazily on the railing. His unbuttoned silk shirt reveals his smooth, shiny chest and a large gem hanging on a chain. An older man has engaged Vale
ntin in conversation, so I don’t worry that he might recognize me. Still, I pull the brim of my hat down lower on my face. I scan the room for Trevisan, but I don’t see the artist.

  The party spills into the next room, and I file into another enormous chamber with coffered ceilings and luxurious fabrics draped over the windows. The chairs have been pushed back against the wall. In one corner of the room, a trio of musicians plays stringed instruments while several guests dance in a circle, holding one another’s hands high in the air. Others stand in clusters, chatting, drinking, and observing the dancers.

  At one end of the room stands another enormous portego. Its lace-like arches frame a view of the Grand Canal. I pause to take in the vista. A full moon hangs in the sky, making shimmering, metallic patterns in the water. A large gathering of boats—mostly the boatmen of the people at this party, waiting for their masters—clusters in the canal. It appears that the boatmen are enjoying a party of their own. Several boats have been lashed together, their boatmen chatting loudly to one another and laughing. Each boat has a lantern suspended from the frame of its felze, and from this vantage point, they appear like hundreds of fireflies bobbing on the water.

  The music stops and everyone claps. I turn my head, then freeze.

  There she is.

  I only see her from the back, but there is no doubt in my mind that it is Giuliana Zanchi. She is taking in the same view that I am, standing at the portego alongside two men and an older woman. I approach slowly, moving so that I can see her from the side. Her hair is pulled back from her face in fine braids studded with tiny pearls and sparkling gems. A string of beads hangs at her neck, and a pair of platform clogs peek out from the hem of her emerald-green velvet gown. I can make out their white leather uppers pierced with a fine mesh of flowers and leaves, their tree-trunk-like heels making her nearly as tall as I am. My heartbeat reverberates loudly inside my head.

  One of the men, a gallant-looking patrician, is doing his best to engross the women in conversation. He moves close to Giuliana and leans down to talk near her ear. My heart fills with uncontrollable jealousy for this stranger of whom I know almost nothing. I inch closer to her along the balustrade, to a spot where I can observe her while at the same time appearing to observe the twinkling lantern lights in the canal. I do my best to seem inconspicuous, as if I have found something fascinating in the canal to watch.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice that one of the house servants is watching Giuliana as closely as I am. The slight man, whom I judge to be a North African, nearly disappears into the richly ornamented fabric on the wall, where he stands with his hands behind his back. I may not have noticed him if not for his seemingly abiding watch over Giuliana Zanchi. He is also watching the man talking to Giuliana, as if waiting for the man to make a false move.

  I am now close enough to hear the man recounting a story about his exploits in the Dolomite Mountains. From the corner of my eye, I see the other lady in the group stifle a yawn. I listen vaguely to the man’s monologue, but all my senses are directed toward the girl in the green dress. After a few moments, I muster the nerve to turn directly toward her. From this vantage point, I can see the delicate skin behind Giuliana’s ear and wisps of brown hair loose at the nape of her neck. I inhale, trying to catch her scent, but only the rotten, damp vapors of the canal fill my nose.

  Giuliana seems suddenly aware of a presence behind her. She turns her head slowly. My heart leaps, and I look away, pretending to gaze again at the twinkling gas lamps swinging in the boats in the canal. Giuliana fixes her eyes on me with a blank stare for a moment. Then she smiles.

  “I know you!” she exclaims. “Master Trevisan’s boatman!”

  Chapter 24

  “That’s a pretty good disguise! Well, except for the baggy pants.” She utters a deep-throated laugh. “And the shoes.” I look down at my sagging breeches and my embarrassingly scuffed shoes, which I now realize look even more ridiculous than I had originally thought. She leans toward me, and I can smell her perfume. I instinctively flare my nostrils, catching a mixture of daffodils and rose water.

  “It’s fine,” she whispers. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She stifles a giggle with her hand. “What are you doing here, dressed like that?”

  I gather my wits. I clear my throat and inflate my chest. “Well, I happen to be here on a secret errand for someone. I’m afraid I am not able to reveal more than that, Signorina Zanchi.” I try my best to sound confident and serious, corralling all my force to conceal my sheer panic. I am not at all sure that I have convinced her.

  “I see,” Giuliana says, her expression now serious too, mirroring my own. I glance to see if the two men and the woman have turned to listen, too. To my utter relief, the tall man continues to drone on about the Dolomites, and the other two continue to listen to him politely. I turn my gaze back to Giuliana.

  “I thought I recognized you,” she continues. “I don’t usually forget a face, though I often forget a name. What is it again?”

  “Luca. Luca Fabris.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Now I remember. Trevisan told me that he hired a new boatman. Poor man. He has had terrible luck with boatmen in the past. I’m glad to see that he seems to have found someone reliable. And how are you finding your work with the artist?”

  I try to look confident. “Very well. You know, the artist has many important social engagements and business appointments, so I am very busy, too.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I second-guess myself. “But of course, like every gondolier de xasada, I have a lot of time, too, for...” I hesitate, “my own tasks.”

  “Of course,” Giuliana says slowly, as if her mind is processing the information, and she seems suddenly and deeply engrossed in her own thoughts.

  At that moment, Trevisan enters the room.

  I recognize the artist’s portly, confident frame as it fills the doorway. A small entourage surrounds the artist, and the group heads toward the balustrade near the spot where I am standing.

  This is my cue to flee.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Giuliana, then I duck my chin and make my way purposefully across the room, sticking close to the wall. I navigate through the crowd in the room with the banquet table, then jog down the great marble staircase into the main entryway of the Ca’ Leoncino. A short-statured servant mans the front door. As I approach, the man opens it, bows, and wishes me a curt “Bona serata, Signore,” with a thick accent. I tip my hat briefly, then hurry out the door before I can be recognized by anyone else.

  As I sprint down the alley to the gondola mooring, I hear the clanging of church bells. Blast! I have lost track of time. I reach the mooring and leap into Trevisan’s gondola. Inside the felze, I rip off my silly costume in desperation, my fingers fumbling with what seemed like thousands of minuscule silk-covered buttons. I stuff the outfit and hat under the aft deck, unlatch the mooring rope, then row with all my force to the alley adjacent to the palace.

  The boat glides to a stop before the canal-side entrance of the palace just as Trevisan and Valentin emerge from the door. “There you are, Luca! Excellent timing!” exclaims Trevisan, still in the mode of gallant socialite.

  “Bonasera, Master Trevisan,” I respond breathlessly. The important-looking men whom I had seen walking with Trevisan inside the palace are still with him. Each grasps Trevisan’s hands and kisses his bearded cheeks warmly, then bids the artist farewell as he steps into the gondola.

  I row the artist and his assistant home, struggling to calm my wildly beating heart.

  I SMELL THE TANNERIES, the famous scorzeri, long before I bring the gondola to rest along a stone quayside on the island of Giudecca. The stench is overwhelming, a nauseating combination of animal carcasses and rancid water. An acrid odor—some kind of alchemical concoction—fills the air. It has been years since I have had any reason to row to Giudecca. Now I understand why the tanneries lie at a distance f
rom the city center.

  If Valentin notices the stench, he doesn’t show any sign of it. The boy sits on the foredeck of Trevisan’s gondola, the wind blowing his hair as I row. The sun shines brightly and there is a tinge of warmth in the air, a harbinger of spring. Valentin is a puzzle to me, a quiet and withdrawn young man who seems completely self-absorbed. From my vantage point rowing the gondola, I observe his profile. His skin is soft and delicate. There is something dreamy about him, as if his mind were far, far away, except when I find the boy narcissistically gazing at himself in the mirror of the master’s studio. Although we are around the same age, it seems we have little to speak about. Trevisan has dispatched me to accompany Valentin to pick up supplies from a pigments seller in the Giudecca, and I think that it might provide an opportunity to learn more about what is happening inside the boy’s head—and inside Trevisan’s studio.

  “Picking up supplies today?”

  “Yes,” replies Valentin, not turning his head.

  “So, why the Giudecca?”

  Valentin continues to look to the horizon but turns his body to face me. “One of the pigments sellers there carries some special materials that Master is using as an experiment. We’ve started grinding colored and colorless glass particles in with the pigments. When we apply them in thin layers on the new twill canvasses, they make the surface of the picture appear more... translucent.” He makes an odd gesture with his hand, as if to try to replicate the effect of the paint.

  “Hmm.” I nod as if I understand perfectly. “What project are you working on?”

  Valentin turns his face to me, and his expression softens. “Master and I are working on several commissions right now. There’s the scuola, of course—that project seems never-ending. And as of yesterday we have a new commission from the Greek ambassador for a painting of Leda and the Swan. And we have our usual stream of portraits—everyone in this city wants to flatter themselves, it seems. We need to stock supplies since over the next month there will be a lot of work in the studio.”