Love Spirits: What Happens in Venice: Book One (What Happens in Venice: The Trinity Ghost Story 1)

by Diana Cachey

  Normally any form of stopping traffic, foot traffic that is, would be severely frowned upon. Traffic stopping usually resulted from a tourist ogling a common Venetian, but uncommonly elegant, sight. Or from a visitor stopped in the middle of the lane fiddling with a mostly useless map, or posing for photos or lingering too long on a bridge where gondolas floated underneath.

  This was different. This was sexy. A line began to form behind the girls. Like the pied-pipers they were, they led the masses, some onlookers even ran to get in front of them for a closer look. People, men and women, moved as fast as they could to keep up with the lipstick lesbian couple. Why? To see if this was real or imagined? If these girls weren’t ancestors of the infamous Venetian courtesans who displayed their breasts on Ponte de le Tette (bridge of tits), they certainly could be major competition, to which everyone seemed to be saying brava (well done). No fancy lace stockings, no lingerie, no push-up bras or bare chest exposing corsets -- just a single flaunting of a girlfriend by a girlfriend.

  Barbara filed this practical information for women traveling in Venice, or perhaps anywhere in the Mediterranean. The power of the lesbian look.

  **

  After a quick regroup, Barbara floated down the Grand Canal again and nearly fell asleep from the boat’s gentle rocking. Not every vaporetto that travels down the Grand Canal stops at every stop and this one passed hers enroute to Louisa’s apartment forcing her to disembark at Accademia, the great Venetian art museum located near the old wooden bridge of the same name. At least she’d be on the correct side of the hundred steps of the Accademia bridge when she began her route through the labyrinth that was Venice.

  Missing a stop or getting on the wrong boat occurred often in this town and it could either frustrate or amuse, depending upon the mood. Barbara could accept her fate and enjoy the extra walk, viewing dramas and sights along the way or she could push and rush, passing scores of mindlessly strolling tourists who got in her way.

  Today she chose enjoyment and amusement. The sun was out, Venetians laughed and sang in the streets and she really had nowhere to go norany place to be. She’d been fruitlessly searching for her sister, who had not answered her phone calls for hours. When she last spoke with Louisa, she said she was following the trail of a well-documented Ca’Dario ghost story but Barbara knew Matteo was also back in her sister’s life. Matteo, the dark, intelligent and wealthy Venetian, had turned out to too good to be true to her sister. Along with the ghosts, charismatic Matteo was another of Louisa’s obsessions. It all preoccupied Barbara’s mind such that any man near her might as well have been a ghost, a fog or a mist.

  Louisa had said that Matteo asked her to meet him at the usual spot centrally located for meetings, San Bortolo, Venetian for Saint Bartholomew. Campo San Bortolo was west of the Rialto bridge and it held a big statue of the saint of the same name. Barbara chose not to join Louisa in San Bortolo because she would soon be sick enough of jumping and running to San Bortolo every time a Venetian wanted to meet up.

  Barbara was also surprised Louisa had gone because she’d sworn off Matteo. Again. Perhaps it was part of Louisa’s search for clues surrounding his knowledge of the ghost legends. Barbara tried to ignore ominous thoughts and bring her mind back to the path she was on, which hours of meditation had trained her to do. If she didn’t pay attention, she might get lost on the way to the apartment and if she asked for directions the response would be the same. Venetians would say, with a hand pointing up the Grand Canal,“alora, un ponte, un ponte, un altro ponte e sempre diretto.” (A bridge, a bridge, another bridge and always direct.)

  Sempre diretto? Always direct? No way. Nothing is‘direct’ in this town, Barbara had thought the first time she heard the direction to go“always direct.” She’d laugh, shrug, then secretly curse the Venetian who gave this instruction. How can anything be direct in these mazes,she’d thought at the time. Later she realized that, although the streets aren’t straight in Venice, most routes can be negotiated directly along the curve of the Grand Canal, the large river that splits Venice in half. They are two different words, direct and straight. Walkways might abruptly dead end, cross many bridges, twist and wind, but if she stayed always direct along the Grand Canal she would continue to move forward. Always. Direct.

  Her thoughts meandered like the Venetian walkways but were suddenly interrupted by a sexy accent. A tall Venetian man smiled down at her.

  “Ciao cara,” (Hello dear) he whispered.

  The enjoyment and amusement Barbara could find by missing her boat stop had just appeared to her out of nowhere.

  “Ciao,” she said, dropping her eyes but not before meeting his and scanning across his tailored jacket and fitted jeans.

  “Sono persi?” (Are you lost) he asked. But he knew. They always knew. Venetian men could easily spot an obviously American woman lost in Venice.

  Sempre pronto, (Always ready) thought Barbara. Louisa liked to say it about Veneziani (Venetian men),they are“always ready.” Always ready to spot an American female alone, lost. Always ready in every way a girl could want or would need.

  “Tu sei un fantasma?” Are you a ghost? shereplied. Perturbed by Louisa’s recent disappearance and annoyed by talk of ghosts wandering the city posing as gorgeous Venetian men, she simply decided to ask him.

  “Cosa,” (What?) he responded, concerned that she might be crazy, but at the same time delighted by the idea that she might be crazy. A crazy American woman could mean plenty of good fun for this Venetian.

  “E niente,” (It's nothing) she said.

  “Dimmi tutto,”(Tell me everything) he said sweetly. Interesting. An American female who had engaged him in conversation and a mysterious one at that. What he really meant was“tell me everything about this idea that you think I might be a ghost.”Or he meant to infer,“tell me everything about how you find me so interesting that just by looking at me you actually asked if I were a ghost.” These Venetian men were predictably curious.

  Although Barbara was concerned about her sister's whereabouts, Louisa had done this before. She’d done this for as long as Barbara could remember. She disappeared like a ghost herself. During road trips with friends, everyone joked that they ought to put a harness on Louisa to insure her presence in the car for the long ride back home. If she didn’t return for Happy Hour each day, she was either kidnapped or in love.

  Both kidnapping and love were a possibility here. Yet despite its shadowy appearance, Venice is remarkably safe. The problem was not with Venice but with Louisa’s choice of company. She wasn’t answering her Italian cell phone, which could be attributed to the left-behind phone charger in her apartment. It was disconcerting nonetheless.

  In the middle of this reflection upon Louisa’s either voluntary or involuntary retreat, Barbara realized inquiring eyes were on her. The distinguished, good-looking Venetian gazed down at her again. He seemed to be wondering when her attention would come back to him, where he believed it rightly belonged.

  “Cara,” (dear one) he said in the sing-songyway that only an Italian (well, maybe a Frenchman) could say it.“Dove sei,” (Where are you?) he asked.

  Given her internal conflict between attraction to him and distraction about Louisa, Barbara smiled the biggest smile at him that she could muster.

  Inwardly she cringed. What a ridiculously selfish time for her to disappear on me, right before I meet this handsome stranger. It was possible that Louisa returned to the apartment by now and if confronted would say innocently,“What? What’s all the fuss about?” Barbara hated that about Louisa.

  This beautiful man stood before her, eager to please, and Barbara, very eager to be pleased, could only say, Mi dispiace, mi sono occupato oggi. I am sorry, I am busy today.

  She wanted to say the more precise word, preoccupato, like the English word“preoccupied” which is what she really was. Latin languages are like that. Meaning one thing but sounding like another, which oddly is kind of what they are saying:I’m preoccupied with someone or som
ething els, in other words‘worried.’

  By now her new admirer, having not been paid enough attention (which to him meant rejection) reluctantly moved on to the nearest cafe, but not without first slipping his name and phone number into her hand. He pretended to kiss her good-bye, otherwise known as the air kiss.

  Ah the air kiss, thought Barbara, you don’t even have to kiss me, the fake kiss did the trick. For now. She sighed.

  She looked at the paper he had slipped into her hand and read his name while walking. She said to him mentally, Massimo, I hope to inadvertently, on purpose, see you here the next time I miss my boat stop.

  For she was sure that, like most Venetians, he frequented the same cafe, every day.

  **

  She turned and saw that during her fantasy of Massimo, she’d walked straight and direct to find Louisa’s apartment.

  There they were, Louisa and Matteo, in the familiar embrace of a Venetian man displaying his charms to a hopeless female.

  Barbara’s relief at seeing the reappearance of Louisa felt considerably lessened by the appearance of Matteo. Disheveled and unkempt, he was either drunk or running away from someone or something, probably both.

  Barbara gave Louisa her best, disgusted,‘What is he doing here’ look.

  Louisa didn’t ignore it, but pretended to ignore it and pulled Matteo closer to her and further away from Barbara.

  It was painful, looking at the two of them together.

  Matteo, who grew up in this strange lagoon town from a family with too much wealth and status, first ran small scams, graduated to petty thievery and eventually became a full-time gangster, complete with stolen Venetian antiquities, shoot outs and drug deals. A master-manipulator, Barbara sometimes wondered if Matteo could teach it. Perhaps he did. She’d watched his manipulative skill, but didn’t understand a word of his wild and animated rants in dialect when he communicated with his Venetian friends. A born leader, Matteo seemed to lead himself and others down the wrong path his entire life. He showed no signs of stopping his wrong-turn journey anytime in the near or distant future. Not when it worked for him.

  Barbara took a final look at the Louisa and Matteo scene. He was doing it again, performing some story for Louisa with graceful sweeps of the arms, regal nods of the head, dancing eyes and glistening mischievous grin. A skillful actor, gorgeous and gifted, even the strong, intelligent Louisa didn’t stand a chance against his persuasion.

  Barbara turned the last of the keys into one of several locks familiar to these huge Venetian woods doors, and left them alone. It was not the time to talk about the events of the past two days or her anger towards Louisa’s lack of regard for anyone else. Barbara needed time to recover from her conflicted feelings of lust for Massimo and rage at Matteo. Louisa would tell her everything anyway, in due time, as she always did.

  Here they go again, thought Barbara as she left the final scene of the two lovers.

  **

  Once inside the apartment, Barbara glared at the offending left-behind phone charger and wondered if she still had time to catch Massimo at the nearby cafe.

  **

  Dodici (12) Fashion and Fantasy

  Courteous Italians greet all salespersons with“buon giorno” (hello) when they walk into establishments. It is considered rude to do otherwise. Louisa greeted them all too, which was the opposite of her custom in America, where employees welcomed her, not the other way around.

  In the high-end fashion boutique on Calle Marzo XXII near San Marco, Louisa held up a black Versace handbag for Barbara to admire. She saw a vacant look and sneaky smile on her sister face.

  “Nobody kisses as passionately as Matteo,” said Louisa. She glanced at her sister to note her response. She didn’t get one, so she added with a poke of the elbow,“Not even your two boy toys. Combined.”

  That’s not possible,argued Barbara to herself. Then she commented on the Versace bag.“It feels of quality for sure. I really like the metal hardware. Clever the way it’s placed.”

  “Come on,” begged Louisa.“The dirt. I want the dirt on your three-way. You owe me.” Barbara had told her about meeting two Venetians her first night in town and how they fought over her, but she’d said little else about it.

  Barbara picked up another handbag, placed it on her shoulders and turned to Louisa,“I like this one better for me, don’t you?”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” Louisa persisted while shaking her head“yes” to the handbag.

  “I’m a little embarrassed by it. Two men? It’s not like me. To be so free.”

  “It is now.” Louisa concluded, having no idea yet how much truth was in her statement.

  “See, that’s what I mean. The implication that my little Venetian kisscompetition makes me different, more loose. It didn’t feel sleazy when it happened.” No it felt frisky, flowing, forward, festive. “But when I talk about it I feel ....”

  “Like a slut?” Louisa filled in the blank, having since moved from handbags to lingerie and was holding up a lacy pair of thigh high silk stockings.“There is nothing sleazy easy about some sensual kisses with two handsome, attentive men. A zipless fuck.”

  “Does it count as zipless if actual flesh was touched?” Barbara inquired, knowing the answer.

  “Probably not,” confirmed Louisa. But if nothing was unzipped? she wondered. She recalled her own zipless meeting with the Prada wearing man, Massimo. Then Louisa slipped into the dressing room with an armful of clothes unaware that Barbara had recently had her own encounters with Massimo, the second one being just last night.

  **

  While she waited outside the dressing room, Barbara’s mind drifted back to her second encounter with Massimo.

  “Massimo,” Barbara remembered she had told him,“I hope you know my sister is vulnerable and otherwise involved.”

  “Your sister is a very beautiful, intelligent and intriguing woman.” Barbara recalled how her heart fell to her feet when he’d said it.“My interest in her,” he continued,“is only professional.”

  “You mean to help you with the case?”

  “No, I have the answer to the case.”

  “You know who killed the dead glassmakers?”

  “I knew it before it happened, but it was not possible to prevent it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because you follow the people but when you don’t watch, maybe when you sleep, it happens.” His black eyelashes cast shadows over his eyes and created the impression they were a darker blue than turquoise, as they were when light shone into them.

  Barbara had had a hard time concentrating on the important discussion. While he spoke of the case, her mind pictured him dressed in a blue brocade 17th century Venetian costume. Her mind's eye saw him wearing trousers that pulled into blacks bows at the knees with the same black satin tied into bows atop his courtly shoes. She imagined the ruffled front of his shirt flowing over his waist, no longer tucked in for he was already undressing, yet his long curls were still pulled back in their own black satin bow.

  “Before you go too far in that fantasy, I must warn you, I see it in your mind,” he had said.

  She’d blushed.“You mean I’m that obvious.”

  “Obvious?” he asked.

  She recalled how she tried to think of another word to explain what she meant by“obvious” like a word that more closely resembled a word in Italian.“Transparent,” she’d corrected.

  “Ah, transparent. No, you are not transparent but your mind is and I can listen to this fantasy and I can see it very clear. The costumes. But I don’t see inside of you. I see what your mind sees.”

  “What?”

  “You have this gift also, the sense of other’s thinking. You don’t use it. Now, back to the case?”

  She,embarrassed but more curious than flustered, didn’t care to chat about the case. She wanted to hear all about his mind-reading as well as his idea that she could read minds. She was impressed that he’d warned her about his seeing her fa
ntasies before she went too far in them.

  “Don’t be impressed. It is difficult for me to see a fantasy like you have with me, a wonderful fantasy, when I cannot act on it. So I change the subject to the case. Okay?”

  She took a long breath, shook her head and when she looked at him she could hear his thoughts. His mind said,“I waited for you.” She finally spoke.“Why are you interested in my sister? Professionally?

  “Professionally, I do not think I want to tell you so much. It is danger. But,” he sipped his wine and popped an olive in his mouth,“you know why.” He finished the sentence with the olive tucked to the side of his mouth for a second.

  “I know why? What?”

  “Who is the killer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know it. Think about it.”

  Barbara, astounded, mentally ran through as many Venetians as she could, even some Americans who lived there. He had said“it.”

  “I know‘it’?” she said.

  “Is my English not correct? I mean plural.”

  “You mean, I know them.More than one?”

  “Si.”

  “Si?”

  “Si, yes, plural,” he said then sipped his wine again, rolling another olive between his thumb and index finger.

  When she saw his card on Louisa’s bed table, she’d recognized the name immediately, but since the paper she had with Massimo’s number on it didn’t include a surname, she at first didn’t make a connection. Any two Massimos could live in Venice. Later when she pulled the scrap of paper out of her coat pocket and saw the number he had given her, she decided to check the business card against it. It was the same Massimo, the medico legale.

  “I am happy you phoned me. I was waiting.”

  This caused her to look square at him.Is this what you meant before when I heard your mind say,“I waited for you,” did you mean you were waiting for me to call? Or did you mean something more?