“Earlier you mentioned that Nina had a daughter out of wedlock.”
She nods. “My grandmother only revealed her illegitimacy a few years ago, when I began to show an interest in family genealogy. She told me there was a scandal about Nina getting pregnant soon after she returned from Italy, then refusing to marry the tall, dark, handsome Baltimore ne’er-do-well womanizer who was the baby’s father. Her mother took her to the family home in Vermont where my grandmother was born in June, 1903. Not too long after, they moved to Santa Fe and never returned. Unfortunately I've never learned the father’s name. It’s been a family secret for three generations. My grandmother eventually returned to Baltimore where she met my grandfather. And because my Dad was a Navy Captain who taught at Annapolis, we lived there until he retired.”
They talk about their families until Giovanni checks his watch. Obviously he doesn’t wish to be late for his lunch date, and she wants to see the exhibit at Palazzo Grassi. Giovanni is sorry he can’t accompany her; at least that’s what he tells her. “I’ll come by the hotel around ten-forty-five. We’ll walk together to the pontile to search for lost gold.”
Giovanni
July 14, Venice. 2007
That night he arrives at the Hotel Desdemona precisely when he said he would. The moon is full, the sky clear and star-strewn. Lights shine from the Palazzo Barbaro on the San Marco side of the Grand Canal, making the water gleam. He takes her arm as they head for the traghetto landing.
When they reach the pontile, they find the divers testing their equipment and batteries for the lamps’ high beams that will shine light at the bottom of the canal. The divers are slight and skinny, shiny in their black wet-suits and wearing bug-eyed goggles, like nightmare creatures painted by Hieronymus Bosch.
Giovanni speaks to them in Venetian dialect. They tell him they plan to dive in one at a time, each submersion being ten minutes. The older man will go down the ladder first. He turns to Bianca. “Signora, please—can you give us a description of the earring?”
“Better to show you.” Bianca retrieves the remaining earring and hands it to him.
“Va bene—now at least I know what I’m looking for. Okay—let’s time it, Raffaello! It’s exactly twenty to eleven.”
The younger diver sets his watch, then pauses to look into the water— making the sign of the cross and murmuring a prayer to San Antonio, patron saint of lost objects. Only then does he back down into the blackness of the Grand Canal.
“Buona fortuna,” Giovanni shouts as the diver’s head breaks the dark surface.
A few moments later a vaporetto passes stealthily, sending silent ripples in its wake as it sidles up to the Salute’s pontile.
Seven minutes pass. To Giovanni it seems like an hour. If the divers haven’t found it by now, he fears that the coin will be lost forever.
Bianca remains silent as the divers make their search with underwater spot lights. He wonders what's going on in her mind, she seems so far away.
“Remember, Bianca, that Venice was once essentially Byzantium. Did you ever think that your coin might have been in the treasury of an early doge? From my work I know that many of these palaces around us still have architectural elements from the 11th century when your coin was struck. If the divers don't find your earring, you've given a gift, an offering, to the Adriatic.”
Before she has time to respond, the younger diver surfaces. “L’ho trovato,” he shouts, as though he was used to performing a ceremony of miracles every night. He scrambles up the ladder, unzips his pouch, then holds up the shiny gold coin as though it were a Communion wafer. “Ecco, Signora,” he says as he hands it to her. “Your orecchino prezioso from the mud of the Canale Grande, now cleansed by the sea. Tonight was your lucky moon!”
She presses the earring to her lips, then zips it into the compartment of her handbag. “I'm not taking any more chances,” she declares, as she slips the straps over her shoulder, hugging the bag against her body.
A crowd has gathered around the pontile. “Bravissimi!” they shout. Bianca throws her arms around the slippery black-masked phantoms. “Grazie mille, grazie infinite. What does it look like down there?”
“Mussels and mud. And bottles. Lots of bottles, mostly broken. They’ve probably been tossing them over these balconies for centuries. Your earring gleamed like a lighthouse beacon in the mud.”
Giovanni pulls out his wallet and starts to pay the divers.
“No—don’t please—that’s very generous of you—but paying them is my responsibility.” She gives them 300 Euros plus. The divers seem almost apologetic for accepting it and refuse the tip, but she insists. “You must take it. This is the best money I’ve ever spent in my entire life. And I’ll be grateful to you both for the rest of it.”
Giovanni takes her arm and they cross the bridge, heading straight for the hotel. They say their goodnights under the glass canopy of the entrance. He wants to kiss her cheek, at least like a brother, but holds himself back. He senses she isn’t in the least attracted to him—nor is he to her.
Instead he finds himself saying, “Bianca, one of these days you should consider coming with me to the dig. You might enjoy having a look at our excavation.”
Bianca
Back in her room, she flops on the bed, reliving every moment of the earring episode. Then her mind turns to tomorrow’s wedding. She hadn’t wanted to come. She doesn't even know her cousin well—they haven't seen each other in years. But there was no excuse since she’d already been in London for the annual board meeting of the magazine, and her aunt, the groom’s mother, knew it. Besides, her mother would have been embarrassed and disappointed if Bianca didn’t attend in her place, and, since Mom had recently had back surgery, Bianca felt committed to represent Nina’s part of the Evans family. So always the dutiful daughter, here she is alone, but not quite as miserable as she thought she’d be. At least she’s met Giovanni, although she chides herself for thinking about him too much. Don’t set yourself up for heartache, Bianca.
Fretting about both the wedding and Giovanni keeps her from sleeping. So she does something she seldom does—gets up to find her Halcyon sleeping pills from Zitomer’s. Whenever she’s jet lagged, they always give her six good hours of sleep. There will be plenty of time in the morning to finish the piece she’d meant to hand in to Sergio. Then she’ll go straight to the beauty spa for the ten o’clock appointment the concierge made for her for the works—hair, skin, face, nails—and make up.
Weddings are not the happiest of events for Bianca. Indeed, she dreads them. She’s been going to so many lately, mostly cousins from her extensive Roman Catholic family in Maryland. The Evans clan is very much like, but not as famous as, Maryland’s Carrolls of Carrollton. Her older brother who lives in California will carry on the Evans side and so will his sons. This makes her mother happy because she senses that her daughter, at the rate she's going, will never have children.
*
She wakes up with a jolt and leaps out of bed. It's 1:45! How could she have slept through the clanging bells of La Salute! There go all her good intentions about looking her best. She’s done herself in—sabotaged herself. She should have known better than to take the damn Halcyon. She rushes down to La Bellezza, the beauty spa only a few steps away in the calle. “Saturday closing 1 PM” says the sign. No time to find another place and no time for panic. She runs back to the hotel, shampoos her long, thick hair and wraps it in a towel. What a stroke of luck to have the wall dryer work! Her travel dryer burned out in London, and she hasn’t had time to buy another.
Holding the dryer with her left hand, she tries to apply makeup with her right. She never wears much makeup, and today she’d intended to go all out, but now there’s time for only a slap dash job. Her hair is still damp when she pulls on her bra and panties. She grabs a pashmina from her suitcase—it looks like rain today—and her beat up raincoat won’t work over the dark green chiffon dress, her mother’s choice. Since walking is faster than taking the va
poretto, she pushes her way through the throngs toward San Pietro di Castello and arrives just as the wedding gondola is being moored at the fondamenta.
*
The bride’s father is waiting while his daughter adjusts her veil. When he takes her arm to escort her to the great portal, the crowd cheers: “Che bella sposa! Buona fortuna!” Bianca watches as the maid of honor, dressed in lavender blue organza, adjusts the bride’s train and drops the tulle veil over her face. Bianca is relieved that there isn’t time to feel sorry for herself. She rushes in to find a place in the back row. The church is packed, it seems, with the entire population of Venice. Since there are few pews in San Pietro, folding chairs have been set up from the majestic entry portal almost all the way to the altar. Here the invited guests will find their places. She catches a glimpse of Giovanni sitting in one of the front pews on the bride’s side. Even though the invitation stated that there would be special front row seats saved for family and friends of the bride and groom, there's no way she's going to walk down the aisle alone to claim one.
It’s quite a while since she’s been to Mass. She takes a deep sigh, releasing her feelings of pent-up guilt. As she sits there. admiring the beauty of San Pietro, once the cathedral of Venice, her mind keeps flashing back to Nina and her diary, to the image of her earring gleaming in the black mud of the Grand Canal. She gives prayers of thanks to the Virgin Mary and to St. Anthony of Padua, the saint who sometimes helps her find lost objects.
Everyone stands as the chords from the immense pipe organ boom out the wedding march. The bride and groom move slowly to the gilt throne-like chairs covered in brocade the deep crimson of crushed pomegranates. Then the joining together of these two people, these two souls, begins. Bianca wonders how they found each other. Her mother insisted that it wasn’t an arranged marriage. Was it just chance or was it destiny? She prefers to think that it was destiny, but then, what is the difference between them?
When the ceremony is over, the bride and groom, all radiant smiles, walk down the aisle to the joyful flutes and trumpets of the Venetian Aria da Festa. The crowd follows to the tree-shaded grass campo to hug and kiss the newlyweds and shower them with paper confetti. Not wanting Giovanni to feel that he has to have her in tow, or feel responsible for her because their great grandmothers had been close, Bianca dashes out of the church and makes her own way through the narrow calle to the Hotel Danieli.
*
She is one of the first guests to arrive. At the entrance to the dining room a table is set with tiny ecru envelopes, guests' names arranged in alphabetical order. In every envelope is a table number. “And there are also place cards—so no wives and husbands sit next to each other,” comments the woman who introduces herself as the wedding consultant. Wedding consultants even in Italy! She peeks through the not-quite closed doors of the elegantly decorated dining room. All the tables are centered with tall glass cylinders filled with long stemmed white roses and cloyingly fragrant Casablanca lilies. She's sure she’ll be badly seated—probably tucked away in some dark corner. She couldn’t be so lucky as to have Giovanni by her side or, at the very least, seated at the same table.
Wandering the reception room with a glass of prosecco, she looks in vain for someone who might be interesting to talk to, or even better, someone who might find her interesting. Bianca has long been aware of her insecurities, but speaking up isn't one of them. Twice she makes an attempt at introducing herself and twice she's dismissed with a nod and a noli mi tangere glance. Across the room Giovanni is chatting with some attractive people, one elegant young woman in particular. Bianca turns her back on the group, knowing that she has lately developed the bad habit of staring and she doesn't want to make him feel uncomfortable.
Because the bride, groom and the bridal party are having their official photos taken, the reception goes on far too long. She sits out the wait in the corner of the adjacent lounge. When dinner is finally announced and the dining room portals thrown open, she finds her table—not a bad table—in fact it's nicely placed not far from the newlyweds, and not too far from Giovanni. At least he's in plain view. The man on her right, probably in his late fifties, is a Venetian who cultivates a fish farm so they mostly talked fish and acqua alta. He is vehemently against plans for the construction of the MOSES project which would prevent high tides from flooding the city. Not good for the balance of nature in the lagoon, he tells her, which she understands to mean, not good for his fish farms. On her left is another Venetian, a cousin of the bride, who lets her know within the first few minutes of conversation that he is descended from a Doge and his family is listed in the Libro D’ Oro. His eyes keep darting around the room as she makes an attempt at conversation, but she gives up. It's hopeless.
The typically multi-coursed, marathon Venetian wedding dinner takes up an entire page of the menu. The feast begins with antipasto, then asparagus risotto, branzino with artichoke sauce, thin slices of roast veal with vegetables followed by salatina, all grown on the island of Torcello. Just before the dancing is to begin, a squad of waiters wheels around a silk-festooned chariot centered with a seven-tiered rum custard and whipped cream wedding cake. The cake is so delicious it makes up for the boring company. When she tells the waiter how much she enjoyed it, he returns with another even larger piece which she greedily and guiltlessly polishes off.
The orchestra, imported from Naples, plays all the favorite romantic songs—the theme from Summertime, Anima e Cuore, Luna Rossa. After the bride and groom’s dance, their guests join them on the dance floor and, almost at the same instant, Bianca's dinner partners leap up to table hop. Rather than sit alone, she leaves for the ladies’ room. At least she can comb her hair, and as she does, she tries not to look at herself too critically in the mirror she can't avoid. Her hair is clean and lustrous and, despite not having a major makeup job, she thinks she doesn't look so bad, after all—pink lipstick and blush-on help— and the mascara makes her eyes sparkle.
She considers not returning to the dining room but then, on the way back, she hears Giovanni’s voice behind her.
“Bianca, would you do me the honor of a dance?” he says gallantly. She doesn't tell him that she hardly ever dances, and then only at company parties, although she loves all kinds of music. Her heart pounds as he leads her to the crowded floor. The woman soloist is singing Al di la— the world beyond—she feels the tension leave her body as his arm goes around her, even though he keeps her at a slight distance.
Afterwards, they return to the still deserted table and sit down to drink a prosecco together, mostly talking about music they like—-or dislike.
“I enjoy singing old Neapolitan songs with my guitar,” he says. “My friends and family usually ask me to play and sing at weddings, but they didn’t this time. What a relief!”
She isn't sure he means what he says.
“I’d love to hear you sing sometime. I noticed you had a guitar in your salone.”
“I’m rarely without it. Now—when do you leave Venice?”
“I have a reservation for New York on the late afternoon flight from Malpensa. I plan to leave Venice on an early train to give me enough time to get to the airport without too much worrying.”
“My car is at the Piazzale Roma Parking garage. Why don’t I drive you to Milan? I have an appointment there on Monday morning.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She hesitates for a moment. “A ride to the airport would make things so much easier.”
From out of nowhere a young man appears brandishing a guitar. “So you thought you were going to get away without singing, Giovanni,” he calls out, holding the instrument aloft for all to see. Cheers and enthusiastic applause.
She senses that Giovanni knows he has no choice. “Carlo! How the hell did you manage to get my guitar, I’d like to know. “
“Graziella, your cleaning lady. She hopes you’re won’t be too angry with her. Please don’t be.”
Giovanni laughs, “Graziella is a good soul and means well.�
�
As he makes his way up to the orchestra stage, the room becomes quiet. “I’m not going to begin with my usual canzone Napolitane. Instead I’ll sing 'Ah Camminare,' written for a Broadway musical from the Sixties. I sing it in honor of Jonathan and my dear cousin, Allegra, his beautiful and accomplished wife. Allegra’s grandfather, who was a singer in the cast, had a place in Greenwich Village, where the newlyweds will live. I hope that when Allegra and Jonathan take an evening stroll in the Village, they’ll remember these lyrics. The name of the musical is”—a long pause--"Bravo Giovanni.”
Guests clap and cheer. “Bravo! Bravo! Giovanni!”
He begins to sing in a husky Neapolitan way, the kind of voice Bianca wouldn’t have expected but she catches most of the words.
Di sera, a camminare
Con tanto amor
Con tanto amor e canta
Di sera a camminar
O mio tesor
O piccolo fiore,
E che fa
Ah camminar’
Con tanto amor,
E canta
Di sera a camminar'
O mio tesor
O piccolo fiore
E che fa?
E la passione mio e un sogno d’oro
Non so perche
Quando con te….ah camminare.
Lots of applause, guests blotting their eyes at the tender, appropriate lyrics.
Bianca convinces herself that Giovanni looked straight into her eyes when he sang “o mio tesor, o piccolo fiore e che fa?” As if to say Bianca Fiore, this song is also for you, piccolo fiore, little flower. Or is it just her rampant, romantic imagination working overtime?
Then he goes on to sing some classic Neapolitan songs much to the delight of the guests, Italian and American. What a different Giovanni from the formal and sometimes distant Giovanni she’s been with these past two days.
Realms of Gold Page 4
