Lagoon Lure: What Happens in Venice: Book Two (Trinity Ghost Story (Romance Novel & International Crime Mystery) 2)

by Diana Cachey

  “I need to get some cigarettes.” The church bells rang again, louder, longer.

  “I need to get laid.”

  The San Marco bell struck its explosive bong and vibrated across the lagoon.

  Countless bridges of variable design fill the Venetian cityscape, scattered about in hundreds of locations. Those traversing the Grand Canal remain the most memorable, noble and important ones. For many years, there were only three of these --Rialto, Accademia and Scalzi -- until a superfluous fourth one was recently built. Superfluous because it stands mere minutes from Scalzi, one of the other three.

  For Louisa, it seemed logical to erect a fourth anywhere else along the stretch of Grand Canal that held no bridge at all. Yet, as she learned, residents of Venice are often anything but logical. Historically, Venetian sensibilities have been clouded by commercial endeavors and sovereignty. Louisa concluded that the odd placement of the fourth must have involved a “commercial endeavor.” Indeed, a wealthy creator of Italian ready-to-wear fashion planned to commercialize one side of it and cruise passengers were dropped conveniently onto it by another newly built structure, the people-mover, a train from the ship terminal. Commercial endeavors and fashion sovereignty, not logic, influenced the chosen location of the fourth bridge.

  Of the original three, the most famous and beautiful bridge is Rialto. Photographed frequently and replicated on trinkets, kitsch souvenirs, charms and pins, the Rialto bridge possesses legends and ghost stories of its own. But Accademia bridge is also frequently photographed, not for its beauty, but for the charming buildings and gardens on both sides and its views of the church of the Madonna della Salute. The bridge’s beauty itself is somewhat lacking. A simple wooden bridge, when the Accademia burnt down, Venetians reproduced the original despite many renderings from talented top architects. Another story to make people question Venetian logic. The Accademia bridge also led to the museum of the same name where the Parisian woman had instructed Louisa to find clues of the Nazis and Murano ghosts.

  Louisa loved Accademia bridge because its many steps forced her to climb and it reduced her pant size during visits to Venice, even with all the pasta, pizza and gelato she regularly consumed. Her calves became more shapely and pronounced. They became Venetian calves, which everyone wanted to have, except when shopping for boots of slender design.

  The bridge also linked two of Louisa’s favorite areas of Venice, Dorsoduro and Campo Santo Stefano. In quiet Dorsoduro, friends were easy to make and sunsets could be enjoyed on the shore of Guidecca Canal. In the second, a large square on the opposite side of the bridge, Campo Santo Stefano offered cafes in the sun to sip espresso and watch confused tourists try to find the route to San Marco. Santo Stefano also had a magnificent church whose bell tower blessed (or cursed) tourists and locals with its regular chiming.

  Matteo first seduced Louisa in that campo. He held her in his arms, placed her on his lap then melted into her with soft then hard kisses. He pleaded for her to be his one and only forever, or for at least that one night. She worried residents in surrounding buildings might be watching, but he assured her that with the late hour, nobody was awake or cared.

  She didn’t believe him and resisted him. Matteo tried everything to have her and gave it his all, his all being romantic, tender or rough, depending on what he thought she needed. His skills didn’t work because Louisa refused to expose herself to residents, drunk or not.

  Being inebriated by plenty of wine, Matteo had finally given up. Or so it seemed.

  He walked her across the square, she thought to escort her back to her hotel, but that was not his plan. First, he’d told her to wait in the square, for what seemed like hours and served to increase her passion for him. When he returned, he guided her over to a canal, a more private location, where she could no longer resist or leave him. The small canal held an ornately decorated gondola, docked and covered for the night. He pulled her to his chest.

  “A gondola for you tonight, my love,” he had whispered that night.

  Gondola porn, thought Louisa at the time. Gondola porn was what Louisa expected, what she wanted and what she got that night.

  It was perfect. She didn’t know who owned the gondola or whether they would get caught having sex inside of it and she didn’t care. It was too romantic to pass up.

  Ahhh, thought Louisa as she stood in Campo Santo Stefano these many years later. While reflecting upon her first seduction by Matteo in that gondola, she glanced over to the canal where the gondola had been anchored. She walked towards the Accademia bridge and saw a gondola docked in that same spot. She smiled and bowed towards it.

  “Gondola porn, everyone should try it,” she said out loud.

  Shaking her head after coming to from her fantasy, she spied a fifty euro bill on the ground. Someone at the lively festive market the night before must have dropped it.

  I guess I am on the right track, she thought while picking it up. Is it an omen? Will my journey to Accademia today be successful?

  The Parisian courtesan had instructed her to go to the museum and view a particular painting, a wonderful Titian masterpiece that Louisa and others favored. What she would find, or whether it was another “scam,” Louisa didn’t know. At least she hadn’t been instructed to bring money or another expensive piece of Tiffany glass this time.

  Soon she arrived in the gallery where the painting would be located. She found it missing. “Now what?” she murmured and threw up her arms in front of the spot, void of the painting.

  “Oh you are American,” said a perfectly manicured, tall gondolier with dark curls falling into his penetrating eyes. He towered next to her. He emphasized the word “are.”

  “You thought I was American before I spoke?” she asked.

  Today she’d dressed especially fetching in the tightest, most expensive pair of Italian jeans into which she could squeeze her curves. The jeans were topped with an equally curve-enhancing white cashmere v-neck sweater and a cashmere scarf created by the latest designer of the moment. She wrapped the scarf perfectly to enhance viewing of her cleavage.

  “Not because you look American,” he responded, careful to slow his speech to emphasize the words “because you look.” He gave his obvious approval with a head-to-toe viewing of her. “I saw you in the campo looking at my gondola,” he said.

  “Oh no,” she said, “did you hear me, too?”

  “Yes, but do you think you are the only one who has had, as you say, gondola porn?” he said. “The romance of my friends, they take young women to that canal, to that gondola.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. Gondola porn,” he said. “I like, I keep it? Is okay?”

  She didn’t answer the question, not because she didn’t know if she minded him labeling his gondola a porno boat. She silently stewed because she’d been baited there to that gondola by Matteo on a night she had thought was special.

  The gondolier cocked his head in that way that Italians do when trying to read others’ thoughts by studying facial expressions. He ran his fingers through thick curls that fell into his striking blue eyes.

  “You are special to him,” he said.

  Now that’s better, thought Louisa.

  “I know this because you are special to any man. He is lucky.”

  Louisa grinned at him and licked her full lips but remained silent.

  “Now I must ask you to part with the fifty euros you found near the canal, mi dispiace,” he said.

  Sorry? He is not sorry. Thieves, all Venetians are thieves, thought Louisa.

  She had no intention of giving him the money. He was a typical gondolier -- handsome, charming and a mercenary. She pondered for a second how to say no to giving him the money and yes to anything else he had in mind.

  He waited with head cocked, eyes peeking at her from under long lashes and those luscious curls. He moved closer and turned his head to where the painting would have been hanging then glanced at her sideways.

  Yes, yes, yes, were th
e only words she could think of when he looked at her that way, but luckily she was able to stop herself from blurting it out.

  “Si,” he said.

  Si, si, si, yes, yes, yes, she thought, again. Why did she always feel so helpless around these men? What sort of supernatural power did they possess?

  Supernatural. She remembered why she had come to the museum. Because either a “ghost” or the strange Parisian had sent her.

  “Do you know anything about the painting,” she said, “that usually hangs here or anything special about why it was moved?”

  “Si. Yes, it’s why I am here. Now, the fifty euro.”

  “What?”

  “I was sent here by someone, you cannot know the name. They place the fifty euro where you find it,” he explained. “I am expensive. A gondolier. I am losing money by being here now.”

  “Matteo?” She couldn’t help asking about it or using his name.

  “No. No Matteo. Who is dis Matteo?” he said.

  Louisa could tell he correctly guessed that Matteo was the one whose romantic allure had created an evening of gondola porn with her.

  “Is that why I must pay you the fifty,” she continued, ignoring his question about Matteo, “to get information that someone had for me?” She paused. “Or it is payment for our rental of the gondola that night?”

  “No, you pay me for information,” he said. “For you, rides in my gondola is free.”

  This time he emphasized the words you and rides. He rolled his “r” for a little longer than was required and emphasized the plural of the word rides in a manner that made her shiver.

  She wanted some rides. With him. Soon. “The fifty?” he said holding out his palm. “It is not yours. They knew you wouldn’t want to pay again for information. So they pay.”

  “What do you mean,” Louisa said, “again?”

  “I don’t know. He said it.”

  “He?”

  “Maybe I mistaking my English. You know how we do dis in Italian, he, she, we don’t know all English words. In Italian, we have no he and no she. We have words. Wonderful words. Some masculine, some feminine,” he explained while he checked what looked like his extremely expensive watch.

  “Here is the fifty,” she said. When he went to grab it, she added, “No. I want info first.”

  “Info?”

  “Information?”

  “Informazione. The piece.”

  “What?”

  “Of the game. The puzzle.”

  At least he knew that much, there was a puzzle. She had considered then dismissed the idea that he may have seen her find the money and was lying to her to get the cash. If it was one thing gondoliers were not, it was cheap. They were not cheap and had great jobs, made good money and seduced loads of women, so they didn’t need to con her out of fifty euros, although they would con passengers with their excessively steep fares for gondola rides. It was his valuable time for which she was paying and she was probably taking more of his time for less money than he’d make rowing leisurely down a canal with gondola passengers. She placed the money in his hand and in exchange he handed her a piece of paper with ten words written on it: “The Rise of Romantic Opera, a quote from Lord Byron.”

  “You like opera? You like romance? And Byron? Some say he was Casanova.” Casanova again. All Italians, and especially Venetians, thought they were Casanova and they told you so. Often. “We learn our lovemaking from stories passed down from him. We are the top.”

  The Top. Again. She wanted to scream. That phrase. The one Matteo said to her when comparing Venice to the rest of Italy.

  Over the years of traveling to Venice, Louisa realized that those witty, sweet sayings she thought were Matteo’s own clever quotes were also said by other Venetian men. Maybe it was part of their training? Sometimes, like now, they made it all feel less magical. Maybe all English pick up lines used by Italian men were passed around, shared by all, like they shared their women? No, not maybe, definitely.

  “Casanova. The top,” she said in a tone that didn’t sound too impressed.

  “Casanova is always on the top,” he grinned, “ or maybe not always?”

  Louisa decided that was the perfect note to end on and gave him her card releasing him from duty with her so he could go and make some real money in his gondola.

  Venetian men seemed to prefer to get your number so they could have control over whether there would be another time together. Did all men do that?

  He took her card, placed in the pocket of his striped shirt, smiled. Saying nothing, he leaned over to give her the two customary air kisses, but both of his air kisses left the air to land on her two cheeks. Then he stopped in the middle of her face to stare at her lips and ask “Si or no?”

  “Si,” she answered.

  He kissed her, as passionately as was possible in the middle of a crowded room in an art museum and with a quick slip of his tongue across her lips. Somehow it also dabbed her tongue. Afterwards, he ran his tongue over his own lips like he’d tasted the most delicious gelato. He closed his eyes to savor it.

  “Ciao,” he waved and left.

  Louisa’s eyes followed him. The firm, round back of him.

  Until he was completely . . . out . . . of . . . sight.

  After her discussion of gondola porn with the gondolier, she marched directly to the Danieli to snoop with Ana, who insisted Louisa call Sofia, the mamma. Louisa had developed a close relationship with Matteo’s mother, Sofia, and they’d formed a strong bond. Louisa felt uncomfortable talking about it, not only with Ana, but with anyone, including herself. She missed Sofia but stayed away from her for her own sanity. Matteo.

  “How is everyone?” Louisa said to Matteo’s sister, Ana, changing the subject.

  “Good. All good,” Ana said then volunteered, “Matteo, he’s waiting for new baby.”

  What, thought Louisa, swallowing hard, married is he? She didn’t want to know. He could be. It was another unanswered question, his marital status. Louisa was floored. She turned this all over in her head.

  “A new baby,” Louisa said but she hoped Ana wouldn’t volunteer any more information. “How many babies does he have?” Louisa heard her mouth say, as if curiosity won the internal battle.

  Although curious about it, about everything, she was torn. About Matteo, his family, both the old one and the new one about which she had just been informed. She wanted to know everything but nothing. A quandary. She already knew more than she wanted to know.

  “One baby now and another new one coming,” replied Ana, then she offered more, “Sara. Now is coming Alessandra. Yes. Sara, she’s 4 years old.”

  “This is very, ah, nice, ah, news,” Louisa said. This was definitely not ‘very nice news.’ What could she say? Not what she was thinking, which was, holy crap he’s a father, that irresponsible drunk? He should not be procreating, ever.

  Could she say that it was ridiculous that a man who didn’t take responsibility for earning his own paycheck, could take responsibility for a baby, or a wife, and should not be having any babies? Then it hit Louisa.

  Wasn’t Sara the name of his friend who was a drug dealer? Who became the dealer after her husband went to prison?

  She couldn’t ask. Couldn’t say it, couldn’t say any of those things that she honestly felt about the new twisted turn. She replied as would be expected.

  “I hope everything is good for Matteo and his daughters,” which was at least true.

  “He asked me your address, a few months later? You can contact him maybe?”

  “Maybe,” repeated Louisa.

  She ignored Ana’s English mistake, her misuse of the word later when she meant before. Matteo must have asked Ana for Louisa’s mailing address a few months ago. Before Louisa received the ghost letter.

  “I am still very hurt by some things that happened between us,” said Louisa, “and Matteo has not said he’s sorry to me yet.” Louisa knew that Ana would relay this conversation to Matteo so she said what she wan
ted to be repeated.

  “Mmm,” mumbled Ana.

  “It was a very difficult time in my life,” said Louisa.

  “I don’t know nothing about this. Bah.”

  Ana did know, she knew everything about it. She was there. She saw the chaos, the drunken fights, the numerous accusations and more.

  “I was wrong too, I know,” said Louisa.

  “He was wrong too...tooo...toooo..toooo,” said Ana. “A long time of his life.”

  “Life goes on.”

  “It’s everything ok, all the crazy stuff with him is ok. You have experience. But it is in the past, I think that all the peoples can, or must, go on anyway. I think that you must be proud about your past. As you can offer help to other peoples with the same problems.”

  Louisa wasn’t sure what Ana meant by all of this, what problems, what past? She continued with the facade because Ana and Louisa were not speaking to each other but through each other, to Matteo. They both knew everything was said for the benefit of the replay to Matteo.

  Matteo told her he was seeing me again, thought Louisa, and he probably told her what to say.

  “People can change,” Louisa said but she didn’t believe that Matteo could change. Even if she thought he could, she knew he had not changed. “I am grateful I went to law school and am happy.”

  “Sometimes things have to be very bad before we will change.”

  “I hope the best for Matteo to go from his crazy life to having two beautiful daughters.”

  “A good change for him.”

  I need to be pleasant because I may need Matteo again, thought Louisa. If I need his help, he will do it, if only for payment.

  “A good change,” Louisa mumbled.

  “Believe me, he’s another person,” Ana said.

  Louisa didn’t believe a word of it. Matteo had not changed. Matteo most certainly is still leading a crazy life. Wife or no wife. Baby or two babies.

  The only thing she believed was that Matteo had probably started a family. Irresponsibly. The rest was lies.

  “I am a different person too.”

  “How wonderful.”