Urbino took down another chair and put it in an upright position.
‘As strong as a gondolier. But that doesn’t mean that she helped me for one second with the boxes she made me carry up to the apartment today. Her fingernails, she says. All long and painted. She’d chop me into little pieces if she broke one of them. Easier for me to tote a hundred boxes up ten, twenty flights than to deal with her when she’s angry!’
Giulietta was as different from Albina as two sisters could possibly be. The seamstress expected Albina to wait on her hand and foot, and seemed to give little in return except for her cast-off garments.
‘Let me take care of the rest of the chairs,’ Urbino said as he went over to another table. ‘Do whatever else you need to do. I’ll walk you home.’
‘It’ll be nice to get back earlier than usual. There’s something I want to watch on television.’
While Urbino replaced the chairs, Albina made a few adjustments around the café, neatened glasses by the sink, emptied a bucket of sudsy water into the sewer grate, and closed the window behind the bar.
‘I don’t want to keep you waiting, Signor Urbino. Let’s go.’
‘There’s no need to rush.’
‘I’m finished.’
Urbino pulled down the metal shutter with a pole, wondering how the woman managed to do it herself. Albina took two keys on a ring from her dress pocket and locked the shutter with one of them.
‘This is nice,’ Albina said as they headed toward the Accademia Bridge. ‘If you hadn’t helped me, I would have got caught in the storm that’s coming.’
A strong, damp wind blew against their faces as they entered the Campo Santo Stefano. What shops and cafés were still open on this summer’s night were closing. Awnings were being rolled up and merchandise taken inside. Tourists looked apprehensively at the dark sky. Some stood immobile on the stones of the square as they tried to decide what to do. Others hurried back to their hotels or the shelter of an open café.
‘But I don’t think it will be as bad as what we had two nights ago,’ Albina said.
Urbino, who had developed the Venetian sensitivity to the weather, agreed with her.
‘Were you caught in that storm?’ he asked her.
‘I was at the restaurant when it started. I thought the walls were going to come down around me! A neighbor’s son came to rescue me and walk me home, just like you’re doing. We probably didn’t get blown away because we were holding on to each other for dear life.’
Urbino took her arm as they went up over the Accademia Bridge.
‘You don’t have to take me all the way home. Here comes the diretto. You’ll be in Cannaregio before the rain comes.’
‘I like the rain.’
‘Not the kind this one is going to be. But as you wish.’
Urbino and Albina soon entered the Calle Gambara down which Perla Beato had slipped an hour earlier, but in a few minutes their steps diverged from those which would have taken Romolo’s wife to her apartment. Albina and her sister lived in the unfashionable part of Dorsoduro – or at least it was considered unfashionable by residents like Perla and members of the large expatriate community who favored Dorsoduro above other areas in Venice.
But it was one of Urbino’s favorite quarters, and he had been frequenting it a lot of late. He enjoyed the liveliness of the Campo Santa Margherita and its proximity to the university at Ca’ Foscari. Although nothing could shake his devotion to Florian’s, on many afternoons he could be found at one of the small cafés in Santa Margherita. He had become acquainted with some of the students, and often got involved in discussions with them about art and politics that went on for hours.
Although it would have been a few minutes quicker to Albina’s apartment if they went over the bridge by the Church of San Barnabà, Albina suggested they pass through the Campo Santa Margherita.
‘I go that way whenever I can,’ she said. ‘I like to see the people, especially the young ones.’
Urbino guided her through the Campo San Barnabà and over the Ponte degli Pugni.
By the time they reached the Campo Santa Margherita the branches of the trees in the square were twisting in the wind. Groups of students congregated outside the cafés and pizzeria, unconcerned about the approaching storm. Several elderly people greeted Albina, but showed no inclination to stop for more than a moment. The woman kept up a flow of conversation, mainly about her work at Florian’s and about Claudio. The two of them looked out for each other in whatever way they could. She was praying that he and Gildo would qualify for the gondolino competition.
‘He’s such a good boy,’ she said. ‘Like the best of sons. Last October he took Giulietta and me to see Così Fan Tutte. It was at the Scuola Grande dei Carmini.’ She inclined her head in the general direction of the guildhall originally associated with the Church of the Carmini. Decorated by Tiepolo and located right off of the Campo Santa Margherita, it was sometimes used these days as a venue for innovative opera productions. ‘I thought it was very funny, but Giulietta just sat there like a statue. And she kept criticizing the costumes.’
They turned into a calle that led away from the square and that eventually, after connecting and intersecting with other alleys, would have brought them to Ca’ Foscari and near the Grand Canal. But they didn’t go that far. They took a few turnings down empty alleys where plastic bags of refuse were set on the stones in front of the building entrances.
They entered an alley with a sottoportico at the end. A footstep scraped the pavement behind them. In order to give the person more room in the narrow passageway, Urbino drew Albina closer to one side. They were now moving slowly. Albina seemed to have lost whatever remaining energy she had had as they approached her building.
When Urbino glanced over his shoulder, he saw no one. A television started to blare from an open window above them, drowning out any other sounds.
They passed through the sottoportico and turned right. Albina’s apartment building was at the end of a cul-de-sac a short distance away. The light fixed to the side of her building was not working.
‘Here we are, Signor Urbino. Thank you so much. Let me get my key and I—’
She broke off.
‘How stupid of me!’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I forgot my house keys at the café!’
‘It’s my fault.’ A wave of anger at himself swept over Urbino. ‘I interfered with your usual routine.’
‘I forgot because I’m becoming an old woman. But it doesn’t matter. Giulietta is home. And this old door can be pushed in by a child – probably our apartment door too!’
‘That’s not safe.’
‘Safe enough. And Giulietta can protect us. I don’t like it, but she has—’ She broke off. ‘She has a very bad temper,’ she continued. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say it. But she can scare anyone!’
Albina gave a nervous laugh, and looked up at the second floor. Lights showed behind the curtains of an open window. She pushed one of the bell buttons beside the door. She paused before pushing it again. The curtains at the window were thrust aside. A head with curly, short-cut blonde hair appeared.
‘What’s the matter with you ringing the bell like that?’ Giulietta’s harsh voice spewed out in almost impenetrable Venetian dialect. ‘Oh, it’s you as well, Signor Urbino,’ Albina’s sister added in more gentle tones. ‘Good evening!’
‘Good evening, Signorina Giulietta. Excuse us for disturbing you. Because of me Albina forgot her key at Da Valdo.’
‘Do you think this is the first time she’s forgotten something? It’s been happening for years now. Just a minute.’
They waited until Giulietta’s head reappeared at the window.
‘Here, you!’ she shouted. She threw the key down to the ground. It barely missed hitting Albina. Giulietta pulled the curtains back in place.
Urbino picked the key up and fit it in the door. He noted that the door was damaged, as if from repeated attempts – successful or not – to push it in. Even t
he key didn’t fit easily into the lock, but needed some maneuvering.
‘You should speak to the owner and get this door repaired.’ He held the door open for her and handed her the key.
‘A lot of good that will do! Good night, Signor Urbino. Thank you for your care. Sleep well and give my best wishes to the contessa.’
She gave him a bright smile as she closed the door behind her.
Urbino walked down the deserted calle and back through the covered passageway. The wind, which had been strong only a short time before, had completely abated, but the air was heavy and dank. He looked up at the sky above the buildings. Stars were brightly visible.
By one of those strange weather patterns characteristic of Venice the storm that had been about to descend on the city had moved away. But Urbino knew that it would fulfill its threat sooner rather than later, and before the coming of the dawn.
He reached the Campo Santa Margherita. A group of young Venetians was gathered around a gelateria. One of them, a history student, called out to Urbino. Urbino waved but didn’t stop.
He went over a bridge and past the Church of San Pantalon. Soon he was on the Crosera. Noisy groups of young people stood outside the cafés, leaving only a small space for others to get by. Tourists, most of them probably from the small hotels in the area, walked slowly along, looking in shop windows.
Urbino quickened his step. He was eager to get home now. It had been a long day. The San Tomà boat landing was only a few minutes away. From there a vaporetto, after only two stops, would bring him to Cannaregio.
As he was about to enter the Calle della Madonna, three black women stopped him to ask directions to the train station. They spoke in French and carried large cloth bags. They needed to catch a train for Bologna.
Urbino consulted his watch. It was a few minutes past eleven. The last train for Bologna, or for anywhere else, left in an hour. If the women missed it, they would have to wait until about five in the morning. He began to give them directions for walking to the station, but feared they would lose their way. He advised them to take the vaporetto with him. The stop for the station was the one after his. They would get to Santa Lucia in plenty of time to catch the last train.
‘The landing is near here,’ he told them. ‘But follow me. It’s easy to miss.’
As they neared the calle to the boat landing, Urbino recognized the lone figure of Claudio walking toward them from the direction of the Campo San Tomà.
‘Salve, Claudio!’ he called out.
Claudio seemed startled. He took in Urbino and the three women.
‘Buona sera,’ he said.
‘Out for a walk?’
Claudio lived only a short distance away near the Campo San Tomà.
‘Yes, a walk. The storm has decided not to come.’
‘We’ll have to see about that. How are you enjoying the Callas?’
‘I was listening to it before I left the apartment. I’ll play it again when I get back. It soothes me. So do my walks.’
Claudio appeared on edge. It was understandable, considering that tomorrow, the day of the final qualifying competitions, would be an important day for him and Gildo.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you and Gildo will do fine tomorrow. And you know my philosophy. The essential thing is making the effort. By the way, I just saw Romolo Beato. He said you’re doing well with your singing. Congratulations.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘An hour or so ago. With Perla. He was on his way to Padua. But excuse me.’ The women were looking at him nervously. ‘I’d talk to you longer, but these ladies are on their way to Bologna. I want to be sure to get them to the station. Enjoy your walk. Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be there to cheer you on.’
An hour later the storm broke. Urbino was dry in the Palazzo Uccello and the three women had caught their train to Bologna.
But the city was exposed. This storm, coming so soon after the one of only three days ago, put the vulnerable city in great danger again.
The rain was torrential. It poured off roofs, ran through alleys like rivers, and spread in sheets across squares. Rubbish, from plastic bags that burst and overturned bins, was swept into the canals and washed into the drains, which were soon choked. In some areas the stench was overpowering from the backed-up sewers. Many boats, unwisely left uncovered, sank. Even most of those covered with plastic and tarpaulin couldn’t bear the volume of water, which pulled loose the protective coverings and flooded the boats. People living in ground-floor apartments regretted that they had been seduced by the much lower rent, for they spent the whole night moving furniture and bailing out their rooms. The gondolas and motorboats moored along the Molo rocked violently, and the Molo itself was a deep sheet of water. At one point visibility became so poor at the tormented mouth of the Grand Canal that a water taxi almost collided with a vaporetto, crammed with passengers and riding dangerously low in the water.
Once again the city, built as it was on thousands of sand and clay islets of the lagoon, was being destabilized.
It would survive this storm, and the next, and the next, but it couldn’t go on forever exposing its frailties to the forces of nature.
Two French tourists suffered through it. Blessedly, the most vicious salvos were now over. The man and the woman, trapped in Dorsoduro, were soaked to the skin and desperate to reach the train station. They thought that the last train of the night, the one that would take them across the causeway to Mestre where they were lodging, left at one fifteen, but it had pulled out of Santa Lucia almost an hour ago.
‘If you didn’t want to save a measly twenty euros a night, we’d be in our beds by now,’ the wife said. She pulled up against a building.
‘And if you didn’t want another drink, we’d have got to the station before this storm,’ her husband shot back.
‘Do you know where we are?’
‘You have the map.’
‘This pathetic thing?’
She held up the map. It was falling apart at the folds. She thrust it into her husband’s hands.
‘It’s useless,’ she said. ‘No, don’t throw it on the ground!’
‘As if another piece of rubbish is going to make a difference!’
Some of the plastic bags that had stood beside the buildings only a short time ago had been tossed around by the wind and split open. Refuse littered the calle.
‘Let’s try this way.’ The husband indicated the entrance of a sottoportico. He threw the map on top of a plastic rubbish bag. ‘Maybe we’ll find a sign.’
‘And maybe it’ll be pointing in two different directions like the ones we saw on the other side of the Grand Canal!’
They entered the covered passageway. No light showed.
‘Watch yourself,’ the husband said. ‘Give me your arm.’
‘It’s so dark in here.’
They groped their way slowly. Fifteen feet ahead a sheet of rain marked the end of the sottoportico. The husband took out a small flashlight attached to his keychain and directed its small but strong beam on the pavement.
‘This puddle is almost a foot deep,’ the husband cried. ‘Don’t they have sewers that work in this city? Watch out. You—’
He stopped short.
‘What’s that?’ he said more quietly.
He redirected the flashlight beam to illuminate a dark form in front of them.
It was an unmoving figure. It was sprawled on the flooded stones, face down in the puddle. One arm reached toward the head. The other was twisted beneath the body.
Two sodden, half-smoked cigarettes floated on the water near the body. Each of the cigarettes was smeared with bright red lipstick, which had the appearance of blood.
The French couple had no doubt that the person was dead. Why should they have? This was Venice, wasn’t it?
Three
Urbino spent part of the next day at the final qualifying competition for the regatta in Malamocco. Since the Lido town wasn’t easy to get to, he had arrang
ed for Pasquale to bring him in the contessa’s motorboat. The contessa was still up in Asolo.
Back in Venice the evidence of the ravages of the monstrous storm was all too evident. Even the Palazzo Uccello, which was protected because it stood almost midway between the Grand Canal and the lagoon, had suffered broken windows and damage to the supports of the altana. A flowerpot on the altana railing had become dislodged by the wind and crashed down near the water landing, narrowly missing the gondola. Fortunately, Gildo had secured the gondola well to the mooring and tightly covered it.
As soon as Urbino had awakened, he had called Vitale, the contessa’s major-domo. He was relieved to learn that the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini had received only minor damage, mainly to the plantings in its garden and to a mooring pole that had been splintered when a water taxi had hit it.
Malamocco had escaped the major brunt of the storm, however, even though it was at one of the three points on the Lido where there was an opening into the Adriatic. The opening was the site of one of the ingenious – and controversial – dikes that were under construction to protect Venice from the devastating floods that threatened the city, and of which they had just got a disturbing preview.
Malamocco had put on a festive air for the competition. Perhaps because of the storm the usually sleepy town wanted to celebrate even more, and the residents seemed particularly spirited. Malamocco, which had once been the capital of the lagoon government before it was moved to the area of the Rialto, might not have seen much devastation from last night’s storm, but it had a history of destruction from the sea, though not recent. A tidal wave had obliterated the original settlement a thousand years ago.
Urbino was part of the large crowd gathered along the waterfront in the sunshine. He cheered on Gildo and Claudio as they rowed their gondolino past in the shallow waters. The two men were in fine form, and although they were evidently not the best among the competitors, they weren’t among the weakest.
The chronometer that made the eliminations was in their favor. Gildo and Claudio were selected as one of the final nine teams. Barring some unforeseen disqualification or illness, they would run in the gondolino regatta.
The Last Gondola Page 32
