Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  The clatter of metal wheels shattered her reverie. The sound seemed far away and out of place. At first, she thought she was imagining the high-pitched, grating notes. A tarp-covered pushcart with wooden boxes piled high was bouncing and rolling toward her, just ten feet away now. There wasn’t enough room on the pavement for both of them.

  She cried out, “Aspetta, ferma!”

  No response.

  Was someone pushing the cart or had it somehow gotten loose from the bunch in the tunnel? At that moment, it didn’t matter. She tossed Gabriella’s diary against a brick wall and dove into the dark canal, the cart and all of its boxes tumbling in behind her. She sensed a shout from above, a gurgling “Go home,” as she sank underwater.

  Anna opened her eyes, but even the wavering light from the streetlamps failed to penetrate the blackness. She froze, suspended, forgetting how to swim, the shock immobilizing her, evoking a dim feeling. Her muscles grew slack and retracted from the cold as a jumble of memories crowded her brain: the vibrations of pounding surf at Fire Island, her ear against a striped beach blanket; high school graduation; Nonno walking her down the aisle; her honeymoon at the Grand Canyon; a man yelling, “It’s too late now.” She was nearly letting go, her brain beginning to slip into a dreamlike state.

  Someone she knew was her mother, dancing in a white robe, hair flying, motioned to her as she drifted by.

  No. She did not want to join her and the others. Not yet.

  Straining to calculate, to jump-start her brain, she estimated how far down she had sunk. Fifteen feet? Assuming she’d surface with a thrust of her legs, Anna forcefully pressed them together and pushed up. Her head plowed into a box, which stunned her, and the waterlogged tarp closed in, one rope like a tentacle tightening around her ankle. She flailed before rising again, but a sharp tug held her back. She realized she was tethered; soon she’d be out of breath and time, drowned like a sea turtle entangled in plastic. This life-giving sea would be her grave.

  Ordinarily, the simple act of inhaling never entered her consciousness. Now it was all she could think about. She guessed she’d been underwater for forty seconds. Hoping she had a chance for one last move, she dove deeper and followed the rope along muck-covered rocks, finally reaching the cart, on its back at the bottom of the canal. She pushed and prodded the nylon knot to release the rope’s stranglehold on the metal handle, but the cart’s runaway journey and crash must have tightened the knot beyond loosening. The end of the handle, however, felt unhindered. She yanked at the knot, trying to slide it off. After a final tug, the rope came free.

  With her last ounce of energy, Anna scissor-kicked her way up and popped her head out of the water. She gasped for air, heaving from the effort, her heart pounding. A final surge of strength propelled her to the canal’s steep wall, its top looming three feet above her head. Reaching as high as she could, her cold hands barely grasped the pavement’s edge. She tried to pull herself onto the walkway, but her feet got no purchase and her arms were too spent. To her left, the canal disappeared around a bend, showing no means of escape.

  To her right, a cleft was visible ten yards distant. Worth a try. She crept along until she found a stairway cut into the stone. Hauling herself out of the water, she slumped on the steps, shivering. Slippery tendrils of seaweed clung to her neck. As she bent to unwind the rope on her ankle, she inhaled a pungent odor and realized she was coated with a fishy slime.

  As soon as she regained her breath, she tottered back to where she thought she had tossed the diary, searching in the shadows for its soft cover. Sopping wet and cold, she hobbled back and forth around the spot, like a dog circling a buried bone. Finally, sinking to her knees, she crawled on the pavement, feeling around for the precious volume. Damn. Someone had taken it.

  Suddenly, she spotted a figure wrapped in a shawl, silently approaching her. Was it someone to fear or someone she could ask for help? Seeing Anna kneeling, a gray-haired woman made the sign of the cross and uttered a quick “Madonna mia” before shuffling away.

  Anna rose, dejected, and staggered in the opposite direction, her soggy pants chafing her thighs. Once she dragged herself past a clump of moored boats, she recognized a bridge and forced her numb legs forward to the illuminated star of her pensione. The thought of getting warm and dry sustained her.

  “Carina, cosa è successo?” Giuseppe, the clerk, asked as Anna stood trembling, rubbing her arms, creating a puddle in front of his desk.

  She managed to tell him that she had lost her footing and had fallen into a canal.

  With mouth agape, he handed her a bath towel and promised to deliver some hot soup to her room. “Mi sono quasi dimenticato,” he added. He had almost forgotten, a lady had come in earlier to see her.

  Anna just nodded, too shaky to ply him with questions.

  The first thing she saw on entering her room was her raincoat, sprawled across the bed. Since she hadn’t left it there, who had? But a more immediate question was: Could the pushcart really have jostled free by itself? She was chilled by the thought that while no one in the world loved her anymore, someone hated her enough to attack her.

  She limped down the hall for what she hoped would be a hot shower, cursing herself for not having scoured the diary—one of the few things available to her—for clues. Now Gabriella’s voice and secrets had vanished, along with another chunk of Alessandro Favier’s life—all due to her.

  When she heard the campanile tolling midnight, she realized she’d never had a chance to consider meeting Roberto. He must have come to the conclusion that she wasn’t interested, which was probably just as well. For some reason, she thought of a poem she loved. Her eyes misting, she recited its verses before drifting to sleep:

  My footsteps leave no tracks

  My journey leaves no trace

  Like a comet without a tail

  As my mind plays among the stars

  And my body begins to lose its grace

  Just another reminder

  That the physical passes

  But does the spiritual live on?

  Or are we trapped forever

  Beneath the stony masses

  Our consciousness long gone?

  Searching

  Thursday, morning

  After breakfast, Anna spoke to Giuseppe, who failed to give a helpful description of the woman who had come in asking for her: English-speaking, reddish-haired, of middle height. That narrowed it down to several thousand women in Venice, Anna thought, sighing. Most of the time, Giuseppe’s nose was in a book; yet it was hard to believe his powers of observation or his memory were that faulty.

  What about the note? He hadn’t seen the person. Had he let anyone in her room, she wanted to know, telling him her raincoat had been moved. Impossible, he replied—well, the new maid, from Tanzania, was still learning the job and might have left the room unlocked. Anna gulped, hoping there was no connection to the artist living in Sergio’s palazzo. Then she worried that she was becoming paranoid.

  With daylight, there was a small chance she could find Gabriella’s diary. She pictured it behind a garbage can or farther down the walkway. Her panicked toss could have been more forceful than she remembered. Wending her way through the warren of alleys, she emerged into the now-lively piazzetta. She scoured the tunnel. Vacant of carts, it seemed much bigger, and she inspected every square inch of pavement.

  Along the canal, two men in blue overalls unloaded tomatoes from a barge. “Basta, Franco,” the older one said to a younger, dark-bearded man, stacking the last box on a metal cart. Several empty wooden boxes stamped “Ortolano, Bartolomeo e Figli,” a local vegetable vendor, lay by the water. Anna looked under each one. She squinted at the barren perimeter of the canal, willing the diary to magically materialize.

  The men stopped their work and gawked at her. She asked them if they had found a small diary.

  The senior one said no, but they had found their tarp in the water, wrapped around a docking pole. Raising his voice, he accused her o
f stealing one of their carts to carry her luggage.

  Taken aback, Anna replied, “No. Ma il loro carretto è in fondo al canale,” telling them their cart was at the bottom of the canal.

  “Disgraziata,” the older man shouted—“Disgraceful!”

  In a wobbly voice, she told them about the cart rolling toward her, ending with her almost drowning in the canal.

  “Poverina,” said the younger one sympathetically, looking at his colleague. But they always secured their carts with care, he told her, using a sailor’s knot to tie the row together. One could never roll away on its own. If someone really had aimed a heavy cart at her, she was lucky to be alive.

  Staring blankly at the men, Anna struggled to not give in to fear. She had to forge ahead; otherwise, she’d collapse right on the sidewalk. She looked out at the boat traffic before inquiring if they had seen anyone loitering in the area last night, someone who didn’t seem to belong, even a woman.

  They only worked mornings, they said.

  She asked them to please contact her, Anna, at Pensione Stella, if they heard anything at all about a suspicious person or a diary.

  “Volentieri,” the young man said—“Willingly.”

  She thanked them and walked away, chagrined. She alone was responsible for taking the diary out of the palazzo. Yes, Margo had suggested it, but she was the one to do it, and she had been the one to lose it. It was almost as if Gabriella had been murdered again, gone silent, this time, at Anna’s hands.

  She’d call Margo later, but for now she wanted to be alone. Her melancholy might ebb in the sunlight, among a tide of unknown faces in a sea of anonymous streets, far from the palazzo or the pensione.

  She counted the steps while climbing the Rialto Bridge. Uno, due, tre. Turning left at the tiny church of San Giacometto, into which locals had once chased hunchbacks, Anna found herself in a bright, bustling lane. The fragrance of freshly baked bread and sweets evoked her childhood kitchen. Besides making pasta, Nonna had loved to bake. Anna traced the scent to a panificio with an array of glistening golden cakes in the window. Entranced, she stood by the door and inhaled. It reminded her of tasting the desserts on Nonna’s overflowing table: crespelli, biscotti, budini, dolci alle pesche. In later years, as if seeking payment, Nonna would ask, “And when are you getting married?” Once Anna married Jack, it became “When are you having children?”

  She saw him then, his back to her, as he made a purchase. She recognized his proud stance and cap of yellow, slicked-back hair, still wet perhaps from a morning shower. She hesitated. He’d spot her in another second. If she stayed, perhaps they’d end up in his boat or his bed, and she’d find some solace.

  When Roberto turned, his eyes alighted on her, and he strode over. “Anna. I was standing there at the campanile last night, waiting for you. What happened?”

  She started telling him about the cart bearing down on her, about diving into the canal. Stopping partway, she came close to sobbing. He reached out to still her quivering mouth. “Let me make you some caffè, and we talk. My place is near here.” He shook the sack he was carrying. “This is my favorite bakery. Funny you found it.”

  He led her through a lane so narrow, the roofs of opposing buildings almost touched. They passed shop windows with a rainbow-colored stream of merchandise: Turkish lanterns, brass lions, marbled paper, colorful glass beads, painted-velvet pillows, antique jewelry, blue chandeliers, drinking cups supported by bases of red devils with erect penises. It was like being drawn ever deeper into a souk.

  Even this could not distract Anna from mulling over her fruitless efforts at finding leads to Sergio’s killer. Instead, she had become a target. Perhaps in Roberto’s lair, she could forget it all for a while. When she had felt unhappy as a child, she had run outside to her swing and pedaled high up toward the sky, where her cares evaporated into a giddy dizziness. Maybe she could find that bit of peace again. Or maybe this was foolish. She didn’t really know him or have any idea what complications he could add to her already disordered life.

  By the time they reached a leather store facing a campo, charcoal clouds had suddenly erased the sun. Heavy drops were splattering them, forming rivulets down her curls and tracing hieroglyphics on her lavender silk blouse. “It was sunny five minutes ago only,” Roberto said. “This tempesta has come from nowhere.”

  A sudden gust deluged Anna’s face. “How much farther do we have to go?”

  “Not far.” They raced through the alleys, his arm around her. Soon the silk no longer skimmed her flesh but formed a taut and glistening new skin. Only the area underneath Roberto’s arm felt dry.

  “We’re getting soaked!”

  “Mi dispiace, carina. If I had a jacket, I would wrap you in it. But God does not listen to me—at least not about the weather.” He chuckled. When he pulled at the now-transparent white shirt stuck to his chest, Anna glimpsed the tanned skin underneath. “You know what they say about the rain, no?”

  Anna squinted at him, anticipating a trick question.

  “They say it means . . .” He met her surprised lips with a slow kiss, before whispering, “Fertility.”

  Anna marveled at that perfectly strange, Old World concept.

  They passed through a marble archway, and Roberto opened a metal gate, sculpted with the number eleven, into a verdant garden. The rain released the fragrance of jasmine, its sweet bouquet married to the musky earth. The shrubbery bowed with the wind, quivering like sea kelp. At the end of a curved mosaic path sat a cottage framed by pomegranate trees.

  “Is this your home?” Anna admired the pleasant lemon shutters and quaint balcony.

  “A little retreat. Sometimes I work here. There is even a canal in back for La Vittoria.”

  His face tensed as he dropped the bakery bag into the arms of a stone nymph and turned toward her. She sensed what was coming. He caressed her hair, and they embraced, his warmth combining with hers in a pagan baptism. When he licked the corners of her lips, it felt as if the world had shrunk and ended just beyond his shoulders.

  Pulling away with a sudden movement, he said, “You will get sick out here.” He grabbed her hand, and they bolted inside. “I’ll make coffee. A robe is behind the bathroom door. You might want to put it on while your clothes dry.”

  Anna wandered down the olive green hallway, lined with Carnival masks. Passing a library in a nook with two easy chairs, she peeked at the titles. The Republic, by Plato. Physics, by Aristotle. A collection of classical philosophy next to a textbook, The Theory of Finance. Heavy tomes for a retreat, she thought.

  She peeled off her sodden clothing in the mosaic-tiled bath and looked at herself in the mirror. Why should she trust this man and not believe the obvious: that he was a brainy lady killer, luring another victim into his love nest, just as Dudley had warned? How much was she willing to risk? She hungered, however, for just one fucking moment of euphoria.

  She put on his terrycloth bathrobe, wrapped a towel around her head, turban style, and joined Roberto, who had changed into a dry T-shirt and jeans. In the tiny, aroma-filled kitchen, they sat at a wooden table, drinking espresso from etched-glass cups and devouring ricotta-filled puffs.

  “Tell me,” his tone grew serious. “Can you talk more about it?”

  “About?”

  “The attack on you.”

  She drew a deep breath before describing where she had walked, what she thought she had heard, the runaway cart, and her struggle in the cold, dark canal to save herself. Everything except the diary.

  “This is frightening.” He reached over and held her hand. “I know exactly where that vegetable barge docks. You reported this to the police, to Detective . . . Biondi, isn’t it?”

  Anna shook her head. “He’ll think I’m lying.”

  Roberto looked pensive. “What has Margo said about this? Has she not called you when you did not arrive?”

  “Not a word,” Anna said. “I’ve been wondering. After we talked at the Dogana Tuesday night, you didn’t
follow me, did you?”

  “I can only take two rejections a day from you. I was already at my limit.” He gave her a wry smile.

  She melted, almost apologizing before catching herself. “Someone chased me. I was terrified.” She put her head in her hands. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”

  “One thing I do know is that you are safe here, with me. What do you go back to?”

  “Not much. A job, a divorce.”

  “No family?”

  Anna shook her head. “And you, is there anybody in your life?” She glanced into his eyes before staring at the brick floor, steeling herself for the inevitable news that he was unavailable, untouchable.

  “Brothers, sisters, many members in my family, many friends. And a career that I love. You could say it has possessed me.”

  An Italian workaholic, Anna thought. Approach with caution. “Are you working today?” she said, raising one eyebrow, knowing it was past ten.