by Ann Charney
“No police,” she pleads, taking hold of Helena’s hand. “I promise I put it back tomorrow.”
A couple of days pass with no news, and Helena calls the Ohstroms to see if Nerina has kept her promise.
“I meant to call you,” Bill says, as soon as he hears her voice. “Nerina’s back, and Alice’s missing piece of jewellery has turned up as well. It was right under her nose, just as I suspected, attached to the lapel of her favourite jacket. I guess we’re both becoming more forgetful than we care to admit.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I was a little worried on both accounts.”
“Sorry about that. I’ve been out hunting ducks in the Lagoon, and forgot about everything else. I tell you, Helena, I never imagined there was still so much wildlife so close to Venice. Being out there, a short boat ride from all the hustle and bustle of the city, surrounded by the stillness of the water and the occasional splash of a diving cormorant, it’s easy to forget the city even exists.”
Helena finds it hard to see the attraction in getting up before dawn to spend hours sitting in a small, cramped boat, but she doesn’t want to spoil Bill’s pleasure. Before the conversation ends, she thanks him and Alice again for volunteering to hold a reception at their house in Christophe’s honour.
“We’re glad to do it,” Bill says. “We have to go back to New York the following week to look after a family problem. No idea how long that will take. The party will be just the right sendoff.”
V
Christophe’s opening
THE morning of Christophe’s opening Helena awakes to the familiar wail of sirens, warning the city’s inhabitants of rising water levels — acqua alta. Helena knows what awaits her. High tides and days of steady rain have once again turned the city’s streets and squares into waterways. Looking out the window, she can see water lapping the front stairs of her building.
The flooding worsens by the time she has to leave for the gallery. Dressed in rubber boots and rain cape, and carrying an umbrella that threatens to invert with every gust of wind, she slowly navigates her way across wooden planks, strategically placed where canals and sewers have overflowed their banks.
The gallery is already half full by the time she arrives. Splattering wetness as she removes her outer gear, Helena feels like a dog shaking dry after a soaking. The sight of Christophe holding court at the centre of an attentive group improves her humour. She’s in no hurry to reach him, preferring to keep her ears open for any favourable comments she can pass on to him later. Artists need all the encouragement they can get.
There are lively discussions going on in various parts of the gallery. Evidently she’s not the only one mystified by Christophe’s shabby waiting room and its litany of illnesses. This is not necessarily a bad thing. An impenetrable work is as good as a blank canvas, allowing critics to be as creative as they like without interference from the work itself.
From the buzz around her, she can hear that the process of illumination is already underway, layers of meaning being slathered onto the work like icing on a cake. She pauses to listen to Theodora Grimani, a woman she’s known for years.
“All art is really a form of memento mori, reminding us we must die. A doctor’s waiting room can be seen as a contemporary version of one of the Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa of life.”
Despite legitimate claim to the title of Contessa, Theodora, like Helena, has to scramble to survive. Her specialties include the production of books on the treasures of Venice, and private tours for wealthy foreigners willing to pay for the privilege of being shown the city by a member of one of its aristocratic families.
The two women have forged a useful alliance over the years, exchanging information and sharing clients. It was Theodora who recommended Helena to the Ohstroms when they were looking for a place in Venice.
She is also one of the few people in Venice who knows that Helena’s family name, before her brief, illfated marriage to Alberto Mariani, was Goldfarb. Helena doesn’t pretend not to be Jewish; she just sees no reason to advertise the fact. It’s a matter of simple prudence, as far as she is concerned. Throughout history, from the time of the Pharaohs on, it was never an advantage to be identified as a Jew, and it isn’t now, even if you live in Israel. Fortunately, she can count on Theodora’s discretion.
Helena waits until Theodora’s audience drifts away before walking over to greet her. The two women make an odd couple standing side by side: Theodora tall and stately, her profile resembling that of the Borzoi who accompanies her everywhere; Helena tiny and birdlike, with tufts of hair that stand upright like a rooster’s coxcomb. Mutt and Jeff, Helena thinks, seeing their reflection in a windowpane.
With Helena, Theodora’s tone is more pragmatic. The two women are long past the need to impress one another, content simply to catch up. Helena now hears from Theodora that the Ohstroms have offered the use of their house during their absence to Walter Scalin, a fellow American down on his luck. Both women have known Walter for years, and have watched his downward slide with a mixture of compassion and exasperation.
“To think it’s come to this,” Theodora says, voicing dismay for both of them. “Dependent on the charity of others for a place to sleep.”
Helena has avoided Walter recently, but in the past, in better days when they’d travelled in the same circles, she’d found him to be a pleasant and courteous companion. Hard times, however, can change a man, and often not for the better. She’ll soon have a chance to find out more from Nerina, who will be sharing the Ohstroms’ place with Walter for part of each day.
The Ohstroms have hired a water taxi — a motoscafo — to take them back to the house. There’s room for six people on the boat, and Helena, Christophe, Annette and Theodora are invited to join them. Before boarding, Helena wraps her scarf over her hat, tying the loose ends under her chin to keep the hat from blowing away during the boat ride.
“I know I look like the Wife of Bath, my dears,” she says, seeing herself reflected in Alice’s mocking smile, “but I couldn’t care less.”
The sight of the water taxi, floating a good three feet from the quay, is daunting. Because of the unusually high water level in the canal, it’s impossible for the boat to come any closer, the driver explains. To do so would run the risk of scraping the side of the boat against the quay.
“Looks like we may have to swim for it,” Bill says.
He may be joking, but Helena feels that any attempt on her part to board the boat can only result in humiliation. The sight of Theodora vaulting the distance as nimbly as the Borzoi beside her confirms Helena’s fear that such a feat is beyond her.
“I think I prefer to walk,” she says, turning away from the group.
Before she can take another step, Christophe lifts her into the air and passes her over the water into the outstretched arms of the driver. “Ecco Signora,” the driver says, setting her down gently on a seat inside the covered part of the boat. Her indignation is appeased somewhat when she sees Annette and Alice being hoisted into the boat in a similar fashion, like sacks of potatoes.
“La bella Venezia,” Alice says, tugging at her skirt, which has risen immodestly high above her knees during the manoeuvre. “Don’t you just love it?”
When the boat arrives at the back entrance of the Ohstroms’ house, Helena lifts her arms for Christophe, as docile as a tired child.
The house, filled with warmth and soft lights, is a welcoming sight. A dozen or so guests are scattered across the long living room, which traverses the length of the house. The sound of the rain splashing on the panes of tall windows makes the room feel cosy, despite its marble floor and high, ornate ceiling.
After the ordeal of arrival and the hours of standing at the gallery, Helena heads for the nearest comfortable chair with a view of the room. While Theodora, made of sterner stuff, circulates among the guests, her Borzoi — Dante — stretches out at Helena’s feet, resting his long snout on her shoes. Helena is indifferent to dogs as a rule, bu
t she appreciates Dante’s reserved temperament, and rewards him with a pat on the head.
A handsome young man in a white shirt and black trousers approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. Another similarly clad young man circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Where is Nerina, Helena wonders, shouldn’t she be helping out?
Alice, who’s come to sit down beside her for a moment, giggles when she hears Helena’s question. “I know. I barely recognize her myself. But there she is,” she says, pointing across the room.
Helena’s eyes are not what they used to be, but she realizes it’s not her vision that’s to blame as she examines the young woman Alice has pointed out. Dressed in a shimmering green outfit, her long hair piled on top of her head, Nerina blends in easily with the elegant women in the room.
“I thought it would be fun to pass her off as one of our guests,” Alice says, looking pleased. “You know, just in case somebody felt like being nosy. We don’t want the police getting word of an illegal immigrant working in the house. I’ve given her a cover story should anyone ask any questions: she’s here on a student visa, studying art history. She looks pretty convincing, don’t you think?”
Helena agrees, unable to find any trace of the timid young woman sweeping hair cuttings at Lorenzo’s. Nerina’s transformation goes beyond the change in appearance. Playing the part assigned to her tonight — moving about the room, sipping champagne, chatting with the Ohstroms’ guests — she appears totally at ease, as if parties of this sort were part of her normal routine. Looking at her, Helena wonders what other hidden talents Nerina is keeping in reserve.
“What do you think of the gorgeous help tonight?” Alice asks, accepting a fresh glass of champagne from one of the waiters. “Nerina found them. Wasn’t that resourceful of her?”
Marco, Helena thinks immediately. Surely Nerina wouldn’t bring him back to the house, not after what happened. But the radiant smile on Nerina’s face when she comes over to greet her stops Helena from voicing her suspicions. She doesn’t have the heart to spoil Nerina’s Cinderella moment. And it’s not likely she’ll get a straight answer, in any case.
Nerina’s smile vanishes when she notices Dante, stretched out at Helena’s feet.
“Don’t be afraid,” Helena says, trying to calm her. She’s witnessed Nerina’s phobic reaction to dogs in the past. “He’s big, but he’s as gentle as a kitten.”
While Helena caresses the dog’s head to demonstrate his good nature, Christophe joins them. “You’re the girl who was in such a hurry the other day,” he says, recognizing Nerina from their brief encounter outside the Ohstroms’ house.
“Sorry, my English very bad,” Nerina says, edging away.
Is it the dog or sudden shyness? Helena wonders, watching her abrupt retreat. It’s likely she feels the illusion Alice has created for her will be shattered the moment she speaks, like a silent movie star unable to make the switch to talkies.
Christophe seems to be baffled as well. “Is it me, or did I say something wrong? This is the second time I’ve scared her off. Who is she?”
Helena decides to go along with Alice’s charade. “Nothing to do with you. Nerina has just arrived here on a student visa, and may be a little overwhelmed.”
Why spoil the game when there’s no harm in it? It’s not as if Christophe and Nerina are likely to meet again. He and Annette are flying back to Montreal tomorrow. Just as well, Helena thinks. Matchmaking is not a sideline she cares to pursue.
VI
Homeless in Venice
WALTER Scalin waits for the sun to reach the terrace of the Café Regio before heading out for his morning coffee. As soon as he chooses his seat, Giorgio, the waiter, brings him his usual espresso and lingers for a moment to exchange a few pleasantries. Walter welcomes the opportunity to display his proficiency in Italian, if only to distinguish himself from the tourists at the other tables.
To avoid random conversation, he stares straight ahead, watching the morning procession across the Campo San Polo: children on their way to school, women laden with provisions from the open market nearby and the stately passeggiata of the elderly, with no particular destination.
There is a brisk turnover in the café at this hour of the day, and it’s not long before Walter spots an abandoned copy of the International Herald Tribune — an indulgence he can no longer afford. Tilting his chair slightly, he sweeps the newspaper into his lap. Has Giorgio witnessed his deft manoeuvre? What if he has? Giorgio, Walter reasons, is more likely to think prudence than poverty.
The sound of barking interrupts his reading. Looking up, he recognizes Dante, Theodora’s Borzoi, straining to pursue a flock of pigeons, and, close behind, Theodora herself, struggling to control the dog. To spare them both the strain of an awkward meeting, Walter quickly hides behind his paper.
Walter has known Theodora since the time he first arrived in Venice, equipped with a small inheritance and vague ideas of becoming a writer. His literary ambitions were soon abandoned, but the lure of Venice proved more enduring.
Introduced to Theodora at a party at the Guggenheim, he had found her impressive and resourceful. Hearing of his plans to settle in the city, she took him to see a large comfortable flat belonging to a Venetian diplomat who worked abroad. Walter signed a tenyear lease; when it ran out he renewed it, although the rent had more than doubled, along with the cost of everything else in Venice.
Theodora once again came to his aid, suggesting that he put himself and his flat to work. Thanks to her recommendations, his underground pensione soon attracted a steady stream of art historians, museum curators, scholars — all devoted admirers of his adopted city and the kind of people he would have been pleased to meet in any case.
Not that Walter had much time to converse with his distinguished guests. The duties of running a B&B kept him far too busy shopping, cleaning and doing laundry. But in the winter months, when the visitors left and the fog rolling in from the sea shrouded the city, Walter’s life was his own again.
He was soon, forced to scramble year round. As income from his inheritance dwindled — the result of sluggish markets and unwise investments — and the switch from the lira to the euro continued to drive up prices, Walter found it increasingly difficult to make ends meet. He tried to keep his predicament to himself this time, but it wasn’t long before Theodora, like everyone else in their circle, was aware of his struggles to keep afloat.
“Start cashing in your social IOUs,” she advised him the next time they met. “There are a lot of rich, lonely women in Venice, and you know most of them. Time to make yourself useful.”
A word or two well placed by Theodora and it wasn’t long before Walter’s phone began to ring with offers of work: taking the dog to the vet, performing occasional secretarial work, hanging a painting, fixing a leaky tap. “Husband for hire” was how one of the women referred to him, recommending him to a friend.
The realization of how low he’d fallen came home to him one miserable, rainy day as he escorted one of the widows to the train station, her suitcase resting on his head to keep it from dragging in the flooded streets, her terrified cat perched on top, clawing at his face while he struggled to keep his balance. In the midst of this sorry spectacle he caught a glimpse of Theodora, sitting near the window of a café he passed. He had no way of knowing if she’d seen him, but from then on, he has made a point of avoiding her.
Not that it matters. Theodora appears to have given up on him as well since the loss of his apartment — the landlord had somehow gotten wind of the illicit business he was running on the premises — and the beginning of his dismal trek from one spare room to the next.
Fortunately, his wanderings are now temporarily halted, thanks to the Ohstroms — a welcome reprieve just in the nick of time, that, with any luck, might turn into weeks, even months. What made the offer of asylum particularly gratifying was that Bill Ohstrom couched it as a favour Walter would be doing for him.
“You’re a hard man to get a hol
d of,” Bill had said, running into Walter at a vaporetto stop. He and Alice had been trying to reach Walter, he explained, to ask him to look after their place while they attended to family matters in New York. There was a maid who came in daily, but there had been some trouble a couple of months earlier, and they would feel better knowing Walter was there at night.
“It may be time for you to start thinking about going home, as well,” Ohstrom added before they parted. “It’s not as if you have anything going for you here. And a fresh start might be just the thing to turn your life around before it’s too late.”
Walter, grateful for the reprieve he’d just been granted, accepted the unsolicited advice without protest and promised to think about it.
For the time being, he has nothing more urgent to think about than what to have for lunch. On the way home, he stops at the fish market near the Rialto. The colourful display of glistening creatures smelling of the sea quickens his appetite, and he hurries to make his selection before the stalls close.
When he enters the house, the noise of the vacuum cleaner and television blasting simultaneously signals Nerina’s presence. Her comings and goings are erratic; he never knows when to expect her.
She turns off the machines as soon as she catches sight of him and greets him with a big smile. “I have present for you. Birthday present.”
“How did you know?” Walter asks, surprised. It’s been a long time since anyone remembered his birthday. Even he has forgotten that the day has any special significance.
“Simple. I check your passport,” she says, pleased with her ingenuity.
Taking his hand, she leads him to the room where he sleeps. On the bed, he sees half a dozen new boxer shorts, carefully arranged in a semicircle. Nerina picks up a pair and, placing it against her waist, wiggles her hips in a playful way.
Walter is both touched and amused. He’s pretty sure Nerina knows he’s gay, but she can’t stop herself from flirting, even with him.
“Where did you get these?” he asks warily, noticing the Derek Rose label on the shorts.
