Survival Is a Dying Art

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Jonas gave a low whistle. “Nice to have rich friends,” he said. “I wish somebody wanted to send me to Italy for the weekend.”

  Because I didn’t want him to be jealous, I tried to point out some of the negatives. “I’m sure it won’t be that great,” I said. “Hours on the plane, jet lag, time difference, and then turning around and coming back right away.”

  “Yeah, tell yourself that,” Jonas said, but he laughed. “Have a good time.”

  “But not too good,” Lester said. “No handsome Italians getting into your pants.”

  “Not as long as I have you to come home too, sweetheart,” I said.

  Jonas made a gagging noise, and we all laughed. I wasn’t worried about running into handsome Italians—I wanted to retrieve the painting for Frank, get evidence to use against Venable, and see my brother. With luck and strategic thinking, I hoped I could do all three.

  18 – Business Class

  Jonas left us to call his boyfriend, and Lester checked the weather forecast for Venice. Temperatures were going to be in the seventies and eighties, with high humidity, so he helped me pick out shorts and lightweight shirts, with one pair of slacks and a small umbrella.

  Frank’s travel agent sent me confirmations of my ticket on the Air Berlin flight the next afternoon and my reservation at a hotel called Locanda del Ghetto in Venice. She noted in the email that it was a five-minute walk from the second stop on the boat from the airport, and included walking directions from the hotel’s website.

  Venable had emailed, too. Frank Sena would go to Venable’s house on Thursday, and I’d Skype them on my laptop before Grassini arrived. The Italian would show us the painting, and if it was all kosher, Frank would initiate the wire transfer to Grassini’s account.

  By the time Lester and I were finished I was even more excited—which led to great fun together before we fell asleep.

  We went for a run together the next morning, and after I showered, dressed, and checked my luggage twice to make sure I had everything, I drove to Frank’s condo. “I’m so pleased that you’re doing this for me, Angus,” he said as he handed me the credit card. “Your flight and your hotel will be charged directly to me. Feel free to use all this for your expenses, and if you run over, just let me know when you get back.”

  “Thank you for the chance to go to Italy,” I said. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be able to travel, and to meet up with my brother.”

  “Tell me, is your brother as handsome as you are?”

  “Even better-looking. And straight.”

  Frank laughed. “Then you two should have a great time in Italy. Remember, you’re part of a great gay fraternity. All you have to do is turn on your gaydar and you’ll be able to find men to give you directions, point out the best restaurants and bars.” He smiled. “And whatever else your heart desires.”

  “I’m looking forward to spending the weekend with my brother,” I said. “And I have a boyfriend back here who’s more than enough for me.”

  Frank leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the left cheek, then again on the right. “Just so you’re prepared for Europe.”

  I slid the charge card into my wallet and drove to the office in Miramar with my suitcase and my backpack in the trunk. When I got to my desk I saw that Miriam had emailed me the work and personal cell phone numbers for Leonardo Foa, the Carabinieri officer I was to liaise with, as well as his email address. I sent him a message with my arrival time and said that I’d call him once I was able to get a local SIM card for my phone.

  Then I went to see Miriam. “I have a name and address for the guy who says he has the painting,” I said. “And I was thinking, someone who has one piece of stolen art might have more. Do you know how to see if this man has been involved in other transactions in the past?”

  “I can check the Interpol database,” she said.

  I spelled the name for her, and she typed. After a moment or two had passed, she shook her head. “He doesn’t come up. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t sold stolen art before, just that he hasn’t been caught. You should be careful with him.”

  “How do you recommend I bring this painting home?” I asked. “According to what I’ve been told, it was painted in oil on wood, and it’s about two feet tall and three feet wide.”

  “Your best choice is to find a shipping outfit and have them pack the painting for you, then carry it on board on your return flight.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’m picking it up on Thursday so I should have plenty of time to get it wrapped.”

  I didn’t have any more work to do after I’d finished with Miriam, and I figured I was better off fidgeting at the airport than in my office. Before I left I went over to the quartermaster to check in my Glock, because I couldn’t carry it on the plane, and I didn’t want to leave it in my office or my car. I felt almost naked as I walked back to my office—I’d grown so accustomed to having it with me that I missed it.

  It was a brutally hot day, and I was hoping that Venice might be a little more pleasant, especially if I’d be sightseeing with Danny. But no matter the weather, I’d be with my little brother, and that was all that mattered.

  I drove to the Miami airport, parked in a long term lot, and rode a bus to the terminal. It was exciting to be surrounded by all kinds of people on their way somewhere, from grungy-looking backpackers to Latin businessmen speaking rapid Spanish on their cell phones.

  I was stunned to discover that Frank’s travel agent had booked me into Air Berlin’s business class, which had a separate check in line. I learned that I could carry on a second item on my return flight and that my bags would be unloaded first on arrival in Venice. After waiting in the TSA line, I made my way to the gate, where I sent Lester a text to let him know that I was on my way, and almost immediately got one back from him, full of airplane and smile emoticons, telling me to have a great time.

  The flight attendant, a trim gay man in his early forties with Hans on his name tag, came by after I’d settled in. “Is this your first flight on Air Berlin?” he asked.

  I smiled at him. “Yes. It’s also my first international flight.”

  “We’ll, if there's anything I can help you with just let me know,” Hans said. “Let me show you how to recline your seat.”

  He leaned over me to demonstrate that I could change my seat to fully horizontal once we were in flight, and I smelled his spicy cologne. Maybe Frank was right after all and the great gay fraternity would help me on my travels.

  There was plenty of leg room, a table where I could work, and a USB plug to charge my laptop if I needed. It made me feel almost guilty, but I kept making Facebook posts so that my friends could see the luxury.

  Once the crew lowered the lights, I stretched my chair out and settled in. I was afraid I was too excited to sleep, but I went out right away and woke the next morning as the lights came up and the pilot announced we were beginning our descent into Dusseldorf.

  The ground staff were very helpful getting me to my flight to Venice. The airport reminded me of others that I’d passed through, with a high lattice of beams above and a constant movement of people towing luggage. I was in a foreign country, even if I was only seeing the airport and staying in Germany for a few hours. I was living the life my father had dreamed of. I changed money into euros while I waited for the next flight.

  The short-haul plane wasn’t as fancy as the international one, but I was still in business class and had room to stretch my legs. Frank’s travel agent had gotten me a window seat, and as the plane lined up for landing at Marco Polo airport, I got my first glimpse of Venice. I was able to easily make out the bell tower and elaborate domes of St. Mark’s and the open square in front of it, and get an idea of the way the island city was laid out, all the canals snaking through the city, the long causeway to the mainland, the outlying islands and a strand of beach along the Mediterranean.

  The water was a rich blue-green, the islands a mass of tightly packed terra cot
ta roofs. We came in low over a corner of the city and I saw four- and five-story buildings butted next to each other and facing on a canal, with gondolas and power boats moored at docks.

  We landed smoothly, and I could barely contain my eagerness as I waited for the cabin door to open so I could burst out into the jet way. Venice, here I come!

  19 – Brotherly Love

  I hurried out of the gate and into the mass of people crowding into Marco Polo airport. On my way to baggage claim, I bought a SIM card from a kiosk, and the clerk showed me how to swap it out for the one in my iPhone. It came with a new phone number, and the first call I made was to the number my brother was using while he was in Italy.

  “Danny? I’m at the airport in Venice!”

  “That’s awesome, bro,” he said, and he sounded like he was calling from right next door. “I’m on the train now. I get into Venice in about half an hour. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  I had worried that I’d be intimidated by all the foreign language around me, but living in South Florida had prepared me for that. All the signs in the airport were in English as well as Italian, and I made it to the boat dock easily. The air smelled like salt water and exhaust fumes but it could have been the richest perfume.

  My phone had automatically updated to Italian time. It was almost noon, which gave me a little over twenty-four hours to have some fun in Venice before I had to meet Remigio Grassini and pick up the painting. I sent Lester another text, letting him know I’d arrived safely, with a couple of kiss emoticons of my own.

  A low, yellow-hulled water taxi pulled up a few minutes later. It rocked slightly beneath me as I stepped on board. I’d had little experience of boats growing up, and even in South Florida I rarely had the chance to get out on the water. Despite some queasiness I was determined to enjoy every new experience. Tugging my suitcase behind me, I moved forward until I could find a seat by the window.

  The water taxi took off and we motored along a narrow channel that paralleled the runway. Then it picked up speed as we entered open water, and I grabbed the railing next to me. There was a brief recorded message in several languages as we rode. I learned that the lagoon was an enclosed bay of the Adriatic Sea, with a surface area of over two hundred square miles. There were 117 islands, separated by canals and linked by bridges. The area had been inhabited since the tenth century BC, and today over sixty thousand people lived within the commune of Venice.

  We passed the island of Murano, where decorative glass was made, and as the second stop approached, I began to make my way toward the exit. When we pulled up to the dock I noticed a dark-skinned man standing in front of a cloth spread on the street beside a building. The cloth was piled with a collection of wallets, purses and handbags.

  They had to be counterfeit, I thought, without even looking closely. Had these fakes come from the same places as the ones I’d seen at Trader Tom’s? I’d read an article on the plane about Venice that mentioned these traders, the vu compra, who were mostly refugees and immigrants from Senegal or Bangladesh.

  Would they soon be replaced by Syrians like the ones on the boat that had capsized in the Aegean?

  I shook my head. This wasn’t my problem. I was here at Frank Sena’s expense to pick up the painting for him. And I hoped that transaction would lead to information that would incriminate Jesse Venable. Immigrant traders in Venice were well beyond my scope.

  From the boat stop, I walked along the canal past colorful red, blue and orange houses. Fishing boats festooned with small flags were docked beside me, and the air smelled like raw fish and salt water, with a hint of sewage I chose to ignore.

  I turned left onto the Calle del Forno. I knew enough Italian, from eating out, to know that forno meant oven, and it was pretty uncomfortable that a street by that name led to the Jewish quarter—and that from there, Italian Jews like Frank’s uncle had been sent to the ovens of the concentration camps.

  It was hot and humid, my backpack weighed me down, and my rolling bag bucked on the rough sidewalk. When I reached the Calle Ghetto Vecchio I spotted the café where I was to meet Remigio Grassini the next day.

  Fortunately, it was only another few minutes until I came into a broad square and saw the sign for the Locanda del Ghetto ahead of me. The lobby was at least a few degrees cooler and drier than the air outside, and I was happy to shuck my backpack and show my passport to the woman behind the desk.

  She spoke a little English, and after she had taken a photocopy of my passport she handed me a key to a room. “Due, per favore,” I said.

  She shook her head. Eventually I figured out that to get a key for my brother, he’d have to check in too. I accepted that, and took the stairs to the third floor, where I found a room with two double beds and a tiny balcony that looked out onto the square.

  I hurried over and opened the doors and stepped outside. More of the hot, humid air rushed in, but I didn’t care. I lived in Florida, after all.

  Then I saw my brother approaching through the square the same way I’d come. “Danny!” I yelled, conscious that I was behaving just like an American.

  He looked up and waved at me, and I rushed downstairs to greet him. We met in the lobby, hugging and laughing. Danny looked older than the last time I’d seen him. His skin was tanned and his brown hair was longer and shaggy, and there was something more mature about him.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here,” Danny said as I led him to the desk.

  “I can’t believe it either.”

  I was impressed at how fluently he spoke to the woman behind the desk, the way she smiled in what I was sure was a response to his flattery.

  It was so strange watching him. Did I behave that way with guys? Would I be like him with women if I was straight?

  Danny followed me up the stairs to our room. “How come you brought so much luggage, bro?” Danny asked when he saw my suitcase and my backpack. “I thought you were only going to be here for a few days.”

  I shrugged. “Didn’t know what I’d need so I took whatever.” I sat down on one of the beds. “So, what do we do? You want to see Venice?”

  “I thought we could go to the Peggy Guggenheim Museum this afternoon,” Danny said. “I checked and they have a couple of paintings by the Macchiaioli in a special exhibition. I’d really love to see their regular collection, and it would be good for you to see one of the paintings in person before you meet this guy.”

  “Of course,” I said. “You can be my tour guide.”

  “Hardly. I’ve been in Venice less time than you have.”

  “But you can speak Italian. You were awesome with the woman at the front desk.”

  He waved his hand. “That’s nothing. You should hear me in Italian class.”

  We took a vaporetto a couple of stops and then walked to the museum, housed in an old palazzo on a canal. I paid for our admissions with Frank’s credit card and Danny and I walked inside. We stopped in front of a painting called “Empire of Light” by Paul Klee.

  “Look at the way he directs your eye,” he said. “You can’t resist looking at the street lamp in front of the little house, right? And then your eye naturally travels up to that big tree pointing to the sky.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What else strikes you about the painting?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s pretty?”

  “Come on, Angus. Think. Use that analytical brain of yours.”

  I stared at the painting, trying to figure out what Danny wanted me to see. It looked like an ordinary scene, a house with a street light in front of it. Then I forced myself to stop thinking and just look at the painting. I’d read that the Macchiaioli did sketches for their paintings outdoors, then did the oil work in their studios, and I tried to imagine Klee at his easel in front of the scene. How could he see to paint in the dark?

  Then I realized what Danny was trying to show me. “There’s a contrast,” I said. “The bottom of the painting is dar
k but the sky above is light, like daytime.”

  He slapped me on the back. “Exactly! So you see that there’s more going on than just a pretty picture. The artist is trying to tell you something, to get you thinking. Now let’s go see these Macchiaioli paintings.”

  We followed the signs to the special exhibit, which was called En Plein Air. “You know what that means, right?” Danny asked.

  “Paintings done outside,” I said. “The way the Macchiaioli worked.”

  “Yup. But more than that, it also means painting exactly what’s in front of you, as opposed to in a studio, where you could stage a still life, for example.”

  “That was part of what the Macchiaioli were after, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Trying to show the world as it was. To shake off the shackles of the old traditions of painting.”

  “You did your homework,” Danny said. We talked about the way many of the Macchiaioli had fought in the Risorgimento. “See, it’s all tied together. Their view of their country and its art traditions.”

  The first painting in the exhibit was called A riposo a Riomaggiore by Telemaco Signorini, one of the best-known of the Macchiaioli. “I see the same thing here as in the Klee,” I said. “The way he’s directing your eye from the cobblestones up to the sky.”

  “Good. Now step up close. You see these splotches of paint? Those are the ‘macchia.’ From this perspective they don’t look like much. But now step back.”

  I followed him. “From farther away you get a sense of how the light and shadow work,” he said.

  “You studied all this in your classes?”

  “Yeah. And once you told me you were coming, I read some stuff and talked to my professor.”

  “Thanks, bro. I appreciate all the help.”

  We walked through the rest of the museum, and I was happy that Danny was so excited to see these works of art he’d only studied in textbooks. By the time we finished at the museum, both our stomachs were growling. “A friend of mine told me about a cheap restaurant with great food,” Danny said.