Saints+Sinners

by Saints

“Who knows?” Cynthia says, apparently taking advantage of the smile that now plays upon his face. “Maybe there are two Mr. Rights out there, after all—one for each of us.”

  “Stranger things have happened. Jesus walked on water.” He laughs and reaches for his drink.

  “Well, here’s to miracles,” she says. They lean in to touch glasses.

  The café is only a few blocks from their pension. They walk back through the deepening dusk. Tucked into an alley near the train station, the pension must be one of the best-kept secrets in Europe: in a city that preys on tourists, they’ve found the best bargain of the entire trip. Of course, what they save in euros they’ve lost in scenery. As far as James can tell, the only view from any room is the alley itself—a rather narrow, shadowy dead end that is best got through as quickly as possible. But, he thinks, views are for people who prefer to stay indoors. And Venice is certainly not a city for the agoraphobic.

  Cynthia begs off dinner in favor of an early night. He leaves her in her room, smiling wanly, encouraging him to go out by himself. She must sense that he’s secretly happy to have a chance to explore Venice on his own.

  The Lista di Spagna is full of restaurants and shops, the latter just closing for the evening when he emerges from the hotel. The light has grown a deep blue, sinking into the stones of the street and the ancient walls of the buildings. With the darkening sky overhead, the city seems to close in upon itself like a grotto, voices echoing from one side to the other. As he walks through the marketplace, the excited shrieks of last-minute shoppers are countered by the hurried remarks of the vendors, who are now more concerned with going home than making a sale. The disparate voices join in a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds. Arguments arise here and there, people yelling and gesturing wildly to one another—but without a sense of enmity, as if controversy were expected and welcome. The Italians, he has discovered, love to complain; ironically, it seems one of their greatest pleasures in life. If things went smoothly, they would probably be bored to tears.

  He finds a tiny restaurant at the foot of a bridge that arches acutely over the water. It’s still early, so there are only a few other customers. There are so many restaurants in Venice, though, that none of them ever seems to be crowded. Paul’s take on it was that Venice was just notorious for having terrible food. But one doesn’t go there to dine, he said; one goes there to live.

  In the doorway, James is greeted by a smiling waiter who rushes forward and leads him to an empty table at the front. “Please,” the waiter says, visibly struggling through his English, “have a seat.” James sits dutifully in the corner. Through the potted plants that line the window, he can watch streams of people passing over the bridge.

  The waiter hovers over him as he reads the menu, the plastic smile still in place. James looks over the pasta courses—the primi piatti; alone, it doesn’t seem worth the bother of having a full-course meal.

  “We have special tonight,” the waiter intones. James looks up obligingly. The waiter is young, in his early twenties, his face framed by high, sharp cheekbones that make his brown eyes seem huge. “Linguine with clams,” he says. “Very good for you, the clams.”

  “Fine,” James replies. He doesn’t feel up to making decisions tonight; linguine sounds good enough.

  “And some wine? A nice bianco, perhaps?”

  “Half liter,” James says. “And aqua minerale.” He is taken aback by the waiter’s insistence on speaking English, which appears to be only slightly better than James’s Italian. But given his obvious eagerness to practice, James decides it’s more polite to communicate in his own native tongue than to butcher the waiter’s.

  The waiter nods and vanishes quickly into the back of the narrow room. Outside, the bustle begins to slow down as the light grows dimmer. The dozens of pedestrians on the street when he left the pension have now dwindled to only a few—couples strolling hand in hand; young Italian men sauntering along, telling jokes and ribald stories in excited tones. It’s a different atmosphere from daytime Venice: quieter, more sedate—somehow, he thinks, more Italian.

  Suddenly, the waiter is at his side again, holding a bottle of wine up for inspection. “No,” James says hesitantly, “un mezzo litro.” As much as he would like to, there’s no point in getting drunk tonight.

  The waiter laughs and inserts the corkscrew. “But this is a beautiful wine. You will love it, I am sure.”

  “No, I—”

  The cork is extracted before he has time to form a complaint. The waiter dribbles a mouthful into his glass and, reluctantly, James tastes it. He’s hardly a connoisseur, but the wine is quite good. He nods his assent and the waiter fills the glass to the brim. “Is good for you,” he says cheerfully. “The linguine comes soon.”

  A middle-aged couple stands in the doorway, peering around curiously. The waiter rushes over. “Buona sera,” he chimes, “una tavola per due? Qui.” He leads them past several empty tables toward an alcove in the back.

  Sipping the wine, James continues to watch the passersby. He relishes the silence, the peace of solitude. This is what travel has always been about for him—watching real people in real places live their ordinary lives.

  He’s drinking too much. His stomach begins to churn, reacting against hunger and the wine. The waiter is flying back and forth from the kitchen to the few other occupied tables. James notices that the couple who came in after him have already been served, the woman poking her fork timidly into a mound of risotto. She whispers something to her husband, who shrugs in response. James signals meekly to the waiter, who meets his eye with a smile and nods. In a moment, he’s hovering over the table again.

  “Just a moment, signore,” he says crisply. “The linguine, she is coming.” He picks up the wine bottle and refills James’s glass. “You will love it, I promise. Clams very good for you, good for here.” And he reaches out quickly and pats the napkin on James’s lap.

  “Waiter.” The man near the alcove is waving a hand. Beside him, his wife is still pushing her food across the plate, as if she’s searching for buried treasure.

  “Sì, signore.” Quickly, the waiter turns away.

  James looks down at his crumpled napkin, checking that he hasn’t imagined the incident. No one can accuse Italian men of playing hard to get, he thinks. He’s been cruised on the street on this trip, even touched by an occasional salesman or hotel clerk; he’s come to expect that American inhibitions against physical contact do not exist here. But he’s never known whether anything sexual was intended: Italian men walk down the street arm in arm all the time; it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But touching his penis—that seemed pretty sexual.

  He takes another sip of wine and watches the waiter making his rounds. He’s definitely attractive. James remembers how offended Cynthia’s been by this sort of behavior throughout their trip. He wonders if he should feel the same way. He wonders if all this flirtation is just a way to get him to spend more money. And yet, at another level, he doesn’t really care.

  Anxiety churning in his belly, he’s almost lost his appetite by the time the dish finally arrives. The waiter smiles broadly as he lays the plate before him. “Enjoy,” he says, staring into James’s eyes. He lingers a moment before returning to the back.

  Once he’s calmed down enough to take a few bites, he discovers that the dish is quite good, if unexpectedly spicy. He reaches for a drink. The waiter still hasn’t brought the mineral water.

  Another couple appears in the doorway and the waiter walks briskly over to greet them. On the way, he catches James’s eye and winks. James quickly looks down at his plate, concentrating on twirling the linguine around his fork.

  “Is good?” the waiter asks, suddenly appearing at his shoulder.

  “Yes,” James says, his mouth full. “May I have my water?”

  “Ah, of course.” He lifts a hand, as if to dramatically smack his forehead.

  In a moment, he reappears with a small bottle of water. Pouring it into a goblet, he peers
down at James. “The water,” he says, “is good only cleaning the face in the morning.”

  James takes the goblet and empties it in two gulps.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” the waiter says softly, “very beautiful eyes. You are American, no?”

  James nods.

  “I love to go to America. You must tell me all about it. Perhaps later, tonight, we could have a drink together; you tell me all about America.”

  James smiles flatly.

  “How are you called?” the waiter asks, tilting his head to one side.

  James fumbles with the words in his ears, the familiar idiom so strange in literal translation.

  “Your…name,” the waiter says.

  James debates with the truth. For good or ill, it wins. “Giacomo,” he says. “Mi chiamo Giacomo.”

  The waiter’s eyes light up, his mouth hanging open in a perfect O. “Giacomo! That is me, also! Sono Giacomo.”

  James stares, trying to tell whether he is also debating the truth. If he had said Leonardo, would that have been the waiter’s name, too? Would they have found themselves lying to each other, both putting on false personas, both playing a game that no one would win? James suddenly understands what Cynthia’s been complaining about since they got to Italy—the insincere flattery women have to put up with, the constant, unashamed stares, the suggestive remarks from unremarkable strangers. He’s already observed that Italian men seem completely fixated on their penises—constantly scratching, repositioning, or simply holding them—as if to reassure themselves that they’re there, or to give the world some indication of their dimensions.

  The waiter leans in. “Yes,” he says, “we get a drink later tonight. I tell you all about Venezia. Yes?”

  “I—I have to meet someone later.”

  The waiter smiles suspiciously. He’s probably tried this line before. “A woman?” he asks. His eyelashes are full, making his eyes seem even darker, more inviting.

  “Yes. My—friend is waiting for me at the hotel.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps another time. You are in Venezia for a few days, no?”

  James smiles. “Yes. Perhaps another time.”

  “Bene. Enjoy your dinner,” he says, softly tapping the tablecloth.

  There’s a sudden lightness in James’s stomach, though he has been stuffing it hurriedly for the past five minutes. He watches the waiter go, his apron strings flapping delicately against his black pants. So easy. It would be so easy.

  He takes another sip of wine. There’s nothing to lose now; the bottle is already half gone. He pushes the plate away and cradles the glass in his hand, staring out the window.

  When the waiter comes to clear the table, James turns expectantly, but the friendly smile has faded somewhat. “Would you care for dessert?” he asks, scraping the tablecloth and dropping the crumbs into his hand.

  “No, thank you,” James says. “Just the bill.”

  The waiter gently tears a sheet off his pad and lays it on the other side of the table. “Buona sera, signore,” he says. Their eyes linger for a moment. James feels the lightness passing from his stomach to his head before the waiter abruptly breaks the connection and turns away.

  The evening has turned very mild, perfect for strolling. He needs to walk off the wine, anyway, and in this state he would probably get lost on his way back to the hotel. San Marco is the only logical choice.

  It seems that only tourists are left on the streets; their cameras now safely tucked away, they wander slowly past cafés and over bridges, whispering softly to one another, perhaps truly enjoying the city for the first time all day.

  Cynthia sees something ugly in Venice; the aged walls speak to her of sin and decay, of dreams unfulfilled, futile desires. The city frightens her—the dead-end streets that lead only to water, the twisted bridges that defy every attempt at memorization. She wants it all laid out clearly for her—no mystery, no adventure. She wants it all to make sense.

  The piazza is nearly deserted by the time he finds his way there. Even the pigeons have gone, resting somewhere in wait for the next day’s mob of tourists. His footsteps echo on the pavement. Still dizzy from the wine, he peers up at the domes of the basilica. It seems extraordinary to find such a magnificent building here—extraordinary that this very city even exists. How absurd, he thinks, to create a thriving community on a lagoon—tiny islands connected by footbridges, islands that daily sink further into the muck. Some lunatic took this chaotic landscape and tried to impose order on it, tried to create something solid from the disparate elements at hand. And somehow, miraculously, succeeded.

  A nearly full moon peers at him from behind the campanile. Its light falls brilliantly onto the square, accenting the outlines of each building, each shape. The sky itself is too blue, like a color from a palette. The entire landscape seems painted; it’s too clear, too three-dimensional, to be real.

  Paul kept a Monet print in his room, a palace on the Grand Canal—all blues, greens, and purples. It hung on the far wall, facing the bed. He stared at it for hours, toward the end, when it took too much energy to speak. In those days James sometimes regretted bringing up the subject of Venice, but Paul seemed unable to shut up about it. “That’s where life is,” he said once. “Life began in the water, after all.” And he laughed.

  As James paces through the empty square, a fine rain begins to fall—more like a mist, drops of water seemingly suspended in the air. Water is everywhere now, proclaiming its power, washing bits of the city away. But still, it’s here. Cynthia’s right: Venice is ridiculous. Romance always is.

  At the end of the square, bright lights signal the vaporetto station. Laughing suddenly, turning his head up to face the rain, he runs across the piazza, toward the light.

  Foxes

  Jonathan Harper

  What Danny remembered most about the ordeal were the foxes.

  The day had started with the two of them: Danny and his passenger Kyle, both boys no older than nineteen, both proud and naive, both drunk off the thrill that comes with a road trip. They rode in Danny’s bright yellow Beetle, a flashy lemon of a car, the type of gift a parent gives to buy back his son’s affection. Now, they were alone on the road, far away from any authority. Nobody knew where they were; only the wrong people knew where they were headed.

  They were near the West Virginia-Maryland border when it happened, nervously singing along to Tom Petty, admiring the sprawling farmland that stretched out around them. The road had felt unusually bumpy for a few miles before passing vehicles had waved frantically at them. Kyle had waved back at the first few, amused by the overt friendliness of country folk. “Must be the car. They know we’re out-of-owners,” he mused. Soon, the Beetle became increasingly unsteady, almost slumping to one side. A little warning light was flashing on the dashboard, what first appeared as a harmless little thing, something an inexperienced driver overlooks until he and his friend are stranded on the side of the road, staring at a flat tire spilling out like loose flesh over the pavement.

  Around them were hills and forest, the guardrail bordering the edge of a wooded ravine. There were no other signs of life. It had rained throughout the morning and the air was unusually cold for October.

  “What do we do now?” Danny asked.

  Kyle lit a Parliament, as if to prove he wasn’t nervous. “Call somebody,” he said flatly.

  “Call who?” At first, the only person Danny could think of was his father. It had never occurred to him that such things could happen, to break down on an isolated road, much less the necessary steps to remedy the situation.

  At first, Kyle didn’t respond. He crawled over the guardrail and began to descend down towards the woods behind them. “I’m going to piss,” he said. “You need to call someone.” And then, he was gone.

  This was Kyle’s habit. He always disappeared, especially in times of crisis and every time it happened, Danny told himself it would be the last. Instead, he pulled out his phone and mused over the little search
icons for towing companies, but then, he felt a paroxysm of anxiety: what exactly did one say? How would he describe where they were? Then, he cursed Kyle for leaving him behind to deal with it all. He considered starting up the car and driving off, imagining the car stuttering along like a drunken bumblebee, Kyle dashing alongside pleading not to be left behind.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden high-pitch yelp from behind him. Down by the edge of the thicket, he could see Kyle peering into the woods mid-stream. He crossed the guardrail and descended. There in the thicket was the orange and white mask of a fox’s head, staring at them. Two kits peered out from behind the bush of her tail. Three sets of eyes, all dark as charcoal. As Danny leaned forward, the vixen cringed and flashed her teeth, but did not move until Kyle took a stick, striking out at them until they scattered.

  “What did you do that for?” Danny snapped.

  “Whatever,” Kyle grumbled. “Did you call?”

  “No.”

  The two boys pissed and then crawled back up the hill where they froze. From around the bend, came the long silver bullet of a police trooper, its lights flashing, pulling up slowing behind the Beetle. As Danny remembered it, the police car had moved in slow motion, his stomach churning into panicked nausea with each passing second, only able to think about the two zip-locked baggies of cocaine nestled in his trunk.

  The trip had been Kyle’s doing, at least that’s what Danny told himself. It should be stated that these two friends did not actually like each other. Their friendship was one of those forced college bonds, the type one would spend years trying to distance himself from.

  Danny’s father had taken great interest in their relationship from the very start, even though Danny assured him regularly that they were not lovers and never would be. For some reason, this hurt his father’s feelings. To him, Kyle meant potential for his son’s first meaningful relationship, an image inspired by the young gay couples of sitcoms, maturing together in an increasingly hazy world of expectation and judgment. He thought Kyle was charming, multi-faceted, and someone who would mature with the kind of positive influence that his own son could easily provide.