That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  In the cramped, upstairs workshop in San Tomà, a district conveniently near Serena’s lodgings, her main job continued to be taking Allegra’s dazzling sketches and subsequent paper patterns and then laying out and cutting corresponding pieces of cheap cotton muslin to confirm the size and proper drape of each costume for individual customers. The addition of her efforts had markedly speeded up the process for the team of five, full-time seamstresses—plus Allegra supervising—to construct the beautiful clothing in either vintage or expensive contemporary fabrics made of silks and brocades.

  Much to Serena’s surprise, the day following her dinner with Jack, she heard her cellphone ping with a text message from him. He had wound up his last meeting that day and would she like to join him for a late supper? Or if she’d already eaten,

  ... a nightcap at Ancora, a couple of

  minutes’ walk from your studio?

  Drinks and small plates liberally

  dispensed at a late hour...

  Texting him to pick her up downstairs at nine-thirty, she found herself inordinately pleased and surprised that he wanted to see her in advance of their scheduled date on Saturday when she would hear him speak at the conference.

  So... he feels the same... whatever-it-is... that I do!

  Proof of this came when Jack volunteered over small servings of tortellini al pesto that night to serve as her personal guide on a series of what she came to call “Giovanni’s Midnight Magical Mystery Tours.”

  “But Jack,” she protested, “it’s late and you have to be at your conference every morning this week, to say nothing of the seventeen costumes I have to cut muslin for in the next five days!”

  “You said we should just have fun, didn’t you?” he demanded, taking her arm as soon as they emerged from the restaurant and leading her through the snow along the raised walkway toward the San Tomà vaporetto stop. “So what if we two burn the candle at both ends for a while? It’s Venice!”

  “It’s Venice!” became their mantra—and justification—for every minute spent together from that evening onwards.

  Later that same night, they disembarked from the boat on the opposite side of the Grand Canal and Jack ushered her along the temporary gangways laid throughout the stunning but water-filled Piazza San Marco. She marveled at its size as big as several American football fields and anchored by the magnificent Doge Palace on one side. The grand Basilica San Marco stood to its left, and at right angles, the iconic clock tower faced the canal whose royal blue face, studded with gold stars, took her breath away.

  She was startled when Jack wrapped his arm under her chin and around her shoulders for warmth, pulling her against his chest and halting their forward progress. Just then, a mellow, booming sound rang out from the enormous bell as two bronze, mechanical statues holding stout hammers, repeatedly struck its ancient, metal surface.

  “Oh... how... amazing,” she murmured, acutely aware of the feel of his body against her back.

  “Timed it just right,” Jack said smugly.

  She gazed up at the beautiful clock face with its roman numerals and signs of the zodiac, along with a carved winged lion above her head.

  “You sure did,” Serena answered, barely above a whisper. Jack’s cheek rested against the side of her head. She turned in the circle of his arms to face him. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  He leaned forward, hesitated, and then disappointed her with a kiss her on the nose.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Serena’s gaze was nearly level with Jack’s, their lips only inches apart.

  “Well, to be honest,” she declared in a moment of unbridled candor, “that was a bit... underwhelming.”

  Jack stared back and then lowered his head, his cool lips meeting her uplifted ones, his arms tightening around her shoulders until his long, lingering kiss left no doubt he’d discarded the notion of holding himself in check.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” he muttered, pressing her lips once more, their kiss deepening and leaving her breathless. Finally, Serena pulled away and gave a slight shake of her head.

  “I admit it,” she whispered, “Venice is having her way with me,” she warned. She leaned toward him to return the kiss, parting her lips in an open invitation that Jack seized with abandon.

  Just then, a blast of wind and snow rained down on them from the tower’s roof, startling them apart.

  His voice sounding hoarse, Jack said, “I guess that’s a message from Saint Mark, himself, saying I’d better get you home.”

  The next night after another late supper, Jack hired a private water taxi, complete with fur blanket and a flask of Amaretto. The looks they had exchanged when she’d first entered the restaurant signaled clearly that neither of them had forgotten a second of their passionate kisses under the clock tower. However, Jack appeared to renew his determination to maintain perfect decorum during their meal while they exchanged news of their respective activities that day. Once on board the boat he’d hired for the evening, he wrapped Serena in the fur throw and went forward to speak to the captain, apparently ordering him to crisscross several canals in order to point out his favorite churches from the water.

  Just before midnight, the taxi throbbed in a low idle as they neared the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, a domed and columned beauty built in the seventeenth century with Palladian echoes, constructed on the tip of the Dorsoduro section of Venice.

  “Come to the bow and have a look,” Jack said, seizing her arm to steady her as she made her way outside the cabin.

  Serena’s breath caught as she absorbed the magnificence of the church looming high above their heads, the gigantic construction bathed in falling snow.

  “Oh... wow.”

  She suddenly wondered aloud if any of her ancestors had ever worshipped there.

  “This church was built on the concept of gratitude you were talking about,” Jack explained, “which is why I especially wanted to show it to you. It was commissioned by Venetians as a visible means of giving thanks for having survived a plague that had killed one third of the population here.”

  “Worse than Katrina... or 9-11,” she murmured.

  Jack nodded and pointed at the enormous dome that glistened in the full moon peeking through a hole in the storm clouds.

  “That design is an engineering feat that defies logic, don’t you think? Like New Orleans, the entire edifice is built on a cluster of small, swampy islands. The Venetians laid down more than a million wooden pilings hauled from Croatia, mind you, and somehow pushed each of them down about thirteen feet below the water’s surface. Then they constructed wooden platforms on top of the stakes to support the entire stone and marble structure.”

  “But it was built five hundred years ago! How come all that wood hasn’t rotted by now?”

  “They say the constant flow of salt water around and through the wood petrified the pilings and platforms overtime, turning them hard as stone.”

  “It looks much taller than any historic building in the French Quarter,” Serena replied, awed by the sheer size of the dome soaring above them. “It has a bunch of Titians inside, doesn’t it?” she asked, her gaze scanning the structure’s staggering beauty and symmetry. “I seem to remember something about that from my art history classes.”

  “That’s right,” he replied with a nod of admiration. “Titian’s the most represented artist in the church... and even painted the ceilings, much as Michelangelo did in Rome’s Sistine Chapel.”

  “Well... before I leave, I hope I get time to go inside all these fabulous sights you’ve been showing me. But given the hours I’m working, I have my doubts.” She smiled at him happily. “These late-night tours you’re providing are very appreciated, Signor Durand.” She leaned forward and lightly kissed him on each cheek. “Thank you.”

  She thought for certain he would kiss her back, but instead, he turned to the driver, ordering him to return to the Traghetto della Madonnetta gondolier dock where he walke
d her back to her hotel door and bid her a chaste goodnight.

  Well, what did she expect, she chastised herself? Jack had had second thoughts. He was committed to a woman back home. His kiss twenty-four hours earlier fell into the category of a “slip,” she lectured herself. It was just Venice. Everywhere they looked provided a backdrop more romantic than the previous one. Jack was now silently letting her know the obvious: from here on out, he planned to maintain a safe distance. They were destined to be just friends, and certainly not lovers.

  Despite these logical conclusions, she walked up the steps from the small lobby to her bedroom with an unwelcome and uncomfortably familiar feeling of deep disappointment.

  The next evening, Jack texted an apology that an Italian colleague insisted on having dinner with him to review the plan for introducing his talk later in the week. Serena, too, was deluged with work, and in the late afternoon on Thursday, Allegra had invited her deputy to go with her to the Fortuny fabric company on the island opposite the Dorsoduro known as the Giudecca.

  The snow had let up, but the wind still whipped their faces as they disembarked at the Palanca vaporetto stop. The two women walked a hundred yards in bitter cold to the brick entrance of a company that manufactured and sold magnificent silks, brocades, and printed fabrics that had graced the castles, palaces, and Park Avenue apartments of its fantastically wealthy patrons since its founding in 1919.

  “Buon pomeriggio, Allegra,” the firm’s manager, Giuseppe Ianna, bid them good afternoon, as they quickly shut the showroom door against the winds blasting behind them. After introducing Serena, Allegra lost no time specifying from which of the colorful bolts displayed, floor-to-ceiling, she wanted additional yardage. Then, she arranged to have the material safely transported to the workshop by Fortuny’s private water taxi.

  Dusk had descended this wintery season by the time they bid farewell to Signor Ianna and boarded the boat back to the Dorsoduro.

  “Join me for supper at Trattoria San Tomà and then we can work for a few hours afterwards when the shop is quieter,” Allegra suggested. “I want you to do some preliminary sketches at my direction, based on my notes from the client I saw today.”

  Serena was gratified that Allegra would trust her with actually designing one of the gowns, based on her mentor’s ideas.

  “Let’s hope I come up with something you like,” the younger woman said, a flutter of nervousness invading her chest.

  “I have every confidence you will, cara. I find I get more work done in the later hours, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Serena agreed, overjoyed by the opportunity that Allegra was giving her to work side by side. She also felt a twinge of guilt that she had been meeting Jack instead of getting a dose of much-needed sleep after everyone else trudged home following her twelve-hour workdays.

  Over a plate of papardelle con scampi—a dish made with wide, flat noodles and spicy shrimp that Nonna Serena d’Este had also cooked to perfection—Serena listened intently while Allegra fretted aloud about the palazzo where the ball would take place.

  “A few years back, the high waters almost made it impossible for my staff to do the load-in with all the decorations and food for the party,” Allegra related over her bowl of gnocchi—little potato pillows mixed with chunks of salmon and dotted with poppy seeds. “And the year my husband was so ill, the water rose so high... well,” she said wearily, “there were moments I never thought we’d be able to sound the trumpets from the loggia and open the doors to our guests.”

  “Rosa told me briefly of your loss,” Serena murmured. “I am so sorry. It must have been terribly hard for you to celebrate Carnival with a happy heart after that.”

  Allegra stared at her plate for a moment and then looked up.

  “It is important to keep dreaming, though, no matter what happens in life, my dear Serena,” she said, gazing steadily at her dinner companion. “After all, you suffered a similar loss, did you not? And yet, you have moved forward... following your passion for costume design, si?”

  “You knew... about Marco and me?”

  “I knew that look I saw you often give Marco when I was with you all in Las Vegas. And I could tell he cared for you, despite the differences in your ages. When I read he had died so suddenly, I almost wrote you, but then... I thought it was not my place.” She cast her a melancholy smile. “I am so sorry for what you must have suffered afterward, cara. That is something I understand very well.”

  “Thank you,” Serena replied softly, ducking her head.

  Why did speaking of Marco’s death never fail to bring tears to her eyes, even now, she wondered? The same thing had happened with Jack when the subject was broached.

  And then she realized the probable reason: both of them had offered her their sympathy and understanding—not judgment—though with Jack, she had only understood that later.

  Serena used her napkin to swiftly swipe the moisture from her eyes and steered the conversation to the subject of the rented palazzo where Allegra had held the ball for two decades.

  “And with all the snow this year,” Serena ventured, “how might that complicate matters and what can we do to prepare? I imagine it eventually melts if the weather warms up a bit, am I right? But doesn’t that increase the dangers of more flooding?”

  Allegra heaved a heavy sigh.

  “It’s got me very worried again this year. As far as I could learn, the palazzo’s owners didn’t take further measures to seal the areas inside, below the water that sprung new leaks in the last year. Of course, it is horribly expensive to remedy these kinds of problems, so I didn’t really expect—”

  She gave a resigned shrug to indicate there was not much she could do except install pumps during the period that the palazzo was rented to her company.

  “You know, Allegra,” Serena suggested, twisting the last of her wide noodles around her fork. “I have a friend from New Orleans speaking at the Global Rising Waters Conference going on here this week. He’s invited me to come hear his talk Saturday night—that is if you don’t want me to work on some special project. I could ask him if there’s anyone he’s met in Venice who is an expert in water sealants and such. Perhaps there is something temporary we could do to stem any further leakage into the lower floors?”

  Allegra’s look of hopeful relief was palpable. She reached across the table and patted Serena’s hand wrapped around her glass of red wine.

  “Do you speak of that very handsome young man I once saw walking toward the entrance to the atelier? The night I left you working so late, I heard him in a funny accent asking a passerby if my workshop was nearby.”

  Serena nodded and felt warmth infuse her cheeks. She hoped Allegra would think it was the wine.

  “He’s just a new friend. I met him on the plane flying here. He doesn’t speak much Italian,” she explained.

  “I understood well enough that he was looking for you,” Allegra teased. “By all means, cara,” she urged with a wink behind her high-fashion Luxottica lenses, “you must certainly find out if this young man has any ideas that could rescue us from the kind of near-disaster that almost befell the last Il Ballo. How nice for us both if he became our savior.”

  Just then Serena’s phone pinged, letting her know a text message had arrived. She pulled her phone out of her handbag. Jack had sent specific instructions to guide her to the location where his talk would take place Saturday night.

  There will be guest credentials

  in your name. See you soon!

  Serena looked up from her phone. Given Jack’s remoteness the last time they’d met, she was sorely tempted to text back that she couldn’t attend his presentation with the excuse she had too much work. But now, she’d just gone and offered to enlist Jack’s help with the seepage problem at the palazzo. The thought occurred to her that she could always just send him an email requesting that he contact Signora Benedetti directly and make an excuse about declining to meet him again...

  And not see him anym
ore?

  Suppressing a sigh, Serena texted back her thanks for providing directions, adding that she’d come to the Laguna Palace by 8p.m. if work allowed. She wondered if Jack was merely fulfilling his obligation to follow through on his previous invitation to have dinner with her after his speech?

  Oh crap! She’d decide tomorrow whether or not to go...

  Jack was once again seated in an uncomfortable folding chair on the side of the dais that faced the large hall where he was soon due to deliver his keynote address. Sitting next to him was his Italian counterpart whose specialty it was to recommend steps that could be taken to rebuild the outlying barrier islands that ringed the Venice Lagoon surrounding the city. Maurizio Pigati was also going to be Jack’s guide when they visited the underwater mobile gates whose construction was nearly eighty percent complete—and had been mired in controversy and allegations of corruption for the last three decades. If the mechanics ultimately proved viable, seventy-nine huge metal flaps would hydraulically rise from the seabed between the lagoon and the Adriatic to protect Venice from up to six-foot tidal surges like the ones that had inundated the city as recently as 2007 and slightly lower flows in 2013.

  Jack gazed into the maw of the auditorium that now was filled to near capacity. Wetland experts, water engineers and government bureaucrats from around the world had dutifully assembled to hear his talk on the lasting impact of Hurricane Katrina and the subsequent rebuilding efforts along the Mississippi, Lake Pontchartrain, and some coastal areas in the decade following. Jack and the tech guy had just checked the laptop computer plugged into the Power Point projector. With any luck, all was in readiness.

  The overhead lights dimmed and Jack’s Italian colleague rose to the podium and made his introductions in English. Some in the audience adjusted their headsets to be able to hear a translation of the evening’s program presented to a larger-than-expected international audience.