That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  Just as Maurizio concluded his remarks, a door opened at the back of the hall, spilling light from the lobby. Serena Antonelli, clad in her fur-trimmed parka, slipped into a seat in the last row.

  She came!

  Jack had figured it was fifty-fifty, given her workload and the mixed signals he knew he had been sending her. He had almost taken her into his arms again and kissed her breathless the other night as they stood bundled in the bow of the water taxi, gazing at the beautiful basilica known by locals simply as “Salute.” Perhaps some ancient shred of Catholic conscience had prompted him to keep things uncomplicated between them as long as he still had not resolved the situation with Lauren. After a decade together, on and off, he owed their relationship at least that much.

  Nevertheless, he was startled, now, by how the mere sight of Serena entering the hall lifted his spirits. After all, he reminded himself, she and her friends and family and all the other surviving citizens of New Orleans were the reason he had continued to report on these confounded environmental battles. It was for them he was trying to present irrefutable scientific facts to persuade the American policy makers that the best, most economical way to halt future high water surges in Louisiana was to save the wetlands and barrier islands while building multi-billion-dollar projects like Italy’s massive gates.

  He glanced at his notes and hoped that his address to the assembled global experts could expiate to a small degree the sins of avarice, incompetence, and weakness committed by those associated with the New Orleans canal and levee failures of 2005.

  Without warning, a vision assaulted him as it so often had. In his mind’s eye he once again saw a young father-to-be urging his pregnant wife up the pull-down stairs that led to an attic just as thundering water smashed the house’s wooden exterior walls and knocked the helpless couple into its swirling depths.

  Whatever I say today... whatever its impact... this is for you, Mr. and Mrs. Cosimo Antonelli, and everyone like you... may you rest in peace.

  Serena sat at the back of the hall, transfixed by the images flashing on the screen and the passion and expertise displayed by the tall, dark-haired speaker gripping both hands on the podium. She sat rigidly in her seat as Jack spoke of events that had unfolded in the past decade since the onslaught of Hurricane Katrina against one of America’s most celebrated cities.

  She gasped involuntarily when a video clip taken from a helicopter flying low over the Lakeview section of New Orleans showed in sharp detail the floodwaters swamping the houses there, including her poor brother Cosimo’s home on 40th Street, which she located immediately in the middle of the screen.

  Soon, she couldn’t even see the screen because of the tears that had filled her eyes and spilled down her cheek. She barely swallowed a sob at Jack’s concluding plea for “experts, thought leaders and decision makers to present the urgent case to governing authorities from all the coastal regions of the world to take the urgent, necessary measures to save the planet’s wetlands and islands.”

  Many heads were bobbing agreement in the audience as Jack was winding up his presentation.

  “We must somehow persuade those elusive, self-serving, head-in-the-sand Powers-That-Be to restore these native features of our landscapes—or face the consequences. Louisiana and the U.S. Federal government has had to spend some one hundred billion in relief and restoration because of what was washed away—and all they really did was simply replace what Hurricane Katrina broke. We must also halt any more misguided, mismanaged man-made canals, levees, shipping channels, and oil dredging projects. Unless these enterprises devised by man are done properly and with scrupulous oversight, they are bound to create even further havoc on the planet. I submit that the most economical way forward is to repair as fast as we can what man destroyed: restore the wetlands and barrier islands—or else.”

  Looking spent, Jack bowed his head for a moment. Then, he lifted it, gazed at the audience, and said in conclusion, “Haven’t we humans done damage enough? I speak this night for Katrina’s one thousand, eight hundred and thirty-six known victims who can no longer speak for themselves. Thank you and good evening.”

  Serena glanced at the audience members sitting nearest her and was amazed to see she wasn’t the only one with moisture brimming in her eyes. In the next instant, the hall erupted into tumultuous applause. Jack didn’t acknowledge the accolades, but rather, made a grab for his notes and walked off the dais. Several in the crowd surged forward to speak to him, but he shook his head and pointed to the back of the hall, determinedly threading his way through the throng. When he arrived where Serena sat in her aisle seat in the last row, he reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet.

  “You were brave to come,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sure what you just heard and saw was hard to witness again.”

  In response, she threw her arms around his torso and quietly sobbed against his chest.

  “You are... so good at... what you do,” she said between gulps for air, doing her best to stop crying. “So good.”

  And then she buried her head against his suit jacket and held him even more tightly as if clinging to a life preserver in a sea of dangerous, churning water.

  In the end, Jack remained twenty more minutes in the auditorium speaking to the many audience members who wanted to congratulate him and arrange to be in touch at a later date. Meanwhile, Serena announced she would head for the gabinetto to blow her nose and repair her makeup.

  Bundled up again against the onslaught of more snow that had turned to sleet, they boarded a timely but crowded vaporetto and were literally forced to put their arms around each other to keep warm. The open-air boat plied its way to the Ca’ Rezzonico stop in the Dorsoduro section of Venice where Jack had made late dinner reservations. He took her arm and they sprinted through blinding snow down a narrow passageway toward Campo St. Barnaba, a large square anchored by a massive church and ancient water well positioned in the center of the paved expanse.

  By this time, Jack was relieved to see that Serena had regained her composure and laughed as they slipped and slid on the slick pavement. They were both nearly breathless by the time they approached an iron gate that led to a courtyard sporting some two-dozen wooden tables where patrons ate in the open air in the fine weather. Tonight an ingenious folding roof and heaters shut out the cold. The continuing sleet and snow once again made their progress slow going.

  “You can hardly get a place to sit down here in the summertime,” Jack noted as they walked under a sign, Casin dei Nobili, next to a shop whose windows were filled with both painted and stark white plaster carnival masks.

  “A sign of the season,” Serena noted, tilting her head toward the colorful display.

  “They sell these things to the tourists all year around.”

  “Like we sell Mardi Gras beads on Bourbon Street.”

  “Tons of the mask shops, now, are owned by Chinese who import their fake look-alikes from the Far East at a fraction of the cost. They’re slowly driving the genuine Venetian mask-making artisans out of business.” He pointed at the store window filled with fanciful masks, tri-corner hats with colorful eighteen-inch ostrich plumes, as well as menacing masks with papier mâché noses a foot long. “Mario Belloni, here, is one of the last of the genuine Venetian artists left, and that’s because he not only produces fabulous creations like these, but he also teaches mask-making to anyone who’ll pay the fee.”

  “I’ve heard about the Chinese taking over so many of these shops from nearly everyone working in my atelier,” Serena nodded grimly.

  Cutting short their unhappy exchange, Jack kicked aside a pile of snow pressed against a wooden door and opened it. Inside the restaurant’s small interior space that served diners in winter, a rush of welcome warmth greeted them. Soon, their friendly host seated them, plainly delighted to serve anyone willing to brave the storm. The diners ordered a lentil soup to fight off the chill, and then Serena followed Jack’s lead and asked for the homemade spinach ravioli wit
h a dark, short rib ragout sauce, richly laced with red wine.

  “A glass of local red to go with?” Jack asked, reassured to see Serena’s dark eyes were crinkling at the corners and she seemed free of the wave of emotion that had burst forth when he’d strode to her side after his talk.

  Truth be told, he had very nearly lost it himself when she tucked her head under his chin and sobbed into his chest.

  She completely understands... she gets it. She gets me...

  Pushing intruding thoughts of Lauren to the far recesses of his mind, he focused on watching Serena sample the first morsel of ravioli and loved the way she closed her eyes, chewed slowly and then swallowed, a little moan of pleasure escaping her generous mouth.

  “Oh... dear... heaven,” she said, poking her fork into her second plump, square pillow of pasta. “Nonna Serena would have wanted to murder this chef for creating something this good.”

  By dinner’s end, the bottle of Amarone della Valpolicella was drained, coffee drunk, and Jack noted that Serena had a dreamy look in her eye as she sipped her small glass of Amaretto. Nearly all the patrons had departed, but the owners showed no signs of wanting to hurry them along.

  Serena set her empty glass of the almond-flavored liqueur on the table just as Jack finished the remnants of his own. He glanced out the window and pointed.

  “Look outside. It’s basically a whiteout. This has to be the most snow and one of the coldest winters on record. I think someone is going to have to dig a path from the restaurant’s front door so we can make it to the vaporetto stop.”

  Serena nodded with a look of alarm.

  “We’d better get going. I wonder if the boats have stopped running because of all this?”

  The restaurant owner, who had overheard their conversation as he retrieved the signed bill, nodded.

  “Si... I think you will have to find your way by foot in the snow if you live in the Dorsoduro. Il servizio di vaporetti è sospeso.”

  Serena translated.

  “He says the boats have definitely stopped in this bad weather.”

  Jack addressed their host.

  “La Signorina lives near Campo San Polo. How long do you think that will take if we walk from here?”

  “Not too bad,” the proprietor said with a shrug, “if you go the most direct way. Here, let me show you on the map.”

  Jack and Serena charted a zigzag course over innumerable bridges, down narrow alleyways, and through countless squares until, at long last, they finally reached Serena’s lodgings around the corner from Calle del Forno off the square known as Campo Meloni. The pair was covered with fallen snow and their feet were numb in their rubber boots.

  “It must be close to one a.m.,” she speculated, her words visible in the cold air as they approached the courtyard near the front door to Ca’Arco Antico.

  Both chilled to the bone, they entered the tiny vestibule and stamped their rubber boots on the interior doormat to shake off the snow. The husband and wife proprietors of Serena’s guesthouse had obviously retired for the night and an absolute stillness enveloped them standing in the small, checkerboard foyer that led to the marble staircase and the rooms upstairs.

  Jack and Serena exchanged glances as a pulsating undercurrent passed between them. Serena briefly lowered her eyes and when she looked up again, Jack was still gazing at her and gave a slight shrug, as if to say he had no control over events as they appeared to be unfolding.

  “Perhaps I’ll have to beg that couch?” he suggested in a whisper, casting a glance at the gold, brocade love seat intended for guests waiting to check in at the minuscule front desk that was little more than a table with a telephone on it.

  “It’ll be torture,” she whispered back. “You’re two feet longer than it is.”

  “I am?” he said, leaning closer.

  He lowered his head and began a long, intimate exploration of her lips. His mouth tasted deliciously of brandy and the frigid temperatures they had just endured in the forty minutes it had taken them to get to her place. He released her, and took a step back toward the front door. Then, as if abruptly changing his mind, he pulled her toward him again, framing her face with his large hands, and kissed her once more, blotting out any sensible thoughts of her original plan to avoid intimacies with another man she could not have.

  “God... you are delicious,” he murmured, “but then, I found that out under the clock tower.”

  He took her in his arms once more as if everything had already been decided between them and began to nuzzle his lips beneath her ear, then in the hollow at the base of her neck, and worked his way back to her mouth.

  “Delicious...” he repeated.

  “I knew if I kissed you, you would be irresistible, so...” she whispered into his ear, letting go of defenses she’d built up since she’d last felt a man hold her like this, “as you can see... I’m not. Resisting, that is.”

  Jack gave a low chuckle. “Well, that’s good to hear. I was beginning to feel like a teenager hoping for just one more kiss... when all I want is... is...”

  “I can guess,” she murmured, “and you are most welcome to come upstairs with me if you don’t want to sleep on that tiny couch pushed against that wall over there.”

  Without further discussion, Serena took Jack by the hand and led him toward the grey, marble staircase that led to the first room on the landing identified by a brass plaque declaring it the Canaletto suite. Every few steps he halted and drew her to him, leaning again the gold brocade-covered wall while kissing her under her ear once more and cupping a breast through her heavy winter coat.

  “If you keep doing that,” she hissed, her breath ragged, “I’m going to start screaming and wake my fellow hotel guests.”

  “Can’t have that,” he mumbled, but didn’t remove his hand.

  Somehow, they made it to the top of the stairs where Serena paused for breath and pulled out a large, bronze key from her purse. Her hand trembled as the metal rattled in the keyhole and finally turned the tumblers, allowing her to open the heavy, carved wooden door. Once in her room with the door closed, they fell onto her gold silk covered bed where they stretched out on the mattress, face to face.

  “I think we should take off our coats,” she giggled, feeling flushed all over.

  “Yes, now that we’re inside and up here, I’m hot as blazes,” he agreed, “and in more ways than one.” He rose to his feet, divesting himself of his down parka. “And besides, I need to say something.”

  Here it comes...

  Serena recalled how Marco had set the perimeters of their affair just before they’d fallen onto a tackier version of a bed like this one at the Las Vegas Venetian Hotel.

  “If we... make love,” he began, gazing at her stretched out on the bed, “and believe me, there is nothing I’d rather do in this moment, in this beautiful place... we will definitely be crossing into some serious territory.”

  “I... know,” she replied, wondering if she should sit up to hear these pronouncements. “There’s Lauren...”

  “That’s not what I was thinking... but of course, that’s part of this.”

  Serena pulled herself up by her elbows and leaned her back against the silk upholstered headboard.

  She patted the edge of the bed. “Before we totally lose our heads... why don’t you sit down?” she said. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” She was not a sweet, naïve young thing anymore, she reminded herself silently. She wanted Jack to be absolutely clear on that fact. “What would you like to say?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Jack perched on the side of the bed and took Serena’s hand that was nearest him.

  “I’ll be leaving in less than a week and most of the time, I’ll be on assignment for the paper... writing about those Venetian water gates I talked about in my speech tonight.”

  “Yes... ?”

  “I don’t want us... I don’t want you to think that if I can’t see you after... after tonight, you’ll think it was only an... impulsive interlude
.”

  She realized, suddenly, that neither one of them felt like making the beautiful evening... the beautiful week they’d spent together... into a one-night stand.

  “Look, Jack, I’m a big girl and I might as well admit that I’m hugely attracted to you. Having said that, I can also see I must have become mighty used to making do with crumbs instead of having the whole cake. I think I understand what you’re trying to say, here. Perhaps we should just—”

  “I want you, Serena...” he interrupted, moving the hand he held to press it against his lap and his full-blown erection, “and I think this tells you how much, but I also think it might ultimately spoil things for us if we make love before I—”

  “Decide how you feel about the lady back home?” she filled in, folding both hands in her lap and staring down at them.

  “I know how I feel about the lady back home,” he said sharply. Serena looked up and saw him shake his head in frustration. “That sounded harsh. What I mean you to understand is, if we’re starting something serious—which is what this feels like—I want it to be right, you know what I’m saying? And, just parenthetically, I want you to know that Lauren and I haven’t...”

  Serena could see he was searching for the way to say something in a most gentlemanly fashion.

  “You haven’t what?” she murmured.

  “We haven’t been... intimate for five months, now.”

  “Really?” She looked away, knowing she hadn’t been able to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  “Really,” he repeated firmly. He seized her chin between his fingers and gently turned her head to meet him eye to eye. “She’s been in Houston at Med school and in December, we had a hell of a lousy holiday season. That said, there’s no denying that... she and I certainly have been through a lot together, and—”

  “Katrina!” Serena exploded, pounding one fist against her silk-clad mattress. “I hate that storm! It’s bonded people and screwed them up at the same time! Fine! I agree. You two have a lot of history together. If you haven’t worked it out with her, I don’t think what we were about to do is a very good idea, either.” She pointed to the small, gold silk settee pushed against one wall at the far end of her large room, a virtual twin of the one downstairs. “Be my guest, as it looks as if it isn’t going to stop snowing any time soon.”