That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  “Lauren went off in a huff New Year’s Eve.”

  “Ah... yes. I think Corlis and I would have heard if the almost-a-doc had found a diamond engagement ring under the Christmas tree,” King commented blandly. “She obviously didn’t, so she was plenty pissed, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Jack acknowledged. “By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, she was one unhappy lady. She jumped out of my car parked in front of her house on one occasion during the holidays and then on New Year’s Eve, she stormed out of the restaurant while I was paying the check and she took a taxi home. She wouldn’t answer her cell phone the next day before she left to go back to Houston, so nothing between us got resolved.”

  “And then you left for the rising waters conference in Venice, right?”

  “Yeah... right after that. I was introduced to Serena at the New Orleans airport by my sister and—well—things... ah... unfolded from there,” Jack admitted, feeling worse by the minute.

  “Boy... you are surely in one, big mess!”

  “I know that, King!” Jack exclaimed, “but can we get back to the heart of the problem? Do you or your father know—or have heard about—stuff my uncles may have been involved with regarding that canal and the levees? I’ve asked Jacques and Vincent about it a couple of times over the years and they both clammed up tight.”

  “Well, I know that your Uncle Vincent and the levee board members did a lot more drinking than inspecting the levees,” King said with a shrug. “And I have no idea what the levee inspectors knew over the years about the integrity of the canal walls that were engineered by the Corps.”

  “When I ran an online search before I left Venice, I read about some vague accusations about the engineering of the walls back in the eighties when Uncle Jacques was working in that unit,” Jack said, “but I only had time to scratch the surface. Even so, I got the feeling that benign neglect was the least of their sins on the levee board, and the Corps has been a target of criticism from Day One since Katrina.”

  “It’s Corlis who probably knows more about all this than I do,” King said. “Her TV station did a big series after the storm looking into what specific canal walls and levees failed—and why.”

  Just then, as if on cue, King’s wife appeared at the door.

  “What do I know more about?” Corlis asked with a big smile as she stepped onto the gallery with a snifter of brandy in her hand. A stunning brunette given to wearing well-cut slacks and matching sweaters, she smiled at her visitor, adding, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How water-tight were those windows in my old condo during the downpour the night you got back from Venice?”

  Jack had bought Corlis McCullough’s flat on Julia Street in the Central Business District when she’d married King and moved into his house in the French Quarter a couple of years before the storm. Several windows in the Julia Street building that faced the street had blown out of the 1840-era building during Katrina, which Jack had subsequently had repaired.

  “King’s window guy did a great job back then,” he replied, referring to one of a cadre of building experts his friend had on call in his campaign to preserve some of the oldest structures in the city. “The new seals came through just fine. But I was just asking King what he knew about my uncles Jacques and Vincent and any part they may have played in the canals that failed in Lakeview.”

  Corlis arched a quizzical eyebrow, and asked, “Is this just idle curiosity on your part—or something else?”

  “No,” King replied for his friend, “and if he tells you anything more regarding the story he’s working on, you have to promise it doesn’t leave our gallery here, right Jack?”

  Jack nodded and Corlis, too, bobbed her head.

  “Ah... the old not-revealing-your-sources problem. Know it well.” The veteran broadcast journalist raised her right hand and promised complete confidentiality, furrowing her brow in thought. Then she smiled faintly. “You’re asking a very interesting question, actually, especially coming from you.”

  “I sure wish I didn’t have to ask it.”

  “Well,” continued Corlis, “nearly ten years ago, now, I was part of the investigative team at WJAZ that was able to confirm that the Army Corps had not followed the recommendations by an outside design firm regarding the flood walls.”

  “Yeah... I did come across that in my preliminary search.”

  “Right,” Corlis confirmed, adding, “And did you see the report that showed that the outside consultants had specifically said that the pilings supporting those massive structures should be driven to a depth far deeper than the Corps ultimately sank them during the so-called ‘improvement project’ back in the nineteen eighties?” She heaved a sigh. “Whether your Uncle Jacques was part of the decision not to go down to the recommended depth on the Seventeenth and London canals when he worked for the Corps... I just don’t know.”

  Corlis fell silent, appearing to be turning over something in her mind.

  “What?” King prompted. He laughed and said to Jack, “I know my wife’s look when she’s dredging that steel-trap memory of hers.”

  Corlis shrugged. “I’d have to look at my notes or look at the tape again, but I seem to remember, now, that Jacques Durand refused to speak on the record to one of our other reporters about the role he played as a junior engineer way back then. I do remember someone on our team tried to interview him for the five-part TV series we did on ‘Accountability After the Storm.’ Yes!” she said, snapping her fingers. “I remember seeing some news outtakes we never used in the final series where he flatly refused when a reporter tried to ambush him entering Corps headquarters. Said he couldn’t remember back all that time and that he had enough to worry about, post Katrina.”

  Jack nodded grimly and disclosed, “I once asked him point blank, myself, about what he knew about those efforts in the eighties to shore up the existing walls, but he quickly sidestepped the question that time, too.”

  King raised his brandy glass.

  “Hey, look... before you two string up the poor guy, you gotta remember that he must have been a young engineer in his mid-twenties back then. He may not have even been shown the recommendations by that outside firm. He probably just worked on whatever section of the project he was ordered to by his higher-ups.”

  Jack gazed beyond the second-story gallery railing at the high-rise buildings towering over the French Quarter ten blocks away.

  “But what I need to find out is if Jacque at least knew what was going on back then. The scuttlebutt, you know what I’m saying? The corners being cut—”

  “If he had any access whatsoever to what was going on,” King cut in.

  “Or if,” Jack overrode his friend, “as an accredited engineer, he had any notion that what he might have been asked to help plan back then was fatally flawed and could ultimately result in such horrifying death and destruction.”

  “When you accepted this assignment, didn’t you realize you’d be put in the position of investigating your own family?” Corlis asked with a questioning look in the direction of her husband.

  “The piece has just sort of evolved out of my coverage about the rising waters conference,” Jack explained. “The big wigs at the paper are in the midst of planning the tenth anniversary coverage. Nothing’s been put in concrete, as yet, as to how the T-P’s going to handle it all.”

  King amplified for his wife’s benefit.

  “And complicating matters even further, while our buddy, here, was in Venice, Jack met a woman from New Orleans whose rather prominent brother, sister-in-law and unborn child drowned in Lakeview.”

  Jack stared off into space and murmured, “All of a sudden, what roles my uncles may or may not have played in the failure of the canal walls present a big problem. A personal one.”

  Corlis took a moment to absorb what had just been said.

  “Holy sh—” she began. “You met Serena Antonelli in Venice?” she asked, incredulous. “She’s gorgeous! And nice, to boot.”


  “You are too quick for your own good,” Jack said sourly.

  “Young Cosimo Antonelli and his wife’s death had WJAZ crews sitting in pontoon boats near the roof of their house for days! Poor Serena wasn’t in town for the storm, I don’t think.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” Jack confirmed, briefly explaining Serena’s time at Yale and the professional reasons she’d gone to Italy on the same day he had. “She said Antonelli’s had designed a costume for you, Corlis.”

  “I’m a huge fan of her work!” Corlis replied. “And who could forget that horrific story about how the eldest Antonelli son of Antonelli Costumes drowned trying to get his poor, pregnant wife up to the attic when the canal wall collapsed.” The veteran reporter shook her head sadly at the memory, and then glanced at King. “I wonder how the family’s costume company is doing? They were on the ropes, I know, after the storm. Serena had just come back to town to help get the enterprise back on its feet when I met her briefly at a fitting for the costume Antonelli’s made for me.”

  “Jack, here,” volunteered King with a wink to his wife, “apparently got along very well with Ms. Antonelli and now worries that his uncles could be in some way responsible for what happened to the canals that flooded Cosimo Antonelli’s Lakeview house.”

  “Oh. Wow,” Corlis said, nodding soberly. “That could definitely complicate a budding friendship, no doubt about it.”

  “Gee... thanks,” Jack replied.

  “Which brings up another dicey subject,” Corlis said. “What about your other friend? I haven’t heard you mention Lauren Hilbert even once tonight.”

  “Jeez, Corlis,” Jack complained.

  “And by the way,” King chimed in. “When is she due to come home to New Orleans?”

  “Some friends you two are,” Jack grumbled. “If you must know, I had an email today that announced she’s arriving in New Orleans this weekend. She’s just completed her internship and residency at the hospital in Houston and is waiting to hear where she’ll get her first job.”

  Corlis glanced at King and then said in her best faux New Orleans accent, “Well, then, do y’all want to come here to dinner Saturday night?” Her tone grew teasing. “King can make us an ole’ crawfish and shrimp boil and we can amuse ourselves watching you two fight it out as to what happens next.”

  Corlis had always been polite whenever the four of them had been together, but Jack had long assumed that Lauren was not on her list of favorite people and had known for quite a while that they’d never be close. Even so, he’d always felt that both she and King had made very effort to support his relationship with Lauren—until tonight, when they’d heard about his meeting Serena.

  Just then his cell phone suddenly made a familiar sound. He pulled out from his pocket and couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.

  Corlis peered over Jack’s shoulder and clapped her hands.

  “It’s her!” she told King in a hoarse whisper.

  “Lauren?” King asked, looking confused.

  “No! Serena Antonelli!” she hissed, grinning, and poked Jack in the arm.

  Jack, too, was staring at his cellphone’s caller I.D.

  “Amazing,” he muttered. It was the first communication from Serena since he’d left Venice. He nodded sheepishly at his hosts, pushed the On button, and said into the phone self-consciously, “Ciao, bella! Va bene? No?”

  Serena sounded in Jack’s ear as if she were in the room next to the balcony where the three of them were stationed looking down on Dauphine Street.

  “Your accent is improving,” Serena declared, quickly apologizing for calling so late. “It’s very early morning here and another storm off the Adriatic yesterday caused serious flooding again in the palazzo.”

  “God... I’m so sorry to hear that. Can I—”

  “No one that Allegra called to help us has shown up, literally to stem the tide,” she added hurriedly. “Even that nice guy that your friends hired to supervise getting the seepage under control—Stefano Fabrini—isn’t answering his cellphone today.”

  Jack felt an instant stab of relief that, even though it sounded as if Serena had Stefano on speed-dial, she spoke of him so casually. He was even happier to hear that the guy had apparently let her down.

  Well, not really. She sounds so stressed out.

  “Jeez, Serena, that’s terrible. Glad you called.”

  Serena interrupted briskly.

  “Do you know anyone else here I could call? Il Ballo is fast approaching and Allegra is desperate.”

  Jack felt the eyes of King and Corlis boring into his back as he walked to the far side of the gallery. Meanwhile, he clicked over to his contacts and gave her the name and telephone number of another of the hydrologists who had taken him on a tour of the MOSE project in the Lagoon.

  “If Stefano doesn’t get in touch, I’m sure Paolo Bronzoni will get you somebody,” he assured her. “He was the guy who came with Stefano and Maurizio Pigati that first day to inspect the problems at the palazzo. I’ll text Paolo myself as soon as I get off the phone.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Otherwise, how is everything else going?”

  He felt an acute awkwardness invade their conversation and could tell from her momentary hesitation that she felt it as well.

  “Oh... okay, I guess. It’s Pressure City around here, trying to finish all the costumes and get ready for the ball, in addition to the absolutely appalling weather we keep having. But, hey... it’s Venice in the winter, right?”

  He detected the sarcasm in her voice that made him think she would never have called him if he weren’t the last card she could play to help her employer. He heard her sneeze.

  “Are you okay? Sounds like you have a cold.”

  “I think the damp, mold, and sogginess here finally got to me. Listen,” she said abruptly, “thanks so much, but I’ve gotta go.” He heard a paroxysm of coughing. Then Serena choked out in a rasping voice, “I’ll give Paolo’s number a try. Thanks. Bye.”

  Before Jack could engage her further, the phone clicked in his ear and she was gone.

  Both King and Corlis were regarding him with blatant curiosity. Jack actually felt his face grown warm.

  “That was... Serena,” he explained unnecessarily.

  King said to Corlis, “Turns out her mother is a Kingsbury.”

  “No kidding? That means she’s your cousin, King! That’ll help when I try to get on her schedule the next time I need a costume,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “The costume Serena designed for me when I was Queen of Cork a few years after Lauren had the honor was gorgeous, remember, King? I actually looked like a champagne bottle. Serena made me a green, sequined fish-tail evening gown with a fantastic hat that had a three-foot high froth of white ostrich feathers, like bubbles, spurting sky-high!”

  “You’re kidding?” Jack murmured. “I remember that costume on you. You looked like a million bucks in it.”

  “As I said before, I only met Serena at the final fitting, but, boy, is she good at what she does!”

  “So how is she doing over there?” King prompted.

  “Serena? Not great,” Jack replied. “I could tell she’s got a bad cold. She’s in the midst of helping her boss throw a big, annual ball, as she does every Mardi Gras season.”

  “You mean Carnevale...” Corlis corrected him.

  “Yeah... Carnival it’s called over there. The palazzo where it’s held has some serious seepage issues that are getting worse because of the terrible winter they’ve been having. And now, another storm is rolling in off the Adriatic.”

  Adopting a bad Italian accent once again, Corlis turned to her husband.

  “Oh, King... I woulda so love-a to go to that some day... get away from all the ticky-tackiness of Bourbon Street and take part in some real, Renaissance-style revelry.”

  King smiled indulgently. “Maybe we’ll go there some day, sugar, especially given that Serena is my second or third cousin, once removed.”

  “Absol
utely!” chortled his wife. She looked over at Jack slyly. “We’ve just got to get to know this woman better. She sounds fabulous.”

  But Jack warned that the weather in Venice currently was a far cry from temperatures in New Orleans this season.

  “So far, there’s been constant snow four inches thick on the canals of Venice,” he said, “and I’m really worried that her cold sounds like it’s borderline pneumonia.”

  “Sounds to me like you care a lot about a seriously nice local girl far from home!” Corlis replied gleefully. “I hope she hasn’t moved to Venice permanently.”

  “No, she’s only there for Carnival season,” Jack replied.

  “Do you think Lauren knows her from Tulane days?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  Jack shot her a look and then replied slowly, “Serena and my sister Marielle were friends there, so Lauren might know of her. They’re all about the same age, but they haven’t met, far as I know.”

  Jack pushed thoughts of the interlocking relationships so typical of New Orleans far from his mind.

  To King he explained, “Serena and the woman she’s working for have got some big problems on their hands. Water from a new storm is apparently pouring into the lower floors of the palazzo they rent each year as the venue for the ball. Before I left, I got some Italian colleagues to try to patch up the damage from last year, but it sounds as if they couldn’t get their hands on the right materials.”

  “Or the rising waters are higher than normal,” King suggested.

  “Making things even worse, when I was there, the Italian building authorities were giving them a hard time... asking for what, basically, sounded to me like minor league extortion just to get the paperwork involved approved in time for the event.”

  “Sounds just like New Orleans,” Corlis chimed in.

  “And if the weather continues as bad as it’s been forecast for over there, Il Ballo di Carnevale might have to be cancelled, which would be a big disappointment for the four hundred folks who’ve bought tickets—to say nothing of the money already spent on it by the woman who sponsors it.”