That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  “And besides your technical mumbo-jumbo, does it look halfway decent when it dries?” Jack demanded, still flabbergasted Serena had called King instead of him. She must feel well enough by now to despise him.

  King paused, considering, Jack surmised, whether he should be offended or amused by his best friend’s testy tone.

  “Well...” he drawled, and Jack knew immediately that King was enjoying every minute of this conversation, “I told her about another thing she probably needs in order to get the sealant past the Italian historic preservation authorities, to say nothing of those pesky government permit department bureaucrats she says keep hounding them over there. It’s another American product called ArcusStone, a durable limestone plaster made in Texas outta... well... ground-up limestone and water, plus a bunch of patented polymers and colorants. It’s applied over the weatherproofing to provide a natural stone or ‘Venetian’ finish.”

  “Ah... the aesthetics of historic preservation,” Jack murmured.

  “Exactly! Once the ArcusStone stuff sets over the sealant, it dries looking exactly like vintage plaster coating. Given how big that ole’ palazzo she’s trying to keep from drowning is, she’d better have a lot of both products on hand.”

  “You say they’re both made in America,” Jack retorted. “How’s she going to get the stuff over there? The ball’s just days away!”

  “That was a hurdle,” King agreed. “But if we can get the materials over there PDQ, those two products will make it all look just like the original—only pretty damn water-tight.”

  “So, now what? Did Serena think the authorities would grant permission to fix the problem this way? She’s running out of time and the government officials have been... difficult,” Jack added, thinking of the demands of local bureaucrats that bordered on near-extortion, according to Serena.

  “Like some New Orleans building officials, you mean?” King noted dryly. “She asked me to put what I’d said about this stuff not hurting the buildings and looking so authentic in an email sent from the New Orleans Historic Preservation Alliance I represent. She and the engineers she’s working with immediately took my letter to the... Condono Edilizio and the... Ufficio Catasto in Venice—whatever they are—” he concluded, fracturing the Italian even worse than Jack would have.

  “The permits and records offices, you mean,” Jack supplied.

  “Yeah... those places,” King continued. “Serena hopes that might convince the petty functionaries over there that these two products will fix them up, fine, and won’t destroy the historic character of the building.”

  “So you’ve already sent the email?” Jack confirmed.

  “If I do say so myself, I composed a brilliant epistle on the Alliance letterhead under my signature. I also sent a print copy with my real John Hancock via air express, after I copied her the electronic one, so she had it right away. Then I ordered up a great deal of both the sealant and ArcusStone material that will be drop-shipped to Venice tonight, out of the distributor in Baton Rouge.”

  “Holy shit, man... you did all that so fast—and you paid for it?”

  “Yep. Anything for the family, ya know.”

  King’s words were a private joke between them, given Duvallon’s dicey relationship with parents who had passed off the birth of a son as legitimate when King’s godfather was actually his biological sire.

  “Serena’s boss will reimburse you, for sure.”

  “Not a problem,” King replied.

  Meanwhile, Jack felt a huge wave of relief. Despite the horrendous weather assailing Venice, perhaps Serena and Allegra at least had a slim chance of pulling off these repairs in time for the ball. He grudgingly admitted to himself that Serena had been smart to deal directly with King, who obviously had expedited everything.

  “So you think they can make the deadline?” he asked.

  “This gal Serena is one smart cookie,” King replied admiringly. “She said she was taking my documentation to the port authorities, too, so they’d let the stuff into the country and be good-to-go as soon as the government folks and the palazzo’s owners granted permission to use it on the building. It’s going to be a cliff-hanger, for sure, but, yes, I think she and her boss have a chance of getting that ole’ palace fixed in time.”

  Jack remained silent for a moment, digesting everything King had disclosed. Then he said, “Given the way business is done in Italy, don’t you think that precious shipment should be escorted by someone reliable when it’s off-loaded from the plane into Customs at Marco Polo Airport?”

  King chuckled into his ear.

  “Yeah... my thoughts, exactly! And from what you’ve told me, Serena might never receive it, otherwise, or have to pay a fortune to persuade the port officials to release it—even if it makes it that far.”

  “To say nothing,” Jack added, a bubble of anticipation gurgling in his gut, “of getting the Venetian building and preservation folks to say ‘yes’ to your proposed fix.”

  “Right you are,” King agreed. “I think Serena needs some heavy reinforcements, kinda like the cavalry showing up, don’t you? You feel like coming with me and forgetting all the business of not seeing her until you know the absolute truth about what your uncles did, or did not do?”

  Now I know what at least one of my uncles did.

  But rather than wait for Jack’s answer, King yelled, “Hey, Corlis, darlin’... you really serious about wanting to go to that version of Mardi Gras over there in Venice, Italy?”

  Corlis’ uncharacteristically girlish squeal carried all the way to Jack’s eardrum pressed again his cellphone as she shouted, “You betcha, baby doll! I’m owed about a year of vacation time from WJAZ.”

  King asked Jack, “Wanna double date? You think Lauren’s up for going to something like this?”

  “Lauren and I broke up. Officially.”

  “Yeah,” King drawled. “I think I heard that.”

  “Then why’d you ask?” Jack grumbled, figuring Lauren had been mighty pissed off and had since complained about him far and wide. Few juicy tidbits like that escaped Ace Reporter Corlis McCullough in a gossipy town like New Orleans.

  “Just checking to see if I heard the story straight,” King replied with an innocent air. “Musta been mighty unpleasant for you, I bet.”

  “You got that right. But it’s over, thank God.”

  “So you’re free to go over there, ride shotgun with us on that shipment, and help me help my cousin save the day?”

  Even though Jack couldn’t see through the phone, he could tell his best buddy had a wolfish grin on his face.

  “You bet,” Jack agreed, a sense of elation sweeping over him that was a welcome relief from the gloom that had enveloped him the entire time he’d been back in New Orleans. “But can you please make it look to your long, lost cousin as if I also had a hand in helping you save the day?”

  “Buy you some cred? You betcha,” King replied, “and I’m glad to see you’re beginning to have a clue how to court a lady.”

  Oh, hell...

  In the excitement of the moment he’d pushed aside the ultimate import of what he’d just uncovered.

  “I can help out, but I can’t court the lady until I find out whether my Uncle Jacques knew the specs on the Seventeenth Street Canal were far below what was recommended by the outside experts when he signed off on the plans.”

  “Oh, shit. You found evidence that Jacques was definitely involved back then?”

  “Just before you called, I found his signature on the 1982 documents Corlis sent me that okayed a deeply deficient, under-engineered plan to shore up the existing walls. The same walls that failed during Katrina and killed Serena’s brother. It couldn’t be any worse, King. Keep that under your hat, by the way—even to your wife. I have to talk to my editor and get some guidance about all this since I’m related to the guy.”

  “Tell her,” King advised shortly.

  “Tell Corlis? I’m not telling anybody else but Reynolds and you about all th
is. I’m telling you because I’m going a little crazy, knowing this stuff, and you’re the one person who’s always had my back. Even so, I need your word you won’t say anything to anyone else either, even to Corlis—whom I also trust completely—but she’s a competing journalist and would ethically have to tell her boss at WJAZ, especially with the tenth anniversary coming up.”

  “I see your point and you have my word, but I meant tell Serena. At least tell her the basics of what’s going on with your story for the T-P and let her decide whether she wants to have anything to do with you, or not.”

  “I can’t do that until I know why Jacques was willing to sign off on those specs back in 1982,” Jack replied stubbornly, adding, “and it also will affect how I have to handle writing this story for the paper. It may turn out that I have to step away completely and let somebody else take the byline—not that that would alter how Serena will feel about the Durand family.”

  “You don’t know that, for sure,” King said sharply. “You don’t know how she’ll feel about you! Stop feeling her feelings for her, for God’s sake!”

  “I gotta get all the facts straight, King! Maybe there were extenuating circumstances, and maybe she’d be understanding about it all, but I have to talk to Jacques before I say anything to Serena. It’s the way it has to be done in my business.”

  Jack could sense King’s frustration at hearing his answer but all his friend replied was, “I don’t care about all that. I say, tell her.” His advice was met with silence. “Okay, then,” King said with a sigh. “Your call. My lips are sealed. But, get to our place in an hour, and we’ll go out to the airport from here.”

  “What about airline tickets?”

  “Got ‘em in the works. Eleven p.m. flight, I’m hoping. Email me your passport number when we hang up, okay? You can pay me back, later.”

  CHAPTER 14

  By some miracle, Jack got his editor, John Reynolds, to answer his cellphone, despite the fact that it was after business hours. He tersely explained the high waters flooding into Venice and the threat to the city, to say nothing of the unknown fate of the carnival ball he was highlighting in one of the two stories he’d been assigned.

  “I dunno, Durand. I can certainly see how this is impacting the stories you’re writing, but can’t you just follow the news feed, or call your sources over there? Two trips to Venice in a month looks bad on the expense side of the ledger, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I’ve got to go,” Jack insisted, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I’ve got to see what’s happening for myself.”

  He honestly felt his reasons for going to Italy again were sound journalistically, but another emotion he’d never experienced before was the engine propelling him to board the plane with King and Corlis that night.

  He had to see Serena again, even if he was forced to masquerade as Mr. Elusive in front of her until he knew for certain whether Jacques had willingly or innocently signed off the canal walls’ faulty design.

  Holy crap! I am actually physically pining for this woman!

  There was an unmistakable ache in his solar plexus and a tightness gripping his chest, none of which were probably anything other than stress, he assured himself. But, whatever was plaguing him, he had to be with Serena again—even if he knew it might be for the last time, other than seeing her in a crowded room in New Orleans some time. He winced at the thought of catching a future glimpse of her across a busy street in the Quarter... or in the Central Business District where her costume shop was... or, even worse, on Julia Street where he lived in a district of popular art galleries.

  King was partially right. Serena should decide for herself, once all the facts were known, but until the facts were known, it was more important that he help get the materials into Italy and onto the walls of the palazzo. At least he could do that much for her.

  “Look, Reynolds,” he was amazed to hear himself saying to his editor, “I feel getting back over there is so crucial that I’ll pay my own flight—if the paper will pick up incidentals. I can sleep on a friend’s couch.”

  There was a long silence on the other end.

  “Well, if you think it’s that important to both stories—the drowning palazzo and how U.S. products are being used to remedy the damage, and the piece you’re doing about Venice’s underwater gates...”

  “I do,” he cut in.

  “Okay, then... but watch those incidentals, will you?”

  “Thanks, man.”

  There was a long silence and Jack feared Reynolds was having second thoughts.

  Instead his editor said, “You know something, Durand? I’m thinking that this piece on the leaking palace should be a separate deal to run the week of Fat Tuesday. All the stuff you’ve learned about the underwater gates and corrupted officials over there could be saved for a bigger story about the various schemes for holding off the rising waters in both cities, along with comparing the issues of construction, malfeasance, and incompetence in New Orleans and Venice in the last ten years.”

  “Yeah, the parallels are pretty impressive,” Jack said, hoping this expansion might mean he could stay longer in Venice.

  Meanwhile, Reynolds actually sounded as if was getting excited. Thinking aloud, he continued, “Like you said in your memo, it could be part of a two or three-section series to run this August during the week of the tenth anniversary since Katrina.”

  It suddenly occurred to Jack that heading up the anniversary coverage for the newspaper would mean stringing everything out with Serena for another six months, but Reynolds was on a roll.

  “If we amplify what you’ve been working all this time, sum up all major water abatement projects in both places, add in a comparison of efforts to save and restore the wetlands and barrier islands in Louisiana and Northern Italy—throw in a sidebar about both mayors being arrested—and then position it right, it would be a perfect series for the anniversary!” Reynolds repeated. “Even better, the bosses upstairs would have a problem solved and think I’m justified in granting you this extension and pouring more expense money into the palazzo story to run during Mardi Gras week.”

  Instead of feeling elated, Jack felt nothing but dismay about waiting such a long period for the expanded story to run. How in the world could he put off leveling with Serena for all that time without breaking the journalist code of never revealing any facts about a story to outsiders until it was published?

  “You think the brass is willing to back up editorial if we find more skeletons in our local closets?” Jack demanded.

  “They’d better,” Reynolds replied, sounding grim. “I ran that memo of yours by the guys upstairs last week and they liked it pretty well. And let’s face it, the suits sure as hell haven’t come up with anything better for our Katrina coverage, so I definitely think I can persuade them to go for this!”

  In the intervening silence from Jack’s end, his boss growled, “Look, Durand, I’m doing you a big favor. You get to go back to Venice and you’ll get a big byline during the tenth anniversary coverage. What more do you want?”

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, but—”

  “No buts!” he declared, sounding exasperated. “That’s the only way I’ll agree to you going back to Italy on the company clock.”

  Jack knew that his tone bucked no argument. “Right. Got it.”

  “I’m getting beat up by the bean counters around here on every nickel and dime editorial spends. And keep it under your hat about what you’re doing. We don’t want the Advocate or anybody else to get wind of the Katrina angle you’ve developed.”

  “Okay, but—”

  His editor didn’t let him finish his sentence before cutting in again, “And absolutely no lounging around Italy more than three or four days, this trip, you hear? File your story a.s.a.p. about helping stem the tide in the flooded building in time for Venetian Carnival, and hightail it back here. You’ll have plenty work left to do on the New Orleans chunk of the story. I think you’re
about six hours ahead of us over there, so we can run your palazzo piece on Fat Tuesday, here, or the day after, you got that?”

  “Got it. But what if we fail to stem the leaks because the stuff doesn’t work, or the bureaucrats stand in the way of even letting us apply it to the walls?”

  “That’s a story, too,” Reynolds reminded him. “We’ll go with it, either way. And you’d better produce some pretty explosive stuff for the Katrina series to justify all the time and money you’re spending, okay? And have the friggin’ anniversary pieces in perfect order by August fifteenth so we can fact-check every last word with the company lawyer, you got me?”

  “Got it,” Jack repeated gloomily.

  “And you still gotta crank out your weekly blogs from now to August, got that, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then, goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “And travel safe, you hear?” Reynolds added to Jack’s complete astonishment.

  At least, his editor was still of the old school of journalism where, if a reporter got his facts straight, he’d back him to the end against the pressure of the advertisers and politicians who hated reportage that gored their ox. Even so, the minute Jack hung up, an avalanche of doubts assailed him.

  Maybe he shouldn’t go? As his editor had said, Jack could probably find out most of the information he needed over the phone and Internet. And surely King could mastermind getting the sealant and plaster coating products into the country on his own? Paolo and Maurizio and —yes—Stefano could supervise properly applying the materials on the walls and deal with the Venetian bureaucrats.

  Good God, he thought, he was spending his own money when the damned newspaper should be picking up the entire tab for this work! Not only that, Serena had called King for help in this dire emergency, not him. She probably wouldn’t even speak to him once he got to Venice.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Jack didn’t have to think very hard to come up with the answer. He was the classic fool in love and acting like a crazy person. It was not his usual M.O., that was for sure, but something told him that he was powerless to do a thing about it. There was no avoiding the fact he longed to be with Serena Antonelli—truly pined for her, he would have to admit—and he was willing to risk everything just to see her again.