by Ciji Ware
Serena pointed as their boat plied its way past the tiny side canal that ended at the door to her former guesthouse, Ca’Arco Antico.
Jack also gestured toward the narrow alleyway. “Let’s hear it for the Canaletto Room!” he said, with his thumbs up, prompting all four to cheer lustily.
They soon passed the palazzo where Il Ballo di Carnevale had been held that frigid night in February a little more than a year earlier. A few minutes later, Serena clapped her hands as they passed the San Tomà vaporetto stop.
“There’s the landing that led me through sleet and snow to the costume shop,” she declared for her friends’ benefit, describing the privilege it had been to learn more of her craft “from the finest designer and seamstresses in the industry.”
“Where are you taking us now?” Corlis demanded of Jack.
“You’ll see,” he said with a smug smile and leaned to whisper something into their water taxi driver’s left ear. Then he turned to address his fellow passengers. “We’re almost there.”
Serena linked arms with Corlis and the two women peered out at the Peggy Guggenheim Museum just passing by. Then the boat’s engine slowed to a low throb, and the magnificent, domed, Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute came into view on their right.
“Ooooh,” breathed Serena. “The Gratitude Church!” She turned to Corlis and briefly explained about the devastating seventeenth century plague and the survivors who built the magnificent baroque edifice to demonstrate their thanksgiving for having been spared.
Jack smiled down at his bride.
“I brought Serena here in the moonlight on one of our first evenings in Venice.”
Serena rose on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
“And believe me, my friends,” she said to Corlis and King, “gratitude is certainly what I feel right now. Thank you for coming with us on this sentimental journey to... where?” She turned toward her husband once more, adding, “He’s kept everything a secret about this honeymoon from me, too!”
Jack merely smiled as the water taxi headed straight for a magnificent, russet hued palazzo with Gothic arches and pale plaster tracery around its many windows. The huge building fronted the Grand Canal and rose out of the water in the shadow of the looming basilica. The boat bumped gently against a wooden dock leading to a short stairway and small deck that allowed access to the arched loggia in front of them. A discreet brass plaque on one wall announced the Centurion Palace Hotel where inside, the original interior had been replaced with a wildly modern and colorful design scheme and a staff that seemed primed to meet their every need.
“Jack... this is incredible!” exclaimed Corlis, her sweeping glance taking in the eclectic mix of modern and antique surroundings. “How did you ever find this place?”
“Allegra Benedetti suggested it,” he replied and then he pointed across the marble lobby with its futuristic, curved white leather settees. Creamy marble Corinthian columns stood sentry in this atrium where a sole figure stood waving a bouquet of flowers in their direction.
“Oh! Oh wow... Allegra!” Serena cried. She rushed across the space separating them to fling her arms around the woman whose skill and kindness had done so much to help Antonelli’s Costumes regain its footing in New Orleans.
Allegra stepped back and handed Serena a long-stemmed collection of deep red roses mixed with white baby’s breath.
“I couldn’t come to your wedding, so I wanted you to have these immediately upon your arrival,” she said, smiling greetings to Serena’s companions who had advanced across the lobby to say hello. “Welcome, all of you, back to Venezia where the sun is finally shining and it’s lovely and warm!” Allegra’s declaration got a laugh from all four visitors. “Everyone at the shop and from the Il Ballo crew can’t wait to see you all.”
“And they will,” Jack announced, “when they come tomorrow night to our second wedding reception on the terrace, just out there,” he added, gesturing through the windows.”
“You’re kidding?” Serena exclaimed with a stunned expression. “All my Italian friends will be here?”
“Yep,” Jack said with a satisfied expression, and then added, “Even the Italian Stallion.”
“Who?” asked Corlis curiously.
King gave his wife’s shoulders a squeeze. “Tell you later. Don’t want to spoil Jack’s dream trip,” he said, ribbing his lifelong friend.
Allegra said, “Well, I just wanted to be here to greet you when you arrived, but I know you must be tired from your long journey. A domani sera! Until seven o’clock, tomorrow night, yes? Arrivederci, carissimi.”
The quartet soon checked in at the front desk and was escorted to their rooms on either end of a long corridor whose décor was equally avante garde, in contrast to the antiquity of the building’s exterior.
Jack held back in the hallway until the porter had deposited their luggage inside their assigned chamber and received his tip. Then he waited until the man had turned the corner to return to the elevator.
“I’m not completely certain I can do this, but I’ll try if you’re game, Mrs. Antonelli-Durand.”
“Try what?” Serena replied, confused.
“This. Ooof!” Jack huffed as he scooped one arm under his wife’s knees and lifted Serena against his chest.
“You already attempted this on Julia Street,” she protested, laughing.
“But this... is Venice,” he said between gasps for air. “Worth a second attempt.”
He managed to stagger across the threshold into their suite and covered the twenty or so steps to the broad bed without dropping his bride. There, he placed her as gently as he could manage atop the mattress of the modern, king-sized bed.
“Whee! Much better this time,” Serena complimented him as Jack collapsed beside her.
After they stopped laughing, they lay shoulder-to-shoulder, hands clasped at their sides. They gazed at the carved wood ceiling with its verdigris patina that Serena wagered aloud was at least fifteen feet above their heads. The soaring walls of their room were painted a burnt umber with matching velvet drapes and tailored valances that framed the spectacular view of the Grand Canal and the famed Gritti Palace Hotel across the water. A massive, carved marble fireplace, almost large enough for them both to walk into, faced the bed that was festooned with pumpkin-hued velvet cushions contrasting smartly with the cream colored coverlet.
“Oh, Jack... you are amazing,” she smiled at him, her arms cradling her head. “I can’t believe you’ve arranged all this.”
Jack rose from the bed, shut and locked the door to the corridor, and shrugged off his jacket. Then he slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. With one knee on the coverlet, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Shall I show you just how amazing I can be?”
“On top... or beneath the covers?” she teased.
“After a long soak in that big, marble tub in there,” he said with a nod toward the stylish bathroom they could see through the doorway, “why don’t I let you decide?”
“What a great way to start a marriage,” Serena said softly, holding her arms wide, her love for this man filling the elegant chamber far beyond her fingertips. “But forget taking a bath!” she pronounced, reaching upward to pull him to her. “Come here, Giovanni, il mio amore...”
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Gratitude Church and morning coffee
There are many names on my list of people who guided me through the necessary stages creating this newly imagined tale of two cities—Venice and New Orleans. And what an incredible adventure writing That Winter in Venice turned out to be!
The best bit of luck in the middle of the process was in the person of Cheryl Popp, a journalist and public relations specialist who wanted to “tag along” on my third junket to Venice and write about it for Marin Magazine. “Girls On The Loose” we certainly were, dashing on and off the vaporetto, checking off entries on our long, individual ‘To Do’ lists for the magazine stories she wrote and the book I was re
searching. What really happened the night of the Venetian ball on February 14, 2015, could make another novel... and I treasure the wonderful time we had in Italy as traveling pals. Cheryl’s friend, DJ Puffert—who spends half the year in La Serenissima and the other half in Sausalito, California—armed us with valuable travel tips and a list of local contacts and restaurants in Venice that kept us well fed and provided me with delicious Venetian fare with which to feed my fictional characters.
When I first had the idea to set a novel in two cities dealing with rising water and climate change, I never dreamed I would eventually attend a genuine masked Carnevale ball in the Palazzo Pisani Moretta in the dead of winter and dance till 4a.m. Nor did I anticipate listening to Vivaldi played exquisitely by candlelight on ancient instruments, or sleeping in a palazzetto within a stone’s throw of one of my favorite churches in all the world—the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, the Basilica of St. Mary of Health—which I called “The Gratitude Church” in the novel.
Early in the research, I had the great good fortune to interview and “shadow” Antonia Sautter, a legendary costume designer who also creates exquisite modern clothing and accessories for Atelier Antonia Sautter in the San Marco district. Not only did she generously allow me to visit her rental establishment where some 1500 costumes await the next customer, she also permitted me to spend an invaluable afternoon at her workshop where magnificent attire denoting several past centuries is constructed. What a visual feast to see that second-floor “inner sanctum” overlooking the roofs of Venice that was filled with magnificent fabrics and mannequins dressed in silk and satin gowns in various stages of completion and staffed by a small battalion of talented seamstresses. They and Mrs. Sautter’s other staff were incredibly helpful to this author and I thank them, too. You can find images of the workshop, clothes, and costumes on www.pinterest.com/cijiware.
And, about that ball! For the last two decades Antonia Sautter has also produced the incredible Il Ballo del Doge, an evening of spectacular entertainment, food, wine, and a magical Renaissance ambiance that must be experienced to be believed. You can see videos of previous balls (and even buy tickets for next year’s event) at www.ilballodeldoge.com. Mrs. Sautter’s making it possible for me to attend as her guest so I could experience the event first hand was a gift I can never repay, other than to confirm that it was one of those way-beyond-a-bucket-list experiences that I will cherish for the rest of my life.
On two of my three trips to Venice, I was welcomed to the magnificent Palazzo Alverà overlooking the Grand Canal by Contessa Ketty Alverà, my guide to all things that are “genuine Venetian.” During the winter trip in 2015, she hosted a magical dinner and, the following day, personally escorted us to see Venetian artisans that create everything from gilt-covered, carved lion bookends to handmade linens, to perfumes to leather goods to fanciful masks, all to swoon over. “Nothing made in China!” she declared fiercely, with a sweep of her hand toward the street sign, Salizzada S. Samuele, whose shops sold only authentic Venetian products. Clearly, La Contessa is a champion of the beauty, history, and artistic talent of the true Venice that is fighting to survive in a global economy.
I must also thank Ketty’s cousin, the Contessa Anna da Schio, who was our hostess for ten days at the Palazzetto da Schio, a tucked-away guesthouse in the Dorsoduro section of Venice adjacent to the aforementioned Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute. Each apartment featured family antiques and came complete with Wi-Fi and a cellular phone, which made life for a journalist and author immeasurably simpler. Situated on a small canal known as the Rio della Fornace and a stone’s throw from the Peggy Guggenheim Museum, we were welcomed like members of the family and will forever be grateful for the experience of staying there and gaining an appreciation in some small measure of the daily life of modern Venetians. You can view the rooms we stayed in at http://www.palazzettodaschio.it/
Among the scores of interviews I conducted for this novel, Mario Belloni, mask maker extraordinaire in his shop Ca’Macana Venezia was a charming host and a master of the ancient art of disguise. His workshop (where visitors can take classes) bedazzles the eye, and the history of his art is referenced several times in my story. You can see the listings of classes and the location of his shop at www.camacana.com.
My friend Wenke Thoman opened the door to visiting the Fortuny showroom on the island of Giudecca. We had a wonderful interview with General Manager Giuseppe Ianni who, when we asked if we could see the factory next door, said with a sad smile, “I am so sorry, but we don’t allow visitors in there. Not even my wife knows the secret process [used in the manufacture of the fabrics].” To make up for this, he took us behind the building to see the magnificent private gardens.
Equally welcoming and helpful to this project was Francesco Nassivera, antiquarian and a fund of wisdom about Venice and its fine and decorative arts. His shop, Campiello Ca’Zen in the San Polo district is not to be missed. He was kind enough to walk us around the corner to Atelier Pietro Longhi to meet costume designer Francesco Briggi and his partner, Raffaele Dessi. The firm specializes in creating authentic historical costumes for the general public and museum displays around the world.
Another source of helpful information about the daily life of modern Venetians were our hosts at the second guesthouse we stayed, Ca’Arco Antico, which became my heroine’s home for the two months she lived as a high-level assistant to the fictional costumer Allegra Benedetti. My hosts Antonella, Lorenza, Gianfranco, and Marco have my deepest appreciation for a lovely stay in the Canaletto room and for answering the questions I peppered them with every day of my visit there.
My American friend and antiques expert, Tom Rotella, has Italian roots and pointed me toward a number of aspects in Venice that proved valuable. That he gifted me with his mother’s beautiful opal and emerald ring purchased in La Serenissima many years ago has been a treasured bonus.
As part of my mission to understand the similarities between Venice and New Orleans, I also made several “refresher” trips to the Big Easy (many natives scoff at that designation, but others love the sound of it, as do I).
Over the years, I have acquired my share of “throw beads” during the St. Anne Parade on the morning of Fat Tuesday; attended a Mardi Gras ball in all its finery (made in China and locally as well); listened to incredible Louis Armstrong tunes, among many jazz greats, at Preservation Hall and at clubs along Frenchman’s Street; and have even slept on a “fainting couch” on Dauphine Street in the French Quarter in my writer pal, Michael Llewellyn’s former apartment (that served as King and Corlis’s abode both in Midnight on Julia Street and its stand-alone sequel, That Winter in Venice). Michael also generously sent me his list of parallels that exist between New Orleans and Venice which he gave me permission to use in the novel and that formed the basis for the Prologue that I created to “set the stage” for the story that would follow. Gratitude, big time, is owed this dear friend.
On my latest sojourn to NOLA in May of 2014, I ate my fill of incredible chicken and Andouille sausage gumbo at The Gumbo Shop in New Orleans’ French Quarter, swooned over Oysters Rockefeller at Galatoire’s, along with biting into the best po’boy sandwich in creation at Liuzza’s on Bienville. For these and many other wonderful and/or unforgettable experiences, I not only have Mr. Llewellyn to thank but also local pals that include: Samara Poche, who leant me an apartment in 2014 for two weeks in the heart of the French Quarter; Leslie Perrin and Chuck Ransdell, who, among many kindnesses over the years, escorted me to a charity event in support of historic preservation in the FQ; Lee Pryor and Julie Smith, who are an amazing and reliable source of the latest intelligence about their beloved city.
Since Katrina, I made three very different tours in the Crescent City that were tremendously helpful in creating the background canvas for this work. The first included a visit to the Mardi Gras World float-building workshops. My behind-the-scenes view was made possible by one of the partners, Barry Kern of the celebrated Kern Studio
s where the Louis Armstrong statue at the New Orleans airport was constructed.
The second tour sent me to Southern Costume Company in the Central Business District, the “CBD,” where I spent a few days with owner Wingate Jones and saw thousands of costumes the company supplies to the public as well as for some sixty “krewes”—or clubs—that sponsor parades during the Mardi Gras season in New Orleans.
At the costume shop I also met Clara Diaz, a multi-talented designer who demonstrated the intricacies of “building” a mermaid outfit covered in emerald green sequins with a hidden handle so the wearer wouldn’t trip over her heavy fish tail!
The third tour in the spring following Hurricane Katrina was far more sobering. New Orleans friends of longstanding, Lee Pryor and his wife, mystery novelist Julie Smith, took me to see the Post-Katrina Ninth Ward where we drove down many mortally wounded and deserted streets and stared out the car windows, fighting tears as each block unfolded. I felt the same overwhelming wave of sadness when I stood next to the rebuilt 17th Street Canal that rises above the remaining and newly constructed houses, as well as still-empty lots in Lakeview, one of several neighborhoods backing up on Lake Pontchartrain that suffered heavy losses when the levees and canal walls failed in 2005.
I could not have begun to grasp the realities of post-Katrina life in Louisiana without picking the brain of environmental journalist Mark Schleifstein of NOLA.com | The Times-Picayune. One of the great reporters still working at a newspaper, he virtually predicted Katrina in print several years before it happened in a piece called “The Big One” written with John McQuaid. In 2006, Mark’s subsequent stories were among those honored with Public Service and Breaking News Pulitzer Prizes for Katrina coverage. This hardworking journalist was incredibly generous with his time and expertise to a fellow former journalist trying to understand what it was like to cover a disaster like Hurricane Katrina. A long lunch at Herbsaint in the CBD early in the research sent me off and running after the story of the 17th Street Canal in particular and the repercussions of its failure on two fictional families. He is another “source” I owe, big time. Nevertheless, any mistakes or misinterpretations of his words and writings, as well as of the vast data that exists about the storm, rest squarely on my shoulders.