The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  Alvise bows exaggeratedly toward the man. “At your service.”

  “Signor da Ponte,” Alvise whispers to me. “I don’t know much except that he hosts visitors from the foreign embassies. It’s my job to make sure that they enjoy, shall we say, a memorable night in Our Most Serene City.” He grins, then adds quickly, “but you must not utter a word to Master Giorgio! This little piece of business is strictly mine, understood?”

  I nod. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Alvise shrugs in defense. “If I want to buy a few tankards or wager on cards, I can hardly afford to do it on the pittance that Old Marchese pays us. Besides, if I bring the ladies some good foreign customers, sometimes I can earn some extra perks myself, if you get what I mean.”

  The door of the crooked house creaks opens again, and Signor da Ponte steps out with two fair-haired gentlemen who are nothing if not out of place. The first, a bloated man whose pasty white skin is streaked with fine blood vessels, grips the mooring post to keep from keeling over into the canal. His distended belly seems ready to burst, and his tightly cinched belt appears to restrain his stomach rather than to keep up his breeches. His legs emerge below like wooden stilts. I hold out my hand to him for support as he steps into the gondola and toddles toward the passenger cabin with uneasy steps. I smell alcohol on his breath—a potent, stringent stench.

  The man heaves himself onto the seat and grins tightly at me. The second man, equally fair-skinned but scrawny, has an easier time with the journey from the house into the boat. He seats himself next to his portly companion. From his coat pocket, he produces a pewter flask, which he raises in a toast to Alvise and myself. The two men exchange a few flat-sounding, nasal words, but I do not begin to interpret their meaning.

  Finally, Signor da Ponte emerges from the house, smartly dressed in a navy tailcoat and a cap with a stylish white plume. His chest held high, he steps effortlessly into the boat and winks at Alvise. “Onward, my dear boatman! These fine gentlemen have but a few precious hours to sample the best of our renowned Venetian pleasures!”

  “Right away, missier.” Alvise pulls away from the mooring and maneuvers down the canal.

  As no more room remains in the passenger cabin, Signor da Ponte seats himself on the aft deck next to me. “You’re nurturing young talent, I see!”

  I take my cue from Alvise. “It’s my pleasure, missier.”

  Signor da Ponte pats my shoulder convivially. “Son, these two fine gentlemen have brought me some excellent whiskey all the way from the green shores of the Kingdom of Hibernia. He raises his own flask, then throws his head back and swills the foul-smelling liquid into his cheeks. “Care to sample it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, then,” Signor da Ponte continues, taking another swig, “from one earthly pleasure to the next!” Alvise laughs.

  Alvise’s swift strokes bring us to a narrow house in the Rialto quarter whose stones project out over the canal. The canal-side door is festooned with a metal door knocker in the shape of a lady’s hand. A cat leaps onto a stone windowsill and crouches to watch me as I lash the boat to a metal ring while Alvise taps on the door with the knocker. He turns toward the men in the boat and winks.

  One story above, I hear shutters open, and I gaze up to see an extraordinarily beautiful woman lean out over the windowsill. Her dark hair sweeps away from her face and spills over her shoulder in waves. A ring of flowers frames her brow, highlighting cheeks enhanced with color and perfect white teeth. The neck of her golden silk dress plunges low to reveal the gathered hem of a gossamer-thin chemise pulled tautly over plump breasts, and strings of pearls and colored jewels swing from her neck. Every one of her fingers, even each thumb, is adorned with a ring, each holding an enormous gemstone of a different color.

  “My dear Alvise, we’ve been waiting for you. Barbara will open the door for your guests. See you in two hours, my love?”

  Alvise bows dramatically, as if on stage, and the woman disappears from view.

  The canal-side door opens, and an older woman I judge to be a servant gestures for the men to enter. The woman is plain, and creases mark her brow, but even she wears a pale pink silk gown with a plunging neckline and ribbons tied tightly beneath her small breasts. Tiny freckles dot her protruding collarbones, and a single green gemstone hangs from a chain around her neck. I have heard that the jewels Venetian women wear may cost as much as a house; but rarely does even a housemaid leave home without adorning herself with some bauble.

  Signor da Ponte offers his hand to bring the two foreign visitors to a standing position, and Alvise and I help them climb from the boat onto the stoop of the whorehouse. The two men look bewildered and excited. Signor da Ponte fishes a small leather bag tied with a silk cord from an inside pocket of his tailcoat and produces several coins for Alvise. In a low voice, he says, “Better that I pay your commission now, in case those whores decide to con us out of everything we have!” He winks at me, then says loudly to Alvise, “Always a pleasure doing business with you.” Signor da Ponte alights effortlessly from the gondola and bows low before the servant woman. The door closes behind the men. Alvise drops the coins into his pocket and pushes away from the stoop with his foot.

  At the corner of the Grand Canal, two elaborately dressed women loiter on the quayside. One of the women waves and calls out, “Bonasera, Signor Alvise! Who’s your friend?”

  “I’m not telling you! I want you all to myself!” Alvise retorts.

  She giggles. “Then why don’t you stop by later tonight, so I can repay my debt to you?”

  “Senz’altro,” Alvise replies, tipping his hat.

  Alvise saunters to the rear of the boat, puts his feet up on the deck, and smiles. “And that is what I call an honest day’s work. It looks like I’m even going to get more than one benefit out of this trip.”

  He hands the oar to me.

  “And now, figliolo,” he says, mocking Giorgio’s new way of referring to me as Alvise’s junior, “back to our official work.”

  Chapter 14

  “Where is that no-good slandrón?” Master Giorgio emerges from his hut, his cheeks flushed and his eyes black with rage.

  I look up from the quayside, where I am mucking grime from the keel of a boat in dry dock.

  Alvise is nowhere to be found.

  “It figures,” Giorgio grumbles, talking to no one in particular. “On the day I have an errand for one of my most important clients, he deserts me. I treat that boy like my own son, and this is how he repays me!” He bangs his fist down on the wooden table outside the hut. “Salabràco!”

  I flinch, returning my gaze to my vigorous scrubbing as the tirade continues. The quay alongside the boathouse accumulates with dirt quickly because of the foot and boat traffic. I watch the small clouds of dust, dirt, and bird feces lift into the air, then light on the surface of the dark canal waters. After a moment, the specks scatter with the ripples.

  “Figliolo!” Giorgio booms, using the new nickname he’s chosen for me. I cringe. “It’s your lucky day!” Giorgio saunters down the stairs towards me. “Load the Nerina with those crates and row as quickly as your little arms will take you to the painter Trevisan’s studio. I would never ask the likes of you to do it if you weren’t the only one here. You mess this up, boy, and you’re out on your scrawny ass without a soldo, understood?”

  “Of course, Master Giorgio. Right away.” I untie my apron and exchange my scrub brush for one of the oars mounted on the outside wall of the boathouse. I load the crates, then board the Nerina, moored at the dock. I push off from the quay and row swiftly through the waters, elated to have a chore outside the grimy ferry station.

  As I row, I wonder just where Alvise could be. I form a picture in my mind of my new friend, snoring and sodden with drink. In my mind’s eye, the brazen gondolier is sprawled at the end of the bed of the courtesan who had called to him
from across the canal the night before. I don’t know Alvise well, but I know enough to imagine that my guess is accurate. Or perhaps Alvise has met the fate of my predecessor, punched in the jaw by some woman’s husband, falling to his death from a bridge into the stinking canal. In that case, I think, my training is over and I am truly on my own. I stifle a grin.

  I effortlessly maneuver the ninety-degree turn into the canal that borders the house of the artist Trevisan. I slow the boat as I approach Trevisan’s boat slip, a cavernous space that allows direct access from the underbelly of the great house into the canal. Nearly every house of any size possesses a boat slip where its owner locks up his watercraft, safe from the vagaries of the canal.

  A pair of ornate wrought-iron gates, closed with an impressive lock, marks the opening to Trevisan’s boat slip. The space is constructed with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. The sound of the murky water licking the sides of the boat slip reverberates and amplifies into great lapping slurps. Light enters the cavernous space from the wrought-iron grille of the access door as well as from a line of fan-shaped windows under arches across the back of the boat slip. A broad landing creates a U-shaped edge around the water, allowing boats to be charged and unloaded. Even in the gloom, I discern that there is a magnificent gondola moored inside with what appears to be a new green velvet felze and elaborate, gilded carving on the prow. Balancing my weight in Giorgio’s gondola, I move close enough to grip the gate. I press my face to it in order to get a better look at the boat and whistle under my breath. I wonder who made this fine craft.

  Peering further back into the shadows, I observe what appears to be years’ worth of neglected belongings: furniture covered in drapes, shelves stacked high with discarded tools, household goods, and more. Within this jumble, my eyes begin to make out the shape of another gondola stored in dry dock, turned upside down on a pair of trestles. The boat is partially covered with a large swath of canvas, but from the portion of the craft that is visible, I see that it is very old and neglected. The paint is dull and scratched, and part of the wood is split on one side, probably the result of some long-ago crash.

  My heart leaps as I notice the carved maple leaf emblem on the prow of the boat. Even through the darkness, I would recognize it anywhere: the old gondola was made in my father’s boatyard.

  Chapter 15

  I grasp the wrought-iron gates with my hands and push my head between the bars to get a closer look at the old gondola made in my family squero, now stored upside down in the shadows of the artist Trevisan’s boat slip. I cannot help myself. The old, dusty boat is from the Vianello workshop, of that I am certain. I would recognize it anywhere. The boat is at least seventy years old, I judge, probably turned out by my grandfather. An image of my father and brother working in the squero crosses my mind. I feel a pang in my gut and turn away.

  I propel the Nerina by walking my hands along the wrought-iron gate, then bump against a mooring post nearest the canal-side door to the artist’s studio. Stay focused, I tell myself. I do not want to make a bad move; I cannot afford to lose my position at the traghetto. I moor the Nerina, ascend the stairs from the canal with the first crate, and rap loudly on the studio door. One of Trevisan’s assistants opens the door for me, and I bring in the crates from the boat.

  Each time I enter the artist’s studio, my eyes are drawn instinctively to Trevisan’s easel in front of the window. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the picture of the woman that so captivated me. It is as if the image of her face has seared itself into my mind, and it will not disappear. I see the back of the frame; but the picture is turned toward the wall, and I can see nothing of the canvas.

  The artist enters the studio from another part of the house. “Boatman Fabris,” he greets me. I manage a bow toward him.

  I turn to leave, then hesitate. “Magnificence,” I say haltingly. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” replies the artist, surprised.

  “The boat you have in dry dock in your boat slip...” I begin. “The old one. Is it yours?”

  “Yes. Well, actually I inherited it from my father. It’s damaged and probably should be converted to firewood, I’m afraid.” He chuckles. “Too bad, for it’s a beauty, a work of real craftsmanship. I’ve never had time to restore it. I use my newer boat instead. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, if I may, Magnificence, it would not be too difficult to restore it. You would need the proper materials of course.” I seem to forget that I am merely making a delivery to the artist’s studio. “But, properly returned to service, it could be not only a means of transportation but also a work of great beauty.”

  Trevisan cocks his head and looks at me curiously. “My son, are you one of Master Giorgio’s boatmen or are you independent?”

  “I’m neither, sir. I’m just a dock boy at the traghetto. I’m taking the place of one of Master Giorgio’s boatmen today.”

  “I see,” says the artist. “I thought you looked too young to be a boatman. But you obviously know how to handle a boat.”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “How long have you been with Master Giorgio?”

  “Just a short time.”

  “Are you a member of the guild?” asks the artist.

  “No,” I answer haltingly. “Not yet.”

  “Hmm.” The artist presses five cool coins into my palm. “Signor Fabris, thank you for your service.”

  I AWAKE TO FIND THE traghetto coated in white. I emerge from the humble building where I sleep, pull my vest snugly around me to ward off the chill, and shuffle into the snow that has fallen silently to the ground during the night. Normally the prows of the black boats buck against the gentle wake that laps against the quayside, but they now stand motionless and silent under a white coating. The water appears like a giant mirror, and I marvel at the stillness of the air, the unusual reflective quality of the light, and the remarkable glassy surface of the canal. It is early, and the traghetto remains silent. Giorgio’s hut is dark and quiet. A few stray flakes fall from an eerie gray sky tinged with pink. I loosen the tarps covering the gondolas and fluff them like bed sheets, sending showers of snow into the canal.

  Then, she catches my eye—the Blessed Mother. Sculpted into the side of a building flanking the traghetto stands a stone tabernacle depicting the Virgin holding the Christ Child. Of course, it has been there since my arrival, and I have already taken note of the shrine, but in the purity of the snow, it is if I am seeing the image for the first time. I fetch a stepladder and a pair of gloves from the boathouse and prop the ladder against the building. I climb up so that I stand eye to eye with the image. It was sculpted long ago, I surmise, for the stone is already eroded in the spots where it is exposed to the elements. Below the image stands a stone container for flowers. The flowers that were last put there now amount to no more than wilted twigs. I remove them and toss them to the white ground below, making a note to collect some fresh ones to place in the box.

  Snow collects in the crevices that were etched out years ago by some now-forgotten carver. With a gloved hand, I remove the fluff to expose the cold relief of the stone. Below the Mother and Child stands the familiar image of gondolas, and I understand that the traghetto probably commissioned this tabernacle long ago to protect this particular brotherhood of gondoliers. For a moment I look into the eyes of the Christ Child. His face holds an expression that could be read as serenity or boredom, but which, I am not certain. The Virgin, though, is exquisite, with even features and an expression of eternal peace. She is painfully beautiful, and the image of a mother and her baby touches me somewhere deep inside.

  Suddenly something icy hits the back of my neck, sending freezing droplets down my back.

  Alvise has returned.

  I turn just in time to catch sight of my mentor winding up to launch another snowball at me from the quayside with his tongue between his lips. I scramble down off the ladder and pr
epare to retaliate by gathering snow into my palms, but the sight of Giorgio, who appears from around the corner, makes me think twice. Without a word, I move to the boathouse and begin my work.

  Behind me comes a sudden stream of cursing. Giorgio shouts at the top of his lungs, a fearsome outburst about Alvise’s unexplained absence that travels all the way to the boathouse. I cringe and smile simultaneously, visualizing Alvise’s reaction: the shrugging shoulders and the sheepish yet confident dismissal of authority that only Alvise can pull off and still manage to keep his position. I do not dare to emerge from the boathouse to see for myself, for fear that I would make an easy target for Giorgio just by virtue of showing my face.

  With my master’s tirade as background noise, I busy myself with a boat in need of repair. One of the wooden seats that spans the center of the gondola they call Vecchina has split down the middle. I don’t know what happened but imagine that someone put a load on it that was too heavy. I wish for some of the wood glue that my father and I used to mix in our shop just to repair such damage, but I improvise by mixing a concoction of gum arabic and turpentine from discarded supplies I find on a cluttered table in the shadows of the boathouse. I secure the mended piece with another slat recovered from a heap of scrap wood and nail it with two forged nails I retrieve from a pile of hardware collected in a glass jar nearby.

  Finally, Giorgio’s words begin to fade, and the tirade ceases. I look up from my work to see Alvise entering the boathouse with a strange expression on his face, a smirk and a look in his eye that I am not sure whether to read as embarrassment or amusement. When he catches sight of me, Alvise lifts his eyebrows sarcastically. “So, Fabris, I understand you can row a boat on your own after all.”