The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  I nod. “Does that include the picture of the girl... what’s her name again? Signorina Zanchi?” I feign ignorance.

  “I don’t know,” replies Valentin. “I’m not working on that one. Trevisan’s doing that picture by himself. It’s small.” Valentin puffs up his chest. “I usually work on the bigger paintings—mythological scenes or religious pictures like the new triptych we’re doing for the church of San Giacomo dell’Orio.”

  I nod. I have no idea what a triptych is.

  We fall into an awkward silence, and I turn my gaze back to the other side of the Giudecca canal, where I glimpse a line of squeri along the banks that lay between the Punta della Dogana and the Zattere. From my standing position on the aft deck of the gondola, I have an unobstructed view of the ramps where the boat makers launch their new boats. I know each one of the families—Pisani, Sanuto, da Riva—all colleagues of my father, not one a rival.

  “Would you please drop me at the quayside next to the tanneries?” Valentin asks. “That’s closest to the shop where I need to buy the supplies.” Then he falls silent again, idly chewing his fingernails and gazing off into the distance.

  While I wait for the boy to return, I watch a man scraping a large animal hide tied to a wooden frame next to the banks of the canal. It is backbreaking work, barely a step up from slavery. The stench—created during the process of curing the hides—is nearly unbearable. On the north side of the tanneries, animal carcasses are piled high, a hellish sight. The hoofs of the slaughtered beasts reach stiffly skyward with rigor mortis. I wonder how the tanners endure these miserable conditions and figure that they must grow accustomed to the ghastly sights and repulsive smells.

  A young man, no older than fourteen, carries two wooden buckets with rope handles down to the water. He is shirtless, his muscles too developed for a boy his age. He is drenched with sweat. As he bends over to fill the buckets, I perceive the strip-like welted marks across his back. He staggers back up to the tannery with the buckets full of water, and I see the long lashing-scars across his back again. I shudder.

  I don’t want to see any more. I leave the boat at the quayside and, hands in my pockets, stroll down the wet alley. I pass a cobbler’s shop, a tailor, and a few residences. The shops are little more than grubby hovels with dirt floors, their doors open to the street to allow light onto their workbenches. Yesterday’s rain gathers in a trough in the middle of the cobblestone street, which forms a sieve that drains back into the canal. I step to the side here and there to avoid stepping into little piles of dog feces.

  Ahead, a meat and cheese market stands cobbled together in a muddy piazza. Laundry flaps haphazardly like ragged flags on crisscrossed clotheslines overhead. I plunk a few coins on the table at one of the butcher’s stalls, and a heavy-set man with blue eyes and a bloody apron slices off a few wafer-thin pieces from a hock of prosciutto. I sit on the stone threshold of a door overlooking the piazza and chew the fleshy meat, which tastes grainy, salty, and delicious.

  I wander toward the street where Valentin had indicated he was going for the supplies. The street is lined with modest residences and grimier, hole-in-the-wall shops. It is just as Valentin described, a place where there are numerous specialists involved in the business of mixing things—alchemists in the service of painters, tanners, and other artisans. One shop catches my eye, mainly because it is large, clean, and filled with light from the storefront. Behind a counter stands a spry man, mixing several ingredients with a mortar and pestle. He has a shock of gray hair, an intelligent face, and a piercing gaze that makes me think of my dear oarmaker. I remove my hat and cross the threshold of the shop. The shopkeeper looks up from his work and greets me with a polite “Bondì.”

  “Bondì, signore. I wonder if you have any muriatic acid?” I ask.

  “I can make some for you,” replied the man. “Do you want cornstarch, too?”

  “Perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

  While the man mixes the ingredients, I look curiously around the room at the shelves stacked high with glass bottles and ceramic jars. The shop resembles a fantastic apothecary, neat and organized, with labeled jars stacked from floor to ceiling.

  The man sees me observing his shop and smiles. “I can make anything you want. I mostly work with the tanneries but I supply quite a few of the boatyards, too.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Well, mostly those along the Zattere. The boat builders in Cannaregio and Dorsoduro have their own sources. Say, I hear that the Squero Vianello is being rebuilt,” he says.

  My heart pounds.

  “What a disaster of a fire; what a shame for everyone involved. It’s a wonder no one was killed. Do you know how the family is doing?”

  I am speechless, my heart in my throat.

  “No,” I stammer, caught unprepared.

  “Surely you are a squerariol?” asks the proprietor, sizing me up with a piercing gaze.

  “Um, no,” I say. “I am just helping out with restoring an old boat.”

  “Is that so?” asks the man, with a hint of distrust in his voice. “I would have guessed you were a squeriariol, without a doubt. And I’m usually right. There’s something about you... Plus, only a squeriariol would know about the magic of muriatic acid. Whose boat are you restoring?”

  I am anxious to leave. “I’m sorry. I just remembered that I am late to meet my friend in the square. How much do I owe you?” I count the coins that I remembered to put in my pocket that morning, pulled from the burlap bag in the boathouse where I collect my weekly salary.

  I emerge just in time to see Valentin walking purposefully down the alley, a panicked look in his eye. Then I notice that a bear of a man—black curly hair covering his head, chest and arms—is pursuing the boy. The man is staggering down the muddy alley after Valentin, visibly drunk, his eyes wild and tongue wagging.

  “Come, caro! Just fifteen minutes! How much do you want?” The man’s voice booms, echoing through the alley.

  I act instinctively. “Leave him alone!” I yell at the man.

  “Why? Who are you, his lover?” the man booms, then howls with laughter, leaning over to slap his knees, which makes him take three sidelong steps before regaining his balance.

  Valentin looks relieved to see me. We walk quickly, side by side, toward the quay where the gondola is moored. Behind us, the drunk man makes loud kissing noises, puckering his lips exaggeratedly and then cackling and hooting so loudly that a stern-looking woman slams the shutters of her house closed as we pass.

  “Thank you,” says Valentin. “I’m sorry to say that it happens to me all the time. For some reason they think I am a prostitute.”

  I pull the last slice of ham from my knapsack and share it with Valentin. The two of us board the boat, and once again, Valentin stations himself on the fore deck. As we move into the boat traffic in the Grand Canal, Valentin faces me, the wind at his back.

  “You asked me before about Signorina Zanchi. Are you interested in her?” The boy chews the grainy piece of prosciutto and studies my face.

  “No,” I reply a little too quickly. “Just curious. Why?”

  “No reason. But just in case you were, she’ll be at the studio tomorrow morning.”

  A grin crosses Valentin’s face, and once again, he falls annoyingly silent.

  Chapter 25

  Morning sunbeams streak down the canal, imparting radiance to even the most dingy façades, and I feel I can smell the arrival of spring. I approach Trevisan’s house after fetching eggs from the market for Signora Amalia when I see the Zanchi gondola moored at Trevisan’s dock.

  I recognize the luxurious boat from a distance. I smooth my hair and shake my head at the abysmal state of my only pair of shoes, as well as my hands, covered as they are in sawdust and varnish. Beppe, Giuliana’s boatman, greets me with a salute and a nod, then leaps out of his boat to help me moor Trevisan’s
gondola. He glances at the sack of eggs in my hand and smiles. “Fine day for a little side work.”

  “I try to help in whatever way I can,” I reply, trying to sound casual and confident. Automatically, my gaze travels to the window of the artist’s studio, but just as the last time that Giuliana came to call, the green curtain is drawn closed over the diamond-shaped leaded glass of the studio window. I appear to busy myself in Trevisan’s docked gondola, wanting to stay outside the boathouse so that I may have another chance to encounter the girl. I try my best to keep up the idle chat with Beppe, who is more than happy to oblige.

  Finally I hear the door of the studio open. Valentin escorts Giuliana and her maid down the stairs. My stomach leaps at the sight of her, and I attempt to look occupied with the boat. The smoky smell of the hearth fire inside the studio emanates into the cool air.

  Today her hair looks different, I note, pulled back in the front with long cascades in the back. Her cloak falls open to reveal a blue gown and a large gemstone hanging from a chain around her neck. In her hands, she clasps her tiny brown dog and a small purse made of the same velvet as her dress. Her grim-faced maid follows, pulling her own cloak tightly to her throat to ward off the chill. Suddenly, Giuliana seems to take a few purposeful steps in my direction. Taken aback, I look up from my work to search her face. She looks steadily at me with large green eyes, walking toward me. Holding my gaze, she pulls her right ear and addresses her maid: “Carolina, I seem to be missing an earring. Would you be so kind as to go inside and fetch it for me?” Her maid returns to the studio.

  Next, she hands her dog to Beppe, who caresses its head. While Beppe settles the dog gently in the boat, Giuliana fishes something out of her purse, then, slowly, she turns her back to me. She entwines her hands behind her back. Almost imperceptibly, she flutters her fingers.

  I notice now that Giuliana pinches something between the second and third fingers of her right hand. It is a piece of parchment, a small yellowish scrap folded neatly into quarters. Without drawing attention to herself, Giuliana takes a few steps back to the edge of the dock, and without a sound, drops it into Trevisan’s gondola. I watch the folded piece of parchment flutter like a leaf, then land in the floor of the gondola. Now Giuliana turns her head, cuts her eyes toward the bottom of the boat, then glances at me briefly to see if I am watching. My throat tightens.

  At that moment, her maid returns, dangling a gilded, lace-like filigree earring in her hand. Beppe extends his hand to Giuliana, and the women board the boat. The boatman salutes me, and I watch the elaborate gondola disappear.

  As soon as the lady’s boat rounds the corner, I clamber into Trevisan’s gondola and snatch up the folded piece of paper. I sit on the aft deck and unfold it, my heart pounding. A short message is scrawled in a long, elegant script:

  Would you be willing to do a side job for me? If so, meet me on the street that runs alongside the vineyard at San Francesco when darkness falls tonight — GZ

  Chapter 26

  I double-check the security of the boathouse’s lock as the sun sinks and lavender shadows extend across the alley that borders Trevisan’s house. I jog all the way to the boardinghouse. In my room, I wash my face in a bowl of water and shave my cheeks with my straight razor. With a small pair of scissors I purchased at the market, I carefully trim my cropped beard and clip two stray hairs sticking out of my nose. Holding a broken piece of mirror that the last tenant left in the room, I examine my reflection. I run the comb through my hair and vigorously rub my teeth with a cloth.

  Above all, I want to ensure that I don’t look like an ass again, but my clothing choices are limited. I slide the flesh-colored silk shirt over my back, then pull on a pair of breeches and black stockings. I take the fancy waistcoat that Signora Baldi’s daughter lent me and push my arms into it. I shine my scuffed shoes with a rag I’ve taken from the boat slip. I have even borrowed a small container of black gondola varnish, which I coat on the uppers of my shoes. Not bad, I think, as a sheen begins to appear across the toes.

  In the square outside the boardinghouse, I rinse my mouth with water from a fountain, gargle it deeply in the back of my throat, then spit on the cobblestones. I smooth my hair again with wet hands, then replace my cap. I make my way toward the northern lagoon long before the marangona is likely to clang, hailing the arrival of dusk. Tonight there will be no moon. As darkness falls, the sky and the canal waters seem to meld together to form an ominous void. The only light comes from quivering candles in the glass lamps hung from an occasional corner shrine. I step carefully down the narrow paths toward the Church of San Francesco della Vigna.

  I make my way alongside a long brick wall that marks the enclosure to the monastery where Franciscan brothers cultivate rows of manicured grape vines. I reach the alley where Giuliana has instructed me to wait. It is important to seem relaxed, I tell myself. I take a few deep breaths, shake out my hands, then roll my shoulders and try to look nonchalant, but I can’t keep my feet from pacing back and forth on the cobblestones. My eyes scan the street. It is deserted, lit only with the dim flame of a lantern at the corner. The rest of the street is cast into complete darkness. I wait. The minutes elapse.

  Just about the time the black fingers of despair begin to touch my heart, I detect footsteps in the distance. They grow louder, clomping on the stones. Finally, in the darkness, my eyes make out the silhouette of a hooded figure with a full-length cloak. The person is carrying a small hand-lantern that flickers as the figure moves forward. I hope with all my might that it is she. I move from the shadows into the middle of the street.

  “Boatman? Is that you?” she calls out in a loud whisper.

  “Yes, Signorina.”

  She quickens her footsteps. She holds up her lantern, and I make out the trace of her lips and chin under her cloak. With her other hand, she pushes back its hood. In the candlelight, I see her hair fall across her shoulders, and I make myself believe that I can smell its musky scent. She presses a package—something wrapped in dark fabric—under the crook of her elbow.

  “Thank you for meeting me here,” she whispers. “I’m sorry about the location, but there is an important task that I cannot be seen completing myself. I am prepared to pay you handsomely in exchange for complete secrecy. No one can know about it. I had a feeling that you might be the right man for the job. Can I trust you?” She searches my face.

  “My lady, I give you my word.”

  “Good” she says, but continues to scan my face for confirmation. “I need for you to go to the Ca’ Leoncino on the Grand Canal on Thursday evening at nightfall. There will be another private party. You need to make yourself invisible, disguised, just as you were when I last saw you there. You must appear as a member of the same class, as much a part of the crowd as anyone else in attendance. No one should think otherwise. Understood?”

  I nod.

  “You will need to locate a man—Jacobino Catarin. You will not miss him, for he will be the only Jew in attendance.”

  My mind is racing. “Of course. Signorina Zanchi, with all due respect, I do not think I can take Trevisan’s boat. My master... if he finds it missing...”

  “Not to worry,” she replies, raising her palm. “You will need to go by foot and enter from the land-side. I’ve already taken care of your costume.” She hands me the package from under her arm. From its softness, I can tell that it is a bundle of clothing, tied together with a narrow cord. Under the cord, she has secured a parchment envelope thickly stuffed with some kind of document.

  “Your job is to ensure that this envelope passes into to hands of Catarin the Jew. You must make absolutely sure that you do not attract notice.”

  I nod again.

  “You must give him time to read it and respond to you. When we meet again you will report to me every single detail. Understand?”

  “Yes, but I am curious about one thing, Signorina. Why all the secrecy for
a young woman like yourself?”

  Nearby, footsteps echo on the cobblestones. Giuliana flips the hood of her cloak back up on her head. “Not now,” she whispers. Beneath her hood, only her lips are visible. “We cannot meet here again. This is not a good location,” the lips say.

  I perceive a shadow, fleeting but a certain presence, around the corner. Someone is there, invisible in the darkness. The sound of the footsteps slows.

  Giuliana turns her head toward the direction of the sound, then whispers quickly to me, “On Saturday evening, meet me inside the Church of San Giovanni Battista in Brágora. My family has a private chapel on the south flank of the church. Meet me there when the marangona clangs. And I will give you further instructions.” She lifts her hood slightly and I watch her eyes search my face. “Understood?”

  I bow toward her. “Of course.”

  “Then it’s all settled.” With a purposeful exhale, she extinguishes the flame in her lantern and hurries off down the alley. I watch her cloak flap and then vanish into the shadows.

  THIS TIME, MY COSTUME fits. Without a doubt, this is the finest ensemble I have ever worn. The breeches and vest are made of a fine burgundy satin, and the cream-colored silk sleeves billow from where they are stitched to the shoulder with ribbon. I like the hat best of all, for it is ornamented with a small spray of reddish-brown bird feathers. She has even included a mask in the package, an unadorned black face-plate with the eyes cut out, which surely will help conceal my identity.

  I pry open the parchment envelope that Giuliana put in my hands. Although I learned to read some Latin and Venetian as a child, I am unskilled and unpracticed. I run my finger slowly down the piece of the parchment and struggle to make out the words: