The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  Twelve pewter platters and with matching goblets

  Four silver saltcellars, very finely wrought

  An unusual set of silver, two-pronged forks (possibly from Turkey?)

  A worn-out but serviceable bedside table made of elm and poplar

  A large, finely made majolica platter from Umbria

  25 miscellaneous pieces of kitchen crockery

  A fine mirror from Murano with a small crack at the bottom

  An exceptional marble-top table decorated with intarsia and decorative scrolls

  A painting of the Madonna and the Christ Child, of artistic interest, to be valued separately from its frame (see next entry)

  A very fine frame crafted of mahogany with gilded decoration

  A pair of antique door knockers in the form of griffons

  A box full of old keys, a few of them well-wrought

  A very fine ball gown of dark blue taffeta with gold sleeves

  20 assorted ball gowns, no longer in fashion but serviceable

  A set of gold goblets with the family coat of arms

  A gold crucifix attached to a rosary with enameled and glass beads

  A set of two dozen kitchen towels

  Two andirons, crafted of brass, in the form of snarling lions

  Four X-shaped folding chairs of walnut, of Spanish origin

  The list continues, the cramped ink covering the four folios front and back. Alongside each entry, someone—Giuliana, probably—has notated an approximate corresponding value. The total must amount to an astounding number. I compare the handwriting to the note Giuliana had dropped into Trevisan’s gondola. Although the text of the inventory has been purposefully condensed to maximize space on the expensive parchment sheet, the looping, elegant script is a match.

  Guilt washes over me for reviewing this litany of luxuries. Surely it is intended to be private, but how can I help myself?

  In the broken mirror that sits on my dressing table, I catch sight of my ridiculous appearance: a fine nobleman perched on the edge of a grubby boardinghouse bed, desperately peering into the private life of a woman of whom he knows nothing.

  Chapter 27

  I suck salty oil off my fingertips, careful not to drip any on my costume.

  The banquet table is laden with Our Most Serene City’s coveted delicacies—salted eels; black olives marinated in oregano; cured ham; fresh, jiggling oysters; hard-boiled quails’ eggs veined with purple, just the perfect size for popping into your mouth. I watch a party guest engrossed in pulling the spine-like legs off a crayfish one by one, then pinching off the tails and the heads with their rotating eyes on stems, between his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he macerates their flesh between his teeth. I try to fathom how one host could afford to feed so many with such extravagance of fine tableware, cloth, food, and drink.

  A pile of sardines marinated in onions fills my plate, a modest but no less delicious feast. One by one, I pick up each tiny fish by the tail, and pop it in my mouth. I crunch the fine bones, savoring the sweet yet salty taste. I survey the hundreds of party guests, looking for the man who must be Jacobino Catarin the Jew. I position myself so that I can observe the comings and goings of the partygoers from a spot that affords a view to the top of the grand staircase, the food buffet, and the vast ballroom where most of the finely dressed guests have already assembled. I watch as a servant with a wrinkled brow and beady eyes clears serving platters and returns to the kitchen to refill them.

  I pop another tiny fish into my mouth. So far, I have not caught sight of the man Giuliana described. I scan the room for someone wearing the kind of red hat that Jews are required by law to wear in order to identify themselves, but I do not see one. I wonder why there is a Jew out at this hour at all and can only guess that his status must be special enough to allow him dispensation from the curfew that requires Jews to be in their homes inside the ghetto after nightfall. I imagine their dark eyes peering out from behind iron gates in their neighborhood in Cannaregio, not far from where I was born.

  A handsome couple arrives at the top of the stairs to greet guests, and I take them for the party hosts. The lady is remarkably elegant, her graying hair swept away from her face and studded with gems. Her gown falls to the floor in layers of beige and cream satin. She encircles her arm through the crook of her husband’s elbow. There is something familiar about the man: his sumptuous robe, his aquiline nose, the protruding abdomen—all signs of a successful, perhaps insatiable man. In spite of his cynical expression, the man emanates the kind of charm that can only be achieved by years of practice in high social circles.

  The couple leaves the staircase to weave their way through the crowd. Party guests turn to greet them; many stop their conversations to nod or bow slightly. After a while, the woman moves off by herself, continuing conversations with her guests as she moves toward the banquet table. As she moves closer to where I stand, I see that beyond her superficial beauty the woman’s face looks hardened—jaded, you might say—with a lined brow and deep-set eyes. Her husband feigns intense interest in a conversation with four or five other important-looking men. I notice that the man’s eyes wander to the stairway, and though he continues his conversation with the men before him, his attention clearly is caught by something else. I follow the man’s gaze to the stair. A fair-haired girl ascends to the top of the landing, a young beauty with dimpled cheeks, wide eyes, and a freckled décolleté.

  The man excuses himself and, with a smoldering look in his eye, makes his way to the stair where he catches the eye of the girl. She gives him a knowing smile, and moves to allow him into her circle. The others in the group bow curtly to the man and turn their attention to him. The party guests continue to circulate, but the man does not let the blonde girl wander too far out of his range. He tracks her with a piercing gaze, and I think of a hawk ready to sink its talons into its prey.

  It is only then that I see Jacobino’s red hat. The man—the only Jew at the party, as Giuliana said—is standing just beyond the party hosts at a window overlooking the canal. I move toward him, glancing around to make sure no one is watching me. As I approach, I make eye contact with him, holding Giuliana’s parchment envelope in front of my chest. I see the man’s thick eyebrows lift for a fleeting second, almost imperceptibly. Then he too seems to scan the room to make sure no one is looking. I pass by him slowly and put the envelope in his hands, then stroll back toward the buffet table. I refill my plate, then find a quiet window ledge overlooking the canal. I savor a wedge of grainy, hard cheese so delicious I feel I might faint.

  I wait. My eyes scan the ceiling, which has been painted to resemble a pastel sky dotted with billowing clouds. Baby angels peer down at me from the heavens, their mischievous grins flickering in the candlelight from a dozen blown-glass chandeliers. The walls, too, are covered from floor to ceiling with tapestries, crackled mirrors, and paintings, more densely adorned than even Trevisan’s own painting studio. I spot the host standing before a massive painting of a nude man who has shot a stag with a bow and arrow. A dozen partygoers crowd around him, hanging on every word as he describes the meaning of some of the details in the picture.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Jew slip Giuliana’s envelope inside his waistcoat and make his way to the buffet table. I approach the table as the hostess tells two female guests, “My husband says that boatmen represent the single greatest threat to peace and order in Our Great Republic. He tells me that every day the Council receives news of an infraction. Just today they reviewed a case involving gondoliers who were paid off to smuggle flour from the Republic’s grain storage onto merchant ships in the lagoon—imagine!” Her guests shake their heads, and a stout lady clucks her tongue in disapproval.

  The Jew and I make brief eye contact. We both begin to fill our plates as we move around the table, inching closer to one another. Finally we stand side by side, and I watch the man maneuve
r a set of silver tongs to place langoustines on his plate. At the same time, he leans so close that our shoulders are touching. I feel his breath at my ear: “Tell your lady that it will be my pleasure to consider her proposal. I will convey further instructions to her home by private messenger.”

  MASTER TREVISAN IS GOING away for several days. The artist tells me that he’s going to visit one of the farms he had inherited on the mainland, not far from the city of Padova. It’s an annual trip, he says, to meet with his cousin and complete an accounting of the annual crop yields.

  “You should take advantage of the situation,” the artist tells me, “and take a few days for yourself. I don’t often take time away from my studio, but it is long overdue. Besides, one of my clients has asked me to hunt ducks in the lagoon, and it’s been years since I’ve shot a crossbow. With all the commissions I have right now, Heaven knows when it will happen again.”

  “If it please you, Master Trevisan, I would spend the time working on the old gondola,” I tell him. “I want to procure the supplies to restore the foredeck, as it’s rotted in several places. As soon as that part is complete, then I can begin sanding the rest of the boat down to bare wood.”

  Trevisan considers my face, then smirks and shakes his head. “In that case, let me give you some money to buy what you need,” he says. “I admire your determination.” He deposits several coins in my hand.

  “You might find what you’re looking for at the brush and broom market in Dorsoduro,” Trevisan tells me. “That’s where my father’s squeriariol used to go. There are excellent brush vendors there.”

  I already know where to go, of course. I just have to make sure I choose a merchant who doesn’t already know me. I find a grubby burlap sack lying in a heap in the corner of the boathouse, which I judge fit for carrying the supplies I need. Then, I clear off a simple wooden table, which I began to set up as a makeshift workbench. There, I judge, I may organize my materials, work on small-scale wooden parts, and mix varnish.

  Truthfully, all I want to do is work with my hands. I am filled with nervous energy. I am to meet Giuliana in the evening and report to her the events of the party at the Ca’ Leoncino. I must keep myself occupied, or the hours will pass too idly. I spend the morning sanding the hull of the boat. While I work, my heart flutters every now and then, thinking of my meeting with Giuliana. What is she doing? Why did she give the Jew that inventory? I don’t know, but I will get a chance to see her, to stand close to her. That’s all that matters.

  My workspace is organized and I have salvaged what materials I can. I have stripped the upholstery and the splintered wood. I have stacked the wood by species: birch, oak, walnut, maple. I have begun scraping the hull of the old gondola with a metal chisel, plying away years of canal grime that has formed a crystalized black crust on the wood. In small patches, the grain of the original wood is beginning to reveal itself, but it is going to take many days of scraping until the boat is clear of its old varnish.

  As the layers of grime fall from the boat, I can finally examine the structural membranes. The ribs of the hull are in fine shape, but I feel I should reinforce them anyway. I have spent many hours fashioning cugni, small pieces of wood sawed into brackets, wedged under the oak planks that run along the topsides of the boat. My father introduced this simple yet ingenious solution into the Vianello boatyard, and these small wedges will afford the old boat greater structural integrity. My grandfather would have approved of such an improvement, I am certain of it.

  The top deck of the prow is probably constructed of lime-wood, I think, though I won’t know for sure until I finish stripping the varnish. They used it during my grandfather’s day because it was easy to carve and work. However, it is less water-resistant than the larch panels my own father prefers. The lime-wood deck has not stood the test of time; it is soft in some spots and rotten in others. It will need to be replaced. It must be strong because it helps support the metal fork on the prow. For as long as I can remember, in our Vianello workshop my father divided up the work between two apprentices. One was the “prow man,” the other the “aft man,” and each was fully responsible for the work on his own end of the boat. This time, I am on my own. I judge that I have enough oak to shore up the areas where the fórcole are to be placed. It is important for these areas of the hull to be stabilized, as they need to be able to withstand the force of constant rowing. I will need to figure out how to get other pieces of wood I will need.

  In the back of my mind, images of Giuliana drift in and out of focus, and I can’t help but dream of what lies ahead in the evening. The hours pass, and I absorb myself in working on the Vianello boat. I am lost so completely in sanding it that I have nearly lost all track of time, so much so that I am startled by a voice at the entrance to the boathouse.

  “Eh, figliolo, what do we have here?”

  I turn to see a man standing at the pedestrian entrance to the boathouse. Immediately, I recognize the charismatic smile.

  Alvise.

  I DROP MY SANDPAPER and dust my hands on my breeches so that I can give my old friend from Giorgio’s traghetto a proper handshake and a slap on the back.

  “Looks like you’re practically part of the paint here!” Alvise whistles and runs his hand down the hull of the old boat. “What a beauty.”

  I give Alvise a tour of the gondola, explaining my plans for the restoration piece by piece. While Alvise shares a few choice stories of Giorgio and the boatmen at the ferry station, I clean up my mess and brush sawdust into the canal with a long-handled broom. He colors his stories with his own exploits, mostly those involving women.

  “And you?” asks Alvise. “You got a lady yet?”

  “Not me,” I reply too quickly and sweep the stones with great intensity. Alvise shakes his head in disapproval.

  “You’re working too hard, that’s why, casso!” he chides, wiping a playful slap across my head. “A fine young man like yourself needs to be out on the town, not holed up here in a stinking boathouse! Come on, your master’s away anyhow. Put down that damn broom and come with me. I’ll take you to one of my favorite osterie for a meal. I guarantee you’ll forget that boat of yours.”

  I grin. “Now that you mention it, I am hungry.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  The boathouse gate closes with a clang, and we wend our way down the residential alleys surrounding Trevisan’s house. All the way to Rialto, Alvise regales me with stories of his exploits, and I realize that I haven’t laughed like this in a long time. Alvise maneuvers through a tangle of dark alleys, seeming to know where to go by instinct.

  In the tavern, the barmaid, orange-colored makeup smeared on her cheeks and her breasts pushed high with complicated corseting, listens to our order while she flits her eyelashes at Alvise. I ask for a plate of polenta with sausage of pork gut and a tankard of watery brew. The beer arrives, and I savor the warm, foamy liquid. While we wait for our food, Alvise continues his tales from the ferry station.

  “And of course you haven’t heard the best: one of the guys caught Giorgio in the passenger compartment of one of the gondolas with a manservant from the household of Signor Battistini the banker.”

  I spit my brew in a loud spray, wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and look at Alvise with my eyes wide.

  Alvise cackles, slapping his knee and dabbing the table with a cloth napkin. “Don’t worry, figliolo, he got out of it. You know that boatmen are sworn to secrecy about what happens behind the curtains of the felso. It was Giorgio’s word against that of the gondolier who caught them, and no one produced any proof. You better believe that Giorgio and the servant lied their way from here to The World to Come.” The barmaid brings our dinner. Alvise sits before a bowl piled high with steaming tripe and begins voraciously chewing the honeycomb-like wall of the cow’s stomach.

  Alvise recognizes a couple of other patrons in the tavern, boatmen from other traghetti,
he tells me. There are also several women in the tavern, and they all seem to know Alvise. Alvise points out several girls to me and shares tidbits of information about each one. “If you’re looking for a good prospect for later this evening, try the girl sitting with the man at that table,” Alvise gestures by flicking his eyeballs to the right. “I think you could persuade her to leave her friend behind,” he snickers. “And don’t even think of wasting your time with the daughter of the tavern owner. It’s not worth it, believe me.” Alvise waves his hand. He grasps my sleeve and leans toward me. “Someone got a disease from her,” he whispers behind a raised hand, pointing to a young woman with a nice face walking across the tavern. “I would stay away from that one.” She looks perfectly harmless to me, but Alvise’s face registers disgust.

  About the time we finish our meal, a group of musicians enters the tavern and sets up in the back. “The party’s finally getting started,” says Alvise, saluting a man carrying a small lute. Alvise signals the barmaid for another round of beer. The room is already beginning to waver, but I drain my tankard anyway and wait for my refill. The warmth of the brew flows through my veins, and I feel more relaxed than I have in months. The music begins.

  Alvise rises from the table and crosses the room to where the barmaid is standing, stacking glasses on a tray. He encircles his arm about her waist, and she lets out a squeal. Then he whisks her to the floor and spins her around. She feigns a protest, then throws her head back and laughs as he dips her low then runs his nose down her neck, inhaling deeply. The two dance as a group of patrons makes a circle around them and claps. Alvise and the barmaid entwine their hands high in the air, dancing together as if they’ve done it many times before. Alvise is in his element; I watch them from the table, enjoying the show and my watery beer.

  The song ends, and the sound of the strings fades. Then, blended with the dying melody, I register the sound of bells. It takes me a moment to recognize the ringing somewhere in the distance. My heart stops momentarily, and my eyes widen.