The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  For the hundredth time during the day, I pat the outside of my jacket pocket just to make sure Giuliana’s necklace is still there. So far, I think, my first official side job as a gondolier has not gone well. Two days before, I entered a jeweler’s shop near the Pescheria, my heart pounding, and sheepishly asked the goldsmith if he would be willing to purchase the gold and garnet necklace I produced from my pocket.

  “I know your kind,” the slight man growled. “You domestic servants go around ripping off your masters, thinking you can make easy money by hawking some family heirloom. Well, I won’t sully the quality of my stock with a stolen necklace.”

  Today, I find, is no different. Even though I gain confidence and refine my story each time I pull the necklace from my pocket, I am met with much the same reaction from the next jeweler’s shop, and the next—and the next. Even if they are not as forthright as the first jeweler I encountered, I quickly read their suspicion in their faces, in their body language. I find no luck even with the pawnbroker. No one is willing to take the risk of taking stolen goods into their inventory. It isn’t worth their while.

  Finally, I realize that I need to get back to the gondola before Valentin does, and I make my way to the docks. If I am going to sell Giuliana Zanchi’s necklace, I think to myself, I am going to need the help of the one person who knows how to pull off a side job better than any other gondolier in Venice. I sigh, realizing that a certain level of teasing is going to be the price I must pay to get the necklace sold. I am going to have to put the necklace in Alvise’s hands.

  Chapter 30

  The sharp, familiar smell of varnish remover stings my nostrils.

  The vapors are beginning to make me feel nauseated, so I cork the glass bottle and walk to the canal-side door of the boathouse, where I can catch a breath of fresh air as well as a good view of the progress on the boat.

  Now, with the bare planks beginning to reveal themselves from under layers of varnish, I admire the different types of wood my grandfather used to construct this gondola. The fore and aft decks are fashioned of mahogany and cedar, beautifully grained woods that also give off distinctive scents. I recognize cherry and walnut used for the trasti, the crosswise pieces of wood that stabilize the prow and stern as well as the wide span across the middle.

  Originally, I realize, this boat was designed for a heavy-set rower. The stern has been raised higher than usual, a technique that my father and grandfather used to counterbalance a boat for a stouter gondolier. I am lean and not too tall; I will have to re-warp the boards that hug the prow so that the bow will rise off the water more prominently. That will take some time and a significant amount of labor with water and fire.

  I consider the narrow planks of the aft deck, where the gondolier stands while rowing. In my grandfather’s day, boat makers left this part of the boat relatively unelaborated. Now, I consider adding soralai, the two wedge-like footrests that can be adjusted to give the rower more leverage as he presses his heels into them, and which have become more common over the course of his father’s and my generations. I will need to experiment with the pitch of the wedge to find what angle will give me the most efficiency in rowing. Idly, I polish the brass decoration on the prow with a paste mixed from corn flour and muriatic acid. Salt water has caused the brass to corrode to a not-unpleasant green color. I whistle a tune as I remove the corrosion, remembering how my father had ordered me countless times to make up this paste in the boatyard.

  The sun begins to sink, and I tidy up the boathouse. Humming, I go through the now-rote motions of locking down Trevisan’s working gondola for the evening. The felze is already stored, as I had asked Valentin to help me lift it from the boat when we returned from an errand earlier in the day. The contraption is not too heavy, just a bit awkward, and Valentin took several sidelong steps trying to manage it. The two of us rested the felze on a pair of trestles in the boathouse. The winter felze is heavier than the summer one, though, its velvet curtains lined with damask. I press my weight into the oarlock—the most expensive accessory on Trevisan’s boat—lift it out of its socket, and lock it up for safekeeping in a special compartment in the wall of the boathouse made especially for this purpose. I dust the inside of the gondola now, beating the upholstered seats with a clean rag.

  As the sun sets, I lift the two lanterns sitting on the stone floor of the boathouse and extinguish their flames. As I lock the gates of the boathouse behind me, I realize why I am in such a happy state.

  I am going to see Giuliana.

  I ATTEMPT TO LOOK self-assured as I lean against the rough stone edge of a wellhead, but I cannot help myself; my foot taps nervously on the cobblestones. The ancient stone basin stands in the center of a small, deserted square near the larger one in front of San Giovanni Battista in Brágora. I feel the coolness emanating from the water and inhale the dank odor of the moss-covered stone. I imagine that countless women over the years have dipped their buckets into the fresh underground water, which flows from the source beneath. From this vantage point, I can make out a sliver of the brick church façade, just enough to keep an eye on its doors. I take in the trefoil silhouette of the church, its hulking yet elegant presence dominating the square. This time, I am early.

  The streets are quiet, all except for a loudly chirping cricket, its shrill call echoing across the stones. While I wait, I review my plan. No matter what, I will convince Giuliana to come with me to the beach at the Lido. I don’t know how I will take her there, though. I contemplate taking Trevisan’s boat. No, I think to myself. It is too risky. If the artist finds his boat and his gondolier missing, I will be out on the street. The old Vianello boat is not yet seaworthy. For now, the only viable option I can contemplate is asking Alvise to lend me a boat from Giorgio’s traghetto. I sigh, thinking that Giorgio’s fleet must have returned to its squalid condition already since I was the only one who kept the boats clean and in good repair. I wonder if I can trust my friend Alvise with the revelation that I am interested in a girl, then shake my head thinking of the jeering and teasing that would prompt. No. There must be some other way.

  At the sound of bells, I enter the church. It is cavernous, dark, cool, and overwhelmingly silent. Rows of candles cast flickering shadows. I walk as quietly as I can toward the south side of the church, but the shuffling sound of my feet echoes across the vast interior space. I locate the private chapel where we met the last time. Inside, a row of candles stands lit below a giant, time-darkened painting of a saint I do not recognize. I seat myself on a bench before the altar and wait.

  After a few moments I hear the sound of a creaking door. All I can see is a cloaked figure, but I recognize her immediately for I have memorized her walk, her frame. My stomach turns as she approaches the chapel. Saluting me with a faint wave, she tiptoes toward me, looking back twice to make sure no one is following. She pulls her full-length cloak tightly around her, her hood drawn over her head. I stand up straight.

  “Bonasera, Signorina Giuliana,” I say softly, trying to look casual and self-confident.

  “Bonasera,” she replies, pushing her hood off of her head. My heart skips a beat. We squeeze into a narrow pew.

  When Giuliana sits, her cloak falls open to reveal a satin gown the color of emeralds that rustles as she settles. Her little dog shudders out of the folds of her sleeve onto the wooden bench, shaking his body vigorously. He approaches me with his tail tucked, sniffs my fingers, then rolls onto his back and raises his tiny paws in the air. His beady black eyes search my face. I place my palm on his little chest and jiggle him gently. His lips flap back, and his tiny fangs appear in an amusing canine smile. Giuliana laughs. “He likes you! I can’t believe it. He doesn’t let anybody do that.”

  I smile. The dog quickly tires of me and leaps back into the satin pleats of his mistress’s skirts. He flattens his ears and yawns.

  “I was able to sell your necklace, signorina.” I produce a handful of coins fr
om my coat pocket with my left hand, and place them in her palm.

  A surprised expression crosses her face. “Very good!” she says, counting the money. She consciously replaces her cool exterior. “Thank you for your service. Let me pay you your ten percent, as agreed.” She counts out the coins and plunks them back into my hand. I feel the heft of the metal and slip my fee into my pocket.

  I know that my commission for selling Giuliana’s necklace will not stay in my hands for long, for I will need to pay Alvise for the service of hawking the necklace on my behalf. In turn, Alvise will pay a share to the prostitute whose skills far surpassed my own in convincing a certain jewelry dealer to buy the necklace. It makes sense, of course, for the jewelry brokers are already accustomed to buying baubles from prostitutes, who regularly receive gifts of jewelry from their customers and exchange them for cash. In the end, I was only able to shake my head in amazement at the amount of money Alvise’s lady-friend had been able to fetch. By the time I pay off my helpers, though, I will earn almost nothing from this transaction. I do not share any of this information with Giuliana. The money is the least of my concern.

  “Was there something else you wanted me to do for you, Signorina?” I ask.

  Without a word, Giuliana holds up her hand, and as the sleeve of her cloak falls back, I notice a shimmering bracelet studded with blue gems encircling her wrist. Giuliana fumbles to unfasten the latch of the bracelet with her free hand. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she says, “Could you help me please?”

  Normally, I would never have the nerve to offer to help with such an operation. I reach for her wrist with one hand and work the latch clumsily with the other. In the darkness, she turns her palm upward, very close to my face so that I can see in the dimness. My heart begins to pound as I inhale her flowery scent. Finally, the bracelet comes loose, and she cups it in her hand, then hands it to me. I slip the bracelet into my pocket alongside my payment for the necklace. “I would like to sell this one too. I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of it for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  I summon my nerve. “Signorina, I’m very sorry if I offended you the last time we met. I did not know that you lost your father.”

  Giuliana continues to raise her chin in an aloof expression, no doubt practiced over years, but I notice that her bottom lip trembles slightly. “Thank you. It’s all right; you didn’t know. It happened only last month; it was very unexpected.”

  “How did it happen?”

  She takes a deep breath. “We were sitting at the dinner table as usual—my mother, my brother and I. My father was laughing at something that my brother had said. Then, all of a sudden, he clutched at his chest and fell face-first into a plate of steaming rice. In a single instant—imagine—he passed from this world to the World to Come.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments. I contemplate this information.

  “And your brother...”

  “Pietro.”

  “Is he taking over your father’s position?”

  “No, not exactly. Sadly, my father left no position for Pietro to take. After he died, we received the news that my father’s bank had failed. It was a great shock, especially for my mother. She is still having trouble accepting it,” she says. “I was very close with my father, so I had a feeling that something was wrong; but we had no idea of the magnitude of his debt. Once my mother learned of our situation, she was quick to agree for Pietro to be apprenticed to a silk importer in San Marco. He is twelve, just the right age. He is leaving for Flanders in a week’s time.”

  “Hmm.” I nod. “How will your mother be cared for?”

  Giuliana sighs. “I feel pity for her.” She shakes her head. “In one instant she went from being the wife of one of the city’s richest bankers to having to sell her palace and all of its contents, just to repay her husband’s debts. At first she couldn’t imagine not living in our home. Now she is beginning to realize that if she doesn’t sell it, there will be little left over for us to live. We must let go of our servants, all of our earthly belongings. Everything in our house will be put up for sale—even two of our gondolas.”

  She stares into the flickering light of the candles burning at the altar. Now I understand the reason for the inventory she had me place in the hands of the Jewish second-hand dealer. “Ah. The party...” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “My mother would never agree to negotiate with a Jew, but I know that Signor Catarin will bring us a higher price than our family’s notary will be able to realize. Besides, it has been painful enough for my mother to endure the public spectacle of my father’s bank failure, his sudden death, and the loss of our family fortune. The last thing she needs is to endure a sale in the public square, with an auctioneer hawking some precious family heirloom from a pedestal. She has already been humiliated enough.”

  I nod, imagining people in the crowd shoving their way forward to consume such finery with their eyes if not their purses. “Catarin the Jew will arrange for the sale instead.”

  “Yes,” she says. “We will visit our cousins in Vicenza while the Jews empty our house; it will protect my mother’s emotions. They will take the goods to their warehouse in Cannaregio for safekeeping until the sale is complete. They will make personal visits to antiques dealers and the costume rental houses to broker the most valuable pieces. What’s left—the bed linens, out-of-style frocks, and kitchen utensils—will be hawked from the back of an oxcart in the village squares of terra firma.” She waves her hand in the direction of the mainland.

  “Where will you and your mother live?” I ask.

  She continues to stare into the candlelight. “For my mother, I suppose matters are simple. She will take her vows and enter the Convent of Santa Maria della Celestia. She has supported the sisters and has been a member of their lay confraternity for years. Surely my father had known about all this for some time, only he didn’t tell us. He probably was working on a plan to get us out of debt. I’m sure he did not want to worry my mother.”

  She falls silent.

  “He was very dear to you, wasn’t he?” I prod.

  She meets my gaze. “My father was everything to me.”

  “I know what you mean. I lost my mother recently, too. It is a great void.”

  She ponders my face. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “Signorina Giuliana, what about you?” I say. I perch myself on the edge of the pew and lean toward her. Beneath the tie of her cloak at her throat, I watch her chest move up and down. I look directly into her eyes, and she meets my gaze. I corral all my inner strength.

  Suddenly, we are interrupted by a loud “Psssttt!” Startled, we both look up to see Giuliana’s maid peeking her head through the door of the church. I had no idea that she was waiting outside, and I now realize that she was stationed there to keep watch for Giuliana.

  “Mistress!” the maid whispers loudly. “Please, my lady, someone is coming. Quickly!” She makes a frantic summoning gesture with her hand.

  “Santo Cielo,” Giuliana whispers.

  She gives me a quick, wide-eyed look, then cradles her dog in her arm and jumps up from her perch on the pew. She scampers back to the door on tiptoe, her cloak flapping. Quickly, she flips her hood over her head.

  It is only then that I realize I do not know when or how I will see her again. I cannot ask now. I can only watch her go.

  Chapter 31

  For several days, something has been nagging me. As I go about my daily chores, it is there, bothering me, filling my conscience. Finally, I realize what it is. I have no idea how I will come up with the money to finish restoring the gondola. In particular, I don’t know how I will find the funds to purchase the new felze and the oarlocks that would be necessary to finish the boat.

  If anyone knows the costs of these items, it is I. How many times have I heard my father—and my father’s patrons,
too—complain about the high cost of the fittings of these boats? They are among the most expensive parts of a gondola, which is why the truly rich spare no expense in their ostentatious displays. I count my meager boatman’s salary, stashed away in the back of the boathouse. Even though I spend nothing, even though I’ve saved every soldo I have earned, at this rate it would take me years, maybe even decades, to earn enough to fit the boat with the proper felze, oarlocks, and other fittings. And I’m not even making anything on my side job since I turn over everything Giuliana pays me to Alvise.

  I cannot bring myself to ask Trevisan for the money. It seems too much to ask of the man, who has already been overly generous with me, providing a roof over my head, food to eat, and the opportunity to get close to Giuliana Zanchi.

  I run one hand along the back of the dusty felze that I removed from the old boat. It sits on trestles in the shadows of the boathouse. I allow myself to dream for a moment. If money were no object, I know exactly what I would do. My father had worked with a felze maker in Dorsoduro, a man who still took the time to double-stuff the cushions and line the upholstery with silk. In reality, there is no reason to have a brand new wooden frame for the felze made, I think, when the old one could be salvaged. I have succeeded in stripping down the old frame to bare wood now, and I run my hands over the walnut wood, sanded smooth. Hands on my hips, I circle the contraption, which I have laid on the floor of the boathouse to consider. I admire the curve of the seat, which looks old-fashioned now after so many years. It is still beautiful. This felze frame will not be painted, gilded, or even carved. It will be stained simply, to reveal the beauty of the wood.

  Although I would have liked to find a more sumptuous fabric, I decide that even something more modest could still provide privacy and protect the rider from getting soaked in the rain or burned by the sun. I make a note to ask the costume-renter’s daughter for a suggestion.