The Gondola Maker

by Morelli, Laura

  Trevisan strides to the canal-side window where his tufted stool sits before his easel. With a dramatic gesture, he sweeps back the velvet drape that hangs over the portrait of Giuliana Zanchi. The back of the portrait faces the studio, and I see nothing, even though I imagine the picture in my head as I listen to my heart pound.

  Trevisan picks up his palette and a fine paintbrush, and begins to paint.

  Chapter 35

  On the night of the Feast of San Giorgio, fat pellets of rain fall on Our Most Serene City. Cats crouch under the tiled eaves and windowsills, their ears flat. The deluge creates shimmering ponds in the Piazza San Marco, and a dozen state servants are ordered to lay down wooden planks so that the senators of Our Most Excellent Republic may cross the square to the Doge’s Palace without soiling the embroidered hems of their robes.

  Before putting Trevisan’s one serviceable gondola to bed in the evening, I bail out the bottom of the boat with a bucket and a sessola, the short-handled wooden shovel that any self-respecting boatman keeps stored in his aft deck for that purpose. I change into dry clothes down to my linen under-layers. Still, by the time I sprint across the square in front of the church of San Giovanni Battista in Brágora, my waist-jacket pulled over my head, water streams from the ends of my hair and sloshes from my shoes.

  “You look drowned,” says Giuliana when I finally seat myself beside her in the chapel. We both laugh, and I wonder how in the world she has managed to stay dry. In the billowy skirt of her sapphire-colored dress, her lapdog has wound himself into a tight curl where he snores, his tiny wet nose emitting a buzzing noise.

  Over the last weeks, my encounters with Giuliana Zanchi in her family chapel have become less about the business of transacting jewels and more about stretching time. Each time, we linger longer. I must work to invent topics of discussion, anything so that I do not have to leave her side. We have covered every aspect of Venetian weather, public events, the price of bread. As if we have all the time in the world. As if neither one of us has anywhere else to go.

  Now Giuliana is recounting a story about a mouse that wreaked havoc in her kitchen that morning, scaring the cook half to death until her lapdog prompted the rodent to leap out of the kitchen window into the canal. I smile at her story, even though I am having trouble drawing my attention away from the earthy smell of Giuliana’s hair.

  An awkward silence falls over us, and, simultaneously, each of us seems to remember the purpose of our meeting.

  Giuliana reaches into her pleated sleeve and pulls out a blood-red satin envelope tied with a twisted cord of the same color. She unravels the cord and the envelope falls open. With two fingers, she lifts a piece of lace. Before the flickering flames of the altar candles, I make out fine, web-like patterns of flowers, leaves, and swirls.

  I gasp.

  “Exquisite, isn’t it?” she says. “It’s punto in aria. Years ago the Spanish ambassador gave it to my grandmother. He went personally to Burano to select it from the lace makers at the convent. She was even engaged to my grandfather at the time. What a scandal!” Giuliana laughs, then her smile fades. She ties the beautiful lace fragment back into its satin package and hands it to me.

  “You may entrust this transaction to me with the greatest confidence, signorina,” I say.

  She nods, then, without a word, Giuliana removes a ring with a large sky-blue square stone from her index finger and presses it into my left palm.

  Impulsively, I grasp her hand and pull it close to my torso. Her face turns serious.

  “Signorina,” I say haltingly. “There is something important that I need for you to know.”

  She nods and waits for my response. She does not pull her hand away.

  “I can imagine... You must think that I am not transferring to you all of the money that I have collected for the sale of your jewels. You have no reason to trust me; after all, boatmen take advantage of people all the time. You must think that I am pocketing some of the soldi before handing over the rest to you.” I search her eyes to divine if I have made an accurate assessment, but her gaze remains serious and unreadable. “But I want you to know that I have not.”

  She looks at my face for a few moments in silence. Raindrops splash on the roof tiles of the church, beating a steady rhythm.

  “I know,” she says finally.

  My heart pounds in my chest. “You do? How?”

  She shrugs and pulls her hand away. I watch it drop back to the dog in her lap. “Just a feeling, I suppose. An intuition.”

  I nod, although truthfully, I can hardly believe what she is saying.

  “Of course I am not naïve enough to have wondered if you might try to extort me. Also I have not given you anything that is so valuable that I could not afford to lose it, just in case you turned out not to be trustworthy after all. But at the same time somehow I knew that I could feel secure to rely on you,” she ventures. “It is difficult to put my finger on it, but I feel fairly certain that there is more to you than people see on the surface.”

  I squirm in my seat.

  “It’s just that...” She seems to read my nervousness and jumps to clarify. “Well, please don’t take this as an insult, but to me, you seem out of place as a private boatman. You’re not like the others. I do not know much about you, but I feel certain that you would not steal from me. You would not extort Master Trevisan. You would not do what so many domestic servants do. I have no rational reason to, but I trust you. In fact, it’s as if you were meant for something else, some other kind of trade entirely.”

  Her eyes scan the floor for a moment, then she looks at me as if struck by a sudden realization. “Luca,” she begins. “You were not really destined to be a boatman, were you?”

  I take a deep breath. At that moment, I realize that I trust her, too.

  “No.”

  I haven’t planned to, but I begin at the beginning of my story, all the way back to the day I was born in my family’s squero. I tell her about the fire, about slipping from the oarmaker’s workshop before dawn, about cleaning boats the traghetto, about making my way to Trevisan’s studio.

  I tell her everything.

  Chapter 36

  I saturate a clean rag in olive oil and, starting at the port side prow, I begin to polish the black varnish to a slick, high sheen. The ferri are already gleaming, thanks to my work on them over the course of the last few days. The engraved swirls and coiling metalwork of the forks are old-fashioned, of course, but bring some ornamentation to the boat without the need for carving or gilding, which might appear too ostentatious and bring Trevisan unwanted attention. The green velvet of the felze, which Signora Baldi the costume renter has provided and even trimmed with tassels as a personal favor for Master Trevisan, makes for a nice look, too, I think. Even though the curvilinear aft oarlock that I carved with my own hands contrasts with the simpler one at the front, now, with two oarlocks, the boat feels whole.

  I am so lost in my polishing that by the time I reach the maple leaf carved on the starboard side, which I have left intact, I can hear church bells heralding the midday meal. I stand back to observe the fully oiled black craft for the first time. A smile crosses my lips.

  I bring my palms together and shake them skyward, a silent, heartfelt praise to the heavens. I address myself, my quiet proclamation reverberating off the walls of Trevisan’s boathouse: “Deogràsia!”

  The boat is complete.

  Chapter 37

  From my position on the aft deck, I examine Master Trevisan’s face. I whistle as I row the new-old gondola, carrying my happy tune all the way home from the Scuola Grande, where Trevisan has been inspecting his assistants’ work.

  I am looking for something, some indication of approval for my work, but my master’s face remains unreadable. The new curtains of the passenger compartment are tied open, and I imagine that I see him smile. I wish desperately for my mas
ter to be pleased with the restored boat. I do not wish to be guilty of the sin of boastfulness, but Trevisan must admit that the craft is not just utilitarian but a work of great beauty. Surely the artist never imagined that his father’s old gondola would be seaworthy again, much less transformed into a work of fine craftsmanship.

  Whether or not I read satisfaction on my master’s face, I feel nothing but pride for myself. Never have I steered a boat that felt more like it was made for me and me alone. The craft seems an extension of my own body. With the addition of footrests I’ve nailed to the rowing deck and the curvilinear forms of my oarlock, the boat responds instantly to even the slightest pitch of the oar.

  As I row, I wonder how I am going to conjure the nerve to ask Master Trevisan this important question. I no longer whistle but row forward, lost in thought. We arrive at the artist’s house, and I pull in close to the dock outside the studio door. I offer my hand to the artist, who waves it aside and alights from the boat without effort. As always, I am amazed at the energy and stamina of this man who must be nearing seventy years old. The artist starts up the stairs to his studio.

  “Master Trevisan?” I finally gather the nerve to say.

  The artist turns. “Yes, son?”

  “I have an important indulgence to ask, sir. Now that the boat is finished... Do you think... Would it be all right...” I swallow hard. “Would it be all right with you, Magnificence, if I take it out this evening to show it to one of my colleagues back at the traghetto of Master Giorgio? I promise to be extremely careful with it, of course.”

  Trevisan chuckles. “If anyone will care for that boat, it’s you. Of course you have my permission as well as my blessing.“

  “Thank you, sir.” I bow slightly toward the artist.

  “Very well. Plan to ferry me to the house of Costantini the silk merchant tomorrow afternoon. He has asked me to sketch his wife in their ballroom. You are free until then.”

  “Yes, of course, Master Trevisan.”

  “Good evening, then, son. And happy boating.”

  I return to the boat and carefully pull it into the boathouse using two ropes. I have grown accustomed to this maneuver and complete it effortlessly even though it might have presented even an experienced boatman with a challenge. I am especially careful to make sure the craft doesn’t bump against the stones. Now, both gondolas are moored side by side in Trevisan’s boat slip, and their hulking forms fill the narrow space from one side to the other. I step lightly from one boat to the other and carefully wedge floats between them to prevent the varnish from being scratched.

  As evening falls, I climb the stairs to my room and wash my face in a large ceramic bowl that Signora Amalia uncovered for me in the attic. I return to the boathouse and tie down Trevisan’s boat, lifting the oarlock and locking it up in its special compartment for the night.

  Silently, I pull the new boat out into the canal.

  All my instincts lead me to Giuliana Zanchi’s house.

  I ONLY REALIZE IT NOW, but for months, I have been waiting for this moment.

  I sit on the aft deck of my fine new boat, letting it float freely in the Grand Canal within sight of the palace that Giuliana Zanchi calls home. In my time between Trevisan’s engagements, I have altered my route to pass by the palace many times, identifying the building thanks to Beppe’s description of its location. I am not certain, but I have watched the palace enough times now to surmise that the bedchambers occupy the third floor of the house, facing the canal. From my vantage point, I keep my eye on the third-floor windows, waiting for an opportunity.

  The house looks different than it did the first time I glimpsed it. The building now appears nearly empty of its contents, its great windows gaping and hollow like the orifices of a giant skull. The dark, hulking boat slip was designed to house three gondolas; now it holds only one.

  When the boat drifts substantially from its post, I stand and row it back to a spot where I have a clear view of the Ca’ Zanchi, far enough away from the palace docks not to raise suspicion. As the sun sets beyond the domes of San Marco, candlelight begins to flicker on the canal level of the palace. I see someone—perhaps a servant—light a lantern, then I see the flame move from room to room across the piano nobile. I wait an hour, maybe longer. The canal waters turn slick and black, and the air turns cool. I put on a woolen overcoat that I have stored under the gondola’s aft deck.

  Finally, I make out the flickering of a candle in a window of the third floor. A figure appears. I stand and grasp the oar, then power the gondola silently to the quayside. I light my lantern and place it on the fore deck of the boat. I cup my hands before my mouth and whistle a long, low whistle. I wait. After a few moments, I repeat the whistle. Finally, the figure approaches the windowsill.

  “Signorina Zanchi!” I whisper loudly, then stand on the fore deck and hold my lantern high. The figure leans out of the window, and with a sigh of relief, I recognize her now-familiar silhouette.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Luca.”

  She leans over the balcony. “Are you out of your mind?” she calls in a frantic whisper. “Don’t make another sound!” She disappears from view.

  I wait, my heart beating loudly. After a few minutes, I hear footsteps in the alley that skirts the Ca’ Zanchi. She appears there, pulling her cloak around her. I row swiftly to the quayside and tie the boat to a mooring post. She furrows her brow and leans down to whisper to me. “What are you doing here? Have you lost your head?” In the distance, we hear the sound of footsteps. To my utter amazement, Giuliana leaps into my boat and disappears into the passenger compartment.

  I enter the cabin, and for a moment I suck in my breath. There before me, in real life, is the dream that has obsessed my mind night after night for so long. Giuliana Zanchi is sitting in my boat. In the shadows, she perches on the velvet-upholstered seat, bracing herself as if she imagined she might tip over into the canal. Carefully, I seat myself beside her and reach for her hand.

  “Signorina Giuliana, do you remember that I asked you if you had ever seen the moon from the beach at the Lido?”

  But she is not paying attention. Her eyes are scanning the shadowy interior of the cabin, taking in the upholstery, the bench, the fittings. “Where did you get this boat?” she whispers.

  “I made it.”

  “What?” she replies in a loud whisper, and I can see that she is genuinely astonished. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Well, truth be told, signorina, I did not make it; my grandfather did. I just restored it from the ground up. From felze to ferro.” I make an exaggerated sweeping gesture, then grasp one of her wrists with both my hands. “Signorina Giuliana, come for a ride with me to the Lido.”

  She emits an embarrassed laugh, then stifles it with her free hand. “What? I can’t go with you. Not right now.” She looks nervously behind her in the direction of her house. “My mother will have every signore di notte in town out looking for me. Did you really do all of this yourself?”

  “Yes. Don’t move.” I exit the cabin and pull the aft oarlock from its socket. I return and place the smooth, sculptural piece of walnut in her lap. She runs her fingers along its curved surfaces, and turns it over in her hands.

  “My God...” She shakes her head. “You told me your story, and I did believe it was true. But I had no idea that you could do this.”

  “I didn’t know that I could either. This is the first oarlock I’ve ever tried to make.” I lean toward her. “Signorina, if not tonight, tomorrow. Come with me,” I insist, emboldened by her fascination with my boat.

  She shakes her head, looking nervous. “I cannot.”

  “Wednesday.” I grasp both of her hands, which feel small and cold between my palms. I begin to hum a tune that surely she must recognize, a popular madrigal I’ve heard performers sing thousands of times during Carnival and other feast day cel
ebrations. My serenade grows louder with each note, and my voice begins to carry outside the passenger compartment, I am sure of it.

  “Sssshhhh!” She pulls one hand away and puts her finger to her lips, then looks nervously around her. “You’re blackmailing me!” she complains in a loud whisper that ends in a whine.

  “Agree to come with me to the Lido on Wednesday, signorina, or I will put the entire work of Petrarch to music.” I smile, realizing that my persistence is beginning to pay off.

  Giuliana sighs. “Santa Maria! You have succeeded. Wednesday—yes. Yes, I will go with you to the Lido. I will have to invent an excuse to be away from home. Pick me up at the quayside that abuts the rio dei Scoacamini on Wednesday at dusk in your new boat. Hold your lantern up for me so that I know it’s you.”

  For a moment, she gazes directly into my face. “Now please, please, before anyone catches us, before I change my mind, I beg you to leave this dock at once!”

  She gathers her skirts in her arms, clambers out of the boat and runs down the alley alongside her house.

  I MAKE MY WAY down the stairs from my room and encounter Valentin having breakfast in Trevisan’s kitchen.

  “Your timing is perfect,” he greets me, biting into an apricot. “I believe that Master Trevisan is sending us out momentarily.” He stands and gestures for me to follow. The two of us step into the artist’s studio, quietly opening the door.

  Before his easel, Master Trevisan paces nervously back and forth. I recognize the back of the portrait of Giuliana Zanchi with its drape cast over the back of the canvas. The artist makes several silent hand gestures, as if he were conversing with the picture. He steps forward, then back. I watch him swirl the hairs of his brush against the wooden palette. Grimacing, the artist makes two small swipes with his paintbrush, then takes a few steps backward, looking at the small picture with a furrowed brow and a frown. Beads of perspiration appear at his brow. He scratches his gray beard vigorously and fluffs his hair.