The Girl From Venice

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “I think she’s interested in someone else.”

  “A lucky man,” Scarpa said, and moved on.

  Cenzo looked over the crowd and saw Otto in a far corner. His was an interesting disguise, that of a buffoon in a white suit.

  “I’m taking some provisions from the back room if that’s all right with you,” Cenzo told Nido.

  “Provisions for what?”

  “I may be gone for a day or two,” Cenzo said.

  The village’s promenade was packed with married couples strolling arm in arm. Songs drifted in the dark. Giulia must have seen Otto too. She had the ability to fold into shadows when necessary.

  It was, however, ex–squadron leader Farina who emerged from the shadows. No longer dressed in a Fascist uniform, he was like a priest without vestments. He dragged Umberto, his son, by the arm.

  “Where are you going in such a rush?” Farina asked.

  “Taking the air.” Cenzo tried to slide past.

  “I doubt it. You’re always up to mischief.”

  “Why don’t we talk about my mischief another time.”

  “Everyone in Pellestrina thinks you’re some kind of hero,” Farina said. “I know you’re nothing but a thief. Umberto saw you give a gold bar to the partisans.”

  “No I didn’t.” Umberto snatched his hand away and ran.

  “There goes your witness,” Cenzo said.

  “It doesn’t matter, I will denounce you. You will tell the authorities what you did with the rest of it.”

  “What ‘rest of it’? I don’t have any gold,” Cenzo said. “And what authorities? Italian? American? Partisan? Maybe an unpopular Fascist would make a better suspect. In any case, no police are here yet, are they?”

  Farina tucked his head between his shoulders and walked off.

  Cenzo made his way to his dinghy but Giulia was nowhere in sight. He looked over the water and saw a splash that was too far out for any ordinary swimmer. He rowed with a single oar, first on one side, then the other.

  As he approached, Giulia stood waiting and the miserable little shack looked like paradise.

  40

  At dawn the Fatima sailed past decrepit channel markers that leaned together like conspirators. Giulia held a lantern at the bow as the boat heaved on the breast of each wave, and when the lagoon became too shallow, Cenzo raised the rudder and lowered the sail to pass through the channel’s twists and turns.

  The lagoon was variably a cake of mud, a screen of reeds, or a maze that twisted back on itself loop after loop, becoming smaller and smaller, from sacco to sacchetto. At low tide, they got out together to push the boat toward the dock of a deserted crab station. They were wet enough for their clothes to cling to their skin, and in the light of the lamp Giulia was transformed into a fierce little sea nymph. Cenzo was so distracted that he rammed the boat into the dock. Cats abandoned on the island mewed in self-pity.

  “Where are we?” Giulia asked.

  “One of my father’s favorite fishing stations. There’s a reason why the fish gather. It’s the mouth of a stream or it’s where currents come together. You can’t see them but they do, and even underwater they can carry you.” He jumped onto the dock and cranked an extra-wide net into the water. “We’re fishing the clouds with the most beautiful net in the world.”

  “You told me before.”

  “By the time we return, the net will be full. The main thing is to keep your hat on and your dignity intact. Nobody wants to wear a wet hat, as my father used to say.”

  “Will DaCosta find us?”

  “In time. It all depends on how smart he is. If it’s just him, not in a million years. If he enlists a fisherman as a guide, in a few days. And . . .”

  “And . . . ?” Giulia prompted. “You were about to say something else.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “‘We’ll see’ is a very annoying answer. It’s what grown-ups say to their children.”

  “You’re right. The sun is up.”

  As it rose, the sun cast silhouettes that crept across the water. When the Fatima began moving again, Cenzo moved to the front of the boat to part willow boughs.

  “What was your father like?” Giulia asked.

  “My father? There’s not much to tell. He was a fisherman. Giorgio called him ‘simple.’”

  “Was he?”

  “No. My father wasn’t an educated man but he was what could be called a ‘natural philosopher.’ A bit of a dreamer. Sometimes he didn’t catch as many fish as he should have because he was so busy watching the world. He could tell you when a kestrel was about to dive or how a duck’s wings drummed against the water. It was a mystery to him how nature could be so evenhanded and how the ugly and the beautiful could trade places. Some fishermen tossed dynamite into the lagoon and brought hundreds of fish to the surface. They were thugs, not fishermen. It wasn’t the illegality that bothered my father so much as the affront to nature. One night the thugs were visited by Enrico Vianello. He demanded respect for fish. Obviously, he was crazy. Can you believe it? Respect for fish?”

  “What did they do?”

  “They beat the hell out of him, naturally. But from then on they left the fish alone. That was what my father considered a worthwhile trade.” Cenzo pointed out a yellow snake squirming like a ribbon on the surface of the water. “This part of the lagoon used to be owned by duck hunters,” he said. “Long ago it was a route of the Roman Empire. A person could walk through history on such a road.”

  As they passed some reeds, he drew Giulia’s attention to a shotgun four times the size of an ordinary weapon.

  “A s’ciópon,” he said.

  “I remember,” Giulia said. “It sounds like an assassin’s weapon.”

  A s’ciópon was a boat. It was also a shotgun. It was built for a hunter to lie in and slaughter as many as fifty ducks with a single shot. Cenzo opened a waterproof bag of tools he had brought from Nido’s. He broke open the barrel and reamed the inside with rag, rod, and turpentine. It was a prehistoric weapon, at least a hundred pounds in weight plus a pound of black shot, with a recoil that could break a shoulder. It was like cleaning the teeth of a monster.

  “You came prepared,” Giulia said. “Who is that for?”

  “I’m not positive. Taking no chances.”

  When he was satisfied that the gun was clean, he loaded it with a heavyweight two-gauge cartridge and laid it behind the duck blind.

  “Happy?” Giulia asked.

  “I’m getting there.” They returned to the Fatima and punted from one narrow channel to another. The Marsh of Centrega ran into the Marsh of St. Gaggian which ran into the Marsh of Tralo and on and on. Over the course of the night, Cenzo had set one s’ciópon and two cloud nets at different locales. It wasn’t like laying mines in Abyssinia, but close enough.

  “My father said that if he ever wanted to, he could hide out in the lagoon for a hundred years.”

  “Was he a better fisherman than you?”

  “Easily. The only fisherman who rivaled the old man was Hugo. Hugo had a gift.”

  “And Giorgio?”

  “Giorgio doesn’t have the patience for fishing. He’s a lion, remember.”

  Evening brought swallows darting through the air. As the channel widened with the tide, the Fatima shifted under a stand of mangrove trees. They left the boat tied up, carried their food and canteens, and waded knee-deep in the direction of another fishing shack. There was no sign of recent use or habitation. They climbed moss-covered stairs up to a rough deck with loose boards. Inside were nets, crusty pans, and sardines that only a fisherman would consider sufficient for existence. Rusted spears and shovels stood in a corner. Postcards of the Virgin were tacked to the wall.

  “The place has a rustic quality,” Giulia said.

  “Are you superstitious?” Cenzo asked.

&
nbsp; “No,” Giulia said.

  “Good. Then we can stay here tonight.”

  • • •

  Dinner was biscuits washed down with the tinny taste of canteen water. They lay on the deck and watched a full moon slip from cloud to cloud. Cenzo didn’t think of the past or future anymore, only the present.

  “You know what we did for fun?” Giulia asked.

  “Quoted poetry?”

  “Raced cars.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “My father’s company sponsored racing cars. Have you ever driven a car at a hundred miles an hour?”

  “No.”

  “You ought to try it.”

  “I will.”

  “What did you mean by asking if I was superstitious?”

  “Nothing,” Cenzo said.

  “Don’t be a tease. Is it a ghost story?”

  “It’s not quite a ghost story.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. Years ago, there was an exceedingly beautiful woman who lived on the Lido and dealt in black-market cigarettes. Naturally she was envied, and one day she disappeared. People said she had struck it rich or run off with a sailor or entered a convent. All sorts of crazy ideas. The police gave up after a week, but then some boys who were swimming in this part of the lagoon pulled a steamer trunk out of the water.”

  “With the woman in it? I know how these stories usually go.”

  Cenzo continued. “The woman was in the trunk, chopped up and covered with squid and crabs. She had been killed by a blow to the back of the head and dismembered, limb by limb. The boys ran home with arms full of squid and crabs only to discover that the squid had the eyes of the dead woman. Since then, most fishermen have stopped fishing here. At least for squid.”

  “And on windy nights, does she moan?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “And were the killers caught?”

  “There were two. One was lost at sea and the other went insane. But as I said, it’s just a ghost story.”

  She asked, “Are you superstitious?”

  “Very. Every fisherman is.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “Just a little.”

  Light retreated from the lagoon in a blink. They listened to water slap against the deck.

  “Sometimes I have the feeling that I’m Alice and I’ve gone through the looking glass,” she said. “Only I’m not following a white rabbit, I’m following a mad fisherman who leads me on wild escapades and has a circle of friends and family each more lunatic than the other. Are they as dangerous as he makes them out to be? I can’t tell. I probably should escape, and yet I can’t. I’m his prisoner.”

  “I have nothing to offer you,” Cenzo said, “except a boat.”

  “You have ghost stories.”

  “And polenta.”

  She lifted herself up onto one elbow. “Is this a game?”

  “No, it’s not a game.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She traced his mouth with her fingertip. “You know more about the world than I do.”

  “The lagoon I know.”

  Cenzo was silent for a long time.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She rolled close enough to let their bodies touch.

  “What for?”

  “I’m not going to wait any longer.” He kissed her.

  “You don’t have to.”

  She lifted her hips and let him slide off her pants, at which point they might as well have been going a hundred miles per hour.

  41

  They woke at the sound of a Stork outfitted with pontoons flying in and out of channels, looking for enough clear water to land on. When the plane banked, Cenzo could make out Giorgio in the green glow of the cockpit light.

  “Who is it?” Giulia asked.

  “Giorgio’s flying. I didn’t get a look at the others.”

  “Do you think they saw the boat?” Gulia asked.

  “I’m sure they got an eyeful.”

  “Then I’m staying with you,” Giulia said.

  “They’ll shoot us both. If I can’t defend my lagoon, I don’t deserve it. Don’t you think there’s something Byronic about that?”

  “So you’re a romantic after all.”

  The Stork flew out of sight.

  “You have to go,” he said. “It will be back. Don’t show yourself, no matter what.” He gave her a kiss and a push and she slipped into the eelgrass.

  Cenzo lit a cigarette and waited. Two hundred meters on, the Stork executed a tight and perfect turn. Following its searchlight the plane dodged rocks and branches and touched down in the dark as lightly as a dragonfly. Cenzo had to admire the touch of a master.

  In a moment, flashlight beams reached into the dark. Farina stepped onto a pontoon and sank to his knees in swamp water. It didn’t faze him because he had returned to dressing in Fascist black. Otto Klein in his trademark white suit bulled his way through the water and up onto the dock of the shack. Cenzo was disappointed to see his brother consorting with lowlifes like Otto and Farina. He was almost nostalgic for the heroic Lion of Tripoli.

  “Two Vianello brothers. What are the odds on that?” Otto asked.

  “In the Venice Lagoon, pretty good,” Cenzo said.

  “Excellent point,” Otto said. “We’re just a search party. There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.”

  “They needed a pilot who knew the ins and outs.” Giorgio sounded unapologetic.

  Cenzo turned to Otto. “So you were play-acting in Salò.”

  “I played the fool. Now the play is over.”

  Ex–squadron leader Farina patted Cenzo down for a gun and took the opportunity for a shove. “Give me your knife, the one you gut fish with.”

  Cenzo handed over a broad-bladed knife. “How proud do you think your Son of the She Wolf would be if he could see you now?”

  “It’s the way of the world. He had to find out sometime.”

  Cenzo noticed that all three carried guns. “You look more like an invading army than a rescue party.”

  “Volunteers, I assure you,” Otto said. “The squadron leader was especially keen on joining us, but we don’t want to linger. Where’s the girl?”

  “Gone.”

  “You mean gone into hiding,” Otto said. “Oh, I bet you could lead us a merry chase in and out of this swamp if you wanted. Like Tarzan of the Apes swinging on vines. But I doubt our little Miss Silber will venture far from you.”

  “You’re not going to find anyone in this swamp at night,” said Giorgio.

  “Well, there are two ways to catch a mouse. Chase it or let it come to you.” Otto held his pistol straight up and fired a round that punctuated the dark. The sound of the shot resonated through the trees. “It’s simple. If the girl doesn’t care for Cenzo, she will keep on running. If she does care, she will return.”

  “She’ll run,” Farina said.

  “For some reason, I don’t think so,” Otto said. “In the meantime, why don’t we see what’s inside the cabin?”

  Eager to please, Farina climbed the stairs and shined his flashlight beam around the interior of the shack. There were nets, fishing gear and, as luck would have it, a dead squid curled up in the bottom of a bucket.

  “Okay, the girl is gone for now,” Otto said. “So where’s the gold?”

  “What gold?” Cenzo asked.

  “We know you have it,” Farina said. “My son found a gold bar you let a partisan walk off with. As his father the gold goes to my protection.”

  Cenzo turned to Giorgio. “What are you doing with these thieves? You were free and clear. Why didn’t you walk away?”

  “Not free and not clear. Life as a target is no fun, no fun at all.”

  “In films this is called a Mexican st
andoff,” Otto said. “No one walks away.”

  Dark kept progress to a crawl. Cenzo led Farina, Giorgio, and Otto on a trail that was barely visible. He had decided on a route that would swing by the s’ciópon. They stumbled through a marsh that was solid one moment and muck the next. From time to time Cenzo thought he heard an extra footfall and sensed that Giulia was keeping pace. None of them could see ­beyond the person ahead, but night was giving way to the dawn even as they walked.

  “You know what’s really insulting?” Otto said. “The Allies didn’t bomb Salò, not once. They blew up soldiers the length of Italy, but Mussolini was not worth the expenditure of a single bomb. I feel for the suckers who volunteered. They wanted to die for the Motherland. Well, they got six feet of it.” Otto laughed. “Remember how Mussolini asked women to donate their wedding rings for the war effort? ‘A proud and moving sacrifice by the women of Italy,’ he told them. Melted down it added up to tons of gold.”

  “You might want to hurry,” Cenzo said. “You never know when an American fighter plane might spot us from above and wonder why a German plane is hiding in the lagoon.”

  Cenzo heard something drop in the water. Farina felt around his feet.

  “I dropped my gun.”

  “We’re not going to wait for you,” Otto said.

  “Just a second, please.”

  “If we leave you behind, there’s no gold for you.”

  “Always the optimist,” Cenzo said. “More for you and Giorgio, right?”

  “Did you ever get a little bit jealous of your brother?” Otto asked Cenzo. “Was he always the leading man, the hero?”

  “Maybe. But would I trade places with him? No.”

  They were nearing the s’ciópon. Slogging through the marsh was hard work, and Otto let Farina catch up. “Did you find your gun?”

  “No.”

  “We should make you walk with your boots off. In fact, we’ll let you go first,” said Otto.

  The channel widened and narrowed according to its whim, but the tide was definitely going out, exposing more and more of the channel. Cenzo saw the muzzle of the s’ciópon poke out of the reeds. Farina, marching at the head of the column, saw it first. He lifted the barrel but couldn’t control the weight of its stock, and by the time he cocked and pulled the trigger, its momentum carried his aim well off target. The shot went off with the force of a small artillery piece and sprayed enough buckshot to knock Cenzo to the ground.