by Susan Swan
Luce felt a surprised little thrill. Could it be Donald Sutherland under the curls? She recalled that the actor had played Casanova in an old movie by Fellini. Or was it a Sutherland look-alike? The man had caught Sutherland’s lugubrious style—the long, horsey face with the bulging eyes.
“You know him?” she asked.
“Leopardo’s been hired to dress up for the regatta,” Dino said. “It’s over two hundred years since the death of the great Venetian, you know.”
The lanky actor strolled across the square and kissed Dino on both cheeks. He beamed toothily as Dino focused his Mayima on him.
“My friend is interested in Casanova,” Dino said, from behind his camera.
“Were you in Fellini’s movie?” Luce asked.
“Leopardo is too young to claim that honour.” Dino laughed.
Someone was shouting Casanova’s name. The trio turned towards the wharf, where an enormous golden gondola was being landed by five men, all of them dressed in the same style of frock coat as Leopardo and wearing the same golden wigs. Once ashore, they began to tumble and somersault on the dock while the tourists clapped. They bowed, acknowledging the applause, and sprang into a human pyramid; Leopardo strode whistling over to join them. Despite his size, the others hoisted him up to the shoulders of the two men on the top of the pyramid, as the crowd around them clapped and yelled. Out of the corner of her eye, Luce noticed the guide with the red scarf looking their way. When Luce met her gaze, the young guide turned her back and began talking to one of the American tourists, paddling the air with her hands as if she was irritated.
On the Molo, the six Casanovas had begun declaiming in English to the audience. The smallest of the six knelt before the crowd and began to describe the childhood of Casanova. The actor switched to Italian, and what he said made the crowd laugh.
“He’s telling us how Casanova amused his mother’s dinner guests!” Dino said, sliding his arm around Luce’s waist. “He was only eleven, bella, and he did it by answering an adult riddle. Why is the Latin noun for the female genitals masculine, and feminine for the male?”
Dino paused, and Luce said softly, “Because the servant takes his name from the master.”
“Ah, bella, you are clever.”
“Do you think Casanova’s mother loved him, Dino?” she asked, thinking of Lee’s comment about Casanova seeing a mother’s omnipotence in desire.
“An excellent question! She delighted in his wit, naturally. But she left him with his grandmother to go on the stage.”
“Poor Casanova,” Luce murmured. Over by the vaporetto station, a woman in a large Borsalino stood watching the performers. “Let’s get out of here,” Luce whispered.
They hurried away across the Molo. She kept her head down, and when they were out of sight, she let Dino take her hand and leaned into him, grateful for his warmth in the cool spring afternoon.
Lee waved to Luce, but she couldn’t seem to catch the girl’s eye. Or Luce didn’t want to be seen with that wolfish-looking young man. Who would have guessed that someone as timid as Luce could be sly? She had been slow returning to the hospital, and when she returned, Luce had left for her appointment at the Sansovinian.
She had hoped to take Luce to the island of Torcello for dinner at the trattoria that specialized in carciofi, the lovely, plump artichokes that were first boiled and steamed, then coated in the thickest olive oil and served cold, their long stems trailing wistfully across the crockery. In the midst of her concern at the hospital, it hadn’t occurred to her to let Luce in on her plan. She had wanted to tell her, in a quiet moment, that the island of Torcello, with its clogged canals and deserted piazza, had been Kitty’s favourite spot in Venice. She was sure Luce would want to hear how she and Kitty had photographed its sad stone Madonna and eaten picnics of tasty artichokes by a muddy stream behind the old cathedral.
Now what was she supposed to do, go back to the hotel and wait? Lordy, it was a nuisance dealing with the needs of a young person. Perhaps Luce didn’t want to be with her. She had overheard Kitty once reprimanding Luce for calling her the Polish Pumpkin. She had been called worse things by her students. Still, it had stung her at the time.
Well, she would forget about Luce and work on her lecture notes at the Cantonine Istorica, another small restaurant she and Kitty had enjoyed. She’d eat their artichokes and toast Kitty with a glass of prosecco. Her mind made up, she strode off. But when she arrived, she found the restaurant closed. She peered through the window, looking for signs of waiters in their formal white jackets and saw the menu posted in the glass. Yes, there were the carciofi and the other dishes they had enjoyed together: frittura mista, a mixed fish fry; capesante alla veneziana, Venetian scallops cooked with garlic, parsley and lemon juice; and ragno di mare, the spider crabs that Kitty had loved so much.
She started her walk back, alone, to the Flora.
Dino took Luce to Harry’s Bar, once the watering hole of Ernest Hemingway. They huddled together at the bar, looking at his shots from the previous day. He shook his head apologetically over some of the photographs and she realized that the rowing skiffs were slightly out of focus. She made sympathetic little noises when he said he’d had a day of bad luck. She found his droll, old-world manner touching.
“Do you want to go back to the square and take some more?” she asked.
Shaking his head, he offered her the last of the long-stemmed bitters in the silver bowl on the bar. “Come, bella. I have something to show you.”
He led her down a maze of streets lined with high stone walls that concealed private gardens. A fresh sea breeze was rustling the tops of the half-hidden trees, and overhead, a newly risen moon cast its watery light, changing them into silvery creatures. In one instant, Dino became Punchinello, with a long, comic nose, and next the plague doctor of Venice in a beaky mask and flowing white gown. They crossed into a well-lit alleyway, and Dino became a man again. She sighed in relief, and he tugged her close to him, staring into her eyes with an unsettling intensity. She realized he was standing on his toes so his face could be level with hers.
“You must like tall women.” She smiled at him.
“You are very beautiful, bella,” he whispered. “Your great big eyes—bellissima!” She could feel his longing for her in his touch, and the sensation made her giddy. She pulled back, giggling nervously, and they started off again, their arms around each other’s waists. And now, unexpectedly, they stood on the Zattere wharf. Under the pink glow of street lamps, she noticed Dino’s friend, the tour guide, with her group of Americans sitting at one of the cafés. She pointed them out to Dino and he nodded dismissively. It was extraordinary, she thought, how small Venice was. Lee had told her the city was in an area no bigger than Central Park.
He took her arm and tugged her in the direction of a water-stained building.
“Luce, come. My flat is here. Look.” He pointed at a plaque on the wall.
“‘Beauty is religion if human virtue conjures it up and the reverence of the people holds it to its heart,’” she read. Half turning, she stared in the direction of the tour group and noticed that Dino’s friend was on her feet now, gazing at them.
“Did you know John Ruskin refused to make love to his bride?” Dino asked.
“Yes.” Luce decided to ignore the guide. “He expected her to have no pubic hair, like a statue.”
“So you know Ruskin too?” Dino sighed as if she had disappointed him and inserted his key in the door of the pensione. His flat turned out to be just two rooms—perhaps the very rooms, Luce thought, in which Ruskin had composed The Stones of Venice. She felt shy again, glancing nervously about the shabby space. To calm her nerves, she began to examine some black-and-white photographs scattered on the bed. Now that she’d come this far he would expect her to have sex with him. She knew she either had to sleep with him or explain why she had led him on. Thank goodness she had a moment to think. He had disappeared into a room off the entrance hallway. Rifling through his ph
otographs, she stopped at one with a letter clipped to it and read it without thinking. It appeared to be a cover letter from Dino, offering the sale of his photographs to an English paper:
To whom it may concern,
Would you like to buy my photographs of the Vogalonga in Venice? This year, the amateur regatta will draw over four thousand contestants from all over the globe for the rowing race that covers thirty kilometres and some of the most picturesque parts of the Lagoon.
The Vogalonga was started in 1974 by a Venetian family, the Rosa Salvas, owners of a bakery and catering service near Piazza San Marco. The family patriarch wanted a day of peace, without the wash of motorboats which erodes the foundations of the old palaces. There is no corporate sponsor of the regatta, nor are there traditional winners. Every contestant who passes the finish line is given a Venetian medallion and a small diploma in the form of a poster.
Sincerely,
Dino Fabbiani
So he really was a photojournalist. She felt slightly ashamed of herself for doubting him. Then she noticed the scribbled memo attached beneath: Dear Dino, I am afraid your photographs are not up to the professional standards of The European.
She hid the memo quickly beneath a pile of photographs as Dino emerged from the other room, holding up a blow-up of an eighteenth-century painting of a man in a wig and frock coat. The head was in profile, showing a youthful male face whose single, bulging eye seemed to express astonishment at something just outside the frame of the picture. Luce knew from her research that it was a painting of Casanova at twenty-six, by his brother, Francesco Casanova.
“For you, bella. Do you recognize him?” he asked, setting the photograph down on the cluttered table.
“Casanova?”
“Who else? I am very proud of it. The matte finish works well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and it’s so clear, especially compared to your other photos.”
He looked downcast, and she felt a sisterly tenderness for him.
“There is a fungus on the lens of my camera. It happens sometimes in Venice. Our humidity is bad for my equipment. When I have more money I will fix it.”
“I didn’t know about that. It must be expensive to replace a lens.”
He nodded morosely. “Yes, the tourists make everything expensive in Venice, bella. They are like cows, mooing in our faces. If I could leave, I would.” He gave her a sweet, ironic smile that she realized was characteristic of him. His bleakness disturbed her; she wanted to correct his fatalistic interpretation.
“Maybe you could leave and start over somewhere else?”
She became aware of voices below the window speaking English. She found herself straining to hear what they were saying, but Dino was suddenly standing in front of her, as if he wanted to block out the distraction on the street.
“Bella, your skin is white and fine—like Istrian marble,” he murmured.
“But my complexion won’t last forever, Dino.”
He laughed. “What a thing to say! Great beauty is the hallmark of the immortals!” He pulled her into his arms, and she let him turn her face to his so he could kiss her.
“You are sweet and good, bella,” he whispered. The musk of his cologne tickled her nose; she felt faintly aroused.
“Do you have a condom?” she whispered.
“There is no need. I can tell you aren’t sick.”
“How do I know you’re not sick?”
“What did you say, bella?”
“You need to wear a condom, Dino.”
“No, I can see who is healthy and who is not. And you, bella, have the face of a virgin.”
She stiffened. Behind Dino’s shoulder the doorknob was turning, just as it did in the old movies, and now the door opened and Dino’s friend, the tour guide, stood on the threshold. She began to scream in Italian. “You must go, bella. My friend is here,” Dino whispered. Dumbfounded, she let him take her hand and lead her quickly to the room off the hall. It was a photographer’s darkroom. He opened the window and pointed to a fire escape.
Before she could protest, he hurried her towards the window, one hand pressing on her neck as if he was already pushing her through the window. Humiliated, she ducked down and climbed onto the fire escape. Once she reached the ground, she began to run through the side streets behind Dino’s pensione until she came to the Hotel Flora. She realized he lived close by, and it seemed as if she had known her way back from another life. She leaned, panting, against its stone entrance and was assailed by a familiar lethargic sensation—indifference, or something worse: a disappointment past bearing. She thought of finding Lee. But what would be the point? She straightened herself up and walked with her little forward stoop into the lobby.
According to the clerk, there was no note from Lee. Relieved, she went up to her room and pulled out the user copy of Asked For Adams’ journal. She had given the original to Signor Goldoni but she would make herself feel better by reading the rest of her ancestor’s account on Charles Smith’s photocopy. Trying to put Dino out of her thoughts, she took the time to insert the copies of Casanova’s letters into Asked For’s entries so she could read Asked For’s story in chronological order. Feeling slightly consoled, she opened the user copy where she had left off. No one who saw the sheaf of Xeroxed pages would guess its importance. Only the words in red ink, “Harvard Library and Special Collections Reproduction Services,” stamped on the back of the pages hinted at their history.
May 23, 1797
I pray the weather stays temperate so that Father will not spoil.
I went early to a chapel by the Arsenal and prayed for Father’s soul. When I returned, the hotelkeeper told me he is keeping my parent in an old gondola on the bottom floor of his pensione. He has filled the gondola with ice, and to preserve Father’s body we must buy daily supplies from fruit vendors who bring it from the island of Murano. Francis says the price is highway robbery, and for once I find myself agreeing with him—fifty American dollars! I will not let Father be pickled in alcohol. I intend to bathe my parent in aromatic vinegar and wrap him in linens soaked in aloes.
Poor Father. How he would dislike his resting place.
Alas, no funerals are being conducted since the French came. This morning an undertaker on the Rialto refused our request because he had been ordered by General Junot to accept only military commissions. The undertaker was anxious to get us out of his shop and he hinted that the French will kill any Venetian undertakers who fail to comply.
Francis and I took a gondola to the convent run by the Capuchins and met with the Abbess. She was sad to hear about Father. He was the only supplicant, she told us, who had ever given her a present, and she was clearly disappointed when Francis explained that in New England, parents of engaged couples always give presents to their pastors. I believe she had taken Father’s gift for an expression of romantic interest.
The Abbess took us out into the garden and I found myself looking for Monsieur Casanova. She showed us a plot of pumpkins with hopeful pride and Francis pointed out that pumpkins, like corn, are from America.
“Is that so, Monsieur Gooch?” she said, winking at me as if she wished to share her amusement over his stolid manner. “Well, I cannot hold your wedding now. Perhaps late in June—when things have settled again. None of us know what to expect from the French.”
“Let us settle on a date, then,” Francis said imperiously. “I will marry Asked For on the third Sunday in June.”
“A very romantic time for a wedding.” The Abbess smiled. “If the French permit it.”
“The third Sunday, then. I will ask their permission.” My gap-toothed Francis seized my arm and steered me out the garden, muttering that our Indians at home know more about growing vegetables.
In our gondola, I asked why he fixed the date without consulting me.
“Asked For, you are under my charge now,” he said.
“But I am in mourning. I cannot be married so soon after Father’s death.”
&nb
sp; “It was your father’s wish that we be married at once. Venice is at war and you and I lack a chaperon. We shall marry as soon as we can and depart soon after for Massachusetts.”
I hid my angry face in a handkerchief of Father’s. It smelled of him and gave me comfort. Francis has no right to tell me what to do. I do not love him. And I will not return to America as his bride. I would rather be shut up in the convent with the silly, stunted pumpkin garden than go back to Massachusetts as the wife of Francis Gooch.
I am omitting my catechism of questions. Until Father’s body is properly buried, I can think of nothing else.
May 24, 1797
Showers have staunched the sun’s heat so Father can rest safely in his wooden ship.
This morning a note arrived, slipped under the door of my hotel room. I recognized the hand. It was from him. From Jacob Casanova. He uses a gold writing ink, which he sprinkles with sand. “A friend is waiting for you at Rio ———. He is trustworthy and will take care of the precious cargo you are keeping on ice.”
I did not show Francis the note, nor did I ask him to accompany me to the undertaker. I set out on my own, somewhat afraid as I walked quickly through the half-deserted city. Small bands of French troops patrolled the streets but there was no sign of Venetians. They have retreated behind the curtains of their tall, narrow houses, waiting to see if Napoleon will inflict the same bloodshed the Jacobins brought to Paris. I feel a kinship with these frightened people forced to host their gaolers in their own homes.
I was carrying an English guidebook bought for me by Francis. It was written for Grand Tourists by a Mr. Gilbert Burnet and it is stuffed with attacks on Popish icons and religious orders, which the author argues manifest luxury, vanity, superstition and misery. I soon became weary of Mr. Burnet, but I relied on his small hand-drawn map of Venice for my compass.
Walking through a labyrinth of lanes and across several small bridges, I found myself in a section I had never seen before. I was in the north part of the Cannaregio, moving through deserted squares and half-empty streets where clothes hung drying upon cords and dirty children were throwing stones at one another.