by Diana Cachey
“For me?” She pointed to the loot in his bag.
“That is nah-ting,” he said. “A few silver pieces. What is dat? For captain and rescue.”
He spit.
“Don’t lie to me, Matteo, you found something else on that boat. You had plenty of time down there. “
“You are crazy. You think to be so clever. You are a disaster.” He kept repeating it.
That proves it, thought Louisa. Whenever he is this defensive and insulting, he usually has something to hide.
She decided to feign fatigue, which wasn’t difficult as the dive had stressed her. She wanted to check out his dive slate to see if he had noted anything else. She considered stealing it but he’d punish her for it later and she didn’t want him to know how much information she had on him.
She looked at her sister with pleading eyes and signaled her to move up to join Matteo at the helm.
“I am not going to argue with you, Matteo, I need to relax,” said Louisa.
“Yes, you sleep. You cat. You disaster. While I work. Is always the same.”
She hated when he called her a cat, like she was the lazy one and he, the worker. But he looks so sexy in the wetsuit, damn. And he’d saved her life. She just closed her eyes and laid back in the boat.
“Come,” he motioned to Barbara again, “I tell you everything. All stupid things that is happening down der on dat ship with dis, dis girl,” he pointed to Louisa. “Disaster.”
Matteo’s sloppy English told Louisa that he was much more upset and disturbed by the dive then he cared to admit.
Was it the rescue? Something he found? Both of those things? She motioned Barbara to sit with Matteo while she laid down in the hold. She signaled to Barbara and nodded her head towards his mesh bag. Barbara hated making nice with Matteo but brightened to the idea of deceiving him.
She took her seat next to him at the helm and relished winning, beating Matteo at his own game.
“I sinned again last night,” said Louisa at eight o’clock on a cold, damp Venetian morning.
After a brief swim in the lagoon the night before, Barbara’s mind was not yet fully equipped to respond to her sister’s confession. She quipped a curt response.
“That’s good.”
“Did you hear me? I said I sinned last night. With Matteo.”
“You’ve sinned before,” murmured Barbara.
She stretched her jaw into a light yawn and her faculties began to awaken. A poetic monologue tried to whip through her mind. Barbara’s lips lay motionless, silent, in a sleepy trance. She couldn’t express her quick thoughts of how it didn’t really matter anymore if her sister slept with her ex-boyfriend, purely for sex, whenever she wished, wherever she wanted.
But she still didn’t understand why. Why did her strong sister turn weak in his presence? She supposed it was because, for Louisa, Matteo was eager, available, safe and easy. No strings attached? Of course not, but he was handsome and good in bed.
“Haven’t sinned enough lately.” Louisa tossed her elegant head and sighed.
“You’ll sin again,” Barbara yelled out from her pillow.
“Yes, you’re right, I needed it,” Louisa said. Her mind filled in words, speaking not to what Barbara had actually said, but to what she wanted her to say. “Nothing satisfies me.”
“I thought you weren’t going to see him anymore?”
“I’m not going to see him anymore. For a while. In case you’re wondering.” Louisa blocked out Barbara, anticipating her lecture.
“Who aren’t you going to see, after last night anyway? Matteo? You sure?”
The minute Barbara asked, she wanted to gobble up the question. Louisa was bitter. Although lovely, confident and bright, Louisa carried a bushelful of regrets and grievances from several of her chaotic relationships, including the one with their father. Not being able to attack any of these men, she lashed out at Barbara.
“I see him when I want and I have no ties to him. I’m in control, don’t you get it? Matteo’s there for me, if I need him, here,” she pointed to her heart, “and not just there,” she pointed to her groin.
“I know,” interrupted Barbara, still under the covers. She hoped to stop the tirade. Too late.
“I control everything up here, too.” Louisa pointed to her head. She continued to rationalize, but only to herself, for as she spoke, Barbara drifted into her earlier haze.
Did any of it matter? Wasn’t life like the document handler in her office, spitting out reports, newsletters, papers that contradicted earlier versions or reworded and argued new points? Machines that pushed out revised standards and recent statistics claimed to prove something new or disapprove the old, but didn’t it all stay the same in the end? Louisa used Matteo for sex or she truly loved the scoundrel. It didn’t matter what was truth anymore, nothing changed.
When she opened her ears again, she heard Louisa still talking.
“I don’t see Matteo for a week then, maybe, if he’s lucky, I will let him in my bed. You know, in the bed, nothing more.”
“I know, nothing more. I get it,” agreed Barbara, and not because she hoped to placate Louisa. She wasn’t sure she got it, but she was trying to understand. She wanted to get it.
Strange, the Italian way. Divorce is a terrible option, cheating a better one. She was trying to figure it all out -- why married people slept with other people and others left their spouses or boyfriends but continued to have sex with them. Benefits. She didn’t get it. That was her assignment right now, to get it.
What’s going on here? With all of these lost lives, loves? I guess I don’t get it.
She crept out of bed and into the tiny kitchen with its two-burner stove and dormitory-size refrigerator squeezed into a corner. An adequate amount of dishes sat drying in a slotted tray above the sink. A small steel two-tiered rack sat next to it holding silverware, paper plates, hand towels, napkins, toothpicks and matches. She pulled out the moka, an Italian one-cup coffee maker, poured water in it, filled its steel filter with ground espresso beans, placed the filter inside, screwed on the lid, lit a burner with a match and placed the moka pot on the fire.
It will take about five minutes for this to perk. I could make good money in that amount of time if I truly believed having sex with anybody didn’t matter, Barbara thought as she stared at the flame.
“Well, I guess fidelity is only for married people,” Barbara finally spoke.
“Matteo could be married. Seeing someone else, I have no idea.” Louisa thought he might have a girlfriend because he wasn’t calling her incessantly like he used to do when he was lonely.
“Well, then it is only for truly married people,” Barbara said.
“New rule: when you haven’t had your espresso yet, you can’t talk to me,” said Louisa. “You can’t talk.” Louisa dunked a chocolate coated cookie into her own cup of espresso.
“I don’t know how or if Matteo pleases you in bed,” Barbara said to violate Louisa’s new rule. “I do know he sure can drink.” Her coffee sounded its bubbly approval. When the percolating stopped, she poured it into her thimble-sized cup.
“I said shut up. Okay?”
“It’s the truth.” Barbara said as she added sugar to the thick coffee.
“Drink two more cups of that then let me know what you think of the world.”
“Not the world. Just Matteo.” Fortified by downing the entire thimble, Barbara challenged Louisa.
“Tell me what you think, Ms. Experience,” Louisa said.
“Okay, I will, Miss-Seems-to-Forget-Her-Own-Horrifying-Experiences,” Barbara began making her second cup of espresso in the moka.
“I’m waiting,” said Louisa.
“First, I do not get it. Matteo makes you miserable. Over and over. Yet you continue to see him. He ain’t that great, I got news. He’s a drunk, a liar, a thief and a cheat.”
“Anything else?”
“God knows what else. Yes, he is witty, intelligent, charming, handsome, sexy. I me
an,” Barbara faltered realizing the absurd contradictions in what she was saying.
“Oh you do get it. That’s just it. You get it all right. You understand what other people don’t. Because you of all people know that I can’t keep a man. Never wanted to, even if I could.”
No, I don’t understand, Barbara reflected while she assembled another moka pot full of water and espresso and placed it on another flame for more fortification. I don’t get it at all. How I am here with you, listening to this against my strong will, my principals, everything, and enjoying it. I don’t get it and I never will. You think I get it, but ...
Louisa grabbed Barbara’s hand. “Have you ever been in lust?”
“I will never get it, but I am trying. I am trying to understand. At least I am trying to understand, is that what you mean?”
“No. Have you ever been in lust?”
No, but I think I, may be, sort of, Barbara’s mind stuttered. He was here, she felt it. Massimo. Barbara could sense his presence.
It felt like Massimo was there waiting for her to answer the question. Could it only be lust? She barely knew him. One night with him, it couldn’t be anything more than lust. Yet that man. That Massimo. The man had gotten inside her. Her heart, her head, her groin. Although with merely a pearl, a pea, a bead of comprehension, Barbara began to get it. Sex would be enough. Lust was enough.
If the pearl stays there long enough, in my mind, through waves of sand, sea, air, movement, it might make a reference, start to make sense, if I wait for the next particle, of information, feelings, to brush along my shore, my heart, my head, my groin ...
Louisa studied her sister’s vacant look for a moment.
“Mmm, I don’t know who he is, but I think, I guess, you really might get it.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“I love you,” she told Barbara.
“And I love you.”
“Okay. Can we talk about something else? Not Matteo? Like your newfound lust.” She peeked at Barbara over her espresso cup as she chugged it.
“My lust, where do I start?”
“How about with, I met a man.”
“I met a man.”
“Who is he? Who is he, Barbara? I assume he’s Venetian.”
“You assume correct.”
“Right on,” she whooped. She started to dance around the table.
“Don’t get too excited, I don’t know him very well.”
“Oh but you will, you will.
“You think?”
“If he is Venetian, he is sniffing you out, hot on your trail.” Louisa declared while Barbara’s phone started to vibrate. “Ha. I told you.” Louisa jumped up to get Barbara’s phone. She picked it up and looked at the face of it. “Massimo?”
“Massimo,” Barbara said. Her heart pounded loudly inside her chest Not from the espresso.
“My Massimo? The Prada man?” She answered her own question.
“Prada Massimo.”
“Massimo sent you a message.” Louisa eyes widened upon seeing his full name on display.
Barbara sat quietly, her heart anything but quiet.
“Why you sly little fox. He is hot!” Louisa exclaimed and danced with more glee.
“Massimo?” Barbara asked, holding her breath.
“Don’t you give me that innocent little sister crap. Massimo?” she mimicked Barbara. Then, with a rising voice, “Did you?”
“No.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
Kissed him. Met him for coffee. She spoke not one word, afraid to provide any details, now that her secret man had been revealed.
“My Prada boy and my sister? I am too thrilled.”
Why? Barbara wondered why Louisa was so happy about it. She also wanted to see the message but didn’t want to look too eager in front of Louisa.
“If I can’t have him, my sister will,” Louisa said, then danced again and sang. “If I can’t do it, my sister will.” She stopped dancing for a moment and added in earnest to be sure Barbara understood properly, “Although I do want him, you know?”
Duly noted.
Barbara couldn’t help staring at her phone, which Louisa still held in her hand. Louisa continued to dance and cheer while Barbara’s mind raced.
“Baby that one, he is one hot keeper, for sure. Snag him fast,” said Louisa
That is exactly what I intend to do. Not yet sure how or how fast.
“Oh my god,” Louisa finally said. She shook her head and fell into her chair dramatically. Louisa sat for a moment, silent and smiling. She noticed how quiet Barbara had become and leaned over the table towards her.
“Quit trying to analyze this one, Barbara.”
That’s impossible for me and you know it. Barbara continued to let Louisa do the talking.
“Please, for me, just this once, jump that man’s bones,” Louisa pleaded with hands in prayer position. “You like him,” she added when she saw Barbara’s vacant look. “It ain’t lust. It’s something more, isn’t it?”
“It’s probably lust.” Barbara finally said. She had to get that phone out of Louisa’s hand, get the message, get dressed then get that man.
“No, not with that one. Not with that one,” said Louisa.
“Not with that one,” Barbara mumbled.
“Anyway don’t you want to see what his message says?” She shoved the phone at Barbara.
“I know what it says.”
“What?”
“He’s Venetian. So it says: Meet me in San Bortolo in ten minutes.”
They both laughed. It seemed to them that their Venetian friends always did that. They wanted to meet you in San Bortolo in ten minutes. The campo next to Rialto was almost the center of town. Being in the center of town, Venetians expected, often demanded, that their friends could get there in ten minutes from anywhere in Venice.
“Funny. Now what did he really say?”
“That is what he really said, Louisa.”
“Hmmm?”
“I can read his mind. I don’t need to see the message.”
“You can read his mind? Or you just know how Venetians are?”
“Both. It’s awesome.”
“Oh girlfriend do tell.”
“Later. Right now I’ve got less than ten minutes to get extremely Italian-style babelicious.”
“Assolutamente, si.”
“I need to get my butt packed into a tight pair of jeans and run to San Bortolo.
“In heels.”
With that, the race was on. Louisa watched in amazement at a side of her sister she had not seen before.
Barbara transformed from groggy pajama girl to fiery Italian woman in seconds with a full face of make-up and poured-on jeans tucked inside police-officer boots, and though not heels, as sexy as a woman could get without them. She pulled a skin tight black cashmere turtleneck over her head. She fluffed up her hair. A tailored black leather jacket with laces down the sides, finished the look. She whipped the laces quickly at Louisa as she flew out the door and said, “Lust. Good?”
“Lust with Prada-Massimo?” Louisa tried to yell back to her. “Very good.”
Barbara was already half way to the next campo by then.
Today Louisa woke to the gentle song of a passing gondolier. His sweet serenade and the feeling of being surrounded by the wonder of a centuries-old palace filled her senses. Cracked plaster on her walls seemed to shape itself into an abstract piece of art when she peeked from the covers.
She wanted to nuzzle further into her pillow but the click, click sound she heard kept repeating. She grew curious. She sensed it was the seagull again. Through half-closed eyes she checked the window for the mermaid’s face. Was it her window siren sending messages from the canal again? If she squinted, maybe the face would be blurred this time -- as a ghost should be -- not the startling, eerie, out of place face she saw in the window before.
The window pane gleamed back at her and she saw only the buildings across the canal. She’d scrubbed the gl
ass furiously after her first visit from Vittorina, the name she’d assigned the mermaid ghost, the siren who sang strange songs about the delfini, dolphin ships.
She imagined her mermaid to be dressed in gold sequined bra with a long tail outlined in gold plumage and blonde locks wrapped around her face and streaming over her breasts. She would also be wearing a carnival mask trimmed with pink glitter. A supermodel beauty, in Louisa’s mind, she peeked through her mask, leaned over and whispered, “Victoria’s got a secret.” She called her siren apparition Vittorina because its equivalent in English is Victoria.
Vittorina’s soothing voice had disturbed Louisa with its song, as did her mere presence, but it made her laugh to imagine what Vittorina might say. Poking fun assuaged the fears, fears associated with visits from ghosts, especially one who left vague clues parroted by seagulls and sang lyrics that led to diving a sunken ship named Delfino.
It occurred to her that the word “siren” was very similar to “serenade.” Would gondoliers singing under her window reveal clues if she listened closely?
Clues. Her trip to Paris had seemed a bust because the Jewish girl, turned Venetian whore turned French courtesan, had been as vague in her musings as the siren had been in her song. Clues and stories about the Nazi house had seemed to lead nowhere, but the siren song, on the other hand, could prove valuable. Perhaps the words of the Parisian would prove valuable too?
Other clues. The Buranese shunned her when she showed them the Ca’Foscari clue, the strange poem about ghosts and tolling bells. The ghost expert had asked her never to return to visit upon hearing of the Burano fisherman’s extreme reaction to her brief visit with him. She’d also visited the Verdenese couple, but they didn’t seem to have anything to do with any of it. She’d ventured forth into the lagoon, all the way out to Verde and they could still hear the sound of the San Marco bells, but nothing was found there except sweet fragolini in Caterina’s garden.
Ghost clues. Her trip to the library had been somewhat of a success. The handwritten missive and drawing she’d found, along with Vittorina’s visit, had culminated in her finding Fondamenta Delfino. She’d located several wrecks and ultimately decided on the ship she would dive.