An Apartment in Venice

by Marlene Hill

  Botteri, a man of sixty or so, was also in black, but his suit looked silky and custom made. Certainly, his blinding-white shirt was hand sewn. His pale-blue silk tie probably cost as much as my entire outfit. For a second, she thought he looked familiar. He invited her to sit opposite him in a wingback chair beside a small fireplace. The warmth felt good.

  “Buona Sera, Signor Botteri,” she said. “As you know I’ve brought a packet to you from Signor Tuon. I have not opened it, even though he offered me one of the gems as payment for this delivery.”

  As he took the packet from her, she noticed his beautiful hands. The skin was smooth and his manicured fingernails were buffed to a high shine. He leaned in, and the way he stared into her eyes with a puzzled look told her at once that Nonno Tony hadn’t kept his promise. In fury, she dug her own nails into her palms but forced a smile and pretended to not notice Botteri’s stare.

  She cringed inside at Botteri’s nod and patronizing smile. Then it came to her! That simpering smile. She wanted to slap it off his face because he’d been the man who sent her a drink in the hotel bar that first evening in town. Thank God she’d refused it. She would not let him know she recognized him and get the hell away as soon as possible.

  “Buona Sera, Signorina. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Io sono Mirella Rizzatti.” It was her grandmother’s maiden name on her father’s side, but Mirella was also Giulia’s middle name.

  “May I offer you a glass of Pinot Grigio this evening, Mirella?”

  She thought he emphasized “this” trying to catch her, but she didn’t bite.

  “No thank you, but I would like a receipt before I leave.”

  “Of course.” He got up and went to a sleek, mahogany desk set near a window that overlooked the piazza seven stories below.

  “Please spell your name, Signorina.”

  She did. Then he snapped his fingers and the young man who had led her into the suite appeared. “Signore?” he said, waiting at attention.

  “Franco, please make a copy of these two documents—while we wait.”

  He turned toward her. “How long have you been in fair Vicenza?”

  Giulia wondered if Signor Botteri knew he was paraphrasing the phrase “in fair Verona” from Shakespeare’s prologue to Romeo and Juliet, but she merely replied, “Long enough to enjoy its many architectural wonders.”

  “Are you sure you need to leave this soon?” he asked. Was he pleading?

  “Mi dispiace, signore, I’m sorry, sir, but I have another engagement.”

  When Franco returned, she stood. Botteri took the documents, stapled the copies together and sauntered around his desk to hand them to her.

  “Signorina Rizzatti, thank you for being so kind to deliver these items. Franco will show you out. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

  She smiled but said nothing. Franco walked her to the elevator where the burly one waited to accompany her to the lobby.

  Giulia strode through the lobby toward the outer door, but a tall, elegant woman—a Mediterranean beauty with smooth olive skin, large dark eyes and swept-back hair—touched her arm lightly. “Signorina?”

  She asked Giulia to join her for a cup of tea. Giulia was apprehensive and almost refused. She wanted away from this place where Botteri and his minions held court, but curiosity got the best of her. She followed the woman, who might be forty—might be younger. What could happen over a cup of tea in an up-scale hotel? The sleek woman called herself Laura.

  They entered a quiet tea room just off the lobby. It had six, empty mahogany tables that must have been hand polished through the centuries. In less than five minutes, Giulia understood that Laura represented an escort service in Vicenza and wanted to draw Giulia into her fold. That fits—ancient tables for a discussion of an ancient profession.

  “You already have a client,” Laura said smiling.

  “What are you talking about?” Giulia asked.

  “A distinguished gentleman noticed you awhile back and wants to be your exclusive client.”

  “I’d never want such an arrangement!” Giulia said, standing up and spilling her half-full teacup onto the table.

  Within seconds, the waiter appeared with towels to clear away the mess. He must have been hovering behind a decorative screen in the back of the room. Laura put a shaky hand on Giulia’s arm, urging her to sit down again as the slim waiter returned immediately with more tea and a fresh cup.

  The woman deftly adjusted her sales pitch, saying that most women preferred to not be tied to one client. That idea reminded Giulia of her trouble in Eugene with a client who had wanted her exclusively. He’d pressed for more than the “arm candy” he’d signed on for. She’d refused, but after that encounter, the man had urged the company to let him set her up in an apartment in an exclusive area. Giulia had been scared out of her wits. It would have been a plush prison. She might not be able to finish school! The manager of the service seemed to think it would be a plum assignment and expected Giulia to go for it. Instead, she resigned. Later she’d found another service operating in a suburb of Eugene, but out there, she recognized two married professors. She’d quit that, too.

  Giulia only half listened to Laura’s continued sales pitch, but the more she heard her describe the lifestyle—a lifestyle she had once experimented with—the more sordid it sounded. Saying nothing, Giulia rose to leave—no upsetting of tea this time.

  * * *

  She had walked to the hotel to work off anxious feelings about meeting Botteri. After being around those people, she felt dirty and looked forward to a long, hot shower. Surely she’d be able to spot the bus stop she’d noticed on the way to the hotel. She guessed it was about five or six blocks away. In late March at seven p.m., the sun had set and the streets were quiet. Even before she heard the heavy footsteps, her stomach had begun to quiver, sensing something was off. She searched for a shop window to pretend to look at merchandise as she’d seen people do when followed in movies.

  But most Italian shopkeepers cover their closed shops with metal rolldown shutters and lock them at the bottom to a fixture embedded into the sidewalk. Finally, a few feet ahead, a lighted window was uncovered. The shop displayed heat pads, support hose and yet one more way to rid oneself of cellulite. Giulia had never seen so many ads about the problem, but she stopped and pretended to read the details. A big hulk passed by. She couldn’t see his face, but his size and the way he moved told her he was the burly one with the pompadour. She walked on, passing him while he studied a poster for a coming event. Was he toying with her? After another block, he dropped back. Maybe he remembered a rule in the Thug Manual about not following closely.

  She heard a rumbling vehicle and hoped to God it was her bus. She didn’t look back but power walked as fast as she could without running. When the bus pulled to the curb, she jumped aboard. If he should reach the bus in time, she decided she wouldn’t get off at her building. She’d have to get off at another place and find a taxi back.

  Giulia took a seat quickly but not before she saw through the rear window that the man had begun to run. He didn’t make it!

  Her mind told her he couldn’t possibly get to her stop in time to see her go up the back stairs, but as soon as she got off, she dashed to the front of the pensione. So far, no one from the base knew she didn’t live in the pensione part of the building. Her sweet landlords understood why she’d wanted to keep it that way in case a young man from the base should decide to follow her home. It was a safe setup. How ironic that she arranged it this way to protect her from an eager, young serviceman when instead it would keep her safe from a huge hired thug.

  After Giulia left that tea party, Laura had caught up with her and thrust an “application” into her hand. Application? Ha. Giulia knew it would be construed as a contract, and she almost threw it to the lobby floor and walked on it. But the desperate look on Laura’s face made her sympathize with another working woman and she jammed it into her purse instead.

  Safe i
nside her cozy apartment with the doors locked and curtains drawn, she took a good look at the “application.” No matter how legalistic the words sounded, they were still about sex for sale. Memories of stress and fear came back, reminding her she had once signed similar documents. Even though hers hadn’t been for sex per se, the world saw arm candy differently. With a grim smile, Giulia carried Laura’s contract to the kitchen sink, struck a match and torched the hateful thing.

  After a long, hot shower, she called her grandfather.

  “Nonno Tony?”

  “Si, si, coccolona. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. I want you to know I made your delivery this evening. And we need to talk. Will you be home next weekend?”

  “You sound upset. Can you tell me now?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I have to be gone all next weekend, but I can be in Vicenza a week from tonight, Monday, the thirty-first. Is that good for you?”

  “Va bene,” she said.

  “Good, I’ll call you next Monday morning. Abbi cura di te, take care of yourself.”

  “Give Nonna a hug for me.” And she hung up.

  She hadn’t told him “to take care,” and knew he would have noticed, but she was disgusted that he’d ignored her. That he’d told Botteri she was his granddaughter and had odd eyes. What had Botteri thought of that? Nonno Tony’s chances to break into the famous jewelry business of Vicenza were probably not good. Not good at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Pronto, hello.”

  “Giulia? This is Marlowe. Are you busy on this beautiful Saturday morning?”

  “Ciao, Marlowe. I’m on the train heading to Venice.”

  “Perfect! Would you join Marc and me for an early supper? Could you stay over that long?”

  “I could. Sounds lovely. I’ve been wanting to meet your miracle of manhood.”

  “Jeez. Do I brag about him that much?”

  “Not really, but whenever you mention him, your eyes flicker like the Northern Lights on a spring night.”

  “He is wonderful, but don’t tell him. His ego is well and truly intact.” And Giulia heard a contented chuckle in Marlowe’s voice. “Do you have any specific goal for your day in Venice?”

  “Thought I’d let my feet take me wherever they want to go.” Giulia looked down at her comfortable sandals and was glad she’d worn something light for this gorgeous day. It felt good to be in her yellow halter sundress with its full skirt. She’d tied a pale blue sweater around her shoulders for entering chilly churches or walking through shadowy sotoporteghi, tunnel-like passageways carved out of buildings.

  “Would you like company?” Marlowe asked. “Or is this your day to be alone in Venice?”

  “I’m planning on a lifetime of being in Venice. Why don’t you join me?”

  “Super. Could we meet around two?”

  “Name the place. I’ll be there.” Giulia felt excited about spending time in Venice with her new friend who seemed to love the city as much as she did.

  “Have you been inside the old church of San Giobbe?” Marlowe asked.

  “No. It’s always been closed. You sure we can get in?”

  “I’m sure. See you there, va bene?”

  “Va bene.”

  * * *

  She leaned back and looked at the marshy land as it became flatter and flatter the closer they came to Venice. Right on time, the train pulled into Venice at 11:07. When Giulia stepped down, she noticed that the palm trees growing in the open area near the tracks were still flourishing. Sniffing the Venetian air with a self-satisfied smile, she walked down the station steps to stand beside the Grand Canal and wait for Vaporetto Numero Uno. It’d be one of many lumbering water-buses that provide public transportation throughout the city and neighboring islands.

  Vaporetto is a much prettier word than water-bus. But vaporettos are merely big diesel buses that happen to float on the water. At least two hundred people can crowd aboard—and do—during rush hours. Vaporettos may be powered by diesel now, but when they were introduced in the 1880s, their power source was steam, giving them the name vaporetto. Secretly, Giulia always thought of them as fat hens clucking their way up and down the Grand Canal rather than something as delicate as a “little vapor.” Again she inhaled, and took in the essence of the sea. Soon she’d breathe this magical air every single day.

  She rode the entire length of the backward S that shaped the Grand Canal and went to Piazza di San Marco. Today she wanted only a quick glance at the over-dressed old dowager, her private name for the church. With “her” exotic excess, she bedazzles and dominates all who enter the huge football-sized square. Only the old Venetians could pull off such an eclectic extravaganza. Five domes lift their humps to the sky. Spires and fanciful carvings cover every square inch of the upper arches of the sparkling facade. She admired again the gorgeous marble columns at the doorways, not one exactly alike. Visitors halt in their tracks the first time they see this spectacle. And when they leave, most turn back to take one long look as if they’re not sure what they’d seen. Giulia remembered doing the same thing—more than once.

  A golden lion holding the book of St. Mark stands front and center at the top of the building. Gold and colored Byzantine mosaics picturing scenes from Jesus’s life are up there, too. What would the humble carpenter from Nazareth think about all this gold and glitter? Those sparkling bits of gold and colored glass fascinate any time of day—in any weather—but when the late afternoon sun strikes them, Saint Mark’s church is a show stopper. And the horses! Those magnificent gilded horses, stolen from Byzantium centuries ago, watch the piazza from the church’s balcony. Thank God the originals had finally been rescued from modern acidic air and now lift their proud heads in an upstairs room of the church.

  She stood staring with the same delirious sensation she’d felt as a child on her first visit. The glorious glitter and exuberance were still working their magic. But this time, she would not be lured inside. Like Ali Baba’s Cave, the golden walls and ceilings hold treasures beyond belief. Such excess and all so beautiful. She’d never pull herself away in time to walk anywhere else in the city this day, and for sure, she’d be late to meet Marlowe.

  Giulia felt light hearted about her decision to postpone San Marco’s. From now on, she could savor her favorites in the city at her leisure. She turned away quickly as if escaping the old lady’s clutches and caught a vaporetto back up the S to the Ca’ d’Oro stop.

  She followed the long, narrow passageway leading from the vaporetto stop into Cannaregio, the largest sestiere, district, of Venice. This walkway had once been a private entrance to the most dazzling palazzo in the city. The massive wooden gate in the side wall had an eight-inch square peep slot looking directly into the water entrance. She could never resist stopping to peer through to the marble mosaic pavimento and the stone stairway leading to the main floor of the palazzo. This structure must have been built higher than many others along the famous waterway or maybe new owners had performed restoration miracles because the marble artwork looked almost pristine. Nowadays, water moving with the tides, swished farther into most entrances than originally planned. With the city sinking bit by bit and water rising centimeter by centimeter, most water-gate entryways were empty and useless.

  She’d revisit The House of Gold another day. The reward for buying a ticket to enter Ca’ d’Oro was to stand on the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal and speculate how she would have felt living in a house covered with gold, at least on the water side of the building—the side for important guests.

  What kind of life did that family have? Were they content? Such speculation captured her imagination everywhere in Venice. If she could go back in time, she’d choose the sixteenth century, Tintoretto’s century. His older rival, Titian, was—and is—more famous, but Tintoretto’s work and life came across to her as earthy and much more exciting. Jacomo Robusti was nicknamed Tintoretto because his father had been a dyer of cloth and becau
se Jacomo was said to be barely five feet tall. Thus, the little tintore, dyer. According to Melania Mazzucco’s novel about his talented daughter, Marietta, Jacomo was crazy in love with his wife. Giulia liked knowing that.

  She came back to the twenty-first century and noticed she was headed toward La Chiesa di San Francesco Della Vigna, the Church of Saint Francis of the Vineyard. In all of the city, Vigna was her refuge. Since arriving in late February, Giulia had been in a state of agitation partly because of Ogle and Botteri. But she had to admit, she also felt conflicted about how she would run her new life. Would she continue to avoid having a man in her life? Nancy’s words still sounded in her head. “You’ve lived like a nun long enough.”

  Getting settled in Vicenza, beginning classes as a bonafide professor hadn’t allowed her much time in Venice yet. And today she needed time with Saint Francis. Although never really connecting to the faith of her parents, the saint’s cloister had a way of drawing her into a prayer-like state. She yearned for a bit of his serenity.

  She strolled through an immense campo, plaza, and passed beside the church of two saints, John and Paul, nicknamed Zanipolo by the Venetians. In the distinctive Venetian dialect, Zani is John and Polo is Paul. No matter how large a campo might be, in Venice there’s only one Piazza, the Piazza di San Marco. Just another peculiarity of Venice that makes it unique, she thought. She’d drop into Zanipolo another day.

  And one of these days, she’d speak the rather guttural Venetian dialect. Over the years, she’d persuaded Nonno Tony to share a few phrases, because of course, he knew how to converse when in Venice. No doubt his “business” contacts were old, chauvinistic Venetians who avoided speaking Italian whenever possible. Over the years, she had sipped coffee in bars away from tourist areas often enough to get the gist of the locals’ conversations. Yes, she’d give it a try, soon.

  She hurried into Campo Santa Marina, hoping Didovich’s bakery would still be there. It was! Time for a coffee and a sinful treat. As she broke apart her flaky brioche stuffed with a dried-fig spread, she speculated about why this campo didn’t have a church. What had happened to Santa Marina? Like regional malls in the States that needed at least one important store as an anchor, the Venetians always had at least one church per open campo. She was comparing churches to Saks Fifth Avenue or Macy’s, but maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched. Venetians had always been merchants first and Christians second. She leaned back for another sip, basking in the glow of being in Venice again.