An Apartment in Venice

by Marlene Hill

  Wednesday evening, Chuck and Giulia met Marc and Marlowe for an early pizza at the trattoria Serenissima in Cannaregio. The first whiff of garlic as they entered caused Giulia’s mouth to water. For sure, Serenissima’s pizza rated tops in the city for her. They passed the tables near the front windows and went on beyond the central cooking area where a monstrous jar of oil filled with peeled garlic cloves sat on the counter. They found a table in a rear corner for a little privacy. After ordering, Marc and Marlowe began giving Giulia advice. It was similar to Rafe’s. She should tell the truth as she saw it and nothing more. Giulia nodded.

  “Take all the time you need. Don’t let the opposing attorney badger you into answering too quickly,” Marc suggested. Giulia nodded.

  “Ask for a repeat of any question that seems strange or off the mark,” Marlowe said. Giulia nodded and began to see herself as one of those bobble-head dolls mounted in the back window of cars in the States.

  Chuck had a copy of the tape and its transcription from that horrible meeting. Giulia had already listened to it at least three times and read through the report to refresh her memory. At the time, she’d thought she’d been alert but after it was over, details had blurred. If this went before a jury, the recording would not be allowed, but Rafe knew the judge and Oliver’s attorney—possibly Oliver, himself—would have heard it so she wanted to have it in mind, too.

  “My fear,” she said, “is blurting out words that could be construed as having been a purposeful entrapment.”

  “Enough!” Marlowe said. “We need to give it a rest. Besides, you don’t blurt, Giulia. Go home, take a hot soak, relax. You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

  Chuck and Marc signaled for the check. The four friends walked out together and went their separate ways. But as Giulia and Chuck walked back across the Rialto Bridge toward his apartment, she couldn’t leave it alone.

  “If he asks if I instigated Oliver into assaulting me, I can easily answer no. If he asks if I went there to catch him? How do I answer? You know I wanted him caught and was willing to be bait.” She hesitated. “I know it’s semantics. Truth to tell, I think he was trying to trap me.”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  “I think he wanted to get back at me for kicking him after his first assault. So, in a way, we were both setting a trap for each other.”

  “Hmm. You might be right,” Chuck said as he opened the outer door to the apartment. “Don’t forget he locked the door, or thought he did, and you were there at his request. Remember his emails urging you to come? Sure, we all wanted to get rid of him, but you had a legitimate reason to be there.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Would he have been willing to discuss by phone or email whether you would teach Italian? I think not. And at some point, you would have had to go to sign another contract. Having backup nearby was merely the same precaution other women were taking. Oliver was aware of that. Remember him checking up and down the hallway looking for possible guards? He just didn’t happen to see us that time.”

  “You’re right,” she said feeling more positive as she hung her jacket in the hall closet. “He believed I was locked in with him and thought he had the cards stacked against me.” She shuddered. “Jeez. When I heard that click, it sounded so final.”

  “Ah Micina. I hate you went through that.” Unbuttoning her shirt, he said, “Maybe I can find a way to take your mind off tomorrow.”

  She slid her hands under his shirt moving up his solid chest and stopping to feel the strong throb of his heart. He had all her clothes off by the time they reached the shower. In bed, he kissed her from her nose to toes and slowly back up her body, bringing her to a long climax only seconds before his own. Later in the night, she woke feeling restless and worried, but Chuck’s arms around her put the whole ordeal in perspective. She felt loved no matter what would come later.

  * * *

  The deposition with the opposing attorney was as nerve-wracking as she had expected, but after their talk the night before, Giulia felt confident about her role in that sordid meeting with Oliver Ogle. Not once did Oliver’s lawyer manage to trick her. And when he asked if she had “instigated” the assault, she felt the tightness in the back of her neck let go, releasing the dull headache she’d carried around for a week. She answered no with easy conviction. After that, she relaxed enough to focus on Oliver’s attorney, who seemed to be struggling to defend Oliver.

  Marc and Marlowe came to Chuck’s place that evening to celebrate Oliver’s downfall. It wasn’t over, but in the end, they’d never have to deal with him face to face again. At Giulia’s request, Chuck made his Czech grandmother’s leek, spinach and cheese tart. It wasn’t too different from a favorite tart Marc’s Italian nonna made for him. Marc mused aloud if he might try it himself.

  “Hey ol’ man, are you ready for a tart standoff?” Chuck challenged, holding a serving spoon out as a mock sword.

  “Great idea,” Marlowe announced. “Giulia and I will be impartial judges.”

  And both guys blew out big raspberries.

  Marlowe carried in a tiramisu she’d brought to the celebration. Rich with heavy cream folded into whipped raw eggs, plenty of Vin Santo and curls of dark chocolate on top. The evening was a fitting tribute to their joint efforts to free the area of Ollie the Ogre.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After her class on Friday, Giulia visited Saint Francis again. She continued to wrestle with how and when she should reveal her past to Chuck. But convincing arguments for not telling him flooded her thoughts instead. First, Chuck didn’t know. Second, he didn’t need to know. And most important, her escort activities were long before they’d ever met. But when she looked up at the serene face of Francis, he seemed skeptical. The truth—he seemed to say—was she did not want to lose him. Maybe when they were old and grey, she’d tell him. Where did that come from?

  That evening, Chuck headed straight to the fridge, opened a bottle of beer, sank onto his huge recliner and took a long pull.

  “What’s up?” Giulia said, coming to sit on the wide arm of the chair.

  He pulled her onto his lap. “Have to replace another officer who has an emergency. I’ll be at the base tomorrow morning until Sunday night or possibly Monday morning.” He took another swallow and sighed. “It’s odd. B. G., I never minded. But damn, I’ve grown accustomed to lazy weekends with you.”

  “I’m disappointed too. What’s bee gee?”

  “Before Giulia.” He put his beer down and kissed her.

  “You’re funny. Sweet, too.” And she snuggled closer.

  “We ought to make the best use of our time while we have it. I have a sneaky hunch I might be called out sooner.” Before she could comment, he lifted her sweat shirt and began to bury his nose between her breasts.

  The phone rang around nine p.m., rousing them from a blissful snooze after languid lovemaking. Chuck had to leave. His own team had been called up. He needed to brief himself and his men on their mission. He couldn’t tell her anything and she didn’t ask.

  “Thank God you don’t have to go with them,” she said as they hugged at the door. She looked up. “Or… do you wish you were going?”

  “A little part of me does, maybe always will. But no,” he shook his head. “I don’t want that mind-numbing responsibility anymore. It’s enough to send them off, hoping to God they’re ready.”

  * * *

  Saturday morning, Giulia felt bereft. The night alone in Chuck’s big bed had been a sample of how lonely she’d feel after she moved out. Was she crazy? She ought to be glowing with excitement, instead, she felt off kilter. This should be an excellent time to shop for all the items needed to make the new place hers, but the idea of shopping seemed too trivial.

  She wandered aimlessly across the Rialto Bridge. But after she turned left toward Cannaregio, she knew where her feet were taking her. The narrow calles were filling with people doing their Saturday shopping and meeting friends at little tables outside the coffe
e bars. She maneuvered past them until she reached Fondamenta Nuova where she looked for Vaporetto Thirteen’s landing stage. Her regular pass didn’t allow her on number thirteen. She bought a ticket, forgetting to ask when it would depart but waited and stared across the vast expanse of the lagoon.

  It was a lonely ride into the far northeastern reaches. The craft’s destination was Treporti. The town was on the lagoon side of the broad peninsula that reached out from the eastern mainland. The peninsula almost touched the northern tip of the Lido. Together, these two landmasses usually held back stormy waters of the Adriatic Sea.

  The sky, heavy with grey clouds, colored the water almost black. Sky and water matched her state of mind. She glanced around, wondering if Botteri’s goons were on this boat, and idly hoped di Stefano’s team was, too.

  A handsome man with thick, salt and pepper hair and a dark, shapely mustache tried to engage her in conversation. He resembled one of the five or six top politicians in the central government in Rome who changed places frequently. Each time she visited Italy, the same ones were doing their musical-chairs routine. What was his name? D’Alema. Yes, Massimo D’Alema, an intelligent speaker, but she dismissed this man with a distant smile.

  Water almost covered small, barren islets. Had there ever been life on any of these? For a moment, she thought they might be cruising on the back side of Torcello Island but then noticed they were nowhere near the first beginnings of Venice. She was jerked out of her musings when the craft slammed into a huge bricola at Punta Vela, the dock for Sant’Erasmo. The pilot must have been distracted to make such a rough landing.

  Huge chains wrapped the three stocky tree trunks that formed the bricola they’d just rammed. This sturdy structure was surely made to withstand more than a careless bump from a vaporetto. To hold the boat steady for people to get off and on, the marino, ship’s attendant, threw his rope around a smaller post, also part of the pier.

  Of all the different wooden configurations in the lagoon used to buttress piers or guide pilots through the shallows, the triple cluster was her favorite. No doubt there were hundreds—maybe thousands—of bricolas throughout the Venetian Lagoon; most were much smaller than the giant one at Sant’Erasmo. To form a bricola of any size, three poles must be set deep into the mud beneath the water’s surface and placed in such a way that their feet are spread apart at the bottom with their shoulders leaning together above the water line. One or two steel bands bind them in what seems to be an eternal embrace.

  She had watched a small bricola installed near the Arsenale once. The men who placed it had the advantage of a mechanical aid to pound the wooden beams into the sandy bottom. Centuries before, of course, men would have used their own muscle power. She pondered on the fierce determination those ancients must have had.

  In the evenings, amber lamps mounted on small bricolas guide water craft across the dark waters like golden stepping stones. They had a beauty all their own. To Giulia, bricolas were as much symbols of Venice as the towers and domes. So much beauty here. Why must I feel so heavy?

  No one got off or on at Sant’Erasmo, the largest island in the lagoon. It was considered the vegetable garden of Venice. Some day, maybe she and Chuck would attend the Artichoke Festival she’d heard about. Then her throat thickened, and she found it hard to swallow. Chuck might have nothing to do with her when she told him. Dread moved through her like a poisonous venom.

  The vaporetto backed away with its usual grinding of engines thrown into reverse and turned toward Treporti. It was a different world out here. Could she live in this desolate expanse of water and sky? Probably not. If Chuck were with her? Maybe. When had she begun to measure every thought against whether Chuck would be involved? Whether he’d want to do this or that with her? Strange how her ideas of not wanting a man in her life changed when she stumbled into him.

  Two men in a small motorboat whizzed by. They wore camouflage suits and had a pile of reed in their boat. Were they going to a duck blind? Hunting now? In the spring? No. Must be off to build a blind, but why then camouflage? Maybe they liked to pretend to be military. She’d gone with her dad to a huge gun show in Eastern Oregon once. Many men—even their little kids—wore camouflage outfits. She thought of Hemingway, who went duck hunting in this lagoon. Men were strange creatures, eager for war or pretending to be warriors. Hemingway was one of those and wrote about them.

  Again, she thought of Chuck. Conflict was his chosen career. Would he have chosen it if not for his need to escape a hopeless future? She’d never known anyone like him in her life. Someone she respected and enjoyed bantering with. Someone who seemed to adore her. Would he feel the same if he knew?

  After stopping at Treporti, the boat turned back. She checked her pocket compass. It indicated they were heading southwest, back to Venice. Good, she thought, at least that’s working. Then the tears came. She couldn’t stop them. Already sitting in a corner next to a window, she huddled closer against the glass. Few people were on the return trip and none had ventured near her. Maybe they sensed a deranged woman. After the politico look-alike had left, no one else had acknowledged she was on board.

  The marino came through again and he, too, passed her by. Her ticket must have been good for the return. She pulled it out and sure enough it said round trip. The ticket seller hadn’t asked what Giulia wanted. Obviously, he knew she didn’t belong out here. “Live and learn,” she thought. How would she live without Chuck? Yet, she must take that risk. Otherwise, her past would always shadow her and be between them. He was the most sensitive man she’d ever known. He’d feel that shadow. Maybe already did.

  The tears had drained her. She slipped into a doze while the vaporetto chugged slowly back. When the sound of the engines changed from their steady thump to a resounding roar, she opened her eyes and saw they were about to dock at Fondamenta Nuova. She gazed behind her still not sure what to do. The brooding clouds that had hovered during the entire trip were now luminescent. Glowing. The afternoon sun pierced through the last of the clouds almost blinding her. She shaded her eyes and looked down. The water was no longer murky. Instead it reflected back the brilliant blue of the heavens. The truth of the heavens? Will Chuck still want me when he knows my truth?

  * * *

  Saturday night. Another night without Chuck. She hated it. She’d grown accustomed to his strength and heat curled around her. How did people endure the loneliness and fear when their loved ones were sent into war zones? And here I am about to send him away when I don’t need to!

  She turned on the light and picked up a book, hoping to stop the thoughts from running round and round like her gerbil, Rodolfo, did when she was ten. But soon she gave up and snapped off the light. She’d felt strong when she had signed up for the escort service. In control. Imagined herself as taking advantage of men instead of the other way around. Many women had been involved because they had nowhere else to turn, but she’d done it for a crazy, perverted idea of vengeance.

  What a joke! Ricky and Jason weren’t aware she was striking back at them. And neither one had used her—not really. But she worked too much, studied too much and in the end, their love for her wasn’t enough to overcome the twitch in their cocks. Most hurtful, though, was Jason’s lies from the start. Stop it! You’ve been over this same ground too many times. She punched her pillow, flopped onto her stomach and felt better.

  Then she remembered the greasy little man in the restaurant. Her defenses had been down when he’d grabbed her hand, and the floor had tilted beneath her feet. She’d barely recovered before Chuck appeared.

  Is that it, girl? You’ve decided to tell Chuck out of fear of getting caught?

  Oh God. Of course. And he had a right to know up front before their relationship went where they both wanted it to go. Why was she struggling? If this dilemma tortured a friend, she’d have seen the answer long ago. She knew what she must do and slid back under the duvet, breathed deeply a few times and drifted off.

  * * *

  Giu
lia’s eyes popped open. Her body went rigid with the strain of listening. Had she heard something? The numbers glowing on the bedside table read 3:10. She’d slept three hours. Someone was in the apartment and moving toward the bedroom. Slowly, stealthily. She held her breath. A large, dark shape filled the open doorway.

  “Chuck?” she whispered.

  “It’s me,” he said. His voice softer than usual, almost hoarse. “Sorry I woke you.”

  She released the breath she’d been holding and said, “Don’t be sorry.” And held out both arms.

  He sat on the side of the bed and scooped her against his chest. “You’re trembling. I scared you. Next time I’ll make more noise so you’ll know it’s me.”

  Next time? Would there be a next time? And without warning, she burst into sobs. “What’s happening to me?”

  He was quiet and continued to hold her. She could stay in his arms a hundred years. His shoes were already off and his clothes, too, by the time he’d reached the bedroom. He rolled onto the bed to embrace her. They lay without speaking. Eventually, she began to relax.

  “Sorry I frightened you.” He gathered a strand of her hair and let a silky curl slide through his fingers. “ We need a plan, in case it hadn’t been me. Do you know how to use a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to learn?”

  “No.”

  He snorted. “We need to come up with an idea. We’ll talk later.”

  She said nothing and pulled his mouth to hers.