by Ann Charney
Nerina has told him of the bargains she finds at Miracoli flea market, but these shorts are brand new. It is one thing to wonder how Nerina comes by the finds she uses to perk up her modest wardrobe — silk scarves, bits of jewellery — another matter to partake of what could be illgotten goods. The years of running an illegal pensione have convinced him he has no stomach for breaking the law.
Nerina ignores his question and reaches for his old shorts, which she displays as evidence of the real crime. “Look, look” she says, pointing to frayed elastic waistbands and sticking a finger through the holes where the wellworn fabric has given way. “No good, garbage.” With one swift movement, she sweeps his tired undergarments from his drawer to the floor.
“Thank you. A very thoughtful gift,” Walter says, deciding to be gracious. Nerina meant well, and he doubts the crime, if crime there is, can be undone. “Why don’t you stay for dinner and help me celebrate my birthday.”
Nerina claps her hands with delight. “I come back later and bring wine.”
She’s gone before he can tell her there’s no need to bring anything. Bill Ohstrom has invited him to make use of the wine cellar whenever he feels like it. Tonight seems like a fitting occasion to take him up on his offer.
VII
Life class
NERINA starts to run as soon as she hits the street. She is late, always late, always chasing the clock. No matter how fast she moves, she will probably not reach the Scuola Internazionale del Arte in time for the start of the drawing class.
She hears the students’ voices and their laughter echoing down from the top floor when she arrives. It doesn’t sound as if they care that she’s late. The raucous noise continues after she slips into the room, making her think her arrival has gone unnoticed. But once she steps behind the screen to change into the long red kimono provided for her, the scraping of chairs and the rustle of drawing paper indicate the students are getting ready for her appearance.
While she changes, she hears the teacher, Signor Perrone, instructing the students. “You are here to participate in a centuriesold tradition that goes back to the very beginning of art. The nude figure can express every aspect of humanity, from the heroic to the pathetic. Remember, it is the cornerstone of all art.” It pleases her to think she is a part of this noble tradition.
Nerina slips out of her robe and takes up her pose in the raised chair facing the class. There are tape marks on the floor and on the sides of the chair to remind her where to place her arms and feet. Watching her, Signor Perrone nods to indicate she’s hit the marks exactly. Behind her, music erupts from the CD player. English is the language of the classroom, but the music is always Venetian. Today, Signor Perrone has chosen one of Vivaldi’s Mandolin Concerti.
When she had been asked if she had any experience posing for a life drawing class, she’d lied and said yes. What could be so difficult about undressing and holding a pose? It was just like the game called statue that she played as a child, she told herself — only without clothes. And that part would be no worse than undressing in a doctor’s office.
She was only partially right. Posing nude is no big deal, but keeping still for twenty minutes at a time turned out to be surprisingly difficult. She does not see herself as fidgety, but now, after only a few minutes, every muscle in her body demands release. To distract herself, she watches the students work.
They are all about the same age — not much younger than she is — and mostly American. Although she doesn’t participate much in their conversations, she likes being around them, listening to their lighthearted chatter — mostly about themselves — and pretending she’s one of them. At the very least, her English is improving.
The room is quiet now and Nerina’s gaze strays upward, lingering on the high ceiling, the carved mouldings along the walls and the soft light filtering in through tall, dusty windows. The thought that no one knows she’s here pleases her. She’s proud to have found this job on her own and kept it secret. Keeping different parts of her life separate, as if there were a danger of crosscontamination, comes naturally to her.
Her mother was the same way. A Croatian Roman Catholic married to a Greek Orthodox Serb, she’d secretly had her daughter baptised a second time in her own church. Neither of her parents ever went to church, and Nerina never understood why her baptism — in any church — mattered to them.
Living with her maternal grandmother after her parents died, Nerina learned at an early age to avoid any mention of her father and his family. “Murderers, brutes,” was how her grandmother referred to her Serbian inlaws. “I warned your mother not to marry a Serb, but she laughed and said, ‘No one cares about such differences anymore.’ I always knew it would end badly.”
The truth was different, however. Nerina’s parents had died a year after the ethnic war ended, in a car accident while on their way to Belgrade to attend her Serbian grandfather’s funeral. Her father died instantly, but her mother survived long enough to be taken to a hospital in Belgrade, where she died several hours later from internal bleeding.
Her grandmother persisted in believing it was those hours spent in a Belgrade hospital that had killed Nerina’s mother, not the drunk driver who had veered into the path of her parents’ car. “The Serbs knew she was not one of them. They just left her to bleed to death like a dog in that hospital.”
Nerina starts to count numbers, a trick she learned as a child whenever she wanted to block out her grandmother’s voice. Over the years, the numbers have become the wagons of a train rushing past her as she counts: one, swoosh, two, swoosh, three, swoosh…
At the point when she feels she can’t hold still any longer, Signor Perrone says, “Time for your break, Nerina.” Leaving the room for the washroom, Nerina avoids the students’ work. Looking at their drawings of her nude body makes her more uncomfortable than posing in front of them.
When she returns to the classroom, she sees that during her absence the easels have been rearranged to form a circle, with the drawings facing inward. She knows what this means: the weekly group critique. Which also means she can leave earlier. A lucky break; now she can keep her promise to meet Marco and still make it back to the house in time for Walter’s birthday dinner.
She hasn’t seen Marco in weeks, not since the incident with the brooch. He’d dropped out of sight shortly afterwards. Someone told her he had signed on to work on a cruise ship sailing the Mediterranean. When he finally called to tell her the ship was on its way back to Venice and asked her to meet him at the pier where it would dock, she was not surprised. By now she was used to Marco’s habit of disappearing and resurfacing when it suited him.
From the start, when they first met at the University of Rijeka, the greater part of Marco’s life seemed to take place elsewhere, away from the university. A few months later, when Marco managed to have himself expelled for trashing the office of his economics professor — “a lying bastard,” according to him — he disappeared entirely. Months passed with no sign from him, and she assumed she’d never see him again. Then, a phone call from Venice, asking her to join him. There wasn’t much to keep her in Rijeka by then. Her grandmother had died and she had been thinking of leaving for some time. When she made it to Venice, he was waiting for her at the Santa Lucia train station.
“We’re only stopping for one night,” he’d told her during his phone call from the ship. “So it’s tomorrow, or not for a long time. I’ll explain when I see you.”
The warning of a long absence is sufficiently atypical of Marco to rouse her curiosity. There is also the fact that she has missed him, even though, after the incident with the brooch, she swore never to see him again.
The vaporetto lets her off at the San Basilio stop on the Giudecca Canal. It’s only a few steps across a wooden footbridge to the Cruise Terminal, where Marco’s ship, The Black Pearl, is docked. She’s arrived on time to see the last of the passengers disembark, followed by the crew.
Looking at Marco as he walks towards her, h
is face deeply suntanned, his dark hair — much longer now — curving sleekly away from his forehead, Nerina reminds herself to keep her distance. She knows how easy it is to be swept up in the wake of the turbulence he creates. Marco, seems to thrive in chaos, moving from one act of recklessness to the next without any apparent damage.
“Ciao bella,” he says, embracing her. “Even more beautiful than I remember.”
It feels good to hear her own language again, but she resists him. “I can only stay a few minutes,” she warns him. “I’m already late as it is.”
“What kind of greeting is that? Come on, let me buy you a coffee.”
“So, what’s your big news?” she asks, once they’re seated in the coffee bar. “You said you had something important to tell me.”
“I do,” Marco replies, taking his time. “You’re not the only one in a hurry. My visa for the US has come through. I fly to New York tomorrow.”
“How did that happen?” Nerina asks, trying to hide her dismay. Five minutes earlier she was determined to keep her distance from Marco. Now, his big news has left her feeling pathetically abandoned.
He has a sister living in New Jersey, he explains. After months of waiting, her request to bring him over has been granted.
“Don’t be sad, Nerina. We still have tonight,” he says, whispering the words in her ear.
“I’m surprised, not sad. You never mentioned a sister before.”
“I hardly know her. She left home when I was still a kid. I wasn’t even sure she’d answer my letter, but she came through in the end.”
How is it that everyone has a relative in America except her? She’s sliding dangerously close to selfpity, she realizes, and stands up to leave before she makes a fool of herself.
“Wait,” Marco says. He grabs her arm with one hand, using the other to retrieve a small bag from his jacket pocket. “I brought you a gift from Sarandë, in Albania. The ship stopped there so the tourists could visit the remains of an ancient Greek city nearby. I decided to check out the live town instead. That’s where I found this.” He hands her the parcel. “Bet no one’s ever brought you a gift from Albania before.”
Nerina opens the bag and sees a pretty aquamarine necklace. It doesn’t look particularly Albanian, not that she could tell if it did.
“Here, let me see how it looks on you,” Marco says, lifting her hair off her neck to fasten the clasp. “Perfect,” he says, stepping back to admire the result. “The colour matches your eyes exactly.”
“Thank you,” Nerina says, kissing him lightly.
“When will I see you?” he asks, his arms tightening around her.
She feels like crying, but she tries to keep her voice light. “I promised to celebrate a friend’s birthday tonight. I‘m not sure when I can get away.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Marco replies, not bothering to ask about the friend. “A guy I know from back home — he’s the one who helped me get a job on the ship — has arranged it so that we can use one of the luxury cabins tonight. I’ve got the key right here,” he adds, displaying the evidence.
“I’ll try,” she says, although she knows she’ll do as he asks. Keeping her distance doesn’t seem as important right now. The way things are going she may never see him again. Her attempts to obtain a visa to the US have never felt more hopeless.
Marco knows she’s coming as well. “See you soon,” he says, his broad smile conveying utter confidence.
VIII
Walter’s decision
THE light outside is fading when Nerina reappears, bringing wine and eager to help. While Walter sets out the ingredients for their simple meal — sautéed squid and tomatoes over polenta — she busies herself with the table. Her aesthetic talents extend beyond her appearance, Walter notes, as he watches her fold napkins into the shape of birds and build a centrepiece from the geraniums and ivy cuttings that she’s pilfered from the planters in the courtyard.
Nerina’s mood turns darker once they’re seated across from each other. She seems preoccupied and distant, not at all like the girl who danced around mocking his shabby underwear only hours earlier.
“Everything all right?” he asks, noticing she’s not eating.
“Not hungry,” she says, thinking he’s asking about the food.
After several minutes of silence, she looks up at him and asks, “Why they not want me?”
Walter has no need to ask who “they” are. The subject of Nerina’s complicated dealings with immigration officials comes up frequently. Her explanations are hard to follow, and all he really knows is that she is living in the country illegally — a difficult point of departure — and that the Ohstroms are trying to help. According to Bill, they were hoping to obtain a domestic employee visa for Nerina so they could take her with them the next time they returned to New York.
“Didn’t the Ohstroms promise to help you?”
“Promises mean nothing. They forget about me.”
“What’s brought this on?” he asks, bewildered. He’s never heard her sound so despondent. “Have they given you a reason to doubt them?”
Nerina shrugs and says nothing, concentrating on the unfurled bird, now a tight ball of linen that she rolls back and forth with the palm of her hand.
“These things take time,” Walter says, trying to be encouraging. “I’m sure they’re doing all they can.” He has no idea if what he’s said is true, but her unhappiness makes him uneasy.
Nerina looks at him for a long moment. “You American,” she says. “Why you no help?” “I wish I could, but what can I do?”
It’s true he’s in no position to help anyone, yet his answer leaves him feeling uncomfortable. He wishes he could rise to the occasion in some way, at least give her some useful advice, but the reproachful look in her eyes only makes him want to escape.
Nerina saves him the trouble. Rising from the table, she tells him she has to go meet a friend.
He’s used to her sudden departures, yet he can’t help feeling tonight she’s fleeing from him. He has disappointed her, and disappointed himself as well.
He decides to take a walk to clear his head. Leaving behind the campo, crowded with people gathering for the evening’s outdoor screening, he makes his way along quiet narrow streets where at this hour he’s unlikely to meet anyone else.
He soon finds himself in the Dorsoduro quarter, in front of the illuminated dome of the Salute church. He savours the cool breeze rising off the lagoon for a few minutes before heading back. His route home takes him past the Guggenheim. Tonight, its rooms and grounds are brightly lit and crowded with people — mostly Americans, from the sound of the conversation.
Walter pulls back into the shadows, not wishing to be seen by the latest arrivals — Theodora and Helena — as they pause to show their invitations to the guard at the gate. It’s no surprise to find that he’s been dropped from the museum’s invitation list for a second year in a row. He believed himself inured to the numerous minor humiliations that have become routine since news of his homelessness spread through the foreign community. The sense of weariness that sweeps over him now suggests otherwise. Dragging his feet up and down the steps of the many bridges along his route, he feels like an old man. No wonder he chose not to remember his birthday.
The soundtrack of the Chinese movie playing in the campo follows him inside the house. It does not prevent him from falling into an instant and profound sleep. When he hears a phone ring some time later, it takes him a few seconds to realize the jarring sound comes from his bedside table, not the screen.
“Sorry to wake you,” he hears Bill Ohstrom say, “I must have miscalculated the time difference.”
Walter glances at the bedside clock. He has slept less than an hour and the alertness he simulates requires an effort. His mind clears quickly, when he hears Bill tell him that he and Alice are coming back sooner than planned.
“The flat at the back of our house has suddenly become available,” Bill explains. “We’ve been dying to g
et our hands on it to have direct access to the canal. Rotten timing for you, I’m afraid.”
Only two weeks before he has to start scrambling again. He feels like a wounded animal forced into the wild too soon. He’d been counting on a long reprieve to rebuild his strength.
Getting back to sleep is out of the question. He wanders into the kitchen, hoping there’s enough wine left to do the trick. He drinks the little that remains and starts to clear the table. Nerina’s whimsical flower arrangement, a little wilted now, catches his eye.
For a moment he’s struck by the similarity of their plight — castaways clinging to a precarious perch — but dismisses the thought as shameful. How can he compare his mostly selfinflicted troubles with Nerina’s, which, given what he knows of her history, probably go back as far as she can remember?
“Why you no help?” she had asked him earlier. He had pretended not to understand, though he knew exactly what she meant. He may not have the power and influence of the Ohstroms, but even in his depleted state he is not without resources. He has a passport, a country — a country people like Nerina are desperate to reach — and the luxury of being free to come and go as he chooses. From Nerina’s perspective, these are inestimable riches. No wonder she turned to him for help
As the sleepless hours of the night tick by, the idea of marrying Nerina and taking her to America becomes the only desirable course open to him. How much more gratifying to act as Nerina’s benefactor than to eke out his days at the mercy of his former friends’ generosity. He has so little to lose, and Nerina so much to gain. And who knows, if Bill Ohstrom is right there may even be a chance for him as well. Whatever happens, it can’t be any worse than what awaits him if he remains in Venice.
PART TWO
Smith Falls, N.Y.
IX
Prison
THE snow has been coming down for days. Nerina, struggling through deep drifts to reach the mailbox by the side of the road, wonders what she is doing in this godforsaken place. It’s a question she’s asked herself almost every day in the months since she and Walter arrived in Smith Falls, a tiny village in the Northern Adirondacks.