by Lina Ellina
2 - Rovigo, 2010
Casually attired in his light khaki chino pants and steel blue dress shirt that matched his Glaucous blue eyes, Lorenzo Zanetti stretched his long, muscular legs, put one over the other, and flipped the page of Il Gazettino di Rovigo to the soft sound of Pavarotti’s stentorian voice. He cast a quick glance at the blooming wisterias in the garden and then at the pendulum clock in the corner of the rustic kitchen as it chimed, and flashed a smile at Paola, his four-and-a-half-year-old daughter, who was just finishing her breakfast.
“Is my angel ready for kindergarten?”
“Yes, daddy. I’ll go get my bag.” The little wide-eyed girl with freckles and a lustrous golden-blonde ponytail climbed down the chair and removed her plate from the table.
“Run along now.”
Lorenzo pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his sculpted Roman nose and hid his chiseled face behind the newspaper once more. An article on the upcoming twinning of Comune di Rovigo in Italy with the Municipality of Famagusta[1] in Cyprus caught his attention. He had never been particularly interested in politics, but Famagusta, the stage for Shakespeare’s Othello, had always been associated with the family legend of Marin Zanetti, the family benefactor, one of his enterprising ancestors in the fifteenth century, who had purportedly come into great wealth by doing business on the island.
“Come on, daddy. Let’s go! I don’t want to be late,” Paola interrupted his thoughts a couple of minutes later. She was standing in the corridor with her arms folded in front of her chest, tapping her right foot, wondering what was taking him so long.
“Coming, angel.”
Lorenzo removed his reading glasses and placed them on the coffee table next to him. He folded the newspaper, took one last sip of his cappuccino, and wetted his full lips. He grabbed his keys and his cell phone and had a look at his virile reflection and the touch of silver on his temples in the mirror, as he smoothed his thick jet-black hair that he kept neatly cut above his ears.
He took Paola by the hand and walked her to the car still thinking of his ancestor. He helped her with the child car seat and got behind the wheel. As he was steering the car onto the road, a bizarre idea sprang to mind. What if he were to search for Marin? His chance of finding his trail was probably one in a billion, but at least, the quest might add some spice to his otherwise monotonous life since Beth’s tragic death.
[1]The seat of the Municipality of Famagusta has been located in the free areas controlled by the Cyprus Government since 1974.
3 - Larnaka International Airport, 2010
“Cut. Again! I know you are tired. We all are, but smile, ladies, smile!” the director shooting a commercial said faking a smile, and the models dressed up as flight attendants walked past the check-in counters toward the cameras for the twentieth time that day.
In front of check-in counter 62, Madame Lanvin embraced Marina and kissed her three times in the usual French way. “So this is it! Goodbye, Marina, and thanks again for the wonderful tours. We truly enjoyed our stay in Cyprus.”
Monsier Lanvin bent down to give five-foot-five Marina a farewell hug, too. “Merci beaucoup, Marina. You have made our vacation so memorable that we are thinking of coming back next year.”
“That would be great,” replied the young woman with the winsome, girlish face framed with rich dark brown curls. “I really wish we could meet again. I had a wonderful time, too... So I guess this is it then. Here’s where I wish you a safe flight back home. Drop a line if you have time. I’d love to hear from you.”
“Mais, bien sûr! And so should you. Au revoir, Marina.”
“Au revoir.”
Marina straightened her fitted crimson blouse, the fashionable color of that spring, which lit up her facial features, and waited until their baggage was weighed and they went through passport control to ensure they wouldn’t run into any difficulty. She waved at them one last time and headed back to the parking lot. A glance at her watch made her change her slow pace to brisk strides.
4 - Venice, 1467
When Alexandro Zanetti joined his son in the richly furnished living room, decorated with paintings by Lorenzetti’s students, he was wearing his captain’s face again. The young children of the family, two twin boys and two girls, came running down the stairs and stood in a straight line in front of the captain and Marin.
The twins, Zane and Lorenzo, shook their father’s and brother’s hand and with eyes glistening with enthusiasm, they wished them a safe journey. “We’ll come and look you up soon, Marin. Father said he’ll take us with him when summer comes,” Zane, the elder twin by five minutes, announced somberly.
“I’ll be waiting.” Marin gave his brothers a hug. In the meantime, Maria and Sofia hid their faces in their father’s arms and did their best not to look worried or sad.
“What do you want me to bring you when I come back? Silk perhaps to make fine new dresses?” the captain asked.
The girls locked eyes, turned to face their father, and said in unison, “Just come home safely.”
Their father squeezed them tight and turned to the boys while Marin lifted up his sisters and planted a kiss on their foreheads. “Now, you be good girls and help la mamma with everything. Okay?”
“Yes, Marin. We’ll miss you,” they said unable to fight back their tears. They didn’t have to be as brave with Marin as with their father.
“I’ll miss you, too,” Marin said with a lump in his throat.
“Boys, you know what to do,” the captain said. “You are the men of the house when we’re gone, but always do as your mother says.”
“Yes, captain,” the boys replied grave faced.
The captain gave his wife one last hug, nodded decisively, and with agile movements, father and son strode to the gondola. As soon as they were out of sight, Marin’s mother and the younger children lit a candle and said their prayers in front of the icon of the Madonna.
In the gondola, Marin focused his gaze on the multicolored arc of the rainbow, as sunrays shone on droplets of moisture, trying not to think of his mother and siblings. A few minutes later, they rowed by the stalls of the market outside the church of San Giovanni Elemosinario and the familiar smell of spices and oil perfumes penetrated his nostrils.
When he was a child, Marin would hang around fascinated by the liveliness of the potentially largest market in the world and the trading of a plethora of commodities from all parts of the then known world, most of which only the affluent bourgeois Venetians could afford. How many times had he imagined sailing the seas just like his father! When he was old enough to travel to the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean and the Near East, he was always heedful of merchandise he could trade. He had, in fact, managed to make a considerable profit based solely on his entrepreneurial instinct and street smartness.
The gondola floated under the wooden bridge that spanned the Grand Canal where barrels and boxes were unloaded on the banks into the fondaci[1].. Several men greeted his father respectfully as the gondola came to a halt at the docks. Marin’s dream had been to become a galley captain one day, just like his father, but it looked as if a different path lay before him.
The two men mounted a galley with a high, carved prow decorated with a miramare[2], after which the vessel was named. The Miramare would usually lead a convoy of galleys carrying cargo and pilgrims to the Holy Land, but this time it would be a lonely voyage, as January and February were the months for repairs in the galleys and time for sailors with their families. Andrea Cornaro’s request, however, was one that Captain Zanetti did not want to say ‘no’ to. Andrea needed Marin’s assistance, yesterday if possible, as well as to move goods to and from Cyprus.
When all checks were carried out, the captain skillfully maneuvered the galley out of the lagoon, despite the wind gaining strength and the waves pounding on the docks, and sailed eastward. The captain’s brief and precise orders were instantaneously carried out by his disciplined crew. The Venetians had been skilled seafarers for
centuries.
When they were on the open sea, the young man took the golden St. Christopher hanging from the chain on his neck in his fingers. His mother had given it to him before he sailed on his first voyage, and it always filled him with comfort. The young Venetian mulled over his new assignment. Becoming Andrea Cornaro’s right hand was a prestigious position, although he wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed. Marin let his gaze rest on the horizon and vowed to see his mission through no matter what impediments lay ahead. His father had vouched for him.
[1]The warehouses
[2]A mermaid
5 - Rovigo, 2010
Lorenzo dropped Paola off, contemplating how Beth’s death changed his life completely. He gave up his chef career at the Intercontinental Hotels chain and even refused an offer to work for La Pergola, a luxury three Michelin-starred restaurant in Rome. Instead, he opened up his own restaurant in his birthplace, Rovigo, a small and rather unknown town in Veneto, some eighty kilometers southwest of Venice, so as to offer Paola a child-friendly environment and to spend more time with her. He sold his modern apartment in Rome and bought a nice little villa with a beautiful garden not far from his sister’s house, so that Paola could spend time with her six-year-old cousin Gianfranco. The two of them became inseparable from day one.
Rovigo’s laid-back lifestyle slowed down his daily routine. In the mornings, Lorenzo would get up early, walk to the nearby market to pick fresh produce for his restaurant, come back home, make a healthy breakfast for Paola, and drive her to kindergarten. Afterward, he would go jogging and take a nap or take care of any of the day’s business, pick up Paola from kindergarten, and spend the rest of the afternoon with her. She would then either spend the evening at his sister’s playing with Gianfranco or ‘help’ him and his staff at the restaurant. Lorenzo had turned the tiny restaurant office into a bedroom, so that Paola could sleep until he was done working. He knew this arrangement was temporary. In fact, this was one of the issues that consumed a lot of his energy.
Location is essential for the success of a restaurant. Ca’ Lorenzo was situated in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, the heart of Rovigo and its Venetian background. The square serves as the most common meeting point, as it is surrounded by Palazzo Nodari, seat of the City Hall, Palazzo Roverella, famous for its temporary exhibitions, Palazzo Roncale, as well as the Accademia dei Concordi with its imposing library and the Gran Guardia, an impressive building used for conferences.
The sound of the car horn from the car behind him made him aware that the red traffic light had turned green. Lorenzo took a right turn and headed to the piazza and the registry office at the City Hall to get a certificato di stato di famiglia. This certificate, unique to Italy, records information on the entire family rather than just an individual. Lorenzo was relieved to find it empty.
“Buon giorno!” he said, approaching the counter.
The clerk raised his head and blinked at him. “Buon giorno!”
“I need a family certificate, please.”
“Name and date of birth?” enquired the clerk behind the counter, returning his eyes to his desktop screen.
“Lorenzo Zanetti, January 23, 1975,” he replied watching the diminutive figure push some keys on his keyboard.
“Did you know that alone in Rovigo, there are over four hundred people by the name of Zanetti?” The clerk observed Lorenzo’s astonished face with amusement.
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me trace an ancestor of mine. Marin Zanetti.”
“When was he born?”
“Around the middle of the fifteenth century,” Lorenzo replied tongue-tied.
“Well, this could be tricky.” The clerk paused a moment and then said, “Our records date back to the first census in 1871.”
“So these are the oldest records available?” Lorenzo asked rather disappointed.
“Let me think. Hmm…” He leaned back in his seat, rubbed his chin contemplating for a while, and then said, “In 1563, reforms brought about by the Council of Trento required priests to keep records of baptisms, marriages, and burials. In other words, church records in Italy date back to the sixteenth century. For some cities, however,” the clerk stopped again dramatically, “church records begin earlier - some even as early as the fourteenth century.” He shook his head affirmatively.
“Would that be the case of Veneto?”
“This, signore, I’m afraid is a query for the Church Archives in Venice.”
Lorenzo thanked him and strolled out of the building with the vague but exciting sensation of embarking on a scavenger hunt.
6 - Lefkosia, 2010
Marina hit the brakes of her Bossa Nova white Fiat 500 at the university campus and checked the time. She was only a few minutes late for her six-to-nine course, yet that wouldn’t deter Professor Papadopoulos, who never made an attempt to conceal his disdain for tardiness, from making a caustic comment at her expense. She rushed up the stairs to A112 only to find it empty. A glimpse at the announcement board confirmed the cancellation of class. Busy with her French clients, Marina didn’t have the time to check the university website, but it didn’t matter now.
She dragged her fatigued legs to the car. Her French clients had been charming but quite demanding, and balancing their wishes and her study load this last week had not been an effortless task exactly. She still needed to pull herself together and study for next week’s final exams - the last ones. She would then need to write her thesis, defend it, get her degree, and finally get a real job – a permanent full-time job. Although multitasking was her middle name, balancing her part-time jobs, guided tours during tourist high season and waiting tables during low season, her studies, and her relationship with George had been more arduous than she had originally anticipated when she proudly declared to her parents that she could make it on her own.
Marina’s teenage life had not been easy. Her fifty-eight-year old mother and her sixty-eight-year-old father made an effort to understand their thirteen-year-old daughter’s need to blend in with the other girls at school, whose major concern was what to wear at parties. But they never figured that the other girls found it weird that such old folks had a teenage daughter.
The fact that Marina worked weekends and summers to contribute to the family income, especially after her dad’s lower limb had been amputated due to diabetes, and that she cared for him in the afternoons when her mother was at work, made it even more difficult to fit in with the other kids at school. Their next-door neighbor’s boy, George, would sometimes come round in the afternoons and keep her company when he wasn’t playing football with the other boys. As the years went by, their friendship blossomed into romance. A romance now in sharp decline, Marina thought, the corners of her mouth twitching.
She made a quick stop at a grocery store. Since she would be home early this evening, she would surprise George with a romantic candle dinner. In all fairness, she thought, she hadn’t been very attentive to him lately, but she meant to make it up that night, even though he hadn’t been particularly caring either. He would rather spend his free time playing pilotta[1] with his friends, or watch football. In the last few months, he even made a habit out of disappearing for the entire weekend on hunting or fishing expeditions. In any event, she was willing to make one more effort to bridge the gap between them – for old times’ sake.
She parked the car outside the apartment building on Theseus Street and walked inside. She sighed when she found the elevator out of order again, and with the shopping bags in her hands, she climbed up the seven flights of stairs. Panting, she clutched the shopping bags in one hand while she fished for her house key in her bag.
She got in, kicked the door closed, and placed the shopping bags by the fruit ball on the kitchen counter of their one-bedroom open-plan apartment when she thought she heard voices. Was George home already? She tiptoed into the living room. The voices were coming from the bedroom, although they were not exactly voices. They sounded more like... moans. She pu
shed the bedroom door open and for a split second, she stood motionless.
“Marina, it’s not what it seems,” a sweaty, out-of-breath George said while the perplexed girl next to him covered herself up with a pillow. He rested his apologetic olive green eyes on Marina’s, smoothed his messy, wavy dark brown hair, and gave her the smile she used to find hard to resist.
All the swear words Marina knew crossed her mind simultaneously like the striking of Zeus’ lightning, but he wasn’t worth wasting her breath. Without a word, she turned on her heels, picked up her keys and her bag, and dashed to the door.
“Wait! Marina, don’t go. I can explain…”
Marina slammed the apartment door behind her. George tried to follow her but tripled over the bed sheet he was covering himself with and fell on all fours. By the time he had managed to get up and to the door, Marina was already out of sight. He cursed, gnashed his teeth, and ran barefoot down the stairs. When he finally got to the street, Marina had already turned the car engine on. George stood enraged and befuddled watching her vanish into the distance. The giggling of two young girls from the sidewalk across the street made him aware of his unusual outfit. He cursed again and went back into the building.
Marina drove aimlessly around Lefkosia, surprised at her own reactions. Yes, she was outraged and disappointed. Yes, her female ego couldn’t stomach that she was not enough, but why was her heart not breaking? Did things like these take time until they set it?
She glanced at the setting sun in the distance and put the brooding over her ruined relationship aside for a while. She needed to figure out where she could spend the night. Not that she had that much of a choice. She got on the A1 to Lemesos. Although Marina was a people person, she never really had time for friendships amidst her full-time studies, her part-time jobs, and – what she had believed until then to be – her full-time relationship.