Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  “I have no idea what your shoe says.” She smiled and swallowed more burning coffee.

  “Come now. You’re an intelligent lady of the world. Look at that shoe.”

  Dolores waved at them and Stella could’ve kissed her. “I know,” she said. “It says you need new shoes.”

  “Dolores!” said Randolph.

  “He asked.”

  Mr. Bast laughed. “Indeed, I did and she’s right. I do, but why do I, Mrs. Myna?”

  Stella bit her lip, for once not trying to look charming but managing it anyway. “Well, the soles are worn. Because you walk a lot for your work?”

  He swung his fork and held it like a trophy. “And there you go. I’m a man with sensible, worn out shoes, which must mean…”

  Stella laughed. “That you’re sensible and work for a living.”

  Dolores stuck out a foot, which was clad in a black leather pump with silk laces and a floppy bow. “What about mine?”

  “That shoe, Mrs. Hutchins, says you don’t like to walk and you choose fashion over practicality.”

  “Amen,” said Randolph.

  The entire room laughed and all the shoes were duly discussed. Stella excused herself and tried to get out before they made it to her oversized galoshes, but, naturally, she didn’t make it three feet.

  “How about Eulalie’s feet?” asked Dolores, still laughing.

  Stella was obliged to wait while Mr. Bast pondered her feet and she decided that perhaps the best thing wasn’t to look ashamed or pained, but to be a doll as Florence would’ve said.

  She flung her handbag over her shoulder and sauntered back across the breakfast room, mimicking Katherine Hepburn’s voice. “Here reflecting the spirit of the fall season is a Venice original. There’s nothing like water damage to enhance the chic design of this once lovely suit.” She turned and thrust out a hip to wails of laughter. “And for that one extra touch, our girl has added black, oversized galoshes meant for men, but, ladies, oh so stylish.”

  Stella posed by the coat rack before bowing and laughing along. She thought she saw Mr. Bast wiping his eyes and took it as a compliment. Sofia came racing in. “What is occurring? Mrs. Myna? Has there been a spill?”

  “Just on me,” said Stella, garnering more laughter.

  “I don’t understand.” Sofia started examining Stella, getting even more laughter.

  “It’s okay, Sofia. It’s a joke. We were joking.”

  “About the weather, yes?” she asked.

  “The weather is a big joke,” said Mr. Bast. “And as for Mrs. Myna’s foot attire, I’d say she cares less for fashion than moisture level or…the flooding has ruined all her shoes.”

  “The second one,” proclaimed Dolores.

  Stella plucked her coat off the rack and said, “If I had my choice, I’d be wearing Dolores’s shoes hands-down.”

  Dolores blew her a kiss. “Thank you, Eulalie. See, Randolph!”

  Stella dashed down the hall, stopped at the front doors, and then rethought. She turned to Matteo at the desk and gave him a high-wattage smile. The boy shrank back instead of smiling and Stella wished Peiper’s boy was more like him. That murderous little guttersnipe wasn’t afraid of her or anyone.

  “Signora?” asked Matteo.

  “I need a boat.”

  Matteo tilted his head. “Boat?”

  “Taxi.” She patted her chest. “I need a taxi.”

  “Sì. Sì.” He took her to the dock door and took a heavy rain slicker off a peg.

  “No, no. You don’t have to take me,” she said. “A taxi.”

  Sofia came down the hall, wiping her own eyes with her apron. “Mrs. Myna is very funny. But what are you doing?”

  “I was asking for a taxi.”

  She spoke to Matteo and they came to an agreement. Sofia smiled indulgently and nodded yes to the boy. Matteo went splashing into the water and out the door.

  “He wants to take you in the hotel boat. This is right for you, yes?” asked Sofia.

  Stella got a funny queasy feeling, but she ignored it. “Yes, of course, but I don’t want to bother him or you, for that matter.”

  “It is no trouble. He will go for the linens and the market for the fish, too.”

  Stella offered to pay, since she had some money to indulge in a ride, but Sofia waved the coins away. “It is nothing. Where do you go?”

  Finally, something she knew. “The vaporetto stop at San Silvestro.”

  Sofia frowned. “You go to see the doctor?”

  “Yes, that’s it. The doctor and some other things. I won’t be long.”

  Matteo called in the door and Sofia told him Stella’s destination. He looked as puzzled as she did, but he grabbed an umbrella for Stella and helped her down the steps into the water. They splashed over the little dock and into a small craft, just big enough for four people in the cabin if they stood up and put the cargo on the back. Matteo settled her into a seat and they eased away from the dock. Stella relaxed on the hard seat. Life was good when you didn’t have to walk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MATTEO HELPED HER out onto the dock near the vaporetto stop. She thanked him in her rudimentary Italian and he blushed before jumping back in the boat, “Ci vediamo.”

  Stella watched Matteo do an expert turn in the canal and considered her options. She could go to the telegraph office, Daniel’s flat, or the hotel. There was no point in going to the hotel or the flat if her father hadn’t gotten the message. There’d be no money to get. So the telegraph office it was. She knew the location, a little shop off Campo di San Silvestro. She’d been there with Abel several times to send telegrams to her parents. Nicky had been irritated enough with the frequent trips not to go with them. He just didn’t understand telegrams flying back and forth over the Atlantic. The memory made her sad, but even with those little snits, they’d been happy. She hadn’t known how lucky she was. She hadn’t appreciated the money or the walking without pain or even the beauty of the city. There had been so much beauty then.

  She turned around to orient herself and saw Matteo still there, idling across the canal and watching her. She waved and she could’ve sworn he blushed again before motoring off. Maybe Sofia had told him to keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t be surprising. People seemed to think her fragile. But it didn’t matter what Matteo thought or Sofia. She wasn’t close to fragile. Maybe once but not anymore.

  Now she saw the buildings and their beauty rising around her, not even her umbrella and the incessant rain blinded her to it. She smiled and headed off down the street and made it to the square in minutes. It was as she remembered, except flooded, of course. The water was a foot deep and people were plowing through it and chatting like it was normal.

  Stella followed suit and made her way across the square past the ancient white marble well in the middle, smiling at a group of small boys who’d taken up residence and made it a kind of fort with umbrellas and tarps. They peeked out at her warily with their fingers turned into pistols looking for pirates or whatever boys look for before they notice girls. She waved and they shushed her. It was all a big secret.

  A lady with a big bosom stood in a doorway, smoking a cigarette and wearing uglier boots than Stella, laughing and shaking her head. She aimed a pistol finger and the boys shrieked, retreating into their hideout. Fun in the middle of a mess. Stella smiled all the way over to the telegraph office and was glad she’d been there before. The sign wasn’t big and making it grey on a grey building wasn’t the best idea. If Abel hadn’t known the way, it would’ve taken forever to find “Poste e Telegrafo” on the big square. It was like they didn’t want you to find it and the man in the doorway wasn’t happy that she did.

  He was balanced on some sandbags and holding a hose that spewed water out into the square. He grimaced with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, looking her over and not missing a thing. Her fur was of particular interest. It had to go. He wasn’t likely to forget it or her.

  “Buongiorno, signore,” she said, h
oping that he didn’t care about her origins. Stella was in no mood to convince him that she wasn’t a Jew or that it shouldn’t matter if she was..

  He eyed her for a few more seconds and then nodded but didn’t move aside. She sighed and got out her dictionary, remembering another thing she hadn’t appreciated before, Abel and his fluent Italian.

  It took a second, but she got out, “Telegramma per me.”

  The man gave her a worn-out tourists-make-me-tired look and stepped aside, yelling behind him. “Elena! Telegramma per turista.”

  “Turista? Che turista?” yelled a woman.

  “Turista! Turista!” he yelled back and waved Stella in impatiently.

  She climbed up over the sandbags and stepped into the little office that was the same as before, except there was a wooden table in the middle, six inches deep in water. It had some sort of motor on it, making a terrible racket and belching smoke. It seemed to be sucking the water off the floor with several hoses but wasn’t making fast work of it.

  There were sandbags around the perimeter to protect the little post office boxes and a young woman leaned on the counter in the back in the alcove. Stella didn’t recognize her. Before the office had been run by a mother and grandmother team, who fought constantly, and Stella was relieved they weren’t there to either recognize her or yell.

  This new woman was about Stella’s age with beautiful long hair flowing down her shoulders in silky coils. Behind her, equipment was stacked to the ceiling and Stella wondered if they were operating. The girl waved at her shyly and Stella splashed over with her dictionary ready.

  “Buongiorno,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the racket. “Telegramma?”

  “Sì, sì. What is your name?” she asked.

  Stella leaned on the counter. “You speak English. I’m so happy.”

  The girl laughed. “I speak a little English.”

  “You speak a lot of English, but let’s not quibble.”

  “What is quibble? I do not know this word.”

  “It’s means argue, but that doesn’t matter,” said Stella, taking a second to appreciate her good fortune. “My name is Miss Myna. Do you have a telegram from the States for me?”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Myna,” she said happily. “I have it.”

  Stella could’ve cried.

  “But you are not happy?”

  “I’m very happy. Can I have it?” she asked, itching to read her father’s words.

  “Have you the passport?” the girl asked.

  Stella handed over her passport and it was duly glanced at. She handed the passport back and gave her a slender envelope that Stella instinctively pressed to her chest.

  “Do you want send a telegram?” asked Elena.

  “Yes. I’m sure I do.”

  The motor behind her sputtered and gave up, causing the man to curse and toss down his hose.

  “Grazie Dio,” exclaimed Elena, getting her a hateful look in response. “My father, he is mad at the rain, but the rain it comes. No one can stop it.”

  “It will stop eventually,” said Stella.

  Elena nodded solemnly. “Domani. Tomorrow it will stop.”

  “I’m sure.” Stella looked at the envelope and smiled. Patrick and her father had understood. The message was addressed to Miss Myna and was sent by Patrick. No mention of the Bled name thankfully. She slit open the envelope with her fingernail and held her breath as she unfolded the thin paper.

  Dear beloved Miss Myna,

  Funds sent. Pocket money. Josiah well. Mother frantic.

  Return home immediately. Proceed to Genoa. The Italian Line. Tickets waiting.

  Love, Father

  Stella read the telegram three times and it made her heart hurt. The money was good, but that was the best of it.

  “You send reply?” asked Elena.

  She read it a fourth time and thought for a moment. “No. Not right now. You are open all day?”

  “We close at noon to 1430 for riposo.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.” Stella looked at her father’s words. She had to reply, but what could she say? Uncle Josiah was okay. Thank goodness. But Abel wasn’t. Father would’ve said so if he was. And Mother. She’d completely forgotten about keeping it from her. If Patrick went to the house instead of the brewery, Mother would’ve read the telegram and known something was terribly wrong and, perhaps even worse, she realized Father knew and didn’t tell her. To top it off, they couldn’t proceed to Genoa or anywhere else. It was a struggle to get Nicky to the bathroom just then.

  “You have message now?” asked Elena.

  “No. I’ll be back.”

  Elena nodded and Stella tucked the telegram in her handbag to join the growing collection. She splashed to the door, past the motor and Elena’s father who was cursing and trying to start it by pulling a cord so hard Stella was surprised it didn’t snap off, but then she turned around, splashing back.

  “Elena?”

  The girl returned to the window. “You send now?”

  “No. I need some new clothes. Can you recommend a shop?”

  “For you?”

  “And my husband. Nothing fancy.”

  “To wear now?”

  Stella nodded emphatically. “Off the rack.”

  Elena looked confused, but gave her directions to a shop, Venezia Augusto, that was close by. She even drew her a map.

  “I almost forgot,” said Stella. “Have you received any telegrams for a couple named Sorkine?”

  “Sor…”

  “Sorkine.” Stella wrote it on the map and Elena shook her head.

  “Can you describe?” she asked.

  Stella couldn’t and she could only suppose they were French. “They might be speaking French or have a French accent.”

  “No French in many weeks.”

  Stella sighed. But at least there was the money. That was a good thing. She must remember that and not the rest.

  “Thank you.” She splashed back out as the motor growled to life and spewed out a cloud of noxious smoke. Elena started yelling and Stella climbed over the sandbags into the square. The boys in the fortress were still on the well, but beyond them were two polizia huddled in a doorway next to the tall tower.

  Stella caught her breath and turned the other way, doing her best to casually walk away. Her umbrella helped. It was a perfect shield. Everybody and their mother had a black umbrella and she made it out of the square without being noticed. There was no reason to think they were looking for her, but no reason not to either. Suddenly, Venice felt full of enemies, as Germany had, and she hurried away toward Daniel’s flat, once again longing for the safety of home, but home as it had been. Now Father would be furious and Mother hysterical. Still, she preferred that to New York and the chilly Lawrences. If Nicky’s parents knew anything had happened, they probably just had a glass of wine and called a lawyer to look into it, if that. Maybe that was ungenerous, but Stella wasn’t feeling very generous. Nicky didn’t care to send them a telegram reassuring them. She wasn’t sure if that said more about him or them. Either way it wasn’t a good sign and she made up her mind right there on the streets of Venice that she wasn’t living in New York with those people. Her people would work to save Abel. His? Who knows.

  Stella tried Daniel’s flat first in hopes she wouldn’t have to bother with the hotel, but he wasn’t home. Butlers were on duty twenty-four hours a day when they had guests and he was probably overseeing their breakfast, arranging tours, or seeing to a million other details that a demanding guest might require. Daniel had said that she and Nicky were so self-sufficient it was like being on holiday. She got the feeling that other guests weren’t quite so relaxing.

  Going to the hotel wasn’t ideal, not in her current state, and with Peiper out looking for them. It wouldn’t be hard to find out where they’d stayed before and she expected him to show up and bang on the desk before the day was out. Daniel would keep quiet about seeing her, but there was no reason anyone else should.
/>   She’d have go to the service entrance again and tip someone to find Daniel. It wasn’t ideal, but nothing was anymore.

  Even less ideal was her arrival. The hotel was abuzz with delivery people bringing everything from fish to flowers. She could scarcely squeeze through the door much less get anyone’s attention. Stella had never been down there during delivery time. Night was fairly quiet, especially after dinner. Morning was a madhouse. People jostled her out of the way, pushing and yelling in Italian and sometimes French. Everyone was tremendously busy. Water covered the floors, dripping off coats, boxes, and umbrellas. Maids were trying to mop. Cooks were inspecting produce. Papers were passed back and forth with much yelling. Waiters pushed through, carrying enormous trays covered in silver cloches. One slipped and went down. Dishes flew everywhere. Hollandaise hit the wall and a chef hit the waiter.

  Stella squeezed by and went for the stairs, not to go up but to hide out of the way until it calmed down. It didn’t. It just kept going. She was about to give up when a white chef’s jacket appeared in front of her. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. A man crouched and yelled in her face, wagging a finger, and demanding something, but she had no idea what.

  “I’m looking for Daniel Burgess!” she finally yelled back.

  He stopped mid-yell and stepped back to get a look at her. “Madam Lawrence?”

  Stella didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “Yes,” she said hesitantly.

  “It is me, Serge, the sous chef.” He patted his chest. “I taught you the meringue.”

  “Yes, of course, Serge. I just…”

  He took her hand and kissed it the way only a Frenchman would, with style and aplomb. “I frightened you. I made a mistake. We do not allow people from the street to wander in.” He looked at her ridiculous boots, making it plain that he meant riffraff, not people.

  “I know and I’m sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for Daniel Burgess. Have you seen him today?”

  “I have not. But what are you doing here? Do you not go to Greece?” he asked.