1
I met Cosmina in her office. She was very proud of her office, despite it being one of those old-style ship rooms the size of a stacked washer & dryer. It was so ridiculously small I doubted she could actually sit at the desk and have the door closed simultaneously. Not that Cosmina would ever want the door closed. How else would passersby see who was worthy of this personal space, such as it was? The fact that only a dozen or so bodies had access to this part of the ship, and already knew and worked with her, was irrelevant. Cosmina held a position of import. Cosmina held sway. Cosmina had an office!
I knocked on the open door. The port excursions manager was bent over a ledger, head buried in her hand. She jumped at the noise, and glanced up with eyes red-rimmed and blinking from too much reading. Her hand instantly moved through her short hair in an effort to hide hint of paperwork frustration. I obliged her gesture by giving her a compliment.
"Nice office," I said.
"You think I don't deserve an office?" Cosmina bristled defensively.
"Of course you do," I replied soothingly. "You have a lot of work to do. Shore excursions are always important, but on this ship they're paramount."
Her expression softened. She wore a standard issue Surf polo of turquoise over white shorts. Her face was Romanian-round with big cheeks. Rather than being high-boned and rosy, however, Cosmina's cheeks were those of a chipmunk whose feast was interrupted. Her hair was dark brown and bobbed.
"It's because of all that work I'm here," I continued. "I thought maybe you could use my help."
"What's that mean?" she said, defenses rearing again. "Who says I need help?"
"Nothing, no one," I answered quickly.
This was not exactly true. I had observed her that morning and found her people skills quite lacking. Despite it being the last day of the cruise she did not seem to have built any rapport with any passengers. I had overheard plenty of grumbles about her apparent lack of organization, and I concurred with the several guests who commented that she appeared distracted and harried. Perhaps she had just had a bad morning, but to me she looked overwhelmed. To be fair, organizing several hundred passengers into separate groups, all of whom had to be escorted from the lounge at different times for half a dozen different tours was a big job, and she was more or less alone.
"Let me explain," I hastily added. "I'm experienced in handling large groups and I have nothing to do in the mornings. I thought I could help when your lounge is full. That's all."
She eyed me shrewdly for a moment, then pursed her lips. "You're the new art guy," she said.
"That's right. I've been an auctioneer on the big ships and am used to handling crowds of hundreds. I thought we could work together. I'm having trouble with visibility, and everybody on board goes on your tours. So as long as I can introduce myself and my job, I'll be your assistant all week long and help with the crowds. Really, I'm not doing anything else and you look like you could use the help."
"What does that mean?" she challenged.
I defended weakly, "We're all family."
She pursed her lips again, even as her eyes scanned me up and down. She seemed somehow satisfied with my wardrobe of a silk shirt over khaki slacks, but lingered on my shoes. Worry flushed through me. I well-knew how Europeans judged a man by his footwear—assuming he didn't wear tennis shoes, at which point he was dead in the water. For that very reason I had eschewed my usual Birkenstocks in favor of soft leather loafers from Romania. I sensed she had recognized the brand. Wearing them may have been a mistake, I suddenly realized. Few people are more critical of Romania than Romanians.
"All right," she said reluctantly. "We'll talk tonight. I have a group doing a gondola tour at 7 p.m. Meet me there to discuss it. Dress nice."
She returned to her work, indicating the audience was over. I thought that the meeting hadn't gone too badly. But like always with ships, like always with Romanian women in particular, I had no idea what I was getting into.
2
We had actually arrived in port the night before. Like everybody else, I had stood huddled upon the open deck as the Surf sailed past the huge floating dikes, past the famed Lido island, and towards the city. It was a surprisingly cold night with low, broken-bottomed clouds dropping rain lazily over Venice. The sleepy drizzle made the old palaces drab and tired, scars highlighted with bright new mortar in the cracked backs of the ancients. A gentle rumble of thunder settled over the city as a breathy snore.
We sailed down the Canale della Giudecca, a wide artery that was restless and choppy and imminently forgettable. Far more interesting were the canals that spread through the floating city in lieu of streets. I pondered who would make an entire city without roads. Why? And why here, on this stinky backwater? The canals were flat green opal in color, barely disturbed by the fitful rain that made it past the bunched shoulders of age-old palaces. Such were the capillaries filtering through the living heart of Venice. Imminently ugly, utterly impractical, undeniably romantic.
Originally Venice was anything but romantic. It was interesting, though. Venice, as we know it today, began with a bunch of people running for their lives with nowhere else to go. The good ol' Germanic barbarians had forced the remnants of the Romans—folks from Spina, Adria, Altino, and Padua, among others—off their land. They could either drown or settle on the briny, lagoony, and all-around crappy islands.
Not surprisingly, the refugees chose the latter. Being savvy types, they even turned their plight into advantage: they became salt producers. Back then, in 600 A.D. or so, the distance between the mainland and the Venetian lagoons was not the two miles of today, but twenty-five. The spread was treacherous enough to be nicknamed 'the Seven Seas', in part because of all the sandbars sectionalizing the waters. That is not the origin of the term 'seven seas' because the locals immediately filled it in. This new land, now called Chioggia, was conducive to salt, and this new people, not yet called Venetian, was conducive to business. How else could they survive on such briny, lagoony, and all-around crappy islands?
Venice became a major producer of salt and got involved in all sorts of nasty turf wars with neighbors who also had briny, lagoony, and all-around crappy land. Their biggest competitor in the 'salt wars' were some upstart Benedictine monks, but they proved no match for the Venetians, who utterly trashed their saltworks in 932. Unfortunately, that act only strengthened the position of the third largest salt producer, Cervia, controlled by the archbishop of Ravenna. That's when things got really ugly, because the archbishop invoked the hand of God for their side—standard operating procedure in those days. In this case the invocation had tangible results: despite also being Christians, floods destroyed their saltworks around 1200 or so.
Devastated, the Venetians had to import all their salt or go out of business. Yet they soon discovered something marvelous: it was more profitable to buy and sell salt than make it themselves. The golden age of Venice began. This was the time of Venice monopolizing the spice trade for all of Europe, the time of Marco Polo. The building boom created the islands, canals, and palaces we see even today. Astounding, that. America has changed a zillion times since its creation, yet Venice hasn't really seen a new building in triple the time we've even existed.
Thus, I was excited to see those canals up close and personal. I wished fiercely I could tag along on the tour Cosmina was organizing. Unlike most tours, which departed from the ship, guests taking Surf's gondola tour were to make their own way to the launching point. The ship docked perhaps a mile from the site, but a wide stone path hugging the edge of the city made walking easy.
Well, the route was easy to identify, but the walk was anything but easy: it was fraught with danger. There were umpteen tourists to navigate, each and every one of them holding aloft an unfurled umbrella. The mass of wavering vinyl pulsed and flowed over the walkway so densely that I never once saw where I placed my feet. But tripping was not the danger—oh, no. I was absolutely terrified that my eyes were going to be gouged right out by the pointy tips of umbrellas. This was no silly concern, but a very real threat. My cheeks were poked countless times until they were not only sore, but even bleeding.
My jealousy over those taking the gondola tour swelled as I passed each 'parking lot'. Countless wooden trunks, like sunken telephone poles, rose from the ugly water to keep boats from banging into each other in the sluggish current. Before businesses of means were poles more slender, gaily painted in candy cane stripes and capped in gold. Bobbing between all were long, sleek black boats glistening in the dark, their superb varnish reflecting yellows and oranges cast from the windows of restaurants, cafes, and shops. All the waiting gondolas wore neat, tight-fitting hoods over their openings.
I arrived just as Cosmina was finishing up the tour. Her short figure stood out prominently from the crowd. This was in part from her standing on a box and screaming, but more due to her raincoat of DayGlo yellow. Clipboard in hand, she directed the last of the huddling guests in single-use rain gear to their boats in groups of four. The line inched off the pavement and into the gondolas manned by gondoliers hunched in the rain. I stayed at the back of the thinning group and waited for Cosmina to finish. Only then did I notice Eddie and Susie waiting their turn. Susie clung to Eddie's arm and wriggled impatiently.
"The gondola tour!" I called enthusiastically to Susie, hoping to amplify her excitement. Only then did I notice that with them waited tall and burley Barney, the Surf's second officer. "Why, good evening, sir!"
"None of that," the husky man said jovially. "I told you before: call me Barney. Have you met our lovely doctor yet? Faye, this is our new art auctioneer."
He introduced a ruggedly pretty woman with dark skin tightly defining her face. Her hair was thickly braided and raven-black. I would have thought her surely Native American but for her arresting, electric blue eyes. Her figure was so trim as to be almost wraithlike, and combined with her eyes she did, indeed, look like the undead. But her smile radiated life and warmth, as did her handshake.
"Whoa," I said, smiling. "I wish I had a doctor like you! My guy is like eighty years old and somehow manages looks like his name, which is Greenblatt."
"You must sell a lot of art with that smooth tongue," she replied.
"Not lately," I groused good-naturedly.
One last gondola eased towards the sidewalk. Susie would surely have leapt across the closing gap but for Eddie's restraining arm. Cosmina scribbled the last of her notes on her clipboard and shoved it into a large black duffel at her feet. As she turned to regard the two eager couples, her eyes locked onto me. Or, rather, what I was wearing. Not having any clothing appropriate for the cold weather, I had chosen a sweatshirt gifted from Romania. The RO logo on the chest seemed of intense interest to her.
"Good evening, Cosmina—" Faye began, but was interrupted.
"What are you wearing?" Cosmina asked me abruptly. Her tone evinced surprise.
"Just a sweatshirt I got when visiting Romania," I said simply. "Sorry I didn't have anything nicer, but I wasn't prepared for the weather."
"Good Canadian weather!" Susie bubbled brightly. With each excited bounce on his arm, Eddie's shoulders sank a bit deeper. Her enthusiasm was obviously wearing on him.
But Cosmina ignored Susie, too. She asked me accusingly, "You said you are from the States."
"Yes," I defended lightly, confused. "I live in Nevada."
"You're American?" Faye asked, surprised. "I'm from Oklahoma!"
"Go to the front," Cosmina ordered the doctor brusquely. Cosmina seemed intent on cutting off any conversation that did not involve herself. "Barney, you go to the other front seat across from her."
While Faye and Barney complied, Susie tried to ask Cosmina a question. She was rebuffed as the tour manager continued ordering us around.
"Now Brian, pick up my bag."
Barney reached out from the gondola to accept the bag from me, but Cosmina remained firmly in control. "Thank you, Barney, Brian can handle it. In the boat with it. Come on."
The contents of the bag clanked and shifted awkwardly as I stepped onto the boat. Though its rocking could have been eased by the bored gondolier leaning upon his pole, he did nothing to help stabilize the craft. Indeed, he sniffed disdainfully at the whole of our group. Cosmina stepped onto the gondola directly behind me, so close as to actually bump into me.
"Andiamo!" she snapped to the gondolier. "Move it!"
I jerked upright, surprised, even as Cosmina hauled me down into the seat beside her. Behind us the gondolier heaved onto his pole and pushed the gondola away from the sidewalk—the sidewalk where Susie stared, dumbfounded. No longer did the Canadian bounce enthusiastically. No longer did she even breathe. Instead she stared, open-mouthed and gaping, as her long-anticipated and promised gondola departed without her. Only after the distance between the boat and shore grew to ten feet did Susie regain her wits and her lungs. She screamed her indignation, but the sound was lost to the murmuring of the crowd, the patter of rain on water, and the grumbling of the gondolier.
I didn't say anything about my abduction as the gondola pushed further and further into the black waters of the night. I was too stunned. Or perhaps too scared. For the gondolier—a short, slender fellow wearing the traditional black and white striped jersey of his profession—did nothing to reassure us we were in safe hands. He struggled mightily to control the craft, which pitched and bucked like an unruly bronco. Barney kept looking back at him, frowning in concern.
"I've spent my life on boats," he muttered, "and never seen such an idiot operating a watercraft."
"I'm sure he's qualified," Faye said lightly. She did not look at all to the floundering gondolier, nor even at Barney. Rather her dazzling eyes stared in wonder at the porticoes and palaces, colonnades and bridges, all stone, all glistening with rain.
I couldn't help but agree with Barney. Though I knew next to nothing about boats, I felt sure I could handle the gondola better than our gondolier. His name was Gianni—information we gathered between puffs of effort at fighting the slumping, sluggish waves of the Canale di San Marco. He was obviously new to his profession.
The seating arrangement in the gondola was surprising, all the more so because it was advertised as a romantic ride. Yet of the four seats, only two were actually side-by-side. The love seat had not been given to the young Canadian couple to whom it had been promised—who no doubt fumed yet back at the sidewalk—nor to the apparent couple of the second officer and doctor, whom Cosmina had placed diagonally from each other and facing different directions. No, the love seat had fallen to Cosmina and I, for reasons that were soon to become abundantly clear.
"Lean right!" Gianni suddenly cried. Cosmina was so surprised that she nearly jumped into my lap. The gondolier thrust his pole deep into the dark, churning water and leaned dangerously out over the side, all while continually shrieking, "Lean right! Lean right! Madre di Dio, lean right!"
We complied, as best we were able, and soon the danger passed by—in dramatic fashion. Roaring past came a long, squat tour boat: two, four, six, finally eight rows of windows flashing in the dark to merge like frames in a motion picture. The pilot's cries were drowned out by the deafening rumble of a fume-belching engine, but through the windows of his enclosed cockpit we saw him shake his fist.
Gianni, for his part, responded in kind. His gestures were far more vulgar, however, and he continued to hurl insults into the darkness long after the tour boat had departed. It didn't matter to him one whit that he was in the wrong traffic lane. But it mattered a great deal to Barney, as he made quite clear.
"You better get one helluva long pole if you're gonna go into the channel," Barney chided with open condescension. "Tour boats stay close because of low draft and flat bottoms, but further out..."
Faye calmingly patted his leg, prompting him to check his tongue. Instead his brow furrowed deeply in agitation. His point was made, however, as Gianni finally seemed to realize his inability to control the gondola had led us far out into the open waters of the wide Canale di San Marco. High-powered boats of all sizes and shapes buzzed and flashed chaotically, like an angry swarm of bees unsure of a target.
Sheepishly—I sensed for probably the first time in his life—Gianni quit his grumbling to focus on the job at hand. He poled us towards a moderately lit, open plaza that ran right up to the water's edge. It was dominated by a fat tower of red bricks topped by a soaring pyramid of green tiles. Mounted upon the very top was a large, well-lit sculpture of some sort, but the rain obscured anything more than the glint of gold.
Once we were safely near the shore, Gianni remembered that he was supposed to narrate. "The history of the gondola...," he panted and poled, "... a boat traditionally used by dwellers of the lagoon... is one thousand years old."
The subject of his broken speech, which he had no doubt been required to memorize by rote, was obviously of no pride to Gianni, nor even interest. His disdain for all things Venetian was so thorough that living there must surely be a fate worse than death.
"Said to date to the times of the first doge... in 7th century..." he huffed contemptuously on, "the gondola was actually mentioned for the first time... in a public document in the year 1094. The gondolas built by the Venetian master hewers, according to a tradition that was handed down orally... were not always as they are today. Those depicted in paintings of the 15th and 16th centuries were flatter bottomed and the stern and prow not as high. The planking was brightly painted and decorated with costly appliques, and the various noble families vied with each other in showing off their wealth. Since the year 1562 all gondolas have been lacquered black. In the 18th century the gondola was standardized and is now 10.75 meters long and 1.75 meters wide. They are asymmetrical because they are now propelled by only one oar.
"The gondolier, too, was once much more interestingly and elegantly outfitted," he added with evident bitterness. "They did not wear a simple striped jersey and straw hat."
Gianni spat, trying to hide his snide act behind an artificial sneeze. He fooled no one.
"The gondolas now number barely one for every twenty there were in the 18th century. All are built and repaired at the Squero di San Trovaso, where artisans keep the ancient craft alive."
"I'll bet that's something to see," Faye commented enthusiastically.
"Hardly," Gianni retorted. "The buildings are old, some only made of wood instead of brick. The landing is wide, but so slick with algae it stinks."
Cosmina leaned in to whisper directly into my ear. "Considering the entire of Venice is so slick with algae it stinks, I'm scared to imagine the Squero di San Trovaso."
I leaned back from Cosmina's advance, startled. Our hips were pressed against each other in the small bench, but she had leaned into me as if we knew each other intimately—or she wanted us to. She unzipped her raincoat to reveal a low-cut black dress that plunged deep down the front. Her efforts to appear sexy were laughable, with the two of us directly beneath the bitching gondolier and her fumbling through a plastic DayGlo yellow raincoat in a bid to emphasize what was obviously not her best feature. Still, I sensed laughing would have been a very, very bad idea.
Not receiving the response she had hoped for, Cosmina instead bent over and rummaged through her duffel. The gondola pitched just then, and Cosmina's head fell into my lap. I immediately pulled her back up, chagrined. This whole evening was turning out completely unlike the quiet read I had imagined!
"I brought us an extra," she said, smiling up at me.
"An extra what?"
Her hands opened, revealing a bottle of champagne. Her eyes glinted like those of a predator who had spotted prey.
"An extra bottle of champagne?" I asked, surprised. "I didn't expect even one!"
"One per couple," she said sweetly, fluttering her eyelids. With a loud pop the cork flew into the night. Using the extra light provided by the nearby Piazza San Marco, she poured bubbly into two plastic champagne flutes. I tried to stare at the world famous facade of the Doge's Palace, but Cosmina shoved a glass in my hand and arrested my attention by offering a toast. A polite 'ahem' came from the bow, prompting Cosmina to kick the bag towards Faye and mutter, "Yours is in there."
I tried to protest, but Cosmina would have none of it. Eventually she whispered harshly, "I got you a free gondola tour, so shut up and enjoy it!"
Chastened, I gulped my champagne in silence. The bubbles caught in my throat awkwardly, which actually pleased me.
The gondola moved past the famous pillars and pedigree of the Doge's Palace and into a narrow canal to its right.
"The Bridge of Sighs," Gianni said, referring to an enclosed, arched walkway connecting the Doge's interrogation room to the prisons. The stonework was ornate and arched some fifteen feet across the Rio di Palazzo, boasting two tiny openings of one square foot. "A name given by Lord Byron, who observed that the condemned would sigh at their last glimpse of Venetian beauty before disappearing forever in the dungeons."
Apparently Gianni was impressed enough with the macabre idea to give it a proper narration. Unfortunately the drama was effectively squelched by the huge billboard bolted to the stone directly below the bridge, blindingly lit by three floodlights.
"Oh, and local legend says those who kiss beneath the bridge in a gondola are blessed with eternal love," Gianni added with anything but delicacy.
Cosmina nudged me hard. I happily continued choking on bubbles.
The gondola snaked deeper into the watery labyrinth. We heard rain tapping against tiles overhead and felt fresh dampness pulse down from above. Venice was not a world of water, as I had expected, but a world of walls. A different wall meant a different palace, which meant different colors, materials, weathering, personality. On the left was a wall of white stone blocks and tall, wide windows. Each pane offered a tantalizing vignette of Venetians' daily life, here a bookshelf, there a television. On the right was a smoothly plastered wall painted mustard yellow. Ahead, forcing us to turn yet again, was yet another wall. The rust-red plaster sagged with age, undulations catching the side-cast light of windows in sharp profile.
The ubiquitous presence of iron gates covering all the 'ground' floor doors and windows reminded me that we were far from the security of home. Quietly—secretly, even—slipping through danger heightened the sense of romance, as did the damp moments of intimacy whenever we passed under a low brick pedestrian bridge and plunged into darkness. Not that I was wanting intimacy of any kind with Cosmina. Nuzzled up next to me, she missed no opportunity to present yet another glass of champagne. Had romance been something desired, having been paid for even, it was impossible to find with Gianni hovering above. Our gondolier was an asshole. He was absolutely rude, barking orders the whole time.
"Don't touch that! Lean back! Lean forward! Don't look that way! Turn around!"
At one point our gondola neared a wall and suddenly pitched starboard. Cosmina was nearly thrown into the canal. Only by dropping my champagne into the water was I able to haul her back safely to the bench. Faye tumbled out of her seat and into Barney, whose strong arms managed to not only catch the waif-like doctor but also thrust a hand to the nearby wall and steady the craft. Gianni, whose inept handling had caused the drama, was not impressed.
"No touch palazzo!" he shrieked at the burly officer. "No touch palazzo!"
This last order, repeated with the volume and emphasis of which Italians are well known, irritated me as much as Gianni's inept seamanship incensed Barney. Gianni constantly used his hands and feet to push off the walls. Indeed, sometimes he leaned his entire bodyweight onto the pole mount in order to kick off the crumbling bricks with both feet. Cascading bits of millennium-old mortar bounced off the soft soles of Italian leather shoes. Through it all he wrestled with his pole, shouting and snapping the history of Venice through gritted teeth.
Gianni's piloting made me uncomfortable. Cosmina's nuzzling made me uncomfortable. But most unnerving of all was Barney. Too polite to stare at us, he instead bored his gaze into our bench, obviously more interested in Cosmina's antics than the tour. His brow furrowed deeper with each of Cosmina's maddening purrs.
To make the situation even more uncomfortable, we turned into a long, narrow canal. The rain could no longer reach us, so narrow was the canal and so tall the walls. Everything was dark and abandoned: no lights graced any of the buildings, on either side of the canal, far into the distance. Gianni poled along sullenly while the ancient, bleached palaces loomed above us, windows dark and ominous, like the empty eye sockets of a line of skulls.
"I hear you like Romanian girls," Cosmina whispered so close that her breath tickled my neck.
"Where did you hear that?" I asked, surprised.
"Small ship," she said, offering me a sip from her champagne flute.
"Yeah," I said, declining the drink. "Well, I'm done with all that. No more feisty foreign women for me."
"We're not all feisty," she purred.
I tried not to chuckle at the implication that she was anything but feisty. The gondola slipped into nearly total darkness, and all grew quiet. Even Gianni's grumbling ceased as he poled quietly along. The sensory deprivation was nearly complete: no sight, no sound, and feeling only a gentle, floating sway. A hand slid up my thigh and I felt the warmth of lips near my ear. Cosmina asked, "Tell me about living in America."
Four hundred years later—or was it forty minutes?—the gondola slid up to the sidewalk where we began the tour. I almost didn't recognize the area, as it was now more or less deserted. Night had progressed such that locals had begun to dine and tourists had begun to retire. The area was not entirely deserted, however. A very wet and very angry Susie stood ramrod straight and steaming in the rain. Beside her hunched Eddie, arms folded and grumpy, looking more exhausted than ever. He had obviously long since lost any argument over whether or not to remain at the launch.
Gianni remained true to the last, nearly crashing the gondola against the concrete. He hissed with alarm, but fortunately the boat slid sideways to bump instead into a cluster of sunken piles. Even so, I winced in sympathy for the splendid black lacquer. Barney, Faye, and I wasted no time in fleeing the craft, whereas Cosmina seemed in no hurry to leave whatsoever. No doubt Susie's enraged pacing kept her back more than Gianni's spluttering outrage at no gratuity. Just for good measure, Gianni gave me one final harangue at how I exited the craft in a manner not to his liking.
Susie, of course, had not waited for the boat to be secured before hurling her outrage at Cosmina. Fists clenched, she shrieked, "What's wrong with you?!"
I tried to escape along with Barney and Faye, but the sturdy blonde spun on me and let loose another volley. "Don't you run away, you son of a bitch! This is your fault!"
"My fault?" I protested. "How could this be my fault? I got railroaded onto the tour!"
"You promised me that gondola tour!" Susie screeched at Cosmina with a voice curiously similar to nails on a blackboard.
"Well I couldn't exactly boot the second officer, could I?" Cosmina retorted.
With the two hellcats focused on each other, Eddie pulled me back to safety and muttered, "Sorry, dude. She's pretty mad."
"You think?" I grunted, noting the obvious.
"It's not your fault," he consoled. "I'll buy you a beer sometime. Come on, let's head back with Barney and the doctor."
"What, and leave these two arguing?" I asked, incredulous. Susie and Cosmina were literally screaming at each other now. A physical confrontation appeared imminent. The passersby, predominantly Italian at this hour, ignored the fireworks. This was Italy, after all, and Italians were used to creating such scenes themselves. And Eddie, it seemed, was used to leaving them: he was already disappearing around a corner. I hurried after him.