CHAPTER FOUR

THE PROMISE OF DINNER with Nikki the singer put a welcome, different energy into Artie’s day. The long, unending swelter of summer was all that had been in front of her, so much of it that she’d thought, ever so briefly, of going home. Not Home, but back to the States. She would not go home again. Nothing had changed there.

No, it was much more satisfactory to contemplate dinner with Nikki Velvet, and she did just that as she crossed the bridges and navigated the campos and calles to her first tour of the morning.

A party of two older women she’d at first taken for a couple turned out to be longtime friends in sensible shoes. One woman’s husband didn’t like to travel and the other was a widow. They could still be a couple, Artie mused, but it seemed unlikely. What mattered more was that they’d listened to all her pre-tour advice, brought water, sunscreen, and had great roll-up hats that shaded their faces and necks.

They were also interested in the history of the Piazza San Marco, right down to the worst floods, dire battles, and daring escapades. Coffee was sipped at Florians, and a trip to the top of the Campanile for the view was also enjoyed. They wrote down her advice on other sites in Venice that were the best trade-off of crowds versus interest. They were more than happy to part ways in front of the Biblioteca Marciana where Artie assured them they would find cool air, seats, and the all-important clean toilets. All in all, they were her favorite type of tourists.

Her afternoon group was a family of six: two middle school girls, two parents, two grandparents. She couldn’t tell the elder man anything he wasn’t convinced he already knew. Most of his speeches to her began with, “Well, actually...” The younger man was quite nice, by contrast. His wife, however, clearly wanted to be anywhere else in the entire world, layering tension on top of the old man’s pomposity. She stuck hard to her script and didn’t improvise as she had for the two curious women in the morning. It was a relief when they parted ways.

Artie was somewhat in a quandary at that point in the day. She could go home, brave the three flights to have a bath, and then undo it all with the walk to dinner. Ultimately it was worth it, she decided, because her clothes would be fresher than what she was wearing now, and a little less utilitarian. She wanted Nikki to know that she wasn’t taking her for granted. She’d learned the hard way, during her very brief experimentation with men, that someone who showed up to a first assignation with no visible signs of having made any effort would not make any sort of effort later on.

That guideline went on the list of similar rules like “No more dates if they’re rude to the waitstaff.” She’d fine-tuned the rule in Italy, where a certain assertiveness was expected. There was a difference between asking for usual service and bullying a server who couldn’t yell back.

A cold shower restored her energy. Her freshly washed and somewhat tamed curls were complimented with a cotton blouse in her favorite blue-green color. Her usual wrinkle-resistant chino shorts in a black twill weave would look crisp until she sat down for any length of time. She switched from her utilitarian satchel to a large handbag of woven flax and corn husks, the kind sold in the winter when the local harvest was done and artisans made what they could of the remains. They were inexpensive and lasted a season — and marked the bearer as someone who was more than a tourist.

The walk to the trattoria where they were meeting was much longer for her than Nikki, but she knew the way from calle to campo to alley to bridge that was mostly shaded, conveyed a breeze if there was one to be had, and least likely to be crowded.

She was early, and as Artie entered the campo, she saw that Nikki was as well. Out of her stage clothes, Nikki looked very much a Southern girl in light blue denim shorts, espadrilles, and a pullover top with shiny bits at the shoulders, plus a ruffle along the waist. The dark gold cornrows with a braid across the crown were gone — Artie hadn’t realized Nikki had been wearing a wig, though it made a lot of sense. Nikki’s natural black hair was pulled back into a short, tight ponytail that exploded into a wild tangle of kinks and curls made all the more exuberant by the humidity. She was wearing headphones as she sat in the shade of the central well. One toe of an espadrille tapped in a slow rhythm.

She was utterly calm, it seemed, and at home with her music and the day. Two children chasing a ball forced her to pull her feet out of their way, and she waved a hand to signal “no worries” as one of the kids called, “Scusa, signorina!”

That easy, graceful smile, slightly lopsided, spread a warmth through Artie’s stomach that was most welcome, and a little bit frightening. It was like the tingly scary whirl of a Ferris Wheel. Anticipated, enjoyed, even though she knew full well that the glee of up was always followed by the swoop of down.

Nikki saw her then, and the smile broadened. She popped the headphones out of her ears and rose. For a moment it seemed as if she was going to shake hands, but then hesitated, as if unsure of protocol.

There were definitely some things the Italians had right, Artie thought. After a hearty, “Ciao!” she kissed Nikki lightly on both cheeks. She smelled of apple blossoms and sweet spring grass. Artie gestured across the broad courtyard. “Does the trattoria look okay?”

“It looks fabulous.” Nikki slung a straw bag over her shoulder. “Whatever that aroma is, it’s positively maddening.”

“Garlic and oranges,” Artie guessed. “If you like fish, their bream is scrumptious, and in season right now. The exterior doesn’t look like much, but then they’re not trying to grab tourists. The owner is a bit eccentric, you know, and tires of explaining everything to visitors.”

“My aunt runs a diner in Cleveland and says explaining what grits are gets old,” Nikki said as they were led to a table near the kitchen. “So I understand.”

Artie gestured toward a better table that would have some light from the campo and a fresh breeze from the door as the sun set. The waiter made a show of dusting it with his napkin as if to say he would have, of course, offered this much better experience had it been clean, and now that it was clean, he was pleased to seat them there.

Nikki had watched the entire silent exchange with amusement. When they were alone, she said, “I don’t want to make anyone angry by being a pest or particular. But I’m sensing life is different here.”

“Definitely. You won’t get much if you don’t ask. This restaurant doesn’t charge for service, and there is no tip compelling their attentiveness. Only tip if they do something extra, like check for an unlisted bottle of wine, or barter a special entrée to order for you from the kitchen. If you wish to have your dishes removed, or order something else, you must signal and ask. They are happy of course to do it, but they won’t volunteer. They won’t rush you. It’s a very different dynamic.”

They looked over the menu in silence for a moment until Nikki set hers aside quickly. “I don’t care for mushy vegetables or unusual meats — like stomach and brains.”

“You and me both.”

“Otherwise, perhaps you could do the ordering? I’m not picky, I promise.”

“How long until you need to leave?”

Nikki glanced at her wristwatch. “I should be in my room getting changed at eight. It takes a while to do my makeup and hair.”

“That’s plenty of time. Do you like wine?”

“Yes, I had a glass of red wine with dinner yesterday that was to die for. It was the cheapest on the menu, so I didn’t expect much. I could have finished a bottle of it.”

“Wine is one of the common pleasures of Italy. Less alcohol in it, so two people can easily finish a bottle, and inexpensive is still meant to be drinkable. Always a pleasure. Life is too short for bad wine.”

“Or bad chocolate.”

“Or bad pizza.”

“Or bad books.”

“We’re going to get along just fine,” Artie said. She could tell her face was flushed, but the restaurant was a bit warm. With luck, Nikki would put it down to that.

She gave a wave to the waiter and asked for still water and the wine list, with antipasto della casa to start when they’d settled on a wine. The Capezzana sangiovese was only seven euros for the bottle, and their small plate of olives, seasoned chickpeas, sliced fig, and cubes of fresh radish arrived while the wine was still breathing in their glasses.

Nikki lifted her glass, tipping it slightly toward Artie. “To new friends.”

Artie tinked her glass to Nikki’s. “And new adventures.”