Black Boat on the Water

November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
3:24 pm CEST

On the way to the canal they follow a young couple holding hands. Astrid watches how the boy gives the girl’s hand a gentle squeeze every few steps, and how he leans his head toward her when he speaks. After passing a dozen or so buildings, the girl drags him to a small alleyway and throws her arms around him. As Astrid, Marcel and Fausto pass, the two lovers are lost in a deep kiss. Marcel says nothing. Fausto sighs and smiles. Astrid stares. A moment later she shakes her head and tries to understand why she feels like crying, why the knot in her stomach has suddenly tightened, why she wishes Graham’s hand was in hers.

Marcel says something about Fausto’s delicious lunch. The antipasti of fried sweet peppers with vinegar and olive oil (a deeply yearning olive oil, if olive oil can yearn), smoked prosciutto, and moist mozzarella on crunchy bread. Astrid can still taste the oil and the salty cream of the cheese. Fausto laughs and thanks Marcel for the compliment. His laugh seems forced. He sounds nervous.

Each of them carries a medium-sized suit case. Within are the masks that Albion had ordered, all save one: the mask Fausto had promised for Albion’s bride, his beloved Helen. “I will tell him that I need a little more time,” Fausto had said to Astrid nervously. “It will be done in time for the ball.” Astrid carries the Journal of Loche Newirth in her shoulder bag. She thinks it feels heavier than it looks. Maybe, she thinks, its heavy because I’m hung over. She quickly feels the bag to make sure she packed another bottle of Fausto’s wine. Her hand feels it. She sighs.

“It’s Marcus Rearden that terrifies me,” she says suddenly. Neither of the men respond. “What in the hell is he up to?” Again, the men are silent. “My gut tells me to believe Loche’s journaling. There is something there that just feels like the truth. And the truth is: Rearden is a murderer.” She listens to the sound of her footsteps on the pavement. “It is strange to think that all of this—all of this—Loche, prophecy, Wyn Avuqua, Basil Fenn—all of this happened because of the murder of Beth Winship—because Marcus Rearden murdered an innocent person.” She hears a sigh come out of Marcel. A flustered, can’t-get-my-head-around-it sigh. “Rearden is not the type, I think, to forgive and forget. He is not through with Loche Newirth.”

Astrid stops talking, but her mind chatters on. She turns the problem that is Marcus Rearden over and over.

When they arrive at the canal, they walk for a minute or two south. Turning the corner around a high weather beaten building, Fausto waves at a gondolier near the water’s edge. The gondolier waves to Fausto.

“Ah,” Fausto calls to him, “very good. Very good.”

A few moments later the three are seated in the center of a long black boat. The lanky pilot oars them out.

“Buon Pomeriggio,” the boatman says as the trio settle themselves.

“Ciao, Alessandro,” Fausto says. “When did you get back —you’ve been gone a long while.”

“Si,” Alessandro says. “Gone long, yes. You’ve been well, yes?

Fausto’s focus drops to Astrid’s shoulder bag as if he can see the leather cover of the book inside. “Yes,” Fausto says.

“Who are your friends?” Alessandro asks. A weird smile expands across his face.

The Mask Maker introduces them. “Astrid Finnley and Marcel Hruska, meet my friend Alessandro,” he says without hesitation. “Alessandro has been a gondolier for many years here in Venice.” He smiles up at the orange haired man, “You’ve been taking some time away for yourself. That is good.”

“Yes,” Alessandro says.

Astrid and Alessandro nod to one another. She turns to the afternoon sky and the short crossing to Albion’s house.

Alessandro says, “You make masks for Ravistelle’s ball?”

Fausto’s face pales slightly. “Yes. You know about the ball?”

That weird grin stretches out again.

“Well, it is supposed to be a private affair,” Fausto replies. “But I expect you know everything that’s going on, as usual.”

Alessandro’s eyes smile, “Boat drivers always hear—always know. Crazy.”

“Of course,” Fausto says. He then leans delicately toward Alessandro and his voice falls to a near whisper—almost as if he and Alessandro have had secret dealings. “It is to be a very important gathering. A lot of important people. Tomorrow night.” His eyes dart to Astrid and then back to Alessandro, “I believe they will be showing—paintings…”

The gondolier is silent. After three or four pulls on the oar he tells Fausto, “Careful with that Albion, my friend. Careful what you do there.” He lifts the oar out of the water and crouches down on the back of the boat. “Fausto, Astrid and Marcel—do be careful. Remember, too, that I am a friend. I am your friend.” He then stands, dips the oar back into the canal and pulls against the water. Astrid watches his elongated shape sway with the current.

“Albion,” he mutters to himself, “stupid crazy man.”

Alessandro delivers the trio to the pier outside of Albion’s house. They step onto the dock and the boat quickly makes its way back out into the canal. “See you soon, Fausto, my friend,” the boat driver calls.

The Mask Maker waves.