The Gondola Maker (14 page)

Chapter
22

I struggle to build up the nerve to broach the subject of the old gondola with Master Trevisan. The artist is busy, wrapped up in his commissions, in his social engagements, and in managing his workshop. Clearly he does not care enough about that old boat or he would have already taken it himself to any one of the city’s four dozen
squeri
and paid a
squerariolo
to have it repaired. But when I regard the dilapidated gondola, my mind’s eye sees what it could be: a boat worthy of any craft on any canal today, a fine antique, a beauty. As I carry out my chores around the artist’s boat slip and dock, I keep the old Vianello gondola ever in the corner of my eye. I imagine myself removing the cover, flipping it over, and repairing the ribs. In my mind, I reform the prow, sand the decks, refine its decorations, scrape and varnish the hull—tasks I carried out every day of my life up until the calamitous day of the fire in my father’s boatyard. I utter a deep sigh.

Finally, one moment as I wring out a rag in the canal waters, I feel myself inexorably drawn to the gondola, as if it were calling to me. I approach its familiar curvilinear form outlined by the drape of its canvas cover. Carefully, I push back the dusty cloth, just for a look. I run my palms along the hull, feeling a rush of warmth, the same feeling one gets when caressing a dog or embracing a friend. The canvas cover slips off the boat hull, falling into a heap on the cold stones.

Flipping a gondola over on trestles normally necessitates the strength of at least two men. The boat stretches the length of some five men laid head to toe and can weigh equally as much. But on this day, to my surprise, the energy coursing through my body gives me the force to complete this task on my own. I corral my strength into propping the boat into a tilt, then awkwardly I flip it right-side-up on top of the wooden trestles. It is the first time that I have had the chance to examine the interior of the old boat. The seat upholstery, which once comfortably seated two passengers, is ripped, its stuffing rotted, no more than a rat’s nest. The boards of the aft deck are split open; the boat has been involved in a significant crash. A gaping hole mars the hull, its boards splintered up into the boat itself. I open the aft deck to find a few stiff rags and an empty green-glass wine bottle. Two large spiders scuttle out, and I recoil.

The
ferro
that adorns the gondola’s prow is measurably smaller than the ones being made now. I think of the hulking iron forks that Annalisa’s father turns out, as much a measure of the man’s bravado as of current taste in gondola ornamentation. This old one is still heavy, though, its short prongs decorated with delicate swirls and swags incised into the metal. Although this old boat was made before the era when the Doge began handing down decrees against ostentatious decoration on gondolas, I judge that this understated prow could pass muster against any sumptuary law currently in force. I admire the serpentine shape of the iron fork as I run my fingers over its cool, pitted surface.

This boat can be restored; I am certain. I have restored countless gondolas—granted, usually in much better condition than this one—alongside my father and brother. Thoughtfully brought back to its original state, this gondola could be fine, a masterpiece. I am lost in my memories, in my intimate exploration of the boat, when a voice emanating from the stairwell breaks my trance.

“Son, what are you doing with that old boat?”

I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE my good fortune.

My master is not angry with me for disturbing and working on the dilapidated old boat. In fact, he seems pleased. A strange smirk crossed Trevisan’s face when I hurriedly explained my vision for the gondola, how it could be restored to its original glory, working even better than it did when it was first launched into the canal, long before I or even Trevisan himself was born. The artist seemed amused when I listed the advantages of having two boats in working order. Trevisan did not even seem to be concerned that the restoration project would take time away from my other duties.

I slip out the boardinghouse before dawn. The common room stands empty except for Giuseppe, the unemployed tailor, a permanent fixture at the bar. He sits slumped over in a chair, snoring. I quietly unlatch the lock and move into the alley. I stop at a rusty spout that projects from a nearby wall. I place my head under it and fill my cheeks with cool water. A thick mist rises from the canal waters as I walk to Trevisan’s house, and the damp air chills my skin. I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my waistcoat. Trevisan plans to work in his studio for the morning, which will afford me the time I need to work in the boat slip. I am eager to get started.

I rap softly at the land-side door, and Signora Amalia lets me in; I do not have a key to Trevisan’s house and probably never will, given most people’s distrust of their own boatmen. I pass through the kitchen, where Trevisan’s simple breakfast of fruit and cheese has been prepared on a tray. I grab an apricot from the fruit bowl for later and stash it in my pocket, then descend the stairs to the boat slip.

Dawn’s light has not yet penetrated the dark, dank space, and I shiver and rub my palms together, watching vapors of my breath puff into the dimness. I push the canvas cover gently off the boat and stand back to take in the whole thing in one glance. I hardly see the splintered wood, the crusted, flaking varnish, the rotted upholstery. In my mind’s eye, I only envision the finished gondola. Still, I fully understand the work that must be done to get it to that point. To properly restore the boat, I must sand off every last bit of canal grub that has crystallized on the boat hull over the years. That will take some serious work, but once I have the gondola sanded back down to bare wood, I can bring it to sea-worthiness once again.

But first things first. On the side of the boathouse opposite Trevisan’s working gondola, I set up a space where I can work. I shift the clutter to the back of the boathouse, then sweep the dust and grime off the great stones and into the black water that laps against the walls. I pull the trestles out from against the wall, dragging them carefully across the stones so that I can access the gondola from all sides.

In the far reaches of the boat slip, a set of shelves is cluttered with old, forgotten supplies. I take stock of what might be of use in the gondola restoration. The turpentine is probably worth salvaging, as it hardly ever goes bad. The varnish, on the other hand, will have to be thrown out—a pity, for it will be expensive to replace. As I work, I compile a list in my mind of the supplies I wish I had: sandpaper, a saw, a mallet, some planks of elm, a bag of wooden nails, some paintbrushes. I will have to make do with what I have or locate what I need as I go.

The morning passes in what seems like mere seconds. At midday, Trevisan appears at the door. For a moment he seems disoriented as he glances around the new state of his boat slip. He seems to notice that the shelves have been wiped clean, the storage containers neatly organized. The cobwebs have been knocked down, and the corners swept. Even the moss has been scrubbed off the stones so that only a faint trace of the fetid odor remains. Trevisan clears his throat but makes no comment other than to ask me to ferry him to the
scuola
to inspect the progress of his frescoes.

By the time I lay down my broom and pick up an oar, I have already transformed the back half of the artist’s boathouse into a makeshift
squero
.

“THAT’S QUITE a project.”

A man—I perceive him to be a private boatman—peers around the doorway to the boat slip. I am wiping down the prow of the old gondola with a wet rag. Decades of dust have collected on the boat, and my first order of business is to remove it so that I can fathom where to begin this project. It has taken me some fifty hours of work to remove the dirt caked in every crack and crevice of the boat. I feel gratified that someone has taken notice. I smile.

“Yes. Well, it’s not much to look at now, but it will be a beauty once it’s finished. That is, after many hours of work.”

“Indeed. You must be Trevisan’s new boatman.” The man enters the boathouse. He wears close-fitting pants in the fashion of the day, one leg white and the other black. His shirt is also close-fitting, with a white collar and a red and black diamond design across the breast. He wears a sleek cap and black leather shoes polished to a gleam. In my mind, I make a rough estimation of the cost of the man’s clothes, even if they are rented. My own new clothes, though an improvement for me, pale in comparison to this boatman’s finery. Something about the man is familiar. I search my mind to think where I have seen him before. I step forward to greet him. “
Come xea, vecio
?” I offer, and the man greets me back with the camaraderie that I am beginning to grow accustomed to since my entry into the world of private gondoliering.

Outside the boat-slip door, I notice the prow of the man’s boat rocking gently in the canal. At once, I recognize it, as well as the boatman steering it. The girl. I suck in my breath.

Mistaking my expression for a reaction to his boat, the man smiles. “A beauty, is it not? And it’s a dream to row, too,” he says, inflating his chest. “Usually there are two of us, but the prow man was sent on another errand at the markets today.” I nod. Only the wealthiest in Our Most Serene Republic can afford to employ two boatmen, one for the fore and one for the aft. The front man sometimes doubles as a butler or house servant, which would explain why his partner has been dispatched to the market.

“Giacomo da Molin,” he extends his hand. “But you can call me Beppe. Everyone does.” I am hardly paying attention. My heart is pounding. “You mean old Trevisan managed to find a boatman who restores boats as well as rows them?”

“I suppose,” I hesitate. “I have to keep myself busy during the quieter hours. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. But I don’t know of any of my colleagues who spend their spare time like this! You’re an industrious soul,” Beppe bursts out laughing.  “I guess you heard what happened to Trevisan’s last boatman?”

I hesitate again. “Actually, no.”

“How could you have missed it? At the guild hall it was the topic of conversation for a good month.” I can see that that won’t stop Beppe from relishing the tale again. “The man stripped Trevisan’s gondola clean. Stole the
felso
, the oarlocks, even the upholstery.” He shakes his head. That would explain why all the trappings of the boat Trevisan uses every day are brand new, even though the boat itself is dusty and neglected.

“No one’s seen the man since, as far as I know. Probably left the city already,” he says.

I am eager to turn the conversation toward the girl. “You work for the lady in the boat?” I wince immediately, regretting how stupid the question sounds.

He smirks. “No. I work—worked—for her father. It’s most accurate to say that I work for the whole family. The upper class wouldn’t dream of letting their daughters go around in a boat with just anybody, or subjecting them to the vagaries of street traffic. So, here I am.” He sweeps his hand dramatically from head to foot then laughs again, a deep-throated chortle.

“Of course,” I open my palm but imagine that my gesture must appear unconvincing. “Who is she?”

“Giuliana Zanchi. Yes, that Zanchi—the banking family. She’s having some kind of picture painted here,” says Beppe, waving his hand in the general direction of Trevisan’s studio.

“Is the picture for her husband... or, um, fiancé?” I utter the question, then hold my breath.

The boatman smirks. “Signorina Zanchi? Married? Hardly... Though any man in Our Most Serene Republic would sell his soul to Satan in exchange for ten minutes alone with her.”

“The Zanchi family... Is that the Ca’Leoncino?”

The other boatman smirks again. “Goodness, no. You must be kidding! No, it’s the big pink brick palace further down the Grand Canal, the one you can see from the Church of San Silvestro. Care to have a look at the gondola?” Beppe asks, and I follow him from the boat slip onto the sunlit dock. My gaze goes straight to the leaded glass window of Trevisan’s studio that overlooks the canal. The curtain has been drawn, and I can see nothing except the dull side of the green velvet.

Beppe begins a detailed tour of the Zanchi gondola, and I feign fascination. Even without the dolphin emblem carved near the prow, I have already recognized the boat as a product of the Squero Delfin, a rival
squero
that produces beautiful boats. The
ferro
decorating the prow is enormous, a hulking iron fork engraved with flowers and grape vines; it is a wonder of metalworking. I gasp in genuine surprise when Federico demonstrates how the top half of the
ferro
can be ingeniously folded in half, to avoid bumping low-lying bridges. The stern
ferro
is hardly less ostentatious. The oars are painted with the family coat of arms. The oarlocks, too, are nothing short of masterpieces.

The
felze
is one of the newer enclosed kinds that allow passengers to travel in utter privacy. The frame of the cabin is constructed of wood, but you would hardly know it. Every single inch is carved, painted, and gilded. Whereas by law, all
felze
with certain exceptions are supposed to be black, its cloth cover, at least the one for this season, is made of bright royal-blue velvet with fringe and tassels. Beppe gestures for me to have a look inside. Wooden, louvered doors open to an interior space that I can only describe as a jewel box. One wall is covered in mirrors, which reflect the gilded damask fabric that upholsters the remaining walls and ceiling. The two seats are upholstered in royal blue velvet, and behind the seat stands a mahogany panel richly carved with scrolls and shells.

“And there are two more fine boats in the Zanchi boathouse,” Beppe tells me. “Over the years Signor Zanchi has paid enough
zecchini
in fines for breaking the sumptuary laws to buy ten new gondolas. A small price to pay in his view, I suppose.” I gasp.

On any other day, I would have been thrilled to explore every single inch of this fine craft, but I am distracted. Throughout Beppe’s tour, my mind is focused on the door to Trevisan’s studio, straining to hear or see something—anything—from inside. I hear the clang of the bells of San Biagio. A solid hour or more has passed since the boatman poked his head around the corner of the boat slip. Beppe chats about the new guild regulations on boatmen’s salaries, and I pretend to listen.