The Gondola Maker (9 page)

“
Cucco
!” Giorgio calls out Alvise’s nickname, then gestures with his thumb to the passenger dock, where a man is waiting. Alvise leaves me behind in the boathouse, and Giorgio remains framed in the doorway with his arms crossed, regarding me closely. Something in the man’s gaze makes goosebumps appear on the back of my neck. He has been observing us from this position, for how long I do not know.

Chapter
13

Giorgio charges Alvise and me with picking up Nardo Battistini, the banker, and his wife to go to a private masked ball in Dorsoduro.

Alvise mans the oar, and I take a seat on the aft deck of one of the passenger gondolas. I slide my fingertips across the mahogany planks beneath me, a subconscious gesture I must have repeated thousands of times in my life. I polished them two days ago with a special mixture of olive oil tinged with muriatic acid that I improvised from neglected materials I discovered in the boathouse. The boards feel slick and clean beneath my left hand, and I feel pleased with my work. Alvise steers the boat westward toward Dorsoduro. Near the Rialto market, he turns left.

“I thought we were going to pick up the Signori Battistini,” I say.

“We are, my friend. But first, we have a little personal business to take care of,” Alvise grins. He maneuvers into the tight sliver of water lined with boats docked on both sides, then ducks to avoid hitting his head on the rickety wooden bridge that spans the canal. He scowls back at it. “Shoddy craftsmanship.”

He brings the gondola to a stop and moors it to a post outside a private residence. The narrow house stands some four stories high with a crooked façade and tall, arched windows covered with iron grilles. Like many canal-side façades, this one is painted in bright hues, with trailing green tendrils around the arched doorway.

His face raised upward, Alvise cups his hands and emits a low, bird-like whistle. We wait in silence for a moment, then Alvise repeats the whistle. Finally, we hear footsteps approaching the canal-side door. The arched, wooden door creaks open, and a man’s lined face appears, bearing the closely trimmed facial hair in the fashion of the day. “My guests are readying themselves for an unforgettable night. We won’t keep you waiting long!” He smiles, and I notice that several teeth are missing.

Alvise bows exaggeratedly toward the man. “At your service.”

“Signor da Ponte,” Alvise whispers to me. “I don’t know much except that he hosts visitors from the foreign embassies. It’s my job to make sure that they enjoy, shall we say, a memorable night in Our Most Serene City.” He grins, then adds quickly, “but you must not utter a word to Master Giorgio! This little piece of business is strictly mine, understood?”

I nod. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Alvise shrugs in defense. “If I want to buy a few tankards or wager on cards, I can hardly afford to do it on the pittance that Old Marchese pays us. Besides, if I bring the ladies some good foreign customers, sometimes I can earn some extra perks myself, if you get what I mean.”

The door of the crooked house creaks opens again, and Signor da Ponte steps out with two fair-haired gentlemen who are nothing if not out of place. The first, a bloated man whose pasty white skin is streaked with fine blood vessels, grips the mooring post to keep from keeling over into the canal. His distended belly seems ready to burst, and his tightly cinched belt appears to restrain his stomach rather than to keep up his breeches. His legs emerge below like wooden stilts. I hold out my hand to him for support as he steps into the gondola and toddles toward the passenger cabin with uneasy steps. I smell alcohol on his breath—a potent, stringent stench.

The man heaves himself onto the seat and grins tightly at me. The second man, equally fair-skinned but scrawny, has an easier time with the journey from the house into the boat. He seats himself next to his portly companion. From his coat pocket, he produces a pewter flask, which he raises in a toast to Alvise and myself. The two men exchange a few flat-sounding, nasal words, but I do not begin to interpret their meaning.

Finally, Signor da Ponte emerges from the house, smartly dressed in a navy tailcoat and a cap with a stylish white plume. His chest held high, he steps effortlessly into the boat and winks at Alvise. “Onward, my dear boatman! These fine gentlemen have but a few precious hours to sample the best of our renowned Venetian pleasures!”

“Right away,
missier
.” Alvise pulls away from the mooring and maneuvers down the canal.

As no more room remains in the passenger cabin, Signor da Ponte seats himself on the aft deck next to me. “You’re nurturing young talent, I see!”

I take my cue from Alvise. “It’s my pleasure,
missier
.”

Signor da Ponte pats my shoulder convivially. “Son, these two fine gentlemen have brought me some excellent whiskey all the way from the green shores of the Kingdom of Hibernia. He raises his own flask, then throws his head back and swills the foul-smelling liquid into his cheeks. “Care to sample it?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then,” Signor da Ponte continues, taking another swig, “from one earthly pleasure to the next!” Alvise laughs.

Alvise’s swift strokes bring us to a narrow house in the Rialto quarter whose stones project out over the canal. The canal-side door is festooned with a metal door knocker in the shape of a lady’s hand. A cat leaps onto a stone windowsill and crouches to watch me as I lash the boat to a metal ring while Alvise taps on the door with the knocker. He turns toward the men in the boat and winks.

One story above, I hear shutters open, and I gaze up to see an extraordinarily beautiful woman lean out over the windowsill. Her dark hair sweeps away from her face and spills over her shoulder in waves. A ring of flowers frames her brow, highlighting cheeks enhanced with color and perfect white teeth. The neck of her golden silk dress plunges low to reveal the gathered hem of a gossamer-thin chemise pulled tautly over plump breasts, and strings of pearls and colored jewels swing from her neck. Every one of her fingers, even each thumb, is adorned with a ring, each holding an enormous gemstone of a different color.

“My dear Alvise, we’ve been waiting for you. Barbara will open the door for your guests. See you in two hours, my love?”

Alvise bows dramatically, as if on stage, and the woman disappears from view.

The canal-side door opens, and an older woman I judge to be a servant gestures for the men to enter. The woman is plain, and creases mark her brow, but even she wears a pale pink silk gown with a plunging neckline and ribbons tied tightly beneath her small breasts. Tiny freckles dot her protruding collarbones, and a single green gemstone hangs from a chain around her neck. I have heard that the jewels Venetian women wear may cost as much as a house; but rarely does even a housemaid leave home without adorning herself with some bauble.

Signor da Ponte offers his hand to bring the two foreign visitors to a standing position, and Alvise and I help them climb from the boat onto the stoop of the whorehouse. The two men look bewildered and excited. Signor da Ponte fishes a small leather bag tied with a silk cord from an inside pocket of his tailcoat and produces several coins for Alvise. In a low voice, he says, “Better that I pay your commission now, in case those whores decide to con us out of everything we have!” He winks at me, then says loudly to Alvise, “Always a pleasure doing business with you.” Signor da Ponte alights effortlessly from the gondola and bows low before the servant woman. The door closes behind the men. Alvise drops the coins into his pocket and pushes away from the stoop with his foot.

At the corner of the Grand Canal, two elaborately dressed women loiter on the quayside. One of the women waves and calls out, “
Bonasera
, Signor Alvise! Who’s your friend?”

“I’m not telling you! I want you all to myself!” Alvise retorts.

She giggles. “Then why don’t you stop by later tonight, so I can repay my debt to you?”

“
Senz’altro
,” Alvise replies, tipping his hat.

Alvise saunters to the rear of the boat, puts his feet up on the deck, and smiles. “And that is what I call an honest day’s work. It looks like I’m even going to get more than one benefit out of this trip.”

He hands the oar to me.

“And now,
figliolo
,” he says, mocking Giorgio’s new way of referring to me as Alvise’s junior, “back to our official work.”

Chapter
14

“Where is that no-good
slandrón
?” Master Giorgio emerges from his hut, his cheeks flushed and his eyes black with rage.

I look up from the quayside, where I am mucking grime from the keel of a boat in dry dock.

Alvise is nowhere to be found.

“It figures,” Giorgio grumbles, talking to no one in particular. “On the day I have an errand for one of my most important clients, he deserts me. I treat that boy like my own son, and this is how he repays me!” He bangs his fist down on the wooden table outside the hut. “
Salabràco
!”

I flinch, returning my gaze to my vigorous scrubbing as the tirade continues. The quay alongside the boathouse accumulates with dirt quickly because of the foot and boat traffic. I watch the small clouds of dust, dirt, and bird feces lift into the air, then light on the surface of the dark canal waters. After a moment, the specks scatter with the ripples.

“
Figliolo
!” Giorgio booms, using the new nickname he’s chosen for me. I cringe. “It’s your lucky day!” Giorgio saunters down the stairs towards me. “Load the Nerina with those crates and row as quickly as your little arms will take you to the painter Trevisan’s studio. I would never ask the likes of you to do it if you weren’t the only one here. You mess this up, boy, and you’re out on your scrawny ass without a
soldo
, understood?”

“Of course, Master Giorgio. Right away.” I untie my apron and exchange my scrub brush for one of the oars mounted on the outside wall of the boathouse. I load the crates, then board the Nerina, moored at the dock. I push off from the quay and row swiftly through the waters, elated to have a chore outside the grimy ferry station.

As I row, I wonder just where Alvise could be. I form a picture in my mind of my new friend, snoring and sodden with drink. In my mind’s eye, the brazen gondolier is sprawled at the end of the bed of the courtesan who had called to him from across the canal the night before. I don’t know Alvise well, but I know enough to imagine that my guess is accurate. Or perhaps Alvise has met the fate of my predecessor, punched in the jaw by some woman’s husband, falling to his death from a bridge into the stinking canal. In that case, I think, my training is over and I am truly on my own. I stifle a grin.

I effortlessly maneuver the ninety-degree turn into the canal that borders the house of the artist Trevisan. I slow the boat as I approach Trevisan’s boat slip, a cavernous space that allows direct access from the underbelly of the great house into the canal. Nearly every house of any size possesses a boat slip where its owner locks up his watercraft, safe from the vagaries of the canal.

A pair of ornate wrought-iron gates, closed with an impressive lock, marks the opening to Trevisan’s boat slip. The space is constructed with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. The sound of the murky water licking the sides of the boat slip reverberates and amplifies into great lapping slurps. Light enters the cavernous space from the wrought-iron grille of the access door as well as from a line of fan-shaped windows under arches across the back of the boat slip. A broad landing creates a U-shaped edge around the water, allowing boats to be charged and unloaded. Even in the gloom, I discern that there is a magnificent gondola moored inside with what appears to be a new green velvet
felze
and elaborate, gilded carving on the prow. Balancing my weight in Giorgio’s gondola, I move close enough to grip the gate. I press my face to it in order to get a better look at the boat and whistle under my breath. I wonder who made this fine craft.

Peering further back into the shadows, I observe what appears to be years’ worth of neglected belongings: furniture covered in drapes, shelves stacked high with discarded tools, household goods, and more. Within this jumble, my eyes begin to make out the shape of another gondola stored in dry dock, turned upside down on a pair of trestles. The boat is partially covered with a large swath of canvas, but from the portion of the craft that is visible, I see that it is very old and neglected. The paint is dull and scratched, and part of the wood is split on one side, probably the result of some long-ago crash.

My heart leaps as I notice the carved maple leaf emblem on the prow of the boat. Even through the darkness, I would recognize it anywhere: the old gondola was made in my father’s boatyard.