The Gods of Venice

By Alan J. Shannon

Throughout its history, enchanting and mysterious Venice has attracted seekers. Some travel to the city to experience its storied charms, while others look for something else. This is the story of vastly different seekers whose lives unexpectedly intersect over six decades in a city shrouded in mystery.

In the Venice of pre-WWII, Costanza, a talented baker, and her husband Piero Agostino, a glass blower, are blessed with a daughter, Breva. She is the love of their life until the waters of Venice snatch her from them. Bereaved, their lives are lost to them.

In present-day Venice, Claudia Baggi, the diffident daughter of a countess, and Louis Howard, an unemployed expatriate from Chicago, have become good friends in the last year. Together, they concoct a plot that will allow Claudia to remain in Venice instead of returning home with her pious and controlling mother, Countess Baggi. Claudia and Louis restore a crumbling palazzo and convert it into a hotel. But the burning of the old La Fenice opera house triggers a series of unforeseeable events.

In this saga of love and redemption, Claudia, Louis, Costanza, Piero, and the Countess come to realize that rebirth is possible from the ashes of devastation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440174025

Alan J. Shannon

Alan J. Shannon has written for many publications, including Viva Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, The Chicago Sun-Times’ Elite Magazine, and Local Palate. He currently blogs for Low Impact Living. Shannon lives in Chicago’s historic East Ukrainian Village with his partner, Scott, cat, Theo, and two fish.

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The Gods of Venice

Alan J. Shannon

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

The Gods of Venice

Copyright © 2009 by Alan J. Shannon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-7403-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-7402-5 (ebk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-7401-8 (hc)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/07/2009

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

To my parents, who taught me the art of traveling, and to

Kathryn Heekin, who taught me how to be.

With thanks to Holly Enichen for insights and encouragement.

And to Scott, for far too many gifts to mention.

This being human is a guest house

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

The dark thought,

the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

—Rumi

Chapter One

Venice, 1997

The air, infused with warm weather scents, smelled as alive as the

trees. The bright sun warmed the earthen walls of the city’s buildings, its little patches of dirt and gardens, and even the cobblestones. Having passed another winter, Venice was coming alive again.

Louis walked along a zigzagging via, nearly passing his destination. Lost in olfactory musings, the heavy, earthy smell of espresso filled his nostrils, and he looked up just as he passed the front window of Café Tramonta.

Claudia sat at a corner table, two empty espresso cups—rims marred with rosy lipstick—stood neglected, cast aside on her table. By the look of the ashtray, and her vacant gaze out the wide window onto the calle, she was having a crisis. He furtively glanced at the top of her table again. Cell phone, lighter, a plate with the remains of a cornetto, and a piece of correspondence tucked under the saucer. A letter. A handwritten one. So this is why she’d called him.

Spy! Claudia shouted, smiling crookedly, catching Louis observing her.

The clanging of spoons on saucers and the humming and hissing of the enormous idling espresso machine ceased momentarily. The whole place seemed to hear what was intended for Louis alone. Customers turned toward Claudia whose face grew crimson. Poor Claudia. Dabs of pink rose on her slender, patrician neck. Self-consciously she clasped her throat and pulled the collar of her blouse closer.

"Ciao, Louis, ciao, ciao!" she called meekly, attempting a casual tone though she was aware everyone was watching her.

Louis sometimes tried to return the singsong, multiple ciao, but it always sounded forced, stilted. How could something so seemingly simple to express and duplicate be so impossible?

Patrons turned back to their papers and coffees, and Louis smiled and waved. "Un momentito, he pantomimed, pointing toward the espresso bar. Il caffè."

Claudia nodded too enthusiastically, thought Louis. She would wait, seemingly patient on the outside, but he knew, likely a ball of charged nerves in the inside. She wore an expression of implicit desperation, and disappointment. A pang of guilt stabbed Louis, but he needed his coffee. And by the look of things, he figured he’d better order it before going to her table.

He ordered two cappuccinos. One to take to the table and another to be delivered in fifteen minutes. The first time he’d done this the owner and barista hadn’t understood. One for now, one for later. I’m American, he’d explained, shrugging his shoulders. We like to eat and drink a lot.

The barista suddenly seemed to understand, nodding and grinning, and thereafter, his order for two coffees was never questioned. And always—with the exception of one occasion when the flamboyant opera star Luciana Serra fluttered through the door after having decided to take her morning espresso and vin santo at the café, throwing the place into turmoil—the waiter or barista never forgot to bring his second coffee fifteen minutes after he’d received the first.

Louis glanced at Claudia again, who brushed trembling fingers along the rim of her espresso saucer. He couldn’t guess the contents of the letter poking out from beneath the plate, but he was certain that it was from her mother. Who else could write and upset her so? She would cry and wonder what to do. And then Louis would comfort her by reminding her that there was always crazy, lost Venice, a city as odd, improbable, and lost as they were. And so, whatever her mother wrote, whatever would happen, they would still have Venice to hide in. The city would undoubtedly one day sink, but not in their lifetimes. For the near future, the city was terra firma, despite appearances and what the government said.

Balancing a cornetto and cappuccino, Louis maneuvered through the crowded café, nodding at his neighbor Giacomo and the postman, who should have begun delivering the mail already. The postman didn’t appear to be in any hurry; in fact, he’d just begun sipping a second cappuccino.

Louis and Claudia kissed, the customary two cheeks, two-peck version that Americans find so affected. He kissed without thinking about it. One year in Venice and he’d already adopted the city’s customs as his own.

Not a good day? he asked, feigning ignorance, pretending that he hadn’t heard the tone of desperation in her voice less than an hour earlier when she’d called to ask him to meet.

She nodded, giving a pained expression. He followed her eyes to the letter under the empty espresso cup.

"Carta di Mamma?"

Claudia nodded again.

Disownment? he joked. You know they’ll never cut you off. A penniless Baggi makes the whole family look bad. Besides, you know they’d be accused of shirking family duties for no good reason—

"No good reason? I don’t know what to do. I can’t hold a job, and I fear my time is up. The men interested in me are awful, and the ones I like are even more brutti. I’m only good at … well … shopping, and drinking, and talking. Only I can’t get paid for doing these. I don’t even remember what I like or what interests me."

It’s just a phase, Louis said, wondering what was in the letter that had prompted her to think about these things. He’d known Claudia for less than a year, but tended to agree with her self-assessment. Somewhere along the line, the young patrician exited from her intended path and she’d been lost ever since. While blue-blooded Italian parents sometimes indulged their children a year or two of irresponsibility, Bohemian living or all-out rebellion, a lifelong pursuit of either of the three—in any combination—wasn’t typically tolerated, and certainly not for daughters. But more than this, he’d gathered that her mother, Contessa Baggi, had made so many decisions and controlled her daughter’s life for so long, that now that Claudia had finally broken from her, she wasn’t sure what do. All along, she’d feared that her mother would force her to leave Venice. Was that about to happen?

It’s been a phase now for a few years, maybe longer. I can’t even remember when I stopped thinking for myself, she said quietly, reaching across the table to take a sip of his cappuccino. But I felt like leaving New York and coming here was a first step.

First step? he asked, noticing that his cappuccino was nearly gone.

Figuring it out. But I guess I’ve wasted the past year. And now what do I do? she whimpered, nervously pushing at her cuticles.

Louis glanced at the bar, hoping the barista was making his next cappuccino. What was in the letter, Claudia? he asked, wondering if he really wanted to know. If this perfect, easy existence he’d finally found in this intriguing, maze-like city were ending, maybe it would be better if he didn’t know.

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but she was visibly shaken.

What did your mother write? he asked, feeling a little like he was intruding. She would tell him when she was ready, right? In the meantime, he could pretend that nothing had changed.

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair. Things are complicated, she whimpered. There’s a lot I haven’t told you.

Okay, he said, his voice shaking.

I’ve told you that my mother’s always called all the shots, you already know that right?

He nodded, his head beginning to spin. Just when it seemed he’d found the right place and the perfect friend, things were going to unravel.

I was pushed and prodded to do hundreds of things when I was a kid, whether I liked it or not. So I don’t even know what it is to do something because you want to do it. I did everything because I was forced to or because it was simply easier to comply with my mother’s schemes and ideas, none of which were really horrid or anything, but most of which weren’t what I wanted to do.

Is she so bad? Louis thought of the occasional photos he’d seen of Contessa Baggi in newspapers and magazines. In photos, she seemed so perfect, so superhuman. She didn’t look cruel.

Well, she’s not spiteful—she doesn’t do things do be mean, Claudia explained, her cheeks turning pink. She’s not like some other powerful women I have met. With my mother, you eventually submit because it’s the easier thing to do, the path of least resistance. Compliance brings peace and other things.

Other things? he asked, marveling that even now when her mother was yanking her chain yet again, she couldn’t completely bring herself to rebuke her mother.

Money. It brings you money, she sniffed. Cooperate with my mother and you’re able to do what you want—provided it’s also what she wants. Claudia glanced down at the table embarrassed. She traced circles with her fingernails on the metal surface. When I was young, I did what she wanted because I had to. Now I do what she wants because I choose to, because I want the money.

Well, how were you able to live here doing nothing for a year? She let you do that?

She didn’t know, Claudia said meekly, pretending to gaze out the window.

Didn’t know? Louis asked, his voice louder than he’d intended. Her mother hadn’t known she’d been living in Venice for the past year?

No, she said nervously, running her fingers across her neck that had which turned pink and blotchy.

What is it? he asked. Why are you cringing?

Am I cringing? she asked, shaking her head with resignation. If I am, it’s because I feel bad, because I never told you.

Louis wondered if he should order a vin santo. The combination of their conversation and the caffeine from the cappuccino was making him shake.

I’ve been worried about it since the day I arrived here, wondering when I would receive this letter, when my mother would figure things out, she said soberly, gazing at the letter ominously.

Louis suddenly realized that despite the fact that he considered Claudia his closest friend, there were fundamentals about her that he didn’t know. Sometimes it was difficult to figure out Italians, though he’d wrongly concluded that Claudia was unlike typical Italians. She kept her secrets, too. Then, maybe everyone did. If he were truthful, he would have to admit that perhaps he even had his own.

Still, how did you keep it from your mother all this time?

Claudia cringed again, tracing more circles on the tabletop.

If you’d rather not talk about it, Louis offered, not sure whether he should change the subject or push her to tell him everything. He wanted to know and he didn’t want to know. He’d been so happy the night before, feeling as if things were finally going his way—now this.

No, no, I want to tell you, she said slowly, nodding her head as if to convince herself. It’s just that I’ve been dancing around the edges of the truth for so long that I’m not even certain if I recognize what’s real and what’s not.

Claudia shivered and rubbed her arms as if she’d just felt a chill.

Just tell me how it happened, Louis said, realizing there was far more about her that he hadn’t guessed at. And it sounded like there were things about Claudia that she didn’t even know about herself.

Well … with cell phones … it’s easy to do, she stammered. And, my mother’s busy, so I merely visited more often than usual, which was easy, of course, because I was traveling from Venice, not New York. Anytime she talked about visiting, I would claim that I needed to get out of the city and would come to Rome. And she doesn’t like to fly, anyway, hates to go to America, so I could easily persuade her to stay put. Pietro expressed her letters to me, and I expressed mine to him, which he mailed to her.

Your mother thought you were in New York this whole time?

She wouldn’t listen when I told her that it wasn’t working with Pietro, she said defensively, her voice rising. She wanted us to have a trial separation, so she paid for a small apartment for me, very close to the condo Pietro and I shared. I think she honestly believed that I would come around, that I’d grow up and return to him. She thought that ultimately all the years of catechism and time spent with her priest, Father Angelo, would prevail, and I would do my churchly, familial duty and go back to my husband. I honestly believe I was sent there to have children, to have Pietro’s children and nothing more. And I’m just realizing this now.

She knows that you’re divorced, doesn’t she?

She does now, she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. Without telling me, she jumped on a plane to New York, only to find that my apartment was empty. She went to see Pietro and got him to tell her where I was and to admit that we’d gotten a divorce six months ago.

That’s what she wrote?

Partly, Claudia said with a grimace, gesturing toward the barista.

Louis followed her gaze. The barista was just finishing pulling an espresso shot at the nearby bar. He deftly placed the filled cup on a saucer and with a flourish, tossed two cookies and a lemon rind beside the cup, and placed it before her. He didn’t seem to be listening, but Louis knew better. In quiet Venice, void of the roar of cars, buses, or crowds, it was still possible to eavesdrop. Venetians seemed to practice it, an art as old as glassblowing.

Why didn’t she come directly here? he asked.

Shaking her head before downing the shot of espresso, Claudia frowned.

That’s not my mother. I’m sure she returned to Rome beside herself. It must have shocked her to find out I’d done this behind her back, and to learn I’d been here, so close, all this time. She needed time to think, and probably to talk to Father Angelo.

So when did all of this occur? Louis asked, trying not to sound hurt that she hadn’t told him.

Just a few weeks ago. Pietro must have been afraid to tell me because he didn’t call or e-mail. And my mother must have waited a week or so before writing me, she said, her voice shaking as she waved again at the barista.

"Prosecco!" she called.

The bartender nodded, grabbed a glass, and turned to fetch a bottle of the local bubbly from the refrigerator beneath the counter. He poured the glass, filling it nearly to the top, and told his nephew to bring it to the table.

Won’t you make yourself sick? Louis asked

I don’t care, Claudia moaned. I need both.

When the beverage arrived, Claudia took a big sip and closed her eyes.

That tastes good, she sighed. After all that espresso, I need something to calm me down. I feel like throwing myself in a canal.

Really? Louis asked, leaning toward her.

No, she said quietly. I don’t know. Everything’s changed now, ruined. I don’t know what to think.

And why exactly is your mother so pissed?

Where do I begin? she said, her eyes turning pink as if she might cry. It goes back very far. Ultimately, as it’s always been, it’s because I haven’t done what she wants. And this time, I’ve disobeyed her wishes more than I’d ever even imagined I could.

By divorcing? Your mother is so convinced it’s wrong?

It was a marriage that my mother wanted, and it wasn’t the first thing I did for her that I shouldn’t have, she explained, sipping greedily from her glass. It became a habit after awhile.

You haven’t told me exactly how that happened, he said, leaning forward in his chair. I know that she wanted you to marry Pietro, but how did she orchestrate that?

We were friends, we loved each other as friends, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. His parents liked the match, and of course, it was my mother’s idea, so we married, both of us, for our parents. Silly, isn’t it? She looked at him.

Maybe, he offered. But maybe not that unusual, even for today.

I don’t think so many people would be so stupid today. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite as stupid as I am.

How can you say that? he asked. You just let your mother run your life for a long time, but you’re figuring things out now.

Only just now, she cried, her voice cracking. Why did it take me so long to figure it out, so long that I hardly know who I am?

It happens to lots of people, he said, watching an old woman slowly walk up the street outside the window. It could happen to anyone.

But how could I have been so clueless? I mean, I didn’t even realize at first that my mother had orchestrated our whole meeting and Pietro’s parents did the same. We both fell into their trap. And that was okay for a while, like I told you, but in the end it didn’t work. I followed Pietro to New York where he works for some giant bank, but that was no life for me. I was happy to have my acting classes and the cinema—so many theaters and movies that I could always find something to watch to carry me away. Not that it was so bad, but I knew it wasn’t working with Pietro, and so that made me unhappy. And I was in a different country, in that enormous city, and life suddenly scared me. I had nothing to do, and realized I didn’t even know what to do with myself. So I left shortly afterward and got my own apartment.

But you still talk to Pietro. Often.

Of course. We’re friends, which is what we were at the beginning. He was the one who told me to go. He knew it wasn’t going to work either. We were both sad, but what do you do when it just can’t work?

Some people go to counseling.

That’s so American, she shrugged. If you’re making a cake and you don’t have the right ingredients, what point is there in continuing to make it?

She wondered why he was trying to persuade her to give Pietro another chance when he knew from everything she’d said about them that there was no point. No, she was right that the marriage had been wrong from the start. Besides, didn’t Louis need her in Venice just as they were?

Louis sighed, shifting in his chair.

Did your mother suspect that things weren’t going right before you told her?

Certainly. She knew something wasn’t right almost from the beginning, maybe even before we were actually married. Thank God, she’s afraid to fly or I’m sure she would have been visiting all the time. She wanted us to see a priest.

A priest?

That’s how I know she knew that something was going on. She never said why she thought we should go see one, but I suspect she knew.

So what is she saying now? he asked.

She says it’s time to stop hiding out, to get back to Rome, and move onto the next phase of my life.

What’s that? he asked nervously.

I don’t know—but I have a feeling that I’ll soon find out, she said, her voice shaking again.

She finished off her prosecco, the tip of her tongue darting to the corners of her mouth to collect the last drops.

She sounds kind of modern to me, Louis said.

My mother can be very modern when she wants. In some ways, she’s very old-fashioned and in other ways, she’s thoroughly modern. She asks my father permission to do nothing; yet, she arranged my marriage. She also places a lot of faith in the church—and in her Father Angelo, who seems about as old as Rome itself. In that way, she’s as old-fashioned as they come.

Louis started to panic, wondering if Claudia would actually leave Venice.

You won’t go, will you? he asked. I mean, wouldn’t your mother let you stay?

Her eyes scrunched up and her face puckered vaguely as if she’d eaten something sour.

Going back to Rome would be going backward, she said. That’s where I grew up, but there’s nothing there for me. The Vatican is everywhere, and my parents are there, of course. Mostly my mother. I would always be a Baggi in Rome. In Venice, a Baggi doesn’t mean anything—

"Well, I wouldn’t say anything," Louis said, remembering the tabloid photos of her mother.

Still, it’s different. People are nosy here, but nosy about everyone and everything. And I don’t belong in Venice. Nobody talks about me or watches me more than they watch or pay attention to any other person.

You don’t belong here? he asked.

How had she come to be his unofficial partner and companion in this faraway city? He hadn’t had such a close friend in years, possibly ever. Like no one he’d known, Claudia appeared lost, vaguely out of sorts and he liked that in her, he wanted to take care of her. It was easier to accept his own uncertain future, the feeling that he was unclear about what to do next when he had a friend more lost than he was.

Claudia half smiled, shaking her head.

"I simply meant, I’m not from here, not that I shouldn’t be here, she said. I swear you look more dour than I do. And I’m the one who’s being forced to contemplate leaving, but I think I have to stay. I can think more clearly in this crumbling old city because there aren’t so many distractions, just the canals rising and falling with the tides every day. Everything is predictable and I like that. Besides, I’ve always been drawn to Venice. For a short time, I had this art instructor at school, a curator at the Vatican Museums. She loved Venetian art and architecture, and she used to go on and on about the city, and I fell in love without ever having seen the place. It’s everything she described and more."

In the year since meeting, the two friends had spent hours over many coffees, bottles of wine, bourbons, and cocktails and discussing the indescribable—reasons for feeling so at home in Venice. They never seemed to tire of the subject. And for Louis, it marked the first time he’d ever felt like he could stay in a place. He wasn’t thinking about when he could leave for the next city. One didn’t meet expats in Venice who were studying international relations, whose parents were political leaders or CEOs. No, in this city, foreigners who stayed more than a few days or a week studied art or architecture or bided their time hiding out.

Claudia sighed, but her face brightened at the sight of the barista’s young nephew bringing Louis’ second coffee and another glass of prosecco for her, even though she hadn’t ordered it. She waved at the barista, her face half embarrassment, half pleasure.

It’s a bad day, she chirped, holding her glass up to toast him. And I need something to calm me down.

The boy whisked away the empty espresso cups and replaced them with a small dish of glistening Marcona almonds coated in oil. Claudia picked up the letter and set it down again, smoothing it with her small hand.

She’s coming, she said, looking at Louis soberly.

Is that what she wrote?

No, she answered, drumming her fingers on the table.

Then what makes you think that? he asked, feeling stupid when he realized that if he told his mother where he was she would track him down, too.

That’s my mother, she said with a weary shrug. She’ll wait a few weeks to calm down, to give me time to think, and then she’ll be here—that’s how it was when I went to school, when I did an internship in Geneva with my father at the UN, and when I was in New York. She shows up sooner or later.

So you think she’s coming here to take you back home? he said, his voice sounding panicked.

I’d guess so. She won’t like it at all that I’m here. She’s always had this irrational dislike of Venice. She never brought me when I was a child no matter how many times I had asked, and she never had a good thing to say about the city. She wouldn’t even let me take a school trip here—her dislike of Venice is irrational.

You couldn’t be more different from your mother, I think.

Yes, in most ways. And the way we feel about Venice is just one of many.

And your father? What does he think?

Claudia looked pensive.

"I love my papà, she whispered, as if her father might be able to hear. But he’s never been able to make decisions for me. He’s had an influence, but my mother always decides what’s done. He’s always encouraged me, seeming to know that I’d come here someday. From the first time we talked about it, he encouraged me to come. In fact, when my mother wouldn’t allow me to take the trip with my classmates, he was the one who told me that someday I’d make it here."

Suddenly frowning, she took a sloppy gulp of prosecco. I’ve finally arrived where I want to be, and now maybe I have to leave—

You don’t have to go, Louis interrupted, leaning across the table.

I worry that she’ll cut me off, Louis. And then what will I do? she said, her shoulders drooping. I’ve never supported myself and I wouldn’t even know how.

"If you’ve got a reason to be here, then maybe she won’t make you leave. Maybe she won’t want you to leave," he said enthusiastically, trying to convince himself at the same time.

But how can that happen? she said staring absently at her glass. She’ll probably be here in a month, maybe even a few weeks. How can I get something together in such a short amount of time? I don’t even have a job; don’t even know what I’d be qualified to do.

Maybe you could be working toward something, have a plan, or something, he suggested. Hey, why don’t you open the film office you were talking about? You’d be perfect—scout locations, show location scouts around, assist with filming permits.

He knew the suggestion was useless, still, he felt as if he had to offer something. Just because Claudia enjoyed film didn’t mean she could open a film office. But if she left, he knew he would have to go, too. He’d grown so accustomed to having her as a companion that Venice would be no fun without her. In fact, it would be lonely.

I worry that it’s too late, she said, shaking her head slowly, deliberately. She stared vacantly at the letter on the table.

No, I’ll help you, Louis said loudly, slapping the table.

What would he do if she took him up on his offer? He was an underemployed, unfocused American on the run. Their situations were similar, so what help could he possibly offer? He listened to the words tumble out of his mouth, realizing even as he was saying them that they were meaningless, a promise he couldn’t keep. He wouldn’t even know where to start. After all, he was far more of a foreigner in the city than she was, despite her insistence that Venice was as strange and different to Romans as it was to Americans.

That sounds so impossible—improbable, too. I mean, there just aren’t that many films made here, she said hopelessly.

Louis shrugged, as if that fact were trivial, his mind racing to stumble upon a viable solution.

Why don’t you open a store, he said suddenly.

Claudia grimaced, shaking her head solemnly.

A high-end fashion store … what about that? he offered. Gaining confidence, he continued. But not all the typical stuff for the Japanese and Americans, but stuff that’s made by local people. Small name, different stuff. Clothing, paintings, ceramics … all kinds of stuff!

A crease formed on Claudia’s forehead, marring her long, narrow face. He’d only seen the crease form a few other times, only when she’d been really upset or angry.

I could write travel articles on it, do PR releases, and create a big buzz. I know how to do that! he said, leaning toward her.

She studied her empty prosecco glass, then leaned across the table and delicately picked up his cappuccino and took a sip. Avoiding his eyes, she focused on the foam on top of the coffee, considering his proposal.

Why does whatever you’re drinking always taste better? she asked, interrupting her thoughts.

It just seems that way, he mused.

Claudia took another sip before sliding the cup and saucer back across the table. She picked up one of the lumpy brown, malformed sugar cubes and examined it before setting it down again. She sighed.

You could help me do this? she asked, her gaze rising from the table.

Yes, of course.

It was only a half lie, of course. What did he know about opening a store? But he could help paint, maybe work there. And he could definitely do the PR work. He could promote the hell out of it.

If I had someone helping me, maybe my parents would help me with it. Of course, I don’t have enough money to do it myself, so I’d have to get some money from them, she said.

A shadow crossed her face, as if she’d realized that her idea wouldn’t work. From the expression on her face and the hard look in her eyes, Louis realized that she wouldn’t be asking her parents for any money.

Why does your mother dislike Venice so much? he asked, trying to change the subject. He felt like they were stuck in a corner, so maybe if they talked about something else a way out would become apparent.

Claudia squinted, the delicate features of her face forming a wince.

Who knows? My father thinks it’s strange, too, especially because the city has always been intriguing to me. Odd, isn’t it, that I’m drawn to the city while she despises it?

Maybe that’s how mothers and daughters are. He chuckled.

He could tell she no longer wanted to talk about it, that they’d gone too far as it was. Claudia studied the barista and her face brightened.

Maybe I could open a bar or café. That’s practical and not too hard. Even I could make cappuccino and pour drinks.

Louis frowned, but quickly smiled, not wanting to discourage any idea that might keep her in Venice.

No, she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. My mother would never let me do that either.

Maybe you could tell your mother to take a hike? Louis suggested, wondering if trying to persuade her to defy her mother was hopeless. It was as if Claudia knew that was the step to take but for some reason was unable to. Some reason? He knew the inconsequential reason was money.

Easier said than done, she said, biting the insides of her mouth. I … I’d really like to do that.

Then do it, Louis said. And we’ll figure out some way to make it work.

Claudia looked down at the table again, picking up the sugar cube and rolling it in the palm of her hand.

They’d talked enough, and if Claudia was going to stand up to her mother, it was going to take some time for her to get used to the idea. At least she was thinking seriously about it, he could see that by her solemn expression.

Louis pulled what remained of the second coffee toward him, greedily drinking the tepid espresso and foamy milk. He needed the caffeine and had to get to work on a translation job that was due that evening. He should have done it the day before, but Claudia had talked him into seeing a Mondrian exhibit at L’Accademia. Once again, he would be completing a job at the last minute. He tapped his foot nervously; worried that he wouldn’t have enough time to complete the assignment. If he could finish his work, then his mind would clear and he could help.

When do you think she’ll come? he asked.

Probably in a few weeks.

So we’ve got a little bit of time, anyway. I can ask around—maybe my landlord knows of something. I’ll talk to him, okay?

His landlord, Sacci, seemed to know everyone, having been raised in the city. The man’s aging mother had moved out of Venice years earlier and he’d taken over the management of the apartment building that Louis lived in. The man seemed thoughtful and well connected. Maybe he would have some ideas or know of a job for Claudia somewhere.

Finishing his lukewarm coffee, Louis scraped a spoonful of creamy froth into his mouth before timidly standing.

Oh, Claudia gasped. Don’t tell me you have to go? I’m just getting started—I need a plan to show I’m doing something or my mother’s going to force me back home to Rome.

Don’t worry, he encouraged her, patting her shoulder. We’ll think of something and we’ve got some time. Right now, though, I’ve got to get to work—really.

I forget that you work, she said wistfully. What are you working on?

A translation—the one I told you about yesterday. I have to finish it by tonight. The minute I’m finished I’ll help you. I promise. And we’ll figure out something, I just know it.

"Dio, she moaned, grasping the sides of the table as if steadying herself. When can you meet again—tomorrow for lunch? I’m suddenly feeling very needy."

Are you okay? he asked, suddenly worried that the prosecco and coffee she drank may have made her sick.

Oh, I’ll be okay, she said wearily, sitting back into her seat. I guess we can’t come up with a plan in one day.

I’ll think about it and give you a call, okay?

Tomorrow? Will you call me tomorrow? she pleaded, clutching his arm.

Sure, he nodded, inching away from her. If I finish early enough or I come up with something I’ll call you tonight. Otherwise tomorrow for sure.

He kissed her cheeks and gave her a big hug. What must it be like to have parents still telling you what to do and relying on them to live? He couldn’t imagine it with his parents so far away, not even knowing exactly where he was.

Louis left the café with Claudia hunched over another , and nervously toying with the sugar cube. He felt bad leaving, but what else could he say? He was fresh out of ideas and neither of them could think straight. It would be better to have some time to think about it, to talk to some people. And if he didn’t get his work done then he’d have no money to help her.

Walking slowly alongside the serpentine canals, he could feel the growing warmth of the sun seeping into the stone and brick of the buildings, gently warming the city. Though he could hardly afford it, he’d rented a cheap, tiny studio in a building that was a good ten minutes walk from his apartment. Right after he decided to stay in Venice and started getting regular translation assignments, he took the studio knowing it would never work for him to be doing his writing in his apartment. And because the studio was cramped and steamy in the summer and cold and drafty in the winter, he paid only fifty-thousand lire a month for it.

An old woman, ankles thick as gondola mooring posts, walked ahead of him clutching a market basket overflowing with vegetables. He thought about the letter from Claudia’s mother. What exactly had her mother written?

What would his mother do? She would be on a plane in a heartbeat, showing up on his doorstep (if she could find it). He’d abandoned her, fled his parents and his whole familiar life in Chicago, telling no one where he was. And he couldn’t even articulate exactly why. He’d felt stifled, his family and neighborhood friends he grew up with crowded him. But if he had to tell them just how they’d done so, he wouldn’t know how to explain it.

He’d always had an itch to move away, to live somewhere other than the old neighborhood or the gigantic city in which he’d grown up. In this way, he was pure American. He’d inherited the restless blood of American immigrants and pioneers passed on from parents that no longer understood the urge to move away.

He and Claudia’s positions were alike in some ways, but dissimilar in others. While his parents didn’t want to control his life, he felt their inexplicably heavy presence. It seemed the farther away he got from them, the more they invaded his thoughts and dreams. Claudia had different challenges. At least he was happy translating and editing. After so many years of having decisions made for her, she didn’t even know what she wanted to do. At least he knew what he wanted to do, what he could do.

A strange memory appeared—a vision so unlike the street scene before him that he shook his head. In his memory, it was a warm summer day and he was a child and lay with his brother on a soft blanket in the shade of a towering, whispering elm. He was dreamily awake, watching the shadows cast by the sun through the swaying branches and listening to the desultory, soothing rustle of the leaves. Birds were silent, as if the world had slowed for an instant to savor the sublime summer’s day. His mother tickled his back, a slow, gentle tickle that made him feel what? A feeling he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. What was he feeling then, as a five or six year old, when the sleepy summer days seemed to unroll endlessly and he didn’t worry about working or buying groceries? What had his worries been?

He started to cry as he walked down the narrow street, knowing that the old, precarious city perched on sinking marshes had seen plenty of tears. Did anyone before him though, cry for his reason, for the vague, inexplicable feeling that something wasn’t fully formed, that his life felt half-lived?

He hated when he couldn’t figure out things, when puzzles were unsolvable. He’d never been good at math or science because he’d been confronted with problems and equations. There was a formula to follow, a way to go from point A to point B, but he always got some little part of the formula wrong, so the answer nearly always remained foggy to him.

The toll of procrastination squeezed his chest, a more pleasant feeling to him than the indecipherable mystery of that just-recalled memory.

Calle Ponzi lay just ahead and he walked faster, passing a pasticceria. He glanced in the window where loaves of bread were stacked high, glistening with an olive oil glaze, and flecked with sea salt and granules of browned flour.

He walked quickly down Ponzi, past one of the phony glass studios, which sold a lot of so-called Venetian glass that was actually made in China. The bartender at Harry’s told him that this neighborhood was once filled with glassblowers, but very few remained.

Who was left in the city but a few fishermen, gondoliers, and hotel staff? Venice was a city where people were leaving, which was why he enjoyed being there even more. Let them leave it, quiet and disintegrating, slowly sinking into the sea. He would love it even more for having been abandoned to the trampling tourists, to history, and to the ever-higher tides. Always a sucker for the underdog, for the neglected and abandoned, he found the city alluring.

At passeggio Piccolo, a passage so narrow it resembled a crack in the faded facades of ochre and russet buildings, he briskly turned, his memory of the flashback having left him completely. The passage, which dead-ended at a canal, had only four tiny, but towering buildings. Two leaned forward as if trying to butt cornices. He glanced at the second floor window of the first building and saw the feline-like Signora Crespi peering down at him. He waved, but she abruptly leaned back from the window.

Why must he always forget that in this city you were never to let on that you knew you were being watched? He could tell his wave had irritated the scowling old woman. He imagined that in the shadows of her darkened living room she wore a frown.

If she’d been leaning out of the window, peering toward calle Ponzi as she often did, he could have said hello, and then she would actually have responded. After the first month of coming to the studio and greeting her with a buon giorno or buonasera, the signora had finally acknowledged him with a nod of her egg-shaped, gray-haired head. But after a few months, she began returning his greetings with a high-pitched sì that reminded him of a cartoon character’s voice. He was never certain whether she was echoing his greeting, or merely tolerating him, as if to say, yes, I see you, cretino.

Louis hurried down the passage past mullioned windows tightly closed or shuttered. Always he had the feeling he was being watched, that some window high above harbored spying eyes. He was an oddity, certainly, a young American renting a small studio, a shoebox really, in a working-class neighborhood. But he concluded that everyone in Venice was odd whether native, vagabond, or transplant, only the boatloads of tourists lived normal lives.

What did he consider himself? A vagabond, perhaps, but one who suspected that the world he’d left behind might one day catch up to him. In the meantime, he would enjoy the solitude, his lack of responsibility, and the feeling that he’d slipped into a time warp of sorts, falling backward in time. He could live simply, cheaply, with few demands and only himself and a best friend to consider. It was an easy enough life.

If he could keep the world at bay, out of the narrow, winding streets and rising and falling waters of the canals, maybe he would stay. For the first time since wandering around Europe, he’d found a place that felt right. While Claudia might have always known she wanted to come to Venice, he’d merely stumbled upon it. A college friend believed there were no coincidences in life, and he’d always doubted that could be true. But how to explain the small, gnawing urge to come to this corner of Europe only to discover he felt oddly at home here? Then there was the fact that he had somehow chosen to study Italian in high school and college, merely to be different. Everyone else studied Spanish and French, so what had prompted him to choose Italian?

As he placed his key into the door lock, a small boat with a whining outboard motor passed by on the canal at the end of the street pushing small waves of green water into the end of the passage. The sound of water lapping in the canal replaced the fading drone of the boat, as the tops of waves broke onto the street sloppily, eventually falling back into the canal.

The door springs opened loudly, creaking on giant hinges. Louis shuffled into the hallway, not wanting to mount the stairs and begin working. As he started up the stairs, he heard a tinny sounding radio coming from the first floor apartment on the left. The first time he had heard the crackling transmission; he had pressed his ear against the sweating wall and heard the swelling notes of a full orchestra, the warbling voice of an opera singer. He couldn’t be certain where the music was coming from; was it on the other side of the wall in the apartment where a retired fisherman lived?

Passing the large door to the canal and the boat garage, which no one in the building used, Louis thought he heard crying, a muffled, and steady sob. Pressing his ear against the damp, thick door, he listened for the sound again but heard only a sorrowful cat that had probably sneaked into the boat garage.

As he climbed the stairs, he heard the crying again, but less faintly. This time the sound was unmistakable. Who was it? The fisherman, perhaps, or Signora Crespi on the next floor? He couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from—farther up the stairway, or across the canal? He pressed his ear against the wall so he could hear better. Implausible as it seemed, maybe the source of the crying was the tough-looking, retired fisherman, Signore Toto, with ruddy cheeks and forearms as big as pier pilings. He seemed the last person who would cry, Louis thought. Didn’t he live on the other side of the wall? And he was a widower, so that might explain it.

The sobbing just as quickly stopped and Louis stood silent with his ear cocked toward the wall. He balanced on the stair, each foot on a different step, trying to quiet a creak in the old wood. But there was no more crying, just the faint sound of disco coming from somewhere down the canal.

Louis never figured it out, and if he lingered much longer, he’d be sorry by midnight that he’d spent even these few moments standing idly in the hallway. He wondered if Claudia might cry the same way when she returned to the quiet of her apartment. Bounding up the remaining steps to the fourth floor as if to drive the thought from his head, he arrived in front of his studio door out of breath.

His studio was tiny, drafty, and completely Old World. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he could sense the presence of all the souls who had sat under this same roof. He prepped his desk and then opened the heavy curtains covering the giant windows overlooking the canal. The landlord claimed the room had once been part of a lesser palazzo, for why ever would such a small apartment have such enormous windows overlooking the canal?

Sitting down at his computer right away—even before pouring himself a glass of water—he picked up the translation where he’d left off and jumped into his work. The first few pages translated quickly and easily. The short story, by an American, took place in Tuscany and recounted her misadventures with some college friends. There would be the standard affair with some strapping Tuscan stud whose olive skin, dark eyes, wooing ways and earthiness left the women panting for more. The mysterious, slightly flirtatious uomo would make an appearance by page six, he wagered. The world seemed to have an insatiable appetite for bodice rippers, which was fine by him as it kept him employed.

But he stood corrected when he passed page six, then seven, then ten and still no uomo. Instead, the story took an unexpected turn when the protagonist’s best friend confessed a love she had harbored and hidden for nearly twenty years. And that’s where the story abruptly ended, to be continued in the following edition. The next installment would reveal all, or at least a little more. He didn’t even know how many installments the story had or in which magazine it would appear. It didn’t matter; he was paid well enough that he could remain in Venice.

He finished translating the piece in ten hours, two hours less than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t noticed, but the sky outside had turned to swirling blackness punctuated by a few pinpricks of light in the distance and yellowy light escaping a window across the canal. It was only eight o’clock.

He would have time for a drink before dinner, and why not at his favorite off-season spot, Harry’s Bar. During the summer, he spurned the place, except in the mornings or late afternoons, but in the off-season, the legendary bar and restaurant was quiet, patronized by only an occasional tourist and by a different sort: a combination of Venetians, passers-through, and squatters who seemed right at home at the establishment. He liked to think of himself as belonging there, at ease among the spirits of Hemingway and Picasso.

Closing a set of aged, thick wood-slatted blinds and the heavy, old curtains against the early spring chill seeping in through the windows, Louis switched off his desk lamp and grabbed his laptop as he walked across the creaking floor to the door. He had e-mailed the translation to the service along with an invoice. If he were lucky, he’d be paid in a few months.

If he were careful, he’d have enough money for another three weeks. And if the check didn’t arrive then—or another from a job he’d sent off weeks earlier—then he’d ask his landlord if he could pay the rent late. When Louis arrived a year ago, he thought the rather young landlord a typical Italian. He looked a little like a handsome statesman, well dressed and mostly serious. But lately, as he observed him making rounds in the building with his pugs or running out for a coffee, he’d concluded that maybe the man wasn’t as typical as he had thought.

Louis crept down the stairs listening for the crying he’d heard earlier. But there was only a faint sound of a piano. At the foot of the stairs, he paused, cocked his ear toward the wall, and stood still. There was no sobbing and no opera music. He shrugged his shoulders just as the light timer expired plunging the stairway and hall into darkness. A thin strip of muted light from the street spilled under the door. He reached for the doorknob, finding it out of habit.

As he walked outside, frozen bits of mist struck his cheeks, reminding him how unpredictable springtime could be in Venice. A cold front from the Alps had usurped the spring-like warmth from earlier in the day. He tied his scarf against the chill and walked at a brisk pace toward Harry’s Bar.

Buonasera, called Arturo, one of Harry’s bartenders, as Louis stepped through the door.

Louis returned the greeting and noticed with dismay that the bar was crowded—with Americans. He hesitated, stopping his hands in midair as they began unwinding his neck scarf. Should he just go elsewhere? All he’d wanted was to relax after translating for so many hours without a lot of noisy American tourists around. But what were they doing here in late March? Shouldn’t they be home dyeing Easter eggs? He supposed they could say the same of him, though he felt like he had more of a claim on the bar—and maybe the whole city.

He heard a voice, a voice that at first sounded familiar only because of the immediately recognizable Midwest accent, flat, friendly, and open.

He hung out here, the man was saying, along with Picasso and I think Jackie O even stopped by—with Onassis. Not when she was First Lady, of course. Anyone who was anyone who came to Venice in the sixties and seventies stopped in here.

But it seems so plain—not at all what I’d imagined. It’s not very jet-set, you know? another voice said with disappointment.

Louis could see a rather plain woman speaking, playing with the collar of what looked to be a new trench coat—probably Armani, he thought. Of course she didn’t