The Gondola Poet

By Erin Lee

The city of love:

An impossible world that floats just above a hungry, eager sea.

It flourishes and brings romantic calm to all who visit.

Some argue it to be the ultimate blend of madness and genius.

They are wrong.

The poet:

A man torn between making a living and chasing dreams.

He's found a way to combine these things and wants for none.

But those who wish to know him believe he has a secret.

They are wrong too.

The student:

A woman struggling to find her place.

Driven to defy a family legacy, she refuses to settle.

They mock her – insistent she'll never measure up.

They are most wrong of all.

Three wrongs.

One place.

A gondola ride to change everything.

Can the city of love make it right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393954705

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

Book preview

A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.

—Arthur Symons

Antonio

Present day

Itried not to cringe as the big-bellied American man plopped into my gondola. It wasn’t that he was the largest I’d ever pulled through the canals. I could handle his weight times four. It was that he moved with the grace of an orangutan, and I didn’t like the way the raspberry cream in his frittelle threatened to spill over. It had only been two weeks since I’d paid to replace the rose-colored upholstery. I cringed at the thought of replacing it again before the Madonna della Salute. For just one season, I wanted to get through without additional expenses from sloppy tourists simply passing through town with seemingly nothing of importance to do. My gondola was my livelihood, and I took pride in it being one of the best-kept in the lagoon.

His wife wasn’t much different; already yammering and taking her sweet time on the pier minus the frittelle. Nice people, I supposed, but this would hardly be one of those quiet, gentle strolls under the city’s lonely bridges and between the sleepy arms of the lagoon. The bickering was already incessant, and they weren’t even tucked away in the boat. I couldn’t imagine them here in any month but October. They would never have survived the crowds of summer. They’d fare even worse at Carnivale. But now, with the Regatta well behind us and the city’s air turned cool, I supposed they’d hoped to be here when things were slow. Americans, by their very nature, were rude—but not dumb. I was sure they’d done their research. It was likely they knew what they’d signed up for, and my job was to provide an experience for them. I supposed I could handle that too. I’d done it a million times before. I imagined the woman bragging to her American friends back home about their time in Venice; playing up the good parts and forgetting all about her grouchy companion’s barking.

I willed myself to turn my own mood. They could have picked any of the city’s four hundred—one hundred in off season—gondoliers. But they had chosen me. And who was I to say no? Two hundred Euro and all I had to do was pull them along the canal—something I could do in my sleep. It wasn’t that I hated my work. It was more like bad memories. Even then, in spite of pulling couples around in the name of love, I saw the beauty of the city too. If I was honest, each day it got easier though I wasn’t sure I wanted it to. By day’s end, and especially at sunset, I could put down my oar and soak in the grandeur of a place built on once upon a time before heading home.

Certain things could not be argued. I was a poet. A romantic. There were parts of me even my ex-finance could never take away, though, I often wished she had. It’d be easier. But working one of the most lucrative jobs in all of Venice, I really had no right to complain about anything. Each year, hundreds of guys and even women too, applied for the license to do what I did. Overall, I had everything I’d ever need. Still, something was missing. I refused to say out loud or even to myself exactly what it was.

"Come on, Marge, get in, the man barked at his wife, licking the last of the raspberry cream off his stumpy fingertips. This guy ain’t got all night."

His face reddened and a sheen of sweat on his forehead told me he was over the ride before we’d even left the pier. How he could sweat in 11C weather was a thing I’d not be able to get my mind around. But that wasn’t important. I’d learned a long time ago that the only thing that mattered was the task at hand. To be an effective gondolier, a man had to learn to put his feelings aside and always, always put the tourists first. It was our job to provide an experience and in that was no room for a foul mood. Besides, the man was wrong.

In fact, I did have all night. Tide had already risen and we’d be fine making it under the bridges. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do. Hell, we had six full hours if they wanted it. But I kept my lips pressed in a tight line. It bothered me the way he spoke to her. Chatty or not, his wife had to be pushing sixty-five or more. Her white hair and sun-burnt skin told me she’d probably been begging him for the better part of thirty years to take her here, and she’d done her best to make the most of it. The couple’s story wasn’t exactly new: Three or four kids, grandkids too. We didn’t have to share the same native language for me to know their history. I reminded myself not to get caught in the details or even to judge. Theirs was a love story too. For them, it was about the journey and not the happy ending destination. I could have had that had I done things differently. Only, I was no longer sure I wanted to.

Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, she said, equally annoyed. She wobbled for a moment before finally catching her balance at the rail of the pier; a large pinkish ring glinting in the setting sun. It was stunning and even matched my gondola seats. I wondered what kind of stone it was.

Antonio. I’ll be your guide, Ma’am. Allow me to help you in, I said, extending my hand and hoping the old man wouldn’t take offense. I still had tips riding on this. But I also knew that chivalry was not an American thing.

Thank you, she said, reaching for my arm after adjusting a tourist bag marked ‘Venice, Italy: City of Love’ on her opposite shoulder. Manners. What are those? See that, Rog? In Italy, men help women.

I didn’t answer her. While my English wasn’t perfect, I knew enough to realize the first question was rhetorical. The second would be ignored. I’d also been working this job long enough to understand that some couples communicated differently than others. Maybe this was some whacked form of foreplay to them. One could only hope. I’d hate to think of it any other way, like my parents.

With my feet planted in the base of the boat, I was able to manage pulling the older woman in safely. I wondered what kind of poetry I’d even be able to come up with. Usually, when the mood was not of this contemptuous tone, the words just came. This would be a challenge. Recite poetry of reality. History. A life shared and love accumulated in verse made not of the bigger moments but of the details. You know what to do—first, get those.

How long have you been in Italy? I asked as the woman who had introduced herself to me as Marjory or Marge settled in beside her husband—whose name I was never directly told. When the words would come hard, the best I could do was make small talk for now and later wrap it into simple verse. With tiny pieces of information, I could usually come up with something quick. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the standard poems I’d memorized and recited over and over again. But part of my pricing included the original works. I’d weave around the sand bars pointing out the sights and eventually stop. At that part of the tour, I’d recite a poem unique to my passengers. To do that, I needed basic and sometimes very intimate facts. Things like how long a couple had been together, their shared passions, their reasons for visiting Italy; those things mattered.

Two weeks. Finally. He promised me he’d take me for our tenth. More like thirtieth.

Married thirty years! That’s great, I said, removing the roping from the edge of the pier and praying they didn’t pay the extra 80 Euros for an additional forty minutes. Forty minutes would be enough with these two. Eighty would be enough to make me want to quit my job—again.

The man grunted, mumbling about how he’d never please her and that the guy doesn’t need to listen to your nagging too.

Yeah. Thirty years. You got a girl you love? Marjory asked me.

I’d made it a habit not to speak of myself and especially never to speak of my own rotten luck with love. My stories were less than romantic. Poet or not, my love life was enough to kill any buzz—even in Venice. At least since Jenn. It hadn’t always been that way, I reminded myself.

Oh, no. Not yet. Someday, though. It was my standard answer, and I had the sneaking suspicion it would not be enough. Not for Marge.

Leave him alone, Marge.

I wanted to hug Mr. Rude American. At least he could pick up on verbal and nonverbal cues. Or