(1991) Pinocchio in Venice (17 page)

    "It's all I have left," he whimpers through chattering teeth. The tears are starting. He isn't going to make it. "It's not my fault! I am not a poor man! I have been the -
sob!
- victim of a cruel deceit! I have lost everything! Please help me -!"

    "Well, on a day like this, I suppose, somewhat is better than nothing," sighs the gondolier, tossing the ear and bread over his shoulder with a shrug, pocketing the lire, and popping the cheese behind the mask into his mouth with a slurp before setting off. "A little wood, as the saying goes, will heat a little oven."

    As the gondola turns and noses its way up the canal, the oar splashing sluggishly in the snow-clotted water, the professor, slumped desolately in his wet rags and deprived even of the somewhat, describes through his tears, because, like the gondolier's proverbial bit of wood, it seems to warm him a little to do so, how those two ruthless thieves last night stole all his earthly possessions, leaving him alone and homeless in the bitter weather. "They threw me to the lions! Literally! It's true!
Sniff!
I was even chased by one! They took my clothes, my money, my papers, my medicines, my traveling garment steamer -"

    "Ah, it is a terrible story, professore, my heart weeps for you!" commiserates the gondolier, reaching under his mask as though to wipe a tear, or perhaps to pick his teeth. "What a world we are condemned to live in, eh? Where can we gentle folk find a safe shelter? Well, but here we are! Step out, please!"

    "What -? Already? But -!" They have bumped up against a small open campo, he sees, in front of a church whose bare façade today is striped with snow, giving it the appearance of a circus tent. They have not even left the area of the police operation. It is just across the canal, they have only circled around it, he can still hear the screams, the shouts, smell the smoke, people are fleeing this way, then turning around to watch the action on the other side. "But wait, this isn't -! You promised -!"

    "Yes, yes, as requested, signore, thank you very much!"

    "What do you mean, thank you very much -?! I gave you all my money! You haven't taken me anywhere yet!
This is robbery!"

    "Now, now, lower the comb," cautions the gondolier, glancing over his shoulder. "No sense drowning in a glass of water, as the I saying goes, professore, so don't make an affair of state out of it!"

    "But, see here, you -
Stop! What are you doing
-
?!"
The oar has caught him by the collar again, and once more he finds himself helplessly treading air, his coattails flapping soggily, over the murky brown waters of the snow-scummed canal.
"Help! Thief! He stole my money!"
he cries, appealing to the people in the square, even as he dangles from the gondolier's pole, but they only laugh and cheer, as though he were part of the daily entertainment.

"Look at him!"
mocks the gondolier, waving a few soggy lire at the crowd.
"Il gran signore!"

    "Che bestiola!"

    "He's too small! Throw him back!"

"Put me down! This is an outrage!"

    "People who wear small shoes," the scoundrel declares portentiously, easing him down onto the snowy paving stones beside a little fat man, broader than he is tall, who seems, like everyone else, greatly amused by it all, "should not try to live on a large foot, dottore!"

"Foot dottore!"
a blind beggar echoes, waving his white cane with the only hand he has.

"You!"
he gasps, recognizing his old enemy at last. "You stole my baggage! You stole my computer, all my work!
You stole my life -!"

    "Ah well, that was long ago," rumbles the masked villain, dipping his head between his shoulders and leaning heavily on one foot. The fat man gives the rogue something, money probably, though the gesture is so fleetingly subtle as to be all but imperceptible. "Temporibus illis, and all that, dottore, if you please, let's pass the sponge over it, let's put a stone on it, as they say over on San Michele, let bygones be -"

    "Bygones!" cries the beggar, and rattles his tin cup. "If you please!"

"It's La Volpe! Don't let her get away!"
the old scholar wails, as the devilish creature pushes away with a tip of her tatty straw boater, slipping deftly up the waterway and out of sight.
"Help! Police!"
His voice is all that's left him, he cannot move, he cannot even point his finger.
"She's the one! She stole everything I had! Stop her!"

    But the police, not far away, have other things to do, and the gathered crowds seem merely amused, waiting to see what will happen next. What does happen is that the strange little fat man, his round rosy face split with a gleaming smile, turns to the water-logged professor, takes him tenderly in his arms, and squeezes him as though to wring him dry. "Pini, Pini, my love!" he gushes with a soft old voice full of loving kindness. "Safe at last!"

16. THE LITTLE MAN

    The low sky's sullen light is ebbing, as though swept up into the clouds of mothlike snow now blowing around the melancholy lilac-tinted lamps along the waterfront, by the time the rapidly sinking emeritus professor is lifted out of the rocking motor launch and onto his old friend's private dock on the Molo, the landing stage and promenade near the Piazzetta of San Marco. The ancient traveler is dimly aware, ravaged by illness and cruel abuse though he is, that he is making, at last, his proper entrance into this "fairy city of the heart," as Eugenio has just called it, quoting one or another of the city's agents, and it does not fail to occur to him, as his porters bear him ceremonially between the Piazzetta's two eccentric gallows posts as though through a turnstile, deep-throated bells ringing out their somber consent overhead, that had he somehow landed here last night, as so many who have preceded him to this city through the centuries have advised, the mortal disasters that have befallen him this past night and day might never have happened, a thought that, far from easing his despair, merely deepens it, reminding him once again of his deplorable ingrained resistance to all advice, no matter how noble and well meaning its source. He is that proverbial impetuous fool, who, rushing in, gets, over and over again, trod upon.

    "Now, now," says Eugenio gently, sidling up and tucking his blankets more tightly about him, "stop carrying on so, my angel, take your courage in both hands, we'll be there soon."

    "There" is Eugenio's palace, the Palazzo dei Balocchi, "my humble abode," as his old school chum called it, "my little capanna in the Piazza," which has been offered to the professor, not merely for the night, but for so long as he is able to remain, which, under the grave circumstances, may be, alas, the shorter span of time. He has been offered a suite of his own, centrally heated and "fitted out in full rule" with built-in bar, medieval tapestries, a billiard table, marble bathroom with its original frescos, sauna, Byzantine mosaic floors, and an advanced electronic wraparound sound system, along with a staff of servants, doctors, nurses, cooks, priests, pharmacists, tailors, secretaries, and cellarmasters at his disposal, and more: a curative herbal risotto on arrival, silk pajamas, a new electric toothbrush, satin sheets and breakfast in bed, if he should last that long, even a personal hot water bottle and all the credit he might need during this emergency. "Indeed the whole city shall be laid at your feet, my exalted friend," Eugenio had exclaimed while still embracing him back there on the little exposed campo where La Volpe had deposited him, "you'll be sleeping between two pillars, as they say here, pillows, I mean, so long as I have anything to do with it, trust me - to the laureate his guerdon, the master his meed! Eh? So come along, contentment awaits, dear boy, but hurry now, the night is cold and the way is long!
Andiamo pure!
"

    But, soaked to the core from his fatal dunking and fast icing up in the bitter wind, he could no longer even speak, much less move, and hurrying was like a forgotten dream. He could only lift his chin creakily an inch or two and sneeze:
"Etci! Etci!"
Whereupon, with a snap of Eugenio's fingers, two servants appeared with a kind of sedan chair or litter, strapped him into it, bundled him up snugly in cashmere blankets, and hoisted him aboard the gleaming motor launch, which had all the while been growling impatiently alongside them at the foot of the bridge.

    There was much, as the launch lurched away like a runner breaking out of the starting block and went roaring, right through a red light, down the narrow rio, darting in and out among the slower gondolas, barges, and the honking express vaporetto, snow-thickened spray flying from the bounding prow and water slapping stone and wood along the sides, that was troubling the dying scholar, the smoke in the air, for example, the remarks of that infernal Fox and then the money that had passed hands, the very coincidence that had brought Eugenio to just that little square beside the water at just such a moment on such a day and made his rescue possible, but all of this was far at the back of his bruised and water-soaked head, and it disappeared altogether when Eugenio, declaring how sweet it was to go simply
mad
over a lost friend found again, proceeded to recite, as proof of his uninterrupted love and devotion to his old prepubescent pal, all of the grants, awards, fellowships, degrees (earned and honorary), prizes and publications, chairmanships, medals, titles, professional and honorary society memberships, special commissions, anthologizations, trusteeships, presidential citations, distinguished visiting professorships, biographies, eulogies, monuments, festschrifts, film credits, book and children's park dedications, and every single
Who's Who
entry of the professor's long and illustrious career, even mentioning the establishment, in his honor, upon the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first edition of
The Wretch,
of "The Annual 'Character Counts' Award" by Rotary International, and his more recent (politely refused) nomination as honorary president of the national "Nuke the Whales" campaign.

    Whether it was this extraordinary exhibition of his boyhood companion's lifelong loyalty and admiration that set him off, or the sudden pungent awareness of the distance between that glorious past and his present misfortunes, the old wayfarer burst into tears and, taken generously into Eugenio's open arms, proceeded to unburden himself upon his dear friend's plump silk-shirted breast. Sobbing and wheezing, he has gasped out, as they've come spanking down the Grand Canal, engines wide open and sirens bleating, his terrible tale, in fragments only and in no particular order, getting blind monks confused with drunk lions, trash bags with turncoats, and grappa with graffiti, calamity tumbling upon calamity and all mixed up…

    "And -
sob!
- he stole my computer!"

    "The gondolier -?"

    "Yes, but not -!"

    "But, my dear boy, what were you doing jumping into the canal with a computer?"

    "No, you don't - and the police! It was terrible! You saw -!"

    "Now, now, boys will be boys, Pini…"

    "But -
wah!
- my best friend! It was only music -!"

    "We weren't afraid of a little music, ragazzo mio, we were worried about
you
in the hands of those Puppet Brigade terrorists! We were rescuing you from a possible kidnapping -!"

    "Was that a
rescue
-? I was -
boohoo!
- in a trash bag -!"

    "I know, I know, let it all pour out, my love…"

    … And maybe not even entirely audible over the speedboat's wail and roar, but it hasn't mattered, Eugenio has seemed to understand and forgive everything, hugging him close, assuring him that his nightmare was over, truly over, he was with trusted and altogether human friends now ("And in Venice we value friendship dearer than life! I would be unworthy of the name of Venetian if I did not follow the example of my brave fellow citizens, who are the soul of honor!"), and consoling him with promises of the luxuries and unstinting cordiality that await him. "This is not only the world's most beautiful city, as has often been said, it is also, in case you have forgotten, amor mio, its most civilized and opulent host. Indeed, there is no other city quite like it! It is a kind of paradise, una cittŕ benedetta, set like a golden clasp, as someone has said, on the girdle of the earth, a boast, a marvel, and a show, magical, dazzling, perplexing, the playground of the western world, the revel of the earth - the Masque of Italy! Una vera cuccagna! Pleasure, Pini, is its other name! I
love
it, almost as much as I love you! So stop crying now, you silly creature, life here is like a perpetual holiday, and you are its guest of honor! Oh, I have such plans for you, my friend! What good times we shall have together!"

    "But - for the love of God, Eugenio!
Sob!
I-I am
dying -!
"

    "Then, sweet boy, we shall have obsequies the likes of which have not been seen here since the ninth century when those two mercantile body snatchers brought Saint Mark's stolen corpse back in a perfumed basket from Alexandria, an entrepreneurial coup the world has envied ever since! Ah, what a delicious funeral that must have been! Think of the crowds! The marketing possibilities! And they've never stopped coming! Those fragrant bones, planted in a mausoleum unequaled in splendor till our own age of the movie palace, seeded an empire! Indeed, the odor of sanctity bestowed upon these islands by the ever-ripe Evangelist, is, when the wind turns, with us still, a daily reminder of the debt we all owe to those two quick-fingered traveling salesmen, bless their shameless little hearts! And now, Pini, if it's your turn, I can promise you a send-off unmatched in modern times! I see a glass coffin, a single transparent bubble, hand blown around the dear departed by Murano craftsmen like a bottle around a model square-rigger! You will lie in state on silken cushions the color of biscuits and cream, trimmed with the finest Burano lace and stuffed with canary feathers, surrounded by candlelit displays of memorabilia, souvenirs, articulated miniature replicas, death's masks, and other spin-offs, in the ballroom of one of the great Venetian palaces - the Casa Stecchini perhaps, yes, why not? The House of the Little Sticks - just over there, do you see it? On the left -!"

    "I-I -
choke!
- can't see
anything -!"

    "I'm sure it can be arranged, and if not, we'll simply buy it for the occasion, the media will love it! When word gets out, there will be lines to view the body from here to Verona! It will take weeks! And right in the middle of the off-season, too, what a golden opportunity! We'll have screenings and readings, concerts, lotteries, public tributes from your fellow laureates, art exhibits of your portraits from around the world, fund-raising auctions and funny nose competitions, special travel packages for little children, cruises for the elderly and the handicapped! Then, on some feast day, such as that of Saint Paul the Simple, or Gabriel the Incarnating Archangel, or even, if the condition of the mortal remains permits such a delay, that of another Saint Mark, he of Arethusa, who was stabbed to death, back in the perilous days before felt tips, by the nasty little penpoints of his mischievous students -!"

    "Oh, please, Eugenio -!"

    "No, wait, Pini, this is the best part! On that day, a flotilla of black gondolas, the largest ever assembled in Venice and all of them heaped with sage, narcissus, and laurel, along with bouquets of bleeding hearts and woodbine, bachelor buttons and elderberry, dog roses, fairy ferns, cat's paw and foxglove, and sprinkled with a touch of wild oats, sea wrack, bitterroot, and rue, will bear your crystal casket up the Grand Canal, the opposite way we've just come, under the Accademia Bridge back there, which will be closed off that day of course, leased to all the world's major television networks, and on to the vaporetto landing at the Ramo del Teatro. There, greeted by the orchestra of the Fenice Opera House playing "Siegfried's Funeral March" from our own dear Riccardino's
Götterdämmerung,
it will disembark the entire cortege, composed of the greatest scholars, artists, politicians, theologians, bankers, carpenters, movie stars, self-made millionaires, and social reformers of the world, which will then make its ceremonious way down the Streets of the Tree and the Lawyers to the Rio Terra degli Assassini, chased thence up the Fuseri Canal to the Calle dei Pignoli, the Street of the Pinenuts - henceforth, my friend, in memoriam,
your
street! I
love
it! Meanwhile, in the Piazza San Marco - ah! a proposito, dear boy!
Here we are!"

    And so they have disembarked there on the stormy Molo, the ancient sojourner solicitously chaired in a traditional Venetian portantina, and made their way into the Piazza, Eugenio shouting: "Make way! Make way!
Largo per un gran signore!"
- though he cannot be sure, buried in blankets and blinded by the freezing wind, that there is actually anyone out in this wretched weather but themselves. He seems to hear voices and is dimly aware of passing under lamps and illumined façades, perhaps the Basilica itself, but his senses, he knows, can no longer be trusted, for he also seems to hear the murderous cries of squealing assassins, angels fluttering and making rude windy noises overhead, and a little whistlmg sound inside his skull as though something might be boring away in there, and the blur before his eyes is throbbing as though his pulse were beating on him from without. Even inside all his blankets, he is trembling violently, and his tears, shed on his dear friend's breast, have frozen on his face, threatening to split the exposed parts of his cheeks open. He feels light-headed and heavyhearted all at once, as though his bodily parts were trying to go in two different directions at the same time. It is not unlike the sensation he had while drowning in the canal, and he wonders, in his feverish confusion, if he might not still be down there, sinking into the slime, this rescue but a dying dream.

    Or worse. Perhaps his whole rational human life has been nothing more than the dying dream of that poor drowned donkey, maybe he has only imagined that conveniently ravenous shoal of mullets and whiting, all the heroics thereafter and the transfiguration and the lonely century that has followed being just so much wishful thinking, certainly it all seems to have passed in the blinking of an eye, yes, maybe, all illusions aside, he is fated to be a drumhead after all, one more noseful and the mad dream over. He takes a deep snort: no, no such luck, just more frosty air, faintly Venetian-tinted, it has not yet, whatever
it
is, stopped going on…