An Apartment in Venice (22 page)

The following Saturday evening, Giulia and Chuck met Marlowe and Marc at Peggy Guggenheim’s Museum with plans to go on for dinner at Ai Gondolieri nearby. The two couples wandered through the museum that had been Peggy’s home for about thirty years. Giulia had always thought Peggy had led a fascinating life although maybe not a contented one. She had been a child of one of the incredibly rich Guggenheim sons of New York city. But her father had been a black-sheep playboy, who lost a huge fortune by gambling and also his life on the Titanic. While living in Europe before the Second World War, Peggy began collecting Modern Art and lovers, some of whom were the very artists whose work she collected. After the war, she moved to Venice permanently.

“This building’s still listed on local maps as
Palazzo Venier dei Leoni,
” Giulia said as they walked through the rooms. “Supposedly the Venier family kept lions in the huge garden in the back.”

“I’ve always thought the building looked more like a sprawling ranch house than a Venetian palazzo,” Marlowe said.

“Me too,” Chuck said. “It’s squat and ugly and doesn’t fit in with the other masterpieces along the Canal.”

“The original design was supposed to have several upper floors,” Giulia said. “Imagine how big and ugly it would have been if the family hadn’t lost their fortune? Lucky for Peggy, though.”

“Why lucky?” Marlowe asked.

Marc chimed in. “Since it wasn’t finished, it’s never been listed as a national monument, right?” he said turning to Giulia who seemed to be up on details about Peggy Guggenheim.

“Exactly,” Giulia said. “That way she could make all kinds of changes inside to show off her art collection.” They entered Peggy’s bedroom. “She did it her way,” Giulia said with a glow in her eyes. “Imagine having this mobile by Alexander Calder hanging over your bed.”

Chuck put his arm around her as they all walked out to the front courtyard to inspect the famous equestrian statue. It had been part of a sculpture exhibition held by Peggy in her backyard. Each of them had seen it whenever they cruised past on a vaporetto. Before entering the museum, they had speculated whether the phallus would be in position. Marc saw it first and gave a thumbs up signal to the others.

Giulia may have had more details on Peggy and her eccentric life, but they all knew the story of the famous phallus. When Peggy was planning the exhibition, she’d gone to Milan and ordered the sculpture from Marino Marini. It’s an exuberant statue of a horse and rider, and Marini christened it
The Angel of the Citadel.
The nude rider’s arms are spread out in ecstasy and to emphasize the rider’s euphoria, Marini added a phallus in full erection. When he cast the figure in bronze, he made the phallus separately so it could be screwed in or out depending on who might be attending the exhibition.

After they strolled through the gardens, Marc asked, “Anyone hungry?”

* * *

Ai Gondolieri was one of the few restaurants in Venice without fish or seafood on the menu. They ordered wine, pasta, entrées and salads, then Marc asked Giulia how she liked her apartment. She sighed and made the famous Roman emperors’ signal of thumb down. “It has its problems.”

“I’ll say. Oh my aching back,” Chuck said, trying to lighten Giulia’s mood.

“It’s the mattress, mostly,” Giulia said. “But there’ve been other reasons for complaint. After the first few days, I went to Aletta, the managing agent, with a list. First, the pillows provided were those huge, hard foam ones.”

Marlowe groaned in commiseration.

“Not only that. No bread knife, no breadboard, no garbage pail, no towel hooks or toilet-paper holder in the bathroom.” Giulia threw up her hands in disgust. “And the teapot leaked!”

“An impressive list,” Marc said with a bit of a grin emerging.

“I’ve asked myself at least fifteen times why didn’t I lie on the bed before I signed the lease. Why didn’t I inspect the kitchen? I was too excited about the location on the Rio di Angelo Raffaele.”

“Raffaele
is
a fabulous area,” Marlowe said. “Quiet, too. Few tourists make it that far from the Academy of Art.”

The waiter brought them all flutes of sparkling Prosecco and a plate of crudities to dip in individual bowls of olive oil that held a dollup of brown mustard. A strange but interesting combination.

“What did this Aletta say?” Marc asked.

“She’s unflappable. She suggested I buy the items I needed and submit the bills. I asked if that included pillows and she said, ‘
Certo, Certo.’
She says certo a lot to let me know she understands, but so far it hasn’t taken the lumps out of the bed. When I asked if she’d spoken to the owner, who lives in Calabria, she assured me she was trying to reach her.”

“I’m sorry, Giulia. You’d been counting on having your own apartment here for so long,” Marlowe said.

“Maybe I wanted it too much,” she said, glancing at Chuck.

His eyes softened.

“Three days after I told her about the lumpy bed, Aletta came to see it.” In a high, sweet voice, Giulia mimicked Aletta,
“‘Ah si. È vero, il materasso è terribile!’
Ah yes. It’s true, the mattress is terrible.’ Well, I already knew that!”

Chuck snorted. The others did too.

“By the way,” Marc asked. “Is Aletta an Italian name? It could be I suppose, but I’ve never heard it.”

“Dutch. Her mother’s from Holland, but it seems to me Aletta’s more Italian than Dutch. For example, five whole days after pronouncing that the mattress was horrible, she called all excited to tell me that the owner would pay for a new one but didn’t want to replace the bed since it was an antique. That’s fine, I told her. All I want is a good night’s sleep.” Then Giulia grinned. “Aletta doesn’t need to know I have another place to lay my head.”

“Of course not,” Marc added, glancing at Chuck.

“Then what happened?” Marlowe asked.

“Two days later, she called to say she had specific directions for measuring the odd-sized mattress and needed to come by. I told her to come anytime and use her agent’s key. Aletta is often an hour or more late or calls to change the time. I know she has other duties, but my time is worth
something.
”

“Take a break, love,” Chuck said, “our pasta’s here.”

Giulia exhaled a big breath and slumped back onto her chair. “Good idea. Enough of my woes.”

“When it’s finally settled, I hope you’ll be able to laugh about all this,” Marlowe said.

“Someday, maybe,” Giulia said. “Let’s enjoy our meal.”

For a while, they were quiet as they ate their small plates of pasta.

“Marlowe and I have finally settled on a date to celebrate our wedding back in February,” Marc said. “We want you to be there.”

“Marc’s family wasn’t all that happy with us for slipping away to Las Vegas.” She looked at Marc, whose large, grey eyes seemed to shower rays of adoration onto Marlowe.

Marc turned to Giulia “After Chuck helped her get the interview for the job at the base, she had to go back to sort her belongings. And I had to make sure she’d return. We took a detour to the Little White Chapel.”

“It sounds tacky,” Marlowe said leaning in, “but the thing is, we got to do it our way. For me,” she looked at Marc again, “it was perfect.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“But, the reception’s another story. It’ll be what everyone else wants!”

The pasta plates were cleared, and the waiter had no problem sorting their entrées because they had all ordered the same thing,
una braciola di maiale con salsa di pere e finocchetto selvatico,
a pork chop with pear sauce and wild fennel. Marc leaned over his dish and inhaled, giving a huge sigh of pleasure. “Buon appetito!” he said and waved to the waiter making a pouring gesture that they needed more wine. They all tucked in.

“This chop is superb. Tender and succulent,” Giulia said, and took a sip of wine. “When is the reception? Can I help?”

“Saturday, the fourteenth of June,” Marlowe said. “We hope to hold it outdoors but with the crazy rain patterns, we need a place where we can duck inside if we have to. Until that’s settled, all we can say is the date. As for your help, I’ll let you know, but I have a feeling there’ll be so much family help that I might just disappear until the fourteenth.”

* * *

Later they all strolled through the calles leading to
Santa Maria della Salute
, the gorgeous church across the Grand Canal from the Gritti. Marc and Marlowe said goodnight and boarded a vaporetto destined for Murano.

“Do you feel like walking or shall we wait for a vaporetto going the other way?” Chuck asked Giulia.

“Walk. I ate a lot and also need to work off more frustration.”

They backtracked across a bridge and caught a traghetto over to Campo Santa Maria di Giglio. In the quiet evening, they were the only two standing in the bare-bones gondola that made the trip across the Canal. They moseyed slowly through the quiet streets, crossed the Rialto and on to Chuck’s place.

“Do you realize it’s been almost three weeks,” she began again, “since I first complained about that darned mattress?”

“That long?” he commented. Chuck listened with supportive grunts here and there but was glad it was dark enough that she didn’t notice him grinning. It was fine with him that Giulia spent most of her nights on his mattress.

“For a whole week, I was under the illusion it had been ordered until she brought a mattress person to get the exact measurements. She apologized profusely but as far as she knew, I was still trying to sleep on those lumps.”

“So far, I haven’t noticed any on your side of
my
bed.”

“Oh you,” she said punching him in the belly. “I’m being crazy over this. Guess it’s not only the mattress that makes me crazy, is it?”

“Probably not,” he said as he opened the outer door to his building. He knew she still worried about Botteri and his thugs and, of course, Oliver Ogle’s trial loomed in their future.

“It’s hard to stay angry with Aletta, but it’s obvious the owner hadn’t maintained the place before turning it over to an agency.”

“That’s for sure.”
Still focused on that damned apartment.

“It’s also obvious that either Aletta or someone in her agency had been negligent. No one even visualized how it would be to actually live there.”

“I’m sure you’re exactly right.”

“You’re patronizing me. I don’t blame you. Let’s change the subject.”

They entered his apartment, and he crooked his arm around her neck, pulled her close, and said, “What shall we talk about?”

“You’re choice. I’m all talked out.”

“I have a project in mind that doesn’t require talk.”

“Let me guess,” she said.

“You’ll never guess.”

“Oh?”

“Before I left for the museum, I put bedding in the laundry, “ he said, “and rather than talk, you could help me make up the bed. And then—”

“Then we could take a bath together and settle in for the night,” she said reaching up to feel the raspy growth of his beard, running her finger across his mustache and full lower lip. “Why is it I like the feel of your stubble?”

“Interesting question. Come on, let’s do our chores, then we’ll concentrate on your beard question.”

Sunday morning, Giulia filled a breakfast bowl with strawberries she’d found at the Rialto market. She added a dollup of plain yogurt and felt satisfied, but Chuck whipped up a three-egg frittata for himself. As he drank a third cup of coffee, he looked up from the Gazzettino, the Venetian paper, to watch Giulia twirl a strand of hair while working on a crossword puzzle from the International Herald Tribune. He wondered when this fly-boy had ever felt such pleasure in doing nothing?

“Do you have big plans for the day?” he asked.

“None. I’m sick of fretting about that apartment. And you?”

“It’s a glorious day out there. How about a walk along the Lido’s sea wall down to Pellestrina?”

“Perfect. But I’ll need hiking clothes and boots from my wretched place.”

“While you’re doing that, I’ll go to Antonio’s. I’ve been hankering for his fabulous panini. You know his place on Frezzaria?”

“I know Calle Frezzaria, but Antonio’s?”

“Antonio is the main man there, can’t remember what the shop’s called.”

“What shall I bring?”

“Yourself will be plenty
.
Can you meet me at Piazzale Roma in front of the bus ticket office?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get my car from the garage and we’ll catch a ferry to the Lido.”

“Good idea. The Lido bus takes forever and hardly makes any stops.” She carried her bowl to the sink. “Okay Karlo, I’m off.”

When Chuck drove to where Giulia stood waiting, he felt a little hitch in his chest. She looked so small standing in baggy, navy-blue cargo pants and clumpy walking boots. She wore a loose Tee-shirt to match the pants, but there was no way she could disguise her sweet body.
Oh Lord. How lucky to have her in my life. Now, can I keep her? If I play an entrapment game like old Peter the Pumpkin Eater did, I’ll lose her. The only way is to somehow make sure Giulia believes it’s her idea to move back into my pumpkin shell.

* * *

All day long the weather had been perfect. But it began to rain while they were on the number eleven bus traveling back north from Pellestrina to the Alberoni inlet where they’d left Chuck’s car. When the bus stopped, the rain was coming down hard and gusts were blowing in from the sea. They dashed for the safety of his little Fiat minutes before the sky opened up with a thundering torrent. It was slow going north along the two-lane road. But, they were in luck, because the lights of a ferry were approaching just as they drove onto the Lido’s dock.

As they stood at the window of the ferry while crossing the lagoon to Venice, Chuck held her from behind. “It’s been a great day, Micina. We goofed around, got a little exercise and—”

“And?”

“Nothing, just rambling.”

“You don’t ramble. And what?” She faced him.

“It took your mind off that… apartment.”

“You bet it did,” she said, turning back toward the window. “And now the perfect ending to our day is to watch the magical skyline of
our
Venice emerge through the mist.”

His chin rested on her head, and he took in the scent from her hair: part sea-salt, part jasmine shampoo and part sexy woman.

Giulia had already planned to stay at her place. But, on one of those hunches that Chuck often had, he followed her up the stairs to her apartment.

“I want a decent kiss before I leave you tonight.”

They put their sandy boots outside her door on a mat of woven rush she’d found in a flea market. The minute they opened the door, they felt a cool, damp breeze ruffling the gauzy curtains in the narrow entry way. Giulia started to rush down the hall toward the bedrooms where the gusts came from, but Chuck held her back.

“Let me go first,” he whispered.

She waited, trusting his instincts.

He was back in minutes. “No one’s here,” he said, “but you left a window open in the spare room and the rain’s blowing in.”

“I did
not
leave that window open. Two days ago, the handle came off in my hand. I called Aletta, but, of course, she had to arrange for its repair.”

He said nothing.

“Oh no. Look at this bed,” she said. “Soaked. I bought new sheets and pillow cases with lacy tatting on them because Nonna’s planning to come for a visit.” Her voice had risen into a whine. “I wanted it nice for her.” She began ripping the bed apart. “This is the last straw!”

Chuck stood in the doorway. With her arms full of bedding, she wheeled toward him when her stocking-foot slipped on the wet floor. He lunged and caught her before her backside hit the tile. But he lost his own balance and they both ended on the floor in a heap of wet linens.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not okay. What do you think?”

He waited.

“I wedged a broken broom handle between the window and the bed.”

“That was a good plan.”

“Yeah, so why didn’t it work?”

“Guess the force of nature was too much.”

“Some kind of force is working against me here.”

“Might be a good time to break your lease. Seems to me you’d have every right without having to pay a penalty.”

“I should never have rented a furnished apartment. Should have found something else. Should never have rented a place with the owner all the way down in Calabria.”

He got up and lifted her to her feet. She sighed. “All I saw was the canal.”

“I know.” He gathered up the wet linens. “Where shall I put these?”

“I’ll take them.”

He followed her and closed the door to the small room. There’d be less chance of gusts from the window. After she slammed the laundry-room door, he said, “Sit in the kitchen. I’ll fix tea and we’ll make plans.” He pulled out the new teapot and dumped in a few loose tea leaves.

“I need to clean up the mess, first,” she said with dry towels in hand.

“It’s only water, angel. You make the tea and let me take these. Maybe I can find something more substantial than that light-weight cot to wedge the window closed. Okay?”

“Okaaay.”

She heard a loud screech, two thumps and a bump and he was back with damp towels in his arms. “The window won’t open again until it’s repaired properly. Were these towels okay to wipe the floor?”

“Sure. The whole mess’ll need washing anyway. What’d you use?”

“A large wooden dresser that stood in the corner. It’s heavy enough, but it needs work. For a second, I thought it was coming apart but it held.”

Giulia sighed. “What a jerk I’ve been and—”

“No reason to blame yourself. Come sit while we wait for the tea.”

They sat but Giulia still seemed wound up tight.

“Who would expect an apartment run by a reputable agency to be in such terrible condition?” he said.

She got up and walked around, still agitated. “I didn’t tell you about the crazy doorbell. I leaned out the window and felt like one of those old Italian women who watch the street all day. Finally a man came and fixed it.”

“So?”

“The next morning, a horrible buzzing woke me. I wandered around in a stupor until I discovered it was coming from the bell mounted at my front door. I could
not
make the thing stop. If I’d had a hammer . . .”

Chuck smothered a laugh.

“I got the cover off and located the part making the noise, but when I let go, the racket started again. With that sound battering my brain, I managed to close the door to the hall and call Aletta. Had to leave a message, of course.”

“After an interminable ten minutes, the clever girl called to suggest I go downstairs and push the button. Maybe it was stuck. Maybe a mail carrier had pushed bells at random to get into the outer door. I threw on clothes and ran down leaving that screech behind. And guess what?”

The tea kettle shrilled. He poured boiling water into the teapot.

“Sure enough, a new brass button was all the way in its socket. I pushed. Nothing happened. I shoved again, hard, and finally it popped out. She was right. When I got up here, the noise had stopped. Peace at last, but no more sleep.”

“You’ve had your share of problems, for sure.”

“The problems are endless. A lamp in the spare room was no good so I bought another one and added it to my list. The cord on a heavy floor lamp in the living room was frayed. After it sparked the second time, I dragged it into the far corner of the entryway and exchanged it for a table lamp that sat beneath the stairs to the loft. Don’t ask what junk is stashed up
there.”

Giulia plopped down, deflated, and he poured the tea. “Thanks for your patience, Chuck.”

He sat down and lifted his cup to smell the brew.

She did the same. “Ah jasmine. You found the good tea.”

She began again. “Don’t know if you noticed the door into my apartment is oily around the strike plate.”

He shook his head.

“I swab it with olive oil daily. It was giving me trouble and I worried that I couldn’t get inside some cold, dark, rainy, stormy, miserable night.”

At this last complaint, he couldn’t stop a big chuckle from rumbling out. She saw his face and broke out laughing, too. “You’re right, I need to get out of here. Do you think The Marc would know a real-estate lawyer?”

“We’ll call him tomorrow. How about leaving this miserable place?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”