Bella Fortuna (32 page)

Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

BOOK: Bella Fortuna

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“I'm sorry, but I have an appointment.” He pulls a wad of euros out of his trousers' pocket and dumps them on the table.

I reach for my wallet. He shoots his hand out and stops me. This time, he holds my arm.

“
Per favore, signorina
. I know in America it's different, but you are in Italy now where a lady is treated like royalty. The day I let a woman pay for her meal is the day Stefano Lambrusca is not a man anymore.”

I want to laugh at this sexist comment, but I know he means no offense. It is a different culture, and as such, I need to respect it.

“Grazie molto, Signor Lambrusca.”

“Just Stefano. No need for formalness with me.”

I know I should correct his English, but I don't want to embarrass him, or in his case he'll probably feel emasculated.

He stands up and pulls my chair out for me. As I walk out of Trattoria da Fiore, he places his hand on the small of my back, gently prodding me forward. This man exudes sensuality, and he has no reservations about touching a woman whom he's only met a few hours ago. As I exit, I feel the gazes of the men in the restaurant staring at me. None of them seem to have any reservations about checking out another man's womanânot that I'm Stefano's woman, but they don't know that.

When we step outside, a gust of humid air greets us. The sky has darkened, threatening rain at any moment. I'm still wearing my pashmina and am absolutely burning up in it. I unknot it and take it off. Immediately, Stefano's gaze wanders to my bare shoulders and then drops to my cleavage. In my haste to remove the pashmina, I've forgotten to make sure that the strapless spandex tube top I have on beneath my shawl is hiked up high enough so that I'm not flashing too much cleavage. The top has a tendency to slide down whenever I wear it. When he finally looks away, I glance down at my cleavage and am horrified to note that my top has slid down quite a bit. I quickly hike it back up.

“Will you be returning to your hotel room?”

“No, I think I will walk around a bit.”

“I am taking the next
vaporetto
to Cannaregio. I will see you then at five o'clock. It was a pleasure meeting you, Valentina.”

Stefano takes my hand and kisses it.

“Arrivederci.”

All I can mutter is
“Ciao.”

I instantly scold myself for using the less formal greeting with him. I don't want him to think I'm comfortable with him and we're on a friendship level.

As I walk away, I sense his eyes on me. I hold my head high and keep my posture as erect as possible. Then I realize I'm giving my walk an extra bounce. But it's too late for me to change my gait. This man is making me act strangely. I wonder what his next appointment is. Then I remember the diva he'd been with that morning. Of course, before they'd parted, he had told her he would see her later.

I'm such a fool. Once again, I am letting a clever man seduce me and deceive me. If he thinks I will be
“un'altra donna,”
or “another woman,” as I heard one of the men who had greeted him say in admiration upon noting the redhead beside him, he's sorely mistaken. With this thought in mind, I resolve that I will not attend the walking tour that evening. I've come to Venice for a respite from men. This trip is supposed to be about me and no one else. Stefano Lambrusca is like most single men in Italyâa player whose hobby is seducing as many women as he can into his bed.

I walk far enough away until I'm confident that I am out of Stefano's view. I then stop and look back, straining to see if I can make out his sandy suit. But where he had stood, a tourist group is now posed, waiting for a photo to be taken. I decide to start shopping for souvenirs for my family and go over to one of the stalls that are selling elaborate Carnevale masks. Sadness suddenly envelops me, and I feel very alone. In that moment, I can't help wondering if maybe I've made a mistake in coming to Venice by myself.

City of Pleasures

I
t's my fourth day in Venice, and I am keeping busy, visiting the sites on my list, eating lots of
gelato,
and just strolling the streets aimlessly and seeing what awaits me around every corner or on the other side of one of the many stone bridges that line the city. From the churches housing many of the masterpieces I'd studied in college to the winding cobblestone streets that are works of art in their own right, Venice is not disappointing me.

I keep my promise and don't join Stefano's walking tour. Afraid I'll run into him, I avoid San Marco that night and explore the Castello
sestiere
where my hotel is. A part of me feels bad that I've stood up Stefano, especially since he'd been so gracious in paying for my meal and offering to give me a discounted ticket for the walking tour. But he's trouble. I can feel it, and I don't need that. My wounds are still too fresh to even entertain notions of dating againâleast of all an Italian.

“Have some fun, girl!”

I suddenly hear Aldo's voice in my head. If he were here with me, he'd be egging me on to just have a fling with Stefano and not be so serious. My sisters would've probably also told me to go for Stefano.

I can also imagine Connie scolding me: “
Come on, Vee. It's not like you'll see him again once you leave Venice. Why not enjoy
every
pleasure Venice has to offer?”

“Because I'm not you, Connie,” I say aloud.

I'm on the
vaporetto
going to Cannaregio, which is the most northerly of the city's
sestieri
. A third of Venice's population resides in Cannaregio. Few tourists take time to explore this
sestiere,
and here I hope to get a better, more authentic sense of how the Venetians live.

I also want to visit the Madonna dell'Orto church, which houses works by the Venetian painter Tintoretto. As the
vaporetto
approaches Cannaregio, rows of houses with crumbling facades come into view. Residents' boats are docked in front of their homes, much the way cars line a driveway or street outside of houses erected on land. A group of young
gondolieri
can be seen steering their gondolas a bit unsteadily while an older man gestures with his arms the right way to navigate. They are probably students learning on these much-less-traversed canals of Cannaregio rather than on the busier canals of San Marco or even Castello.

I disembark at the stop closest to the Madonna dell'Orto church. Here in Cannaregio, the natives outnumber the tourists. I stop in front of the Gothic church and begin snapping away with my cell phone camera. After taking a few shots, I walk toward the church's entrance.

“Excuse me, miss. Would you like a picture of yourself in front of the church?”

I had yet to have a photograph taken with me in it. Without even waiting to see who has made the kind offer, I reply, “Yes, please.”

I turn around only to find Stefano standing before me with his arms crossed and smiling.

What is he doing here of all places? He can't be giving tours since more money is to be made in San Marco. Before he can even ask me what had happened the other night, I decide to preempt his question.

“Ciao, Stefano. Com'Ã© sta?”

“Molto bene. Grazie. E lei?”

“
Bene. Grazie.
I'm sorry I didn't make the walking tour the other night. I wasn't feeling well.”

“I hope it's nothing too serious. That's the second time that day you weren't feeling well.”

Stefano is smirking.

“Oh, just some jet lag. I needed to rest. I feel much better now.”

“I'm glad to hear that. You can take my walking tour tonight.”

“You have one tonight?”

“Si.”

“What are you doing here? Are you giving a tour of the Madonna dell'Orto church?”

“No. I actually live in Cannaregio. I just finished a tour at Il Palazzo Ducale. I don't have any others until tonight.”

“It's very peaceful here, much different from San Marco or even Castello, where I am staying.”

“Yes, I love it here. The tranquility is why I decided to live in this
sestiere
.”

“Well, I won't keep you. I'm sure you must be tired and would like to go home and relax.
Arrivederci,
him.”

I walk away. As I'm about to pull open the church's door, Stefano is behind me opening the door.

“Please, allow me.”

“Grazie,”
I whisper, not wanting to disturb the Mass that is in progress.

I step inside and am about to wave a final good-bye to him, but when I turn around, I bump into him.

“Excuse me. I thought you were leaving.”

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Oh.”

An old woman sitting in the last pew glares at us.

“Let's go into the chapel.”

Stefano takes my arm and leads me to the chapel of the church, which is empty.

“If you'd like, Valentina, I can give you a personal tour of this church and a walking tour of Cannaregio.”

“In addition to the tour tonight?”

Stefano laughs. “No, I wouldn't expect you to do two tours less than a few hours apart, but if you really wanted to, of course, you could still join the tour tonight.”

I hesitate. Though I am enjoying the time alone in Venice to reflect, I'm also getting lonely. And I had enjoyed Stefano's tour of the Basilica immensely. Fausto, the waiter, had been right. Stefano's tours are the best. Of the few I'd taken in the past couple of days, none of the guides' knowledge measured up to Stefano's. What I particularly love about Stefano's tours is that he also makes them interactive so that he isn't just monotonously lecturing.

“If you're sure you're not too tired, that would be nice. But I insist on paying you.”

“Ahhh . . . you American women. If that's the only way you'll agree, then fine. But instead of paying me for the tour, I'll let you pay for dinner this time.”

“Okay, that works.”

“Let's start right here with the Chapel of San Mauro. That will give us enough time to move on to the church right about when Mass will be over.”

Stefano points to the statue of the Madonna inside the chapel and begins reciting the history of the church, which was founded in the mid-fourteenth century and was dedicated to St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers. The saint was to protect the boatmen who carried passengers to the lagoon islands.

“But when the church was reconstructed in the fifteenth century, it was dedicated instead to the Madonna after a statue of the Virgin Mary was found in the
orto,
or vegetable garden, not far from the church. Hence, the church's name Madonna dell'Orto. The statue of Mary was believed to have performed miracles. When we go back outside, I will point out to you the statue of St. Christopher, which is on top of the portal.”

I listen to Stefano, but I have to work hard to keep my mind from wandering. It's difficult paying attention when your tour guide is as sexy as he is. Today, he's dressed more casually than when I'd first met him. He wears dark-wash denim jeans and a V-neck, silky T-shirt. The clothes give him a younger appearance, but I'm almost certain Stefano is in his forties. A few lines crease around his eyes whenever he smiles, and of course, he has all those flecks of gray hair. I can't help wondering if he'd ever been married, and if so, what had happened? Maybe he still was married. Italian men often do not wear their wedding bands. The image of the striking redhead he was with in San Marco the other morning comes to mind. I start to feel anxious.

“Is something the matter, Valentina?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? You look troubled.”

“I think I just need some air. The incense and the burning candles in here are affecting me.”

“Of course. Let's step outside. I can give you the tour of the exterior until you feel better, and then we'll come back inside.”

As we walk out, the few parishioners who are listening to Mass are making their way toward the front of the church to receive communion. The older women's faces are covered with black lace veils. The men are all wearing suits. I feel like I've gone back in time to preâVatican II days.

“Let's take a walk around the church and relax for a bit. I can resume the tour later.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“You didn't startle me. Please. But I am beginning to wonder if it is something about me that is making you feel sick whenever you are in my presence.”

My heart freezes, and my eyes must convey how close he is to the truth, for he quickly adds, “I'm just playing.” He laughs.

I smile. “The past two months have been tough for me.”

Stefano's face grows serious. “I'm sorry to hear that, Valentina. Is that partly what brought you to Venice?”

I nod. I can't believe I'm confiding in him. Something compels me to let him know there's more going on with me than just a case of jet lag.

“Were your troubles brought about by a man?”

“Aren't they usually?”

I manage to give him a wan smile as I joke.

“Love. We can't live without it; we can't live with it. Why does it have to be so complex?”

I shrug my shoulders, not having any philosophical thoughts to offer on the subject.

“I've been beaten up by that siren before.”

“Are you married?”

There, I'd blurted it out.

“No, never married, but I came close to proposing to a woman before.”

I'm curious to know more, but I dare not ask. I'm not ready to open myself up fully to this strangerâno matter how charismatic or hot he is. The redhead reappears in my thoughts. I can't refrain.

“I thought that woman you were with on Monday was your wife.”

Stefano looks at me, surprised.

“You saw me that day by the canal with Angela? Oh, wait. Of course you did. You were in line waiting to buy the tickets for the tour.”

“Yes. Angela was hard not to notice. Everyone was looking at her.”

“I know. It's given me much trouble. I'm going to get an ulcer.”

So he isn't denying how beautiful this Angela is or that he doesn't like the attention she receives from so many men.

I look away from the canal that I'd been staring off into and notice Stefano is watching me.

“Angela is my sister.”

Surprise registers on my face.

“I know. She is twenty years younger than me. My mother had her when she was forty-two. Because of the large age difference between us, I have always looked at Angela as if she were my own daughter rather than just my sister. She is twenty-one years old, but looks like she's twenty-five or even twenty-eight. She still lives with my parents in Calabria, but she was here for a long weekend to visit a friend who lives in Venice.”

I suddenly remember the tender gesture Stefano had made of pulling Angela's hair out of her coat and kissing her on her cheeks. I feel foolish. If she had been his lover, he wouldn't have kissed her so innocently.

“That's good of you to still look after her. But you know, she is an adult now and can take care of herself.”

He groans. “Not when every young man is after her. But you are right. She has to take care of herself, especially since I no longer live close to her. So you thought Angela was my wife? Do I look
that
young to you?”

“Of course not. It's as you said, Angela could pass for an older woman.”

I smile mischievously.

“Valentina, you definitely keep me standing on my toes.”

“It's just âon my toes.' ”

“Excuse me?”

“The expression is âYou keep me on my toes.' You don't need to say âstanding.' ”

“On my toes. You keep me on my toes?”

“That's it.”

He doesn't look embarrassed or emasculated, as I had feared he would feel. He just smiles sheepishly at me.

“I have a proposal for you.”

“Already? I've only known you for a couple of days!”

Stefano looks confused. “I said something incorrectly again?”