An Apartment in Venice Read online

  * * *

  Few tourists found this out-of-the-way treasure, but Giulia was enchanted each time she approached the large Vigna complex. The vibrant terra-cotta walls seemed to have been re-stuccoed recently. She wasn’t sure she liked the fresh new look. Maybe she romanticized the crumbling, fragile condition of Venetian buildings too much. Stucco didn’t hold up in the constant damp air, and had to be re-done frequently. It flaked and crumbled at her feet as she walked the ancient calles, narrow pathways. The buildings were most beautiful after a rain when the colors of the stucco deepened into rich, sensuous hues.

  The church seemed empty and her steps echoed as she moved through the large sanctuary toward the small cloister. She stopped in front of Bellini’s painting of a beautiful madonna holding her bambino. It was the most precious treasure the church owned because he had signed this one in 1507.

  She shoved open the heavy door to the cloister and remained motionless, letting the silent reverence of the place flow over her. Saint Francis stood in the center, serene as usual, on his pedestal in the middle of an emerald-green rectangle of grass that might have been snipped by hand. Two dark cypress stood like sentinels one on either side of the diminutive saint.

  Butterflies hovered around purple and yellow pansies that lined the four walkways leading to his feet. Francis would certainly have welcomed the beautiful creatures. Would he welcome her? Would he be able to help her? She didn’t move onto the grassy area but instead, sat on the stone base of the structure that framed the perimeter of the cloister. Breathing deeply, she leaned against one of the columns supporting the arches overhead. Focusing only on the pansies and the grass, she let go and hoped for a sense of calm and clarity.

  * * *

  Giulia came awake with a start. So much for clarity. It was already 1:15 p.m. She’d planned to allow more time to find her way from Vigna to Giobbe. It was a long walk to the church of Saint Job, and she’d never gone there from this part of town before. After hurrying along narrow calles and crossing bridges, she decided to give Marlowe a quick call to let her know she was on her way. But when she reached Ponte delle Guglie, the bridge that crossed the Canale di Cannaregio, she realized she wasn’t late after all. Her feet had remembered the way better than her brain.

  She strolled beside the large canal that flowed between this out-of-the way piece of Venetian real estate and the famous Ghetto on the other side. Although people claim that area as the first place where Christians had crowded Jews into one place, Giulia figured Jews had been shoved into undesirable quarters long before the 1500s. But it was the first time such a place was given a name known round the world. All because the famous neighborhood was the part of Venice that had been a foundry, il gheto.

  Most of the buildings on this side of the canal seemed drab and colorless, but people moved about with contented smiles on their faces. She also noticed a quietness. Strange. She’d expected San Giobbe’s area to be noisy because of the cars rushing across the nearby causeway. Maybe she’d find a spacious apartment in this area for a reasonable price.

  When she looked up, Marlowe was strolling toward her beside the same water’s edge. Giulia liked this woman. And it seemed she, too, had trouble taming her hair. It was dark brown and cut just below the bottom of her earlobes in a thick, unruly bob. She wore little make-up or jewelry. Today Marlowe was wearing an electric-blue, short-sleeved top of boucle knit that shimmered in the sunshine, a black, circular skirt and carrying a light-blue sweater. Giulia hoped they’d become good friends.

  “Got sucked into Venice, huh?” Marlowe said as they hugged.

  Giulia nodded. “It’s impossible not to. By the way, how do you know Giobbe will be open today?”

  “The old sacristan is a friend from way back and arranged to be here this afternoon. Guess I haven’t told you I was a student here for a year when I was fifteen and lived—”

  “Incredible! That must have been marvelous,” Giulia said.

  “I stayed in a dorm in the convent behind Madonna del Orto,” and she tipped her head across the canal toward Tintoretto’s church hidden beyond the intricate maze of calles within the Ghetto.

  “What a marvelous opportunity,” Giulia said as they left the canal and walked on the long, narrow campo toward the worn-out old church.

  “Yes,” Marlowe replied, but Giulia thought she heard a dark tone in Marlowe’s voice. Soon, however, Marlowe began to chat about the Venetians who dedicated churches to “saints” created from Old Testament figures. “Giobbe, Job, of course, and then there’s Geremia, Jeremiah—”

  “The first time I came to Venice alone,” Giulia interrupted, “I stayed in a little hotel across from Geremia. I thought it was Santa Lucia’s church.” She laughed at herself. “All the signs inside the church pointed to her lying inside her glass case.”

  “I know. Little old dried-up Lucy upstaged Jeremiah when they settled her into his church after demolishing hers for the train station. At least she got her name on the station,” Marlowe said and chattered on about other churches dedicated to fabricated saints. She ticked them off on her fingers. Moses, San Moisé, Samuel, San Samuele, and San Girolamo, Jerome.”

  “You’re really up on this, aren’t you?” Giulia said.

  “Sometimes I get carried away with trivia. I became intrigued because of the Venetians’ habit of going their own way for centuries. They must have been arrogant bastards to face down the powers in Rome. And they managed to give several popes giant headaches.”

  Giulia half listened enjoying the companionship of this open, friendly woman. She felt a kinship with Marlowe, and Lord knew she needed a woman friend here. She wanted to learn Marlowe’s story. But all in good time, knowing how reluctant she felt about sharing her own.

  * * *

  The elderly sacristan gave Marlowe a warm hug. He seemed fragile and creaky as he bowed slightly to Giulia. But after a few words with him, it was clear his mind was not one bit creaky. As he showed the women through the church, he explained at great length—when he understood Giulia spoke fluent Italian—about the marble carvings done by the famous Lombardi brothers. After a while, though, he slipped away.

  Marlowe took Giulia’s hand and led her to a painting by Girolamo Savoldo. The label stated it had been painted in the early 1500s, and the colors were as brilliant and jewel-like as a Vivarini painting that was hanging near the sacristy. Vivarini, came from a glass-maker family on the island of Murano and was said to have had a secret formula to make his paints glow. Maybe Savoldo knew Vivarini’s secret.

  It was a manger scene, and Marlowe slipped quietly onto a bench in front of it saying nothing. It seemed this painting had a special meaning for Marlowe, and Giulia let herself be drawn into the ancient story as she sat on the edge of Marlowe’s bench.

  The baby Jesus lies on the floor of a rustic hut. Mary and Joseph stand over him. A foreboding sky hovers over the hills behind the hut, maybe a symbol of the agony to come for this child. At the rear, a shepherd lounges into an open window, observing the family. Another shepherd peeks around the corner. Mary wears a crimson renaissance-style dress with a sumptuous green shawl, and Joseph sports a bright red cloak—the usual renaissance anachronisms in religious paintings.

  “What’s funny?” Marlowe asked in a whisper.

  Giulia moved closer to Marlowe and said, “The babe reminds me of my twin brothers when they were tiny. That chubby leg kicking in the air is exactly how they kicked covers away. They were such darlings at that age before they grew up to be major pests to this older sister.”

  “Sounds fun to me since I’m an only.”

  “Sometimes it was,” Giulia said. “Compared to many renaissance painters, though, Savoldo knew what a real infant looked like except—”

  “Except what?” Marlowe interrupted.

  “That babe,” Giulia said grinning, “is not a newborn.”

  “Yes, I noticed that,” Marlowe said in a bare whisper.

  Again Giulia sensed Marlowe’s distress but hes
itated to intrude. Then she took a chance. “Is this why you wanted to bring me here?”

  “I guess so,” she sighed. “Marc knows about my year in Venice and I’d like to share with you. I’ve kept this secret far too long for my own good.”

  Giulia felt honored to hear those words and remained motionless not wanting to disturb Marlowe’s flow.

  “That year was wonderful until I let one of my teachers seduce me into pregnancy.”

  Giulia noticed Marlowe examining her closely—expecting a critical reaction, maybe? Evidently satisfied, she continued with her story. Good, I want her trust, Giulia thought.

  “The teacher was married. He suggested an abortion and offered to send me to Trieste.”

  “Send you! How old were you?”

  “Almost sixteen.”

  “My God.”

  “A real prince, huh? I’m not a Catholic, never have been but couldn’t do the abortion. Of course, the Padre and Sisters didn’t encourage such a thing. So I had a son and gave him away… for adoption.” Tears slipped out the corners of her eyes. Giulia moved to hold her. Between sniffles, Marlowe said, “The church found a ‘good Catholic family’ for my little Tomaso.”

  “It must have been so hard,” Giulia said. “Did you get to see him before—”

  “Once. He was perfect.” More tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “What about your parents?”

  Marlowe sat up, wiped her face and sucked in a big breath. “That’s a long story for another time. The short version is that I believed I couldn’t tell them. My Aunt Belle had arranged the trip to expand my horizons.” Marlowe snorted. “That backfired for sure. But Belle came to see me through. And Padre Tomaso sat with me most every afternoon through my pregnancy. He left off being a priest shortly after that and works with organizations that promote sex education and choice.”

  “A priest left the church to support choice?!”

  “He’s an amazing person. We met recently, and he said what happened to me had been the tipping point for him. For too long, his colleagues had been eager to ‘take care’ of such mistakes. He wanted no more of it.”

  “Wow,” was all Giulia could say. “How long have you kept that secret?”

  “Twenty-seven years.” They were both silent. “A long time, right?”

  Giulia nodded. “What was Marc’s reaction when you told him?”

  “He’d been adopted himself. I was sure he’d drop me in disgust when he heard my story. Instead, he understood. Said he thought his birth mother probably suffered the same fate.”

  “Wow, again,” Giulia said, thinking of her own secret. Similar story, different outcome. It had been eight years for her, and the only person who knew about Giulia’s abortion was Nancy, and now, Nonna. But compared to other things, maybe her abortion should be shoved away into a dark corner.

  “I spent hours in front of this painting trying to decide what to do,” Marlowe said bringing Giulia back from her thoughts.

  “Does the old sacristan know?”

  “I didn’t tell him, but he may. Venetians are voracious gossips and priests? Probably more so.”

  “Are you trying to find Tomaso?”

  Marlowe nodded. “When I last saw Padre Tomaso—I can’t stop calling him Padre—he had a lead. Marc and I followed up, but the man’s age wasn’t right. Marc’s already registered with an agency to search for his birth mother, and we recently filed the paperwork for me.”

  “A formidable job,” Giulia said almost under her breath.

  “I almost doubt if legal work was ever done. The convent may have found that ‘good Catholic family’ after receiving a hefty donation for their efforts.”

  “What about your efforts?” Giulia said, then worried she’d been too flip.

  But Marlowe laughed. “You’ve got a point there.”

  “Do you have other children?”

  “A daughter, Mandy.” Marlowe’s face lit up. “She’s getting a master’s in the Urban Planning Department at Portland State University. Do you know it?”

  “Of course. PSU is well known for their Urban Planning. But you’re so young to have a daughter in grad school.”

  Marlowe laughed. “Thanks, but I am old enough, believe me.”

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all. I’m forty-three. Marc’s thirty-nine and teases that he’s always been attracted to older women. How about you?”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “And you look about twenty-two, so here we are older women masquerading in Venice.”

  “That fits, doesn’t it?” Giulia said. “Sometimes this whole city feels like continual Carnivale.”

  “Ready to go? Marlowe asked. “We can catch a vaporetto to Murano at Fondamenta Nuova.”

  “I’m ready. Thanks for getting me inside this little gem. It’s been on my list for ages. And Marlowe, thanks for opening up to me.”

  “Thank you, for listening without judgment.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the way to the vaporetto stop, Marlowe said, “Where’d your feet take you first today?”

  “Pretty much straight to Didovich’s pastry shop.”

  “My favorite, too.”

  “Since you’re a maven on Venetian trivia, maybe you know what happened to Santa Marina’s missing church.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. In fifth-century Lebanon, she was called Marina the Monk because she entered a monastery disguised as a boy. Until the monks prepared her body for burial, they hadn’t known they’d been living beside a woman. Can you imagine the shock to those sequestered old monks!”

  They whooped with laughter. As each woman offered a different image of the improbable situation, they kept erupting into more laughter until they were staggering down a narrow calle. Giulia guessed they were both releasing tension of one sort or another. When she caught her breath, she said, “I assume poor old Marina’s bones were brought to Venice in the usual way—by theft. But why was her church destroyed?”

  “Napoleon, no doubt. It was probably one of those that he suppressed when he swept through demanding huge changes. Maybe the same time he ordered all bodies in Venetian cemeteries dug up and placed on the cemetery island.”

  “You could write a book for the tourists on Venetian trivia.”

  “Sometimes I drive Marc crazy with it. Let’s turn left here onto Calle del Fumo. It’s a nice, straight shot to Fondamenta Nuova. A relief from the twisty turns everywhere else in this city.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve been in Italy for more than a month already,” Giulia mused aloud.

  “Me too. It’s almost April,” Marlowe said. “When classes began March fourth, I couldn’t believe I had a job to support myself in Italy.”

  “But you were married before coming to work, weren’t you?”

  “Barely—we married in February. But what’s that got to do with work? Are you implying that once I married, I’d drop everything and sit back to stitch Home-Sweet-Home samplers?”

  “No,” Giulia sputtered. “That was a knee-jerk reaction coming straight from my mom’s knee through my mouth.”

  “I know about that. If Mom had known what I was studying, she would have done her best to discourage me from the Law.”

  “Why?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “Because she feared I’d fail maybe? Or… jealousy? Thank God Marc came up with the idea of me teaching law at the base. I’ve never practiced, but in trying to make it understandable to others, I’m learning more than the students. Marc was intent on keeping me here, not that I minded. He called a good friend, Chuck Novak, about the possibility. Chuck arranged an interview for me. Do you know him?”

  “Met him recently on the post.” Giulia told Marlowe how they’d met outside Oliver Ogle’s office. One part of her wanted to know more about the tall, dark, sexy man. Another part wanted to veer far away.

  That problem was temporarily solved when they arrived at a row of pontiles—floating landing stages—li
ned up along the broad quay. Usually, one pontile was enough, but here, many water-bus lines left for all parts of the lagoon. Il Cimiterio, the cemetery island, seemed to float just across the way, and several flower shops crowded this particular quay. Marlowe stopped to buy a small bunch of brilliant, red poppies.

  “I’ve been lusting for these beauties lately,” she said. “Today I have an excuse to celebrate. It feels liberating to have shared with you. It seems silly to have worried about what happened long ago. Marc reminds me of this whenever I begin to brood. But letting it go still feels scary.”

  “I can imagine,” Giulia said as they moved toward pontile number twelve.

  “After I told Marc, I’d about decided to not tell anyone else. Of course, good friends would sympathize, but they’d also pick away at every detail. It’d be like opening up an old wound. But with you, it didn’t feel that way.”

  “I’m glad,” Giulia said.

  They stepped aboard the floating landing stage and waited in a semblance of a line for the vaporetto chugging toward them from the cemetery island. After they boarded, it would turn back to repeat its route.

  “How do your parents feel about your job and plans to stay on?” Marlowe asked.

  “Well, they are Italians from towns north of Venice even though they’re in Portland now. But they have mixed feelings. Mom thinks I’ll be disillusioned when reality sets in. The thing is, I’ve been here enough to see the downsides of living in Venice. I’m sure you know what I mean.” Giulia began to tick off items on her fingers. “The physical difficulties of carrying everything on foot and no elevators in most buildings. The dampness, the acqua-alta, the high-water times, and the mobs of tourists almost year round.”