Sisterchicks in Gondolas! (14 page)

“I’m glad you think so because it came from your toothpaste.”

“Mine?”

“My toothpaste has a flip top. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not too much. What did you do with the toothpaste tube?”

“I put it in a seal-top bag. I had an extra one.”

I brushed off the confiscation of my toothpaste lid and only halfway paid attention to Sue’s answer. I was more interested in watching Sergei slip out of the kitchen and join the others in the dining room without giving me a second look.

“This will be the true test to see if our bird is female.” Sue sprinkled crumbs from her chocolate-filled baci into the bird’s box. “If she goes for the chocolate, we’ll know her gender.”

The bird gave a little shiver and ignored the crumbs altogether.

“Maybe she’s in shock,” I suggested.

“I wonder what happened to her,” Sue said.

I told Sue about the cat I had seen earlier when taking out the trash.

“Don’t you worry your feathers about a thing,” Sue crooned to the small creature. “You’re safe here with us. We’ll take care of you, little Pesca Netareena.”

“What are you calling the bird?”

“Pesca Netareena. I asked Sergei, and he said it wasn’t the name of any Soviet figure skater he had ever heard of.”

I remembered then the jokes we had made the day before about Sue’s pronunciation of the Italian word for nectarines. “Sue, you crack me up.”

She seemed pleased with herself.

We fell back into our roles as scullery maids and started the preparations for the rest of the day’s meals. Again our rhythm came to us easily. We cleaned up after the continental breakfast and hurried out to the grocery store. This time we had sufficient bags with us to carry all the necessary ingredients to make spaghetti with meat sauce for lunch and a big pot of minestrone soup for the late evening meal. We were getting our routine down.

We joked on the way back from the grocery store about whether we should stop by the fruit stand corner. Sue said she was sure that, if the same vendors were at the stand, they would break into song at the sight of us. We decided not to find out.

Little Netareena seemed to have sipped some of the
water while we were gone. Either that or it was evaporating as the warmth of the day rose. Aware that today was much warmer than the last two days, we went to work cooking what we could while it was still morning.

I prepared the meat sauce while Sue readied the rest of the meal. We served right at noon and had everything cleared and cleaned by two o’clock. Sue wore her energized look and said she was ready to change into her swishy skirt and hit the cobblestones.

I told her I was ready for a nap.

“Are you too tired to go out? We don’t have to go anywhere today,” she said, looking wistful.

“Yes, we do. We’re in Venice. Of course we have to go somewhere this afternoon. I want to see whatever we can. I just don’t know where you get your afternoon energy.”

“I don’t know where you get your top o’ the morning energy, so we’re even.”

It didn’t take long for us to change into our “sightseeing” skirts and slip out of the apartment with all the makings for the minestrone soup waiting for our return. Sue had placed Netareena’s box nest on the kitchen’s floor in a shady corner. That way the little bird could stay cool during the afternoon siesta, and if she did try to hop out of her nest, it wouldn’t be such a long drop.

“Do you have a plan for us, or are we going to just explore at random?” I asked.

“A little of both, I think. I was looking at the tour book
while you were at the bakery, and I wondered if you would mind visiting some of the churches and art museums.”

I wasn’t much of a museum buff or an art lover. I preferred admiring the solitary trees of Venice or gazing at the varying shades of blue in the water. That was the sort of art I appreciated. Perhaps I’d been to too many European art museums when I was young. Now I was complacent about them.

However, all this was new to Sue, and I didn’t mind looking at paintings with her. Or visiting some of the Venetian churches. Sue seemed to have a deeper appreciation for the arts. She understood what made certain strains of music beautiful or what made marble so valuable. I was sure I could learn much from her.

“I thought we would start with the
Accademia
. The tour book said it’s one of the main museums. It’s farther away than the Rialto Bridge, but I think I’ve figured out a shortcut on the map.”

For a moment I considered backing out because I wasn’t excited about walking for miles on the hard, uneven walkways. But if we didn’t go now, when would we? And if I didn’t go, Sue probably wouldn’t. This was our chance; we needed to take it.

We exited our building and stepped into the bright sunlight. Sue stopped to make sure she had her sunglasses.

On the walkway in front of our apartment, a woman passed us pushing a tiny baby in a stroller. I made eye contact
with her and smiled at her little bundle of wonder. The mother gave me a shy half nod.

With resolve I said to my willing-and-able tour guide, “Okay, you lead the way. I’m ready for whatever.”

I didn’t know it then, but my words would turn out to be an unexpectedly important step of faith for me. Just as I was being asked to follow Sue on our afternoon adventure, so too would I be asked to follow the Lord into the unknown adventure of the next season of my life. But at the time I barely had a hint of what was to come.

With Sue, I could easily see each step coming. She referred to the map often as we wound through the maze of alleyways. Once we were in motion, I was caught up in the sights, sounds, and scents all around us. My sore feet and tired legs were ignored.

Sue was pretty proud of herself when we arrived at the front of the Accademia via her shortcut. She liked maps and puzzles; this was her kind of adventure. Once we were inside the huge art museum, she seemed to see a map to follow or a puzzle to solve in every painting. We had lots of discussions about different pieces, but none of the paintings drew me into its mystery the way each one lured Sue.

Many of the compositions were obvious. Portraits of once famous Venetians, Madonnas of all sizes, and depictions of the crucifixion were the recurring themes. All the art was beautiful. I enjoyed looking at it but had no trouble turning and walking away. Sue, however, stood close to the
pictures and came out of the Accademia with the marvels of the Renaissance reflected on her face. She looked positively enlightened.

The bonus of the afternoon was a church we came upon after we walked over the tall, wooden Accademia Bridge. I never did look up in the tour book which small church it was. We would have marched right past it, as we had so many of the other churches in Venice, but this one had opened its doors, revealing cool, uncluttered pews waiting inside. Weary, warm afternoon visitors were welcome to enter and listen to a string ensemble playing a soothing concert of baroque music. Apparently the musicians were practicing for that night’s concert.

Sue entered first, drawn like a moth to its mother flame. She and the musical notes flitted close to each other. I entered like the kind of moth that goes right to the electric bug light and gets zapped. As soon as my weary bones settled into the pew, I closed my eyes and slept contentedly in the lulling presence of the same music that caused Sue to sit up straight and lean forward.

“Refreshed?” Sue asked me when the practice ended and I opened my eyes.

“Yes. Definitely. You?”

She nodded. “That was amazing. Absolutely amazing. Did you hear the second violin on that last stanza?”

In all honesty, I hadn’t even realized there was more than one violin. But I
was
in the church while the music
was being played, and I did have my ears unplugged, so I somewhat truthfully answered, “Yes, I heard it.” Then, to redeem my generalization, I added, “But I’m sure I can’t begin to appreciate any of this music the way you can.”

“I just appreciate your coming with me.”

“Sure.”

Sue checked her watch. “We better get back to start the soup. Oh, what an incredible afternoon!”

I was glad Sue liked the art and the music. That side of her had never been pampered like this at home.

We had gone the equivalent of about three blocks when Sue said, “Hey, look!” She picked up her pace and made a beeline to a gelato stand. A listing of flavors hung from the top of the window.

I knew what was coming next. “Okay, which one do you want me to try to pronounce?” I asked.

“You’re off the hook,” she said, scanning the list. “They have tiramisu here. I don’t remember seeing that flavor before. I’m going to try tiramisu, and I even know how to pronounce it.”

“I love tiramisu. I’m going to try that one, too.”

We both gave the tiramisu a perfect 10. The first and only perfect score issued during our week of careful examination.

As Sue and I approached the Ca’Zen, with our bellies sated from the tiramisu gelato, we saw Sam and Bruce. They were coming from the opposite direction.

We waved and met up with them by the canal that ran in front of our place.

“Looks like we have an adjustment to our plans for the evening,” Sam said. “We just connected with a friend of Bruce’s, and we’ve been invited to take a picnic out on an evening boat ride.”

“Oh,” Sue said. I guessed she was calculating quickly how to change the planned evening’s meal into sufficient picnic food for the men to take with them.

“The boat ride isn’t only for us,” Bruce said. “You two are invited to come as well, if you would like.”

I’m sure my expression lit up. “Yes. Thanks for including us.”

“We’ll have to hurry to the grocery store to buy some food,” Sue said.

“Buy more food? You won’t have time,” Sam said. “We’re planning to meet Marcos at the dock in fifteen minutes.”

Sue looked panicked. “But we don’t have picnic food ready. We were planning on soup for tonight, and we can’t take that with us, so we’ll have to go to the store.”

“No.” Sam held up his hand before Sue went any further. “I’m sorry I didn’t make myself clear. Our host is providing the picnic. All we have to do is show up.”

Sue started to breathe normally again. I smiled as yet another gift of hospitality was presented unexpectedly to us.

With a quick chance to run up to the apartment and
grab a sweater, we were back out the door. Sue, me, and seven bodyguards. Who needed a gondola when we had a private boat coming for us?

Our grand procession tromped to the
Fondamenta Nuove
, which was the same area where Sue and I had eaten at the waterfront restaurant our first afternoon here. We arrived a little early and waited at a small dock. Dozens of boats bobbed and scuttled their way across the lagoon. One of them, a long, open-seated boat with an elevated prow, pulled into the dock. The young man steering the boat into the narrow parking spot greeted Bruce with loud shouts. Bruce grinned back at his enthusiastic friend.

As soon as Bruce was on board, the young man embraced him soundly, and the two of them shared a rousing reunion. Bruce introduced all of us to Marcos. Greeting us by looking us each in the eye, Marcos shook hands all around.

The seating was tight for the nine of us. Sue and I were barely in our spots when Marcos backed up the boat and motored out onto the chopped-up water. It felt like we were anchovies being thrown into a mixed salad. All of the men leaned back, smiling and taking in the salt spray on their faces, as if they had waited a long time for this experience. Sue and I sat close in our new skirts, feeling the goose bumps race up and down our bare legs.

Sue’s hair began to dance. She tried to pull it back, tie it up, tame it in any way she could, but it turned into a
fiery octopus sitting on her head, taking over. She gave up trying to control the friendly monster and laughed as the sea spray misted her face.

Bruce stood next to Marcos at the helm. The two shouted their conversation. It was in English, and I picked up enough to understand that Marcos’s father owned a jewelry store in Venice. They were talking about a mutual friend, Todd, who lived in California. I’d done plenty of pondering lately on how large the world was outside my small life, yet here was a smallness. A small circle formed by a man from South Africa who knew a young man from Venice because they both knew someone from California. That sort of close-knit circle was only possible to create inside the borders of a large life.

Sam’s earlier comment, when he explained that the picnic had been provided for us this evening, came back to me. He had said, “All we have to do is show up.”

I hoped I could remember that thought later because I wanted to write it down and think some more about it. All I had to do was show up.

When I was twenty, I led a large life. I was in Venice now because of a friendship formed when my life was wide open to endless possibilities. After so many years of smallness, now I wanted to see the borders of my life expand once again, as they had so many years ago.

We cruised past a small boat with two young boys who weren’t happy about the wake Marcos’s boat caused. I
watched them over my shoulder, and they made sure I saw their lewd gesture.

The boat continued around the perimeter of the main island. To our left, land stretched for as far as I could see.

“Lido,” Marcos shouted to Sue and me, pointing to the island. “It’s very long and narrow. This island protects the lagoon from being swallowed by the sea. Venezia, she is married to the sea, you know. They have lived in harmony for fifteen hundred years. That is a good marriage.”

I smiled to myself at Marcos’s comment. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought of Venezia as a woman.

She was stunning that evening. The sun’s golden light across the waters reflected Venezia’s best attributes and dimmed her flaws.

“Are you saying people have lived here since the fifth century?” Sue shouted into the wind so Marcos could hear.

“Si. When Attila the Hun invaded Northern Italy, people from the mainland came to these islands. This is a good place for defense. For more than twelve hundred years the Venetians lived here undefeated as an independent republic.”