Confessions of a Venetian Queen-for-a-Day
Part III
I wake at 10 a.m. and through the open window comes sound of seagulls and church bells and a man singing loud and from his heart—a gondolier? So it was not a dream; I am still in Venice. Again, a cart is wheeled in with the brioche and croissants and cappuccino and again I eat at the window, slowly and astonished.
I have a free day in Venice. I explore the city, following every dark narrow side street until it ends at the green water and then doubling back. I cross wide stone bridges and stop to buy a painting, three-dimensional, black on black, of an abstract dancer. It’s chilly and damp and I wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck.
I stop to buy a pendant of Venetian glass trapped in silver swirls and then again to buy a soft, red leather wallet from Florence. It’s irresistible. I see my book in the window of a bookstore and go in to sign it. The bookseller says, “Ah, you are Ella Newmarrrrk?” They have a half dozen copies and I sign them all. I go on to the Piazza San Marco where I visit the Basilica. There I see, enshrined in gold and glass canisters, the darkened bones of an ancient doge, and I remember a line from my book: “Civilization is built on the bones of the dead.” I thank the bones and move on.
I walk among the pigeons and stop in a café for a prosciutto crudo and capucino. Warmed and fortified I walk on through the stone streets and see a group of Japanese tourists in a sleek black gondola. They think I am Italian, and look delighted to see a “native.” They wave, shouting buon giouno as they glide by, and I wave back.
I find my way back to the hotel by following the signs above shop windows—Gucci, Versace, Prada, Fendi, Bulgari, Chanel—and then I am back, collecting my tasseled key and collapsing, again, for a brief nap before dinner.
Justin, the young filmmaker who will shoot my walking tour, meets me in the lobby and we take a water taxi to Irina’s restaurant. We leave the tourist Venice behind and the city becomes more and more deserted until it is dark and silent as a tomb. We don’t know where we are going and Justin says, “This could be creepy.” I nod and then I see her, cheerful Irina in her pert, red beret and scarf, waiting alone on a shadowy dock. She waves and the taxi pulls over and we hop out. I’m so happy to see her I kiss both her cheeks, saying “Ciao, Bella,” and she leads us through a dark maze of deserted streets. The city is a museum, but Irina’s restaurant, Vecio Fritolin Calle della Regina (Rialto), is warm and lively, full of light and color and appetizing aromas. Raffaela is already there.
A few minutes later Carlo joins us. He is a friend of Raffaela’s, a tall handsome Italian writer who is working on a book about the intersection he sees between spirituality and modern technology. I tell him I have a great book he can write the screenplay for. He says, with a dazzling smile, “I’ve heard.” I find myself hoping that he and Raffaela, the Roman beauty, are more than just friends. They are so lovely together.
We sit at a wooden table in warm light, eating the best, fried fish in Venice with our fingers. It is served on paper, which, miraculously, bears not one spot of grease. We talk for hours. Carlo was a journalist who lived with the guerillas in South America, and Justin has made a documentary about the Indian guru in Oregon who fell into scandal when his ashram bought a Rolls Royce. Raffaela, a foreign rights agent for William Morris lives between Rome, London and New York. Excellent company.
After dinner, Justin and Carlo order Irina’s special handmade ice cream, which tastes like pannetone. Of course Raffaela and I each have a few bites. When we leave, Irina closes the restaurant and walks out with us. She has no trouble finding her way in the dark twisting streets; she is a native Venetian. She shows us an ancient stone door that was carved with rounded sides to accommodate barrels of wine being pushed into a cellar. She seems proud of it. Raffaela and Carlo see me to my hotel, and I hope they go off somewhere together.
The next morning, I meet Justin at the Rialto Mercato, the marketplace that features so prominently in my book. He films me pretending to buy fish, strolling by the colorful swirl of fruit and vegetable stands, smiling at the extravagant claims of the vendors. We can't find a pomegranate anywhere; they are out of season and must have been shipped in from Africa for the centerpieces. We hop on and off vaporetti, and Justin films me talking in front of the doge's palace and disappearing down dark lanes. When I don't do it right he demonstrates what he wants. He's young and enthusiastic and cheerful. We finish up at my hotel, and I go up to pack. I must leave for London the next day, but I know I'll be leaving some part of me in Venice, forever. I think it's my heart.