BELLS AND BAD BOY
Palazzos flanked the canal like proud soldiers obedient to the eyes of tourists who passed them continuously in public boats, small gondolas and water taxis. More exquisite than porcelain houses filling a collector's glass shelves, these intricately decorated former palaces, many hundreds of years old, sparkled in the morning sun and reflected upon rippling water as Bella's boat past her planned stop. She decided to find another cafe in which to enjoy her morning espresso and smiled, pleased that it didn't matter if she missed a boat stop in the quest for coffee here.
Soon Bella found one of the many little cafes on a typical venetian street and pressed her cold cheek against its old glass window. When she peered inside, she saw steam billow up from newly formed peaks of foamed milk. Although Bella had come to Venice to study European Union law with a group of American students, according to frequent updates to Anastasia, her worried sister back home, she appeared to be studying everything but those two topics.
Bella heard a nearby bell ring and took note, like she had been told to do by her Italian friends whenever she heard a bell chime. Especially this bell, the one that echoed from possibly the most famous bell tower in the world, high above Venice in St Mark's square. The massive bell vibrated around the serene setting, bang, gong, gong, bang. It resonated across the piazza, across the lagoon and to the nearby islands of Murano, Lido and others. It sounded authoritative and mighty. Every day. For centuries.
What was I thinking when the bells rang? Bella asked herself at seven in the morning. Was it last night's ghost tour?
Too early for tourists barely dressed for tours, seven in the morning was not too early for Bella, who ventured out every day for morning espresso. She knew within hours the lovely St. Mark's Square would be the meeting place of anyone who was anybody and would soon bustle with children, musicians, waiters, street artists, Italians, Germans, Brits, Frenchmen, Greeks and pigeons (pigeons being, appropriately, a venetian slang for tourists). All would mingle and gawk, eat and drink, snap and pose for photos and paintings. All would carry on in this fashion until well past nightfall, as had happened here for many decades.
She pulled out her notes from the ghost tour where she had written Fondamenta degli incurabili by Joseph Brodsky 1989, buried in San Michell Evangelical seat.
She read on: The young daughter of Giavanni Dario married a member of the Barbaro family and they thus acquired the Palacio Ca' Dario (house of Cario). There ensued a long succession of misery and death which for centuries has plagued the owners of this sinister dwelling earning its reputation as…The Palace that kills. Rumors? Stories? Superstitions? Every Venetian building with any history has been the theatre of violent events is the more rational explanation. These are not just legends hovering over Ca' Dario. The house is still inhabited by many ghosts, some of which belong to the owners who lost their lives to its curse.
Bella recalled viewing the splendid and apparently haunted Barbaro palace on her first boat trip years ago in Venice. Its exquisite mosaics, arched windows and prominent location on the Grand Canal made it memorable to her and most public passengers who regularly viewed it.
How many people died there? Bella pondered while picturing the splendid building. It didn't look at all like a haunted house, except perhaps for its moldy, cracked plaster created by centuries of flooding and fog.
A light drizzle began and forced Bella to suspend her reflections and tuck the notebook under her coat. Even with thick cashmere wrapped around her face, her friendly nature made her familiar to the local merchants and someone her inside. A simple and joyous morning as usual, she had no complicated commutes through raging traffic. No isolation inside her vehicle was required nor did she stan silently in line at a local coffee shop where nobody knew her name. Here in the strange fishbowl of foreigners, all the fishes know the other fishes.
Everyone says hello as they walk into an establishment because its Italian custom to do so. Whether she knew the person or not, Bella said "buon giorno" or "buona sera." It was considered rude to do otherwise. She always greeted the salesperson or bartender inside, which is opposite of her American custom, where employees eagerly welcome shoppers, and not the other way around.
She gulped down her coffee as she stood at the counter with the local workers, as was also her custom. They charged double to sit at a table and all the action was the counter. She was frequent part of the scene. A local.
Next Bella Mangotti breezed through the symphony of an early Venice morning. As dawn broke, the moon sometimes often peeked between buildings and reflected brightly on the lagoon. Many times Bella woke early, or stayed up long enough, to witness the city's unique arousal. Ping, pang, ping went the shutters when Venice was waking up. Bella loved to watch, amused, as Venice started slowly, boat motors warming up, pigeons scattering, a few early workers trotting along canal shores. Her eyes twinkled while this morning's show built to its crescendo. Storefront slates slapped up, kiosks quickly stocked with goods while foot and boat traffic increased and canals filled with all manner of water craft-gondolas, motor boats, pubic transports, garbage barges. A full-fledged water and street performance arrived after dawn's quiet overture.
"Venice at dawn is wonderful," whispered Bella as she gingerly avoided puddles left by recent rain.
Puddle after puddle she trudged to St. Mark's Square, whose symphony had not yet started. Bella sat down at an empty table that had been carefully chained down for the night. She leaned her head up and strained her neck to survey the great bell tower. When she heard the bells chime this morning-no, not a chime, a loud gong-she'd been reflecting on the ghost stories she heard the night before, stories made all the more eerie by the fog and the drizzling rain.
However, Bella was more preoccupied with the story she'd read about the two dead glass blowers in the Italian newspapers because she had an appointment to discuss the deaths with a member of the local authorities. One who, she had been told by numerous venetian friends, was quite handsome and wealthy. Then to her dismay, her thoughts drifted back to the ghost stories and a bell then rang from another nearby church. Ah bells again, I guess I need to find out more about the Barbaro palace and its curse.
So she pulled out her notebook and read on:
Giavanni's son-in-law was ruined and his daughter died of a broken heart. Giacommo Barbaro was assassinated, page 196. English scholar Rawdon Brown lived there 1838-1842 and he and his friend both committed suicide. Charles Briggs left in a hurry, and his homosexual lover committed suicide soon after. Count Filippo Giardano was murdered here by his lover Raul who bashed in his skull with a statuette. Christopher Lampert, manager of the Who, died a violent death in 1981…."
She sat a few minutes enjoying the early silence of San Marco and several men on their way to work enjoyed her attentive eyes on them. Bella was a perfect flirt but Venetian men, like most Italians, flirted even more perfectly. Finally, the famous Florian cafe where she was sitting After I left her, began to open, her cue to move on. Silent and serene when Bella arrived, the expansive square began to buzz. Bella chuckled aa each new awestruck face entered the square. All roads do not lead to Venice, she thought as naive tourists flooded the scene.
Being a lagoon-confined city, Venice has no roads. Some who visit Venice long for roads as all vehicles vanish where the bridge from the mainland stops. At a small thoroughfare and drop-off area, cars and busses meet their final end. At Piazzalle Roma, visitors and inhabitants are delivered abruptly into a dreamworld. In exchange for the real world, they are offered ubiquitous alleys, canals and bridges. Cobblestone and concrete mazes lead to dark corners and places where people could hide and shadows inevitably dance. Rows of houses often stop smack-dab at a canal, surprising the wanderer who takes wrong turn.
Meeting places are not found after long drives in traffic in Venice. Everywhere, every place, every inch of every walk is a potential meeting spot and the one of preference for pigeons is Piazza San Marco. Like the pigeons, scores of tourists also make their way daily to the giant square upon arrival. As did Bella today, who didn't miss the roads.
Her thoughts of Piazzalle Roma reminded her of another unintended meeting, one with Edward, her stunning but crazy, Venetian ex-boyfriend. He stood amongst the busses when she arrived as if alerted to her presence by the wind. With villian written all over his handsome face, ten years after she fell in love with him, Edward took the longest breath of air she had ever seen a person take as he pulled a cigarette dramatically out of a pack. He moved towards her, paused to light it then laed his deep green eyes upon her. His eyes urged at her over the cigarette, as he leaned down to light it, his strong physique filling the space between them.
His familiar whistle grabbed Bella's attention as porters loaded her bags onto a conveyer, which lowered them onto a boat that would deliver them to her apartment. Back in her college days when she ran around frenetically with Edward, she hauled her own bags over the many bridges to her waiting apartments. Those days were now gone and Bella, a high-paid professional and much more of Princess, paid the porter's price. Despite her many accomplishments since she last saw Edward, the sound of his whistle transformed back into the young girl, the one who romantically thought life with this gorgeous but erratic man was possible. Below thickly curled lashes, his dark eyes gazed at her from across the plaza, his uneven lips perched into a one-sided smile. Bella noted that he had aged in the charming way that men age but she feared women did not. Bundled in typical Venetian winter work clothes and a long parka with fur trim, Edward's grey scarf was wrapped carefully around his neck. His hair was perfect. He might as well have been naked.
She fought the urge to go to him as she watched him take another bottomless breath, this time from the cigarette. She tried to calm herself while Edward steadied his cigarette and relished every second of his slow first drag. After exhaling, he instantly took another firm determined puff such that anyone near him could easily see how much he enjoyed smoking, that it relaxed him. Bella felt not all at all relaxed at the sight of Edward and wanted that cigarette for herself. She never felt relaxed with him. He always engineered it that way, often being an insulting selfish cad, while mixing it up with sexy, witty and romantic charmer.
Years later, thought Bella, years too late, I feel his pull. Will I forever be drawn to him even though he makes me absolutely miserable?
He knew it. He felt it. In seconds he was there, standing flat up against her right there in the street.
Like he owns me, thought Bella, like his body owns me. God, he smells good.
"Vois un altre?" Do you want another? asked the waiter, suddenly standing at her table in San Marco. Wearing a white tuxedo, he rudely interrupted Bella's fantasy of weeks earlier and her accidental meeting with Edward. Apparently the waiter thought she'd already ordered one when she had merely occupied the empty table before the cafe opened. She almost said "yes I would like another, another one like Edward but not Edward." Instead she nodded, left the table and ventured forth to meet with a member of the local authorities, who she'd heard was a handsome rich man. They were to discuss the case of the dead glassblowers. How interesting that she had run into Edward, a glassmakers himself.
Edward?
Ask Edward about Ca D'ario and the Barbaro, she wrote in her notebook before she departed the Florian. As she crossed the magnificant plaza, she tried to focus her concentration more on the Venetian art and architecture that surrounded her and less on the art of Edward's seduction.
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