Sisterchicks in Gondolas! (13 page)

T
he rest of our second full day
in Venice followed a rhythm close to that of the previous evening. We returned to the apartment and prepared pasta for the men. They gathered in the elegant dining room, and we served them wearing our not-exactly-matching, matching skirts.

Cleanup was a little more complicated because the water went off around nine o’clock for some reason. The timing couldn’t have been worse. We had just begun to wash the dishes. We found other things to do in the kitchen and kept checking the faucets. By ten o’clock we gave up and left the pots and plates until morning.

Climbing the stairs to our rooftop hideaway, I felt as if my feet were going to fall off, they were so sore. I’m sure they were swollen. In that one day I think I walked more than I had walked during any given week back home. At
work I’m on my feet all day, but standing is quite different from walking.

Pushing open the door to the roof, Sue and I climbed out into the calm coolness of the night. Everything was as we had left it. Even the grinning moon and the field of sprouting stars.

“Oh, dear little bed, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a mattress and covers,” I said.

“Ditto for me,” Sue echoed.

We crawled under the covers. I don’t even remember saying good night.

The sun came on tiptoes and crept over the edge of our loft the next morning. I felt the steady, warm fingers touch my face as if they were gently patting me awake.

Squinting to see my watch, I read the dial. Six-thirty. Same time as our sunny wake-up call the day before. This morning the streets didn’t seem to be as alive with sounds as the day before. Either that or the sound of wooden hand-pushed carts rolling over cobblestones was becoming more familiar.

I rolled over and was surprised to see Sue already awake. She was propped up on her elbow and cradling something in her hands.

“Hey, good morning, early bird,” I said.

“Shh. Look. Here’s the real early bird.” Sue turned slowly, and I saw a small mass of dark gray and brown
feathers sticking out of her cupped hands.

“How did you catch a bird?”

“I didn’t catch her. She fell on me. I was sound asleep, and then I felt her small thud on my rear end.”

“Soft landing.” I laughed.

Sue looked at me with a wary smile. “I was thinking the same thing. My padded backside might have saved this little bird’s life.”

“It’s still alive then?”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft. “I can feel her little heart beating.”

“Are sure it’s a girl?”

“No, but I’m calling her a girl.” Sue held the tiny intruder out for me to see the slight twitching of its beak. “Do you think I should let her go?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you put it down and see what happens?”

Sue placed the fallen sparrow on an open space at the end of her mattress and pulled back her hands. “There you go. Can you fly?”

Sue’s feathered friend gave what looked like a shiver, attempted a hop, and sat down on Sue’s blanket.

“Poor thing! Let’s find a box and make a nest. We can keep her in the kitchen until she’s better.”

“Are you trying for another merit badge?” I asked.

“What?”

“You know, our midlife merit badges we were joking about. I wondered if you were going for a bird-saving merit badge.”

Sue wasn’t in a joking mood.

As we padded around looking for a suitable container, we tried to be quiet in the kitchen. The waxed cardboard box that the green beans had come in was still in the trash. I pulled it out and lined the box with bits of paper towel.

“Didn’t Steph say the trash had to go out to the sidewalk before eight on Tuesday?” Sue asked.

“That’s right. I’m glad you remembered. I’ll dress and take down the garbage.”

Sue eased the bird into the box. Again it gave a little shiver and then hunkered down, looking exhausted.

“I hope it’s going to be okay,” I said.

“Me, too.”

I stepped over to the sink and tried to turn on the water. “Oh, good. We have water this morning.” I filled the sink to wash the stacked-up plates and pasta pots.

“I can do those,” Sue said. “You better take out the trash and go to the bakery before the men wake up.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the bakery with me?”

“I’ll stay here and start the coffee.”

I dressed quickly, feeling sore after all the walking yesterday. The soreness was good, as if my muscles were saying, “Hey, thanks for remembering what we’re here for.
We can do a whole lot more than you give us a chance to.” With a few stretches, I was ready to go.

As I placed the trash bags on the sidewalk, a neighborhood cat prowled through the pile of bags. I shooed it away. But as I tromped over the bridge, I wondered if a cat could have traumatized the little bird.

I liked being up early and being more familiar with our neighborhood. When I entered the bakery, the golden-eyed woman greeted me with a warm, “Buon giorno!” I wished I understood Italian and could converse with her.

“Buon giorno,” I replied and then tried an awkward,
“Grazie per le caffe …
yesterday. Thanks again for the coffee you gave us yesterday.”

She said something and pointed to the back room. I thought she might be offering more coffee, so I quickly said, “No. No caffe. Grazie. Solo …”

I pointed at the breakfast pastries in the case and smiled, hoping she would get the idea I only wanted to buy some rolls.

She pointed to a tray of fresh-looking rolls that were different from the ones she had offered us from the top shelf the day before. Today’s special looked like rectangular croissants with a dab of chocolate peeking out the sides. The hand-printed sign next to them displaying the cost had the word
baci
.

“Solo baci today. No coffee.” I pointed to the rolls.

“Solo
uno
baci?” She held up her thumb.

“No. Uh …” I tried to remember the word for
nine
. I didn’t want to get caught in the opposite tangle of the five kilos of nectarines and return with only one roll to share between all of us.

“I need nine.” I held up my fingers, remembering to include my thumbs. Someone entered the store behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I didn’t want to lose my concentration.

“Nove? Nove baci?” she asked.

“Si. Nove baci. Per favore.”

She quickly blew nine kisses at me with the palm of her hand.

I didn’t move.

She was smiling broadly, as if pleased with herself and some sort of joke that I obviously didn’t get.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my best nervous grin taking over my face. “I don’t understand.
Non capisco.”
I thought that was how to say I didn’t understand, but now I was wondering if I should avoid using any Italian unless I was confident I knew what I was saying.

The customer behind me spoke up. “The bread you order. It has the same word for ‘kiss.’ Baci. She is making for you nine kisses. Do you see?”

“Oh.” I turned and found myself face-to-face with a gondolier. His straw hat was under his arm, but the striped shirt he wore gave away his occupation.

“She knows you want the breads. She is only making
for you a joke. We call these breads ‘kisses.’ You see?”

“Yes, I see.” I turned and offered her a smile of understanding. Looking back at the gondolier I said, “May I ask you a favor? Could you please tell her thank you for the coffee yesterday?”

He stepped closer and rattled off my message as the woman rolled four baci at a time in the butcher paper. She responded kindly without looking up at him.

“Lucia says you’re welcome for the coffee.”

“Lucia,” I repeated, nodding at her. She smiled back.

The gondolier added, “You must be hungry this morning. That is many baci—many ‘kisses’ for one woman.”

Not sure if he was trying to flirt with me or make fun of me, I defended my kisses by saying, “They’re not all for me. I’m serving seven men.”

Well, that was the wrong thing to say! Especially to a gondolier who made his living from cruisin’ and schmoozin’ with the tourists. He made a motion of shaking out his hand, as if I were too hot to handle. Then he translated my comment to Lucia.

Like a loyal friend, Lucia took her cue from my reaction to the gondolier’s “hot mama” innuendos and didn’t act amused. She looked at me as I paid for the bread and asked something in Italian, pointing at me.

Again I was at a loss.

“Your name.
Nome
. She wants to know your name,” the gondolier translated.

“Jenna.”

“Yanna,” she repeated.

It was close enough. Apparently
J
is not a commonly used letter in Italian words. I nodded, took the change from her, and received the bundles of fresh “kisses.” “Ciao, Lucia. Grazie.”

She responded with something that sounded like “dough-money.”

I was obligated to turn once again to our suave word-smith.

“Domani
. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you will be here? She wants to know.”

“Si,” I said, smiling at Lucia. “Domani. I will be back domani with some more dough money.” Now I was the one making a goofy little joke she wouldn’t understand.

“Never mind.” Lowering my head, I eased past our interpreter with a polite nod. He wasn’t ready to let me slip out.

“So, Yanna, when you and your seven men need a gondolier, you come to me. I will show you Venezia.” He explained where I could find the district for his gondolier stand, but I didn’t recognize the location.

“Grazie,” I said.

“Prego.”

I gave Lucia a final grin over my shoulder and was on my way.

Trotting quickly with the warm rolls in my arms, a
slow smile danced across my lips. Sue would be sorry she missed this day’s visit to the bakery.

I carefully inserted the key into the ancient lock of our street-level door. As I turned the key, the door opened. I love it when doors open the first time.

Stepping over the threshold with my arms full of kisses, I paused. As crazy as I knew it was, I held the door open a little longer, waiting so that goodness and mercy had plenty of time to catch up and follow me into the damp darkness.

Making my grand entrance into the kitchen with our daily bread, I told Sue my morning panetteria story, complete with lots of hand motions in true Italian form. She and I split one of the warm baci while I talked.

Sue asked, “What did you say after he told you to come looking for him?”

“He wasn’t saying for just me to come. He said to bring everyone for a gondola ride.”

“Right. So what did you say to him?”

“I said grazie.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said prego. Then I left.”

Sue looked stumped. “Prego? Like spaghetti sauce. That’s what he said to you?”

I curtailed my chuckle.
“Prego
is Italian for ‘you’re welcome.’”

“Oh.” Sue unwrapped the rest of the breakfast rolls. “I
was hoping he had said you could count on a big discount. You and all seven men.”

We chuckled quietly. In the dining room we could hear the men shuffling in and assembling for breakfast.

“The coffee is on the table for them,” Sue said, quickly placing the last roll on the platter. “I’ll take these out.”

“Did I miss devotions?”

Sue nodded.

“Did Malachi read more psalms like yesterday?”

She nodded again, this time smiling.

“Bummer,” I muttered. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Sue slid into the dining room with the platter heaped with fresh kisses from the bakery. I’m sure these men never had dined on such sweet manna gathered on such a gorgeous morning.

Since I was alone, I playfully imitated Lucia’s cute joke and blew “baci” toward the dining room with the palm of my hand. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven for the men gathered together to break bread. And one extra big baci for Sue.

I had just flung my palm toward the dining room when I realized I wasn’t alone.

O
ne of the men,
Sergei, was standing in the kitchen behind me. I was sure he had seen my last blown kiss. I’d delivered the playful smacker to the closed door with as much gusto as if I were a contestant on the old
Dating Game
TV show.

Apparently Sergei had entered by the kitchen’s back door that led down the hall to the bedrooms and the princess suite. Before I could say anything to him, Sue entered through the dining room door.

“I have this for the bird,” Sergei said to Sue. He held out some cotton balls that looked like the sort that are stuffed into the tops of vitamin bottles.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

I rolled into the topic at hand without considering for a moment the option of explaining to Sergei or anyone else why I was blowing kisses.

“How is the bird?” I asked quickly.

“The same, I think.” Sue walked over to the box balanced on the wide window ledge. She set to work, tucking the cotton around the edges of the new nest. “I can’t see that she’s injured anywhere. But she keeps shivering.”

“Did you put some water in there for her?” I peeked inside the box and saw the answer to my question. “Is that the top of a toothpaste tube? Very clever.”