Authors: Laura Morelli
“You’re one lucky
fionàso
, did you know that?” Alvise guffaws at me from his seated position on the rear of the boat.
I grin and row the little
puparin
—a skiff that Master Giorgio affectionately calls Piccolino—into the canal. Reading my expression, Alvise continues, “Santo Stefano! Who has heard of a boy your age—not even part of a guild, for God’s sake—hired as a private boatman?”
Before leaving the ferry station, I had filled the flower box of the tabernacle with fresh flowers I purchased at a street market and bid a silent farewell to the stone faces of the Madonna and Child. From Giorgio, all I got was a gruff salute, but I expected little more.
We turn into the canal where Trevisan’s house stands. The early morning light penetrates the shadows of Master Trevisan’s cavernous boat slip. Through the streaks of sun, I can make out the artist’s two gondolas—one fine, one dilapidated—hulking beasts penned behind the great wrought iron gates. As Alvise and I glide slowly by the boat slip in Giorgio’s old skiff, Alvise regards the fine boat, shakes his head and whistles in quiet amazement. “What did I tell you? Lucky, lucky
fionàso
, you are.”
“Thanks for the ride,
cucco
,” I joke, handing him the oar. “And for everything else, too.”
Alvise claps me on the shoulder. “Maybe you can talk your new boss into paying off Giorgio for me, too!” We laugh, then I heave myself out of the boat and walk up the stairs to knock on the artist’s studio door. “Just remember to watch your back!” Alvise adds.
“You too!”
Alvise salutes me with two fingers, then shoves off with the oar, whistling to himself as he rows out of sight.
Trevisan greets me at the door of his studio with a strong, amicable grip of his hand and leads me inside. The artist’s breeches alternate red and blue satin stripes, and his gold sleeves billow. His portly stomach threatens to burst the buttons off his blue waistcoat. He wears a two-toned cape and an elaborate hat with feathers on one side. His clogs clomp on the shiny tiled floor. On one side of the studio, a woman crouches on her hands and knees, wringing out a rag over a bucket of water.
“I have an important meeting with a patron this morning. You will take me there in my boat, and wait for me.”
“Yes, of course, Magnificence.”
“Luca, this is Signora Amalia, my housemaid. She can help you get settled and provide you with anything you may need.” Signora Amalia is about the same age as my mother was, I judge. She is thin, with a lined face, and her ashen hair sweeps back from her face in a tight bun with waves around her brow. She greets me with a warm smile but does not rise from the floor, where she is using a wet rag and a stiff-bristled brush to scrub a paint stain from the wooden planks.
The artist opens a small door on one side of the workshop and gestures for me to follow. The door leads to a spacious kitchen, where dry heat emanates from an enormous hearth. Dozens of ceramic plates hang above a window along another wall, overlooking the narrow canal below. A wooden table occupies the center of the room, and on it lie three half-chopped onions and a carrot. On the right, a narrow, curved staircase leads upstairs. Through a slightly open set of double doors, I catch sight of a dining room with a round table that has an elaborate centerpiece and a chandelier above it, both made of blown glass from Murano. Even in the kitchen, there are oil paintings, at least two dozen hung floor to ceiling, just as in the artist’s studio.
On the far side of the kitchen, Trevisan leads the way to an exterior door and opens it to reveal a narrow stone staircase. I catch a whiff of the cool, dank canal and understand that this door is the inside entrance to the boat slip. We descend into the shadows of the damp stairwell.
The artist unties one end of the canvas cover that protects his fine gondola moored in the slip, and I untie the other side. Trevisan lifts the cover with a dramatic gesture. This gondola, I note, was made in one of our rival boatyards, but it is a beauty all the same. The oarlock, the prow iron, and even the upholstery seem brand new, as if they have never seen the light of day. The rest of the boat is dusty and cluttered, but with minimal effort it could be a showpiece. What I admire most about the craft is that Trevisan has outfitted it so that it conforms to the Republic’s laws about gondola ornamentation, yet at the same time it is more elegant than most fine boats on the city’s canals.
Trevisan produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the tremendous padlock of the wrought-iron gate. It creaks as it opens outward. “You’ll find an oar on the wall there,” instructs the artist, climbing into his boat. In fact, there are a half-dozen oars hanging from a rack on the wall, some older than others. Instinctively, my eyes are drawn to one with a sharp, blade-like protrusion running from the handle to the paddle, the kind that my old friend the oarmaker always considered the most effective tool for rowing a standard gondola. I pull the oar from the wall and step into the back of the boat, using the oar to balance myself as I get into position to row.
“We’re going to the Scuola Grande di San Teodoro, son. You’ll want to approach it from the Grand Canal side.”
Tentatively, I push off with the oar and emerge from Trevisan’s boat slip into the sunlight. My heart flutters, and my chest swells with nervousness and pride. How did I manage to become a private boatman in a single day? It seems unfathomable, a pure stroke of luck. I row with purposeful strokes, not wanting to do a single thing to disappoint Master Trevisan. I hope that the artist cannot see how nervous I am. I try my best to look competent with the oar, but in truth I know that it will take some practice before rowing this particular grand craft becomes second nature. They say that rowing a gondola is like riding a horse; you may know how to do it, but each one is an individual. It takes time to develop confidence with each beast.
During the journey to the Scuola Grande, the artist does not utter a word. He remains inside the passenger compartment with the curtains tied open, either lost in thought or sketching with black coal on a piece of parchment. He sits confidently with one leg crossed over the other, as a gentle breeze tousles his silver curls. Even though his fingernails are perfectly filed and buffed, the artist’s hands belie his true profession, marred with paint stains that must be impossible to remove. Otherwise, the man is impeccable and could be mistaken easily for a patrician.
When we arrive at our destination, I guide the gondola among the jungle of mooring posts that stand at odd angles at the entrance to the
scuola
. Trevisan instructs me to moor the gondola with a rope to an enormous metal ring driven into the stone quayside and to wait for him.
Trevisan is gone for most of the morning. During the long hours, I explore his boat in detail. In the light of day, I recognize that the gondola, though fine, is neglected. Dust has collected on the decks, probably as a result of the boat being grounded for so long after Trevisan’s last boatman left. I make mental notes. The paint needs to be refreshed. Part of the hull should be waterproofed to prevent leaks. In the storage area under the aft deck, I discover a pile of dirty rags and tools thrown haphazardly into the space. I empty the storage compartments in the fore and aft decks and reorganize everything into neat piles. Then I set about shining the prow with a rag.
Throughout the morning, a steady flow of gondolas stops at the mooring to discharge passengers. Some are private gondolas with two rowers, which carry wealthy men and women. Others are plain black gondolas for hire like the ones from the ferry station. Each time a gondola stops, its gondolier greets me with an amicable “
come xea
” or one of many salutatory hand gestures that I have learned to interpret, thanks to my time on the canals alongside my mentor Alvise. It is as if I have joined a private alliance, an inner circle. I feel a double impostor now, for I do not consider myself a real boatman. With my hat pulled low over my brow, I return the greeting in a manner that becomes only slightly more confident as the hours pass.
As it nears time for the midday meal, Trevisan reappears. Another well-dressed gentleman walks alongside the artist, both engrossed in their conversation. The two men board the boat, and Trevisan instructs me to transport them back to his studio. Trevisan is so preoccupied with his conversation during our journey that the artist does not notice my efforts to beautify his boat. “Luca, you may wish to reorganize my boat slip as you see fit. After some time I’m sure to find it as organized and tidy as you made Master Giorgio’s boathouse,” says Trevisan as he and his guest exit the boat. I carefully steer the gondola into the artist’s boat slip.
The silence of the cavernous space is broken only by the lapping of water against the stone walls. In the shadows, like a lurking behemoth, stands the now broken-down boat my grandfather made. I force myself to avert my eyes from it, wanting to take in the rest of the space first. The walls of the boat slip are covered in lichen, accounting for the dingy appearance and dank smell that fills it. Drips of water echo off the walls. Along with an impressive selection of oars, I note the three types of brooms hanging from the wall, and I put cleaning the boat slip on the top of my list.
In the far reaches of the covered area, I discover a lightweight
felze
of the kind used in the summer to protect passengers from the sun. Its wooden frame sits high to allow breezes in, and its sides are made of a lightweight silk fabric in light green. The silk is beginning to rot. I find another old one, covered in midnight velvet, that is used in winter, low and broad to keep off the rain but now ragged and rotted. I doubt that the fabrics can be salvaged, but I might be able to reuse the frames. I take stock of discarded supplies jumbled on shelves along one wall. Gels and varnishes, coated by years of dust, lie still in glass jars. I recognize turpentine and several types of oil, but I will need to open the jars and smell to be able to identify some of the others.
The dry dock extends far into the depths under the house, lit by lanterns along the wall. A narrow stream of light from a tall shaft illuminates the back of the dry dock. I follow the light and soon emerge into a small courtyard littered with belongings—discarded wrought-iron doors, a pile of scrap wood, sculpted stone capitals dating back what must be hundreds of years. In spite of the clutter, the space is usable, and I judge that I will be able to work here.
Finally, I return into the boat slip and approach the old gondola stored upside down on trestles. I take a deep breath to summon the nerve to push back the old canvas cover that conceals the boat. I close my eyes and run my hands along its hull, recognizing only by touch its familiar shape and curves, as if it were a long-lost lover. My fingertips divine its familiar surfaces, textures, its musty scent, its imperfections, its singular beauty. The sensation brings images, clear as day, flashing to the front of my mind. I see my grandfather varnishing a boat while I, just a small boy, run circles around the great black craft. My mind forms an image of my grandfather’s lined and suntanned face, his subtle grin, his genteel voice, his old-fashioned Venetian words now rarely heard. He is telling me how the lumber must be stacked carefully in the
téza
and left to season for at least a year.
The pungent scent of varnish reminds me of our family
squero
in the spring, when people would bring their boats to us to be cleaned and revarnished. My mind races with images of our clients rowing their boats—a gondola, a
sandolo
, a
puparin
, a fishing boat they call a
scípion
—to the Vianello boatyard to have their keels cleaned. As if watching myself in a dream, I see my father and brother pulling the crafts out of the water up the ramp, then propping the boats on their sides. From this awkward position, we spent days scraping off canal grime, then coating the keels with
sottomarino
, a special kind of varnish that makes the boat watertight. I see the camaraderie among the men who bring their boats to be cleaned. I smile as I see my grandfather lightly tap these visitors on the shoulder with the back of his hand as he speaks to them, as if he is incapable of talking without touching.
I inhale the boat’s scent, a musty mix of aged varnish, decay, and dank moss that transports me back to the reality of Trevisan’s boat slip. Carefully, I tip the boat on its side so that I can view the inside of its hull. I recognize the planks of oak, walnut, and cherry that make the hull strong yet lightweight. The wood is in dire need of restoration, but I marvel that in spite of its damage, this old boat has stood the test of time.
At dusk, Trevisan appears at the door of the boat slip to find me mucking the lichen off the stones. He stands silently for a moment, watching me. He descends the stairs and clears his throat. “Luca, Signora Amalia has prepared some bean and barley stew. You may join her to dine in the kitchen. Afterward, she will explain to you how to find Signora Monti’s boardinghouse, which is not far. I’ve already reserved a room for you there. I apologize for not being able to accommodate you here. I’ve had to pair up my four apprentices in my extra rooms in order to lodge them in my house. Unfortunately I have no space left. For the boardinghouse, I deducted the rent out of your first week’s salary. Starting next week, you may pay the proprietor, Signora Monti, directly from the salary I pay you on Saturdays. Agreed? That is, unless you have some other accommodation for yourself.”
“No,” I respond quickly. “That is fine. Thank you, Master Trevisan, for your kindness.” Glancing beyond the artist’s shoulder, I see a narrow slice of the kitchen and the hem of Signora Amelia’s skirt, then the aroma of the stew curls through the air. I replace the broom then climb the stairs to the kitchen, where Signora Amalia is ladling steaming broth into a bowl.
Trevisan continues, “I’ve also arranged for Signora Baldi to provide you with a selection of clothing from her stock, something suitable to a boatman in my charge. These will get you by for the short term. I do have a certain image to uphold, you know.”