La Tempesta


It was late afternoon when we climbed into a gondola. Feletia remained in back to practice conversational Italian with the gondolier. She had tied her bronze hair with a red scarf and was peeling a peach. I sat in front of her, too hot to talk. Our two daughters, dressed in blue, perched like small birds on the middle seat, straw hats with matching ribbons on their blond heads. Angela, who moments before had been hot and cranky, placidly nibbled a cookie. Penny dipped her hand in the dirty canal. Gwendolyn, the children's young nurse, sat in front, her face shaded under an orange and pink parasol. Over how many centuries, I wondered, have exhausted travelers been gently propelled into the theater of Venice, motley players on an ancient stage?
     It was bright-eyed Angela who first saw my friend waving from the terrace of the hotel. Penny not to be outdone, jumped to her feet, fanning the air with her hat and rocking the boat. When Gwendolyn reached out to steady her, the parasol fell over the side, a flash of color in the grey tide.
     I had a premonition of disasters to come. "Do you think this was a bad idea, Feletia?''
     "Of course, it wasn't. The girls will behave, if that's what you mean.'' Feletia gazed fondly at the children. "It's such a pity Sally couldn't have a child.''
     "It might have been Roger, you know. Cancer cells may have been lurking in his body for years.''
     "What is cancer, Daddy?'' Penny asked.
     "A disease--a sickness,'' I said. "But you are never to mention the word in front of Mr. Train. Do you understand?''
     "Why?''
     "He came to Europe to have fun. He doesn't want to be reminded of . . . of his illness.''
     "We came to have fun, too,'' Penny insisted, "but it hasn't been.''
     "Don't be silly,'' said Gwendolyn, raising her head from a drawing pad, "it's been lots of fun.''
     Penny made a face as if she'd eaten a sour grape.
     "Roger!'' I called, cupping my hands. "We made it!''
     My friend was standing at the top of the landing. To my amazement, his tall, gangly frame was enfolded in a black cape. As we drew closer, I could see the collar filigreed with gold and a flash of crimson lining. Over his high forehead was perched a tricorn. His wife, stocky with short cropped hair, wore an orange linen dress. Behind them, a waiter held a tray of glasses.
     "My friends, welcome!'' Roger shouted, his deep hollow voice booming over the water.
     He strode down the broad stone steps to meet us, an imposing sight in his cape, and with his hawk-like nose, and heavy eyebrows. As the gondola drew closer to the landing, however, under the masquerade I saw the face of a stricken man. I had not seen my friend for over a year--the year of his treatment--and was shocked by the sallow skin, the dark patches under his eyes, the shoulders hunched under the weight of the cloak.
     "Negronis for the old and wicked,'' he called, beckoning for the waiter. "And lemonade for the young and innocent.''
     The children scrambled up first with cries of pleasure. Roger insisted they each shake his hand with due solemnity before receiving their refreshments. "And a small cake, too,'' he added. "They're excellent.''
     "That's a splendid outfit, Roger!'' Feletia exclaimed, kissing him on both cheeks. "You look like a Doge.''
     "Thank you. I am a Doge. I wore it for the ceremony of your arrival.'' He bowed to the children.
     "How romantic!'' Feletia exclaimed. She was visibly impressed.
     "Thank you, my dear. The cloak is a Fortuny. We found his atelier in an old square. I intend to be buried in it.'' Roger made the sign of the cross. "With full rites.''
     "Roger loves to be theatrical,'' Sally said quickly.
     We introduced Gwendolyn, and Roger led us to a table on the terrace. With a sigh of relief, he removed the cape and folded it on a chair with the hat on top. "One can only suffer so much grandeur.''
     "How has it been going?'' I asked my friend as we sat down. "How do you feel?''
     "He's not well at all,'' Sally answered, wiping her forehead with a paper napkin. "The poor man was exhausted when we arrived.''
     Roger rolled his eyes, as if he were accustomed to hearing his wife explain to others how he felt. "I'm fine. I'm really fine.'' He ordered another round. "We have plans to make, folks. Two full days in Venice. Where shall we start?''
     "I'd love to see Peggy Guggenheim's collection,'' said Feletia.
     "We'll put it on the list,'' Roger agreed. "And the Academy. That's a must. Do you remember Giorgione's La Tempesta, Harry? We studied it at college.''
     "I'm afraid not,'' I said.
     "Of course you do.'' Feletia prodded my arm. "We have it in a book. A man leans on a pole--or perhaps it's a spear. On the far side a woman nurses a child. In the background a storm approaches.''
     "Exactly right!'' Roger exclaimed. "They gaze over our heads, wrapped in their own thoughts.'' He smiled. "What fun to be together again. And in Venice! Where shall we have dinner?''
     "Roger should have supper in bed,'' Sally interrupted crossly, "but he's adamant.''
     "We'll start with pasta.'' Roger turned to the girls and, pursing his lips, made loud sucking noises. They squealed with pleasure.
     "Why not dine at the hotel our first night?'' Feletia asked. "It might be easier for all of us.''
     We agreed to meet back on the terrace in an hour. While Roger took a nap, Feletia and I would unpack and bathe. Gwendolyn could call room-service for the children's dinner. As we left the terrace, an accordion player and a fiddler were tuning their instruments.
     "I want to eat out here with you,'' Penny announced. "It's more fun.''
     Feletia's scented bath smelled heavenly, and after she was finished I jumped in, sinking into the soapy water.
     "Harry, may I come in and do my face?''
     As she opened the door, she glanced at my belly emerging like a whale from the water. "Cheeses and pasta will kill you, lover.''
     "I'm on a vacation,'' I said moodily. "Or thought I was.''
     "Roger has a lovely sense of the dramatic, hasn't he?'' she exclaimed.
     "That's why he's a good trial lawyer.''
     "He looked so noble in his cloak waiting on the steps.''
     "He is noble. Sally said the doctors have little hope. He won't give in.''
     With a twinge of nostalgia, I thought of our days together, wondering for a moment if that earlier intimacy, undermined by the ties of marriage, could be resurrected a final time?
      "He played Antipholus of Ephesus in The Comedy of Errors,'' I said, "and wore a toga. I was his wife, Adriana.''
      "You played a woman, Harry! But you're so hairy.''
      "I wasn't then. One line of mine brought down the house: `Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine: /Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine . . .' ''
      I lay the warm washcloth over my eyes. "Roger was a year older than I, of course. That makes a difference with boys. I looked up to him.''
      Feletia and I decided to have a drink in the bar before our friends arrived. It was cool and pleasant, and in the corner a pianist played songs of the twenties. We had ordered belinis, when I was summoned to the phone. It was Penny. She said Gwendolyn had vomited and had a headache. Room service hadn't arrived and they wanted to come down for dinner. I returned to the table to consult with Feletia.
      "They must be starved, poor dears,'' she said. "Ask them to put on their green frocks and join us.''
      "But this is our first night with Roger, Feletia. I want it to be perfect.''
      "The children will be no trouble, Harry. I promise.''
      When they arrived, the back of Penny's dress was unbuttoned and Angela's shoes were untied.
      "Can we eat now?'' Penny asked.
      "Not yet,'' I said. "I'll order you a cool drink.''
      "I'm hungry, Daddy.''
      "So am I,'' said a voice behind me. I turned to see Roger. He had changed into a blue linen coat and white ducks. Sally's green and orange Pucci was already crumpled.
      "I'm sorry about the children,'' I said. "Gwendolyn is ill.''
      "I'll have to give the girls dinner in the dining room, I'm afraid,'' said Feletia. "At a separate table, of course.''
      "We haven't had anything since breakfast,'' said Penny.
      "Nonsense!'' Feletia exclaimed. "You had lunch on the train.''
      "It wasn't lunch. It was a sandwich.''
      "Let's eat then,'' Roger said, smiling. "I'm hungry, too.''
      "Roger, I haven't ordered my martini!'' Sally exclaimed.
      "We'll have one at the table, dear.'' He took Angela's hand in one of his, Penny's in the other. "Youth must be served.''
      I was upset at having to leave the cocktail lounge before our friends had ordered their drinks. Roger took it in good humor but Sally was upset. It wasn't a good omen.
      The maitre d' insisted he could not seat the children separately. The other tables were reserved.
      "We can't all sit together,'' I protested.
      "Of course we can.'' Roger squeezed the children's hands. "It will be a family party.''
      The sun was setting and a coolness had settled on the steaming terrace. The captain sat Angela and Penny near the railing where they could watch the boats. He presented large menus to each of us and immediately disappeared. It was half an hour before a waiter arrived and took our order for drinks.
      "Perhaps we should order dinner too,'' Penelope said.
      "I will bring the cocktails first, madame,'' the waiter said and quickly left.
      Angela turned to watch the sea-gulls and knocked over a glass. The ice water flowed over her dress and she began to cry. Two heavily made-up women at a near-by table stopped their conversation to stare.
      "Shh,'' I whispered. "You'll have to be quiet.''
      "She's tired,'' said Feletia, mopping Angela's dress with a napkin, "and hungry.''
      "I'm not tired.'' Angela stopped crying. "I'm wet.''
      I looked around for the captain. He was seating a large party on the other side of the room, bowing and smiling. I waved my napkin, but he failed to see it.
      "If they only had some bread,'' Feletia said.
      I was becoming flustered. "I'm sorry about this.''
      "Bread is plentiful in Italy,'' Roger said. "Very good bread, too,'' He rose and walking to another table, asked an attractive young woman in his broken Italian if she could spare a piece of pane for the children. She passed him the straw basket with a delicious smile and he brought it back to the table in triumph.
      "You're a hero, Roger!'' Feletia exclaimed. "I didn't know you spoke Italian.''
      "Poco.'' He passed the bread to the children. They each took a piece, but without enthusiasm. "I couldn't remember the word for butter.''
      "Say thank you,'' I said to the children.
      "Does cancer hurt, Mr. Train?'' Penny asked, digging a finger into the bread. "Does it hurt real bad?''
      Roger stared down at the little girl in surprise. "Hurt? Usually not, my dear. Sometimes it does.''
      "Penny, what did I tell you?'' I whispered.
      "I forgot,'' she said.
      "It's all right, Harry. Speaking of my illness is not taboo. It can't be. Even for children.''
      "Roger would have been a marvelous father,'' Sally said sadly.
      I felt the evening was coming apart. Nothing was turning out as I had planned. "Where are our drinks?'' I demanded of a passing bus boy. He didn't speak English. "Cocktails . . . waiter,'' I insisted.
      Angela pulled off a piece of bread and threw it over the railing in the general direction of the sea-gulls.
      "Please don't do that!'' Feletia said.
      Deliberately, Angela tore off another piece and tossed it after the other.
      "Stop that,'' I whispered fiercely, pinching her lightly on the arm.
      "Ouch, Daddy! You hurt me.'' She began to cry.
      "What did you do that for, Harry?'' Feletia put her arm around Angela.
      "I didn't hurt her,'' but I felt myself blush as I said it. I was acting boorishly, I knew that. "Let me see where I hurt you, honey,'' I said, taking her arm.
      "No, don't!'' she screamed, pulling it away. "It stings.''
      "Harry, you must do something about getting the captain,'' Feletia said. "It's been half an hour.''
      "Damn it, what do you expect me to do?'' Then, embarrassed to have said it, something snapped. Sweeping up Angela under one arm and clutching Penny's small hand in mine, I excused myself and strode to the door. Angela arched her back and yelled as if she had been beaten, the cords in her neck vibrating. The hot little body squirmed to be loose, her fingers reaching out to scratch my chin. Penny dragged her feet.
      Without glancing to either side, I brushed passed the advancing maitre d'. I knew he was displeased. "Signore . . .'' he began. I didn't wait to hear.
      Feletia caught up with me as I reached the lift. "You're making a spectacle of yourself, Harry. Put Angela down.''
      "I'll order sandwiches for them,'' I said, pressing the elevator button with my shoulder. "You go back.''
      "You can't leave Roger like this. He stayed over to see you.''
      "What else can I do?'' I said, passing her the squirming child.
      Roger and Sally came up. "I don't suppose we can help,'' he said.
      Angela was inhaling sobs as if they were something to eat. Strands of wet hair fell across her eyes.
      "I'm sorry about this,'' I said. "Please start dinner without us.''
      "I think we'll have something in our rooms,'' Sally said. "Roger has a headache.''
      "I am a bit tired.'' My friend smiled wanly at the children. "Tomorrow I'll be fine. Perhaps we'll see a puppet show. Would you like that?''
      Both children, still sniffling, nodded.
      "Take Angela's hand,'' I said to Feletia as the door opened. "I'll hold Penny's.''
      As we edged to the back of the elevator, Roger turned to me. "Do you remember the day my mother brought me to your house for tea and you threw wet mud on my new linen suit? You were seven then, I was eight.'' He looked down at the girls from his great height and grinned. "When he was your age, your father had a fierce temper.''
      Angela and Penny stared open-eyed at Roger, their whimpers subsiding.
      "This is where we get off,'' Sally said. "We'll call you in the morning.''
      Roger leaned down and kissed each of the children on their wet cheeks. "We'll have fun,'' he repeated. "I promise.''
      As the elevator door began to close, my eyes met his. He smiled, teeth slightly askew, chin tilted. In spite of the fall of his shoulders, I saw a flicker of something: understanding, perhaps--even love.
      "What a bloody shame it turned out like that,'' I said to Feletia as we sat alone at our table, the children fed and asleep upstairs.
      "You made an ass of yourself, Harry,'' she said quietly. "You should have relaxed. Roger didn't mind.''
      She was right, of course. He didn't. It was me. I wanted the perfect evening, perfect children, perfect me.
      I spent a restless night, filled with snatches of confused dreams. In one, I was rushing for luncheon at a large hotel when I remembered that I'd left my briefcase at home. It was Roger's birthday and I had been chosen by friends to be the main speaker. I was supposed to be funny and loving. The clock outside a jewelry store indicated I was half an hour late. The hotel wasn't where I thought it should be. I'd forgotten the address. No one seemed to know where the hotel was--or if it existed. Desperately, I began to run along the hot pavement, sweat pouring down my face and inside my shirt.
     

The early morning rain had stopped as I emerged from the hotel. A respite of sun renewed the vivid colors and gilt of Venice: bridges, houses, domes were reflected in its waterways. Roger hadn't slept well the night before and was resting in bed. The hotel doctor was on his way. Feletia had sent me off to scout the city while she took the children to the Lido, leaving Gwendolyn disconsolate in bed.
      After crossing the Piazza San Marco, I turned up a side street, only vaguely sensing the direction in which I was headed. Around a corner, I came across a small church, its surfaces damp and mottled with age. A woman in black and two small children were climbing the worn steps. All three crossed themselves as they passed through the wooden doors. On an impulse, I followed. Inside it was cold, musty, crepuscular. I found a reference in my guidebook to an altarpiece in a side chapel, artist unknown.
      It was a painting of the crucifixion, faded and smoke-encrusted. As my eyes became accustomed to the half-light, its beauty became apparent. The cross lay flat on the stones of a courtyard, two rough carpenters drove nails into the condemned man's hands and feet. The twisted body of Christ appeared strangely relaxed, the eyes closed, the face serene.
      Perhaps it was because Roger was so much on my mind, that something in the figure's position reminded me of a day at boarding school many years before. A few classmates were sunning on the grass after classes. Roger was stripped to his shorts, arms outstretched, half-asleep.
      I had been in the art studio and, on an impulse, took a charcoal pencil out of my pocket. "I'll draw a woman on your front, Roger. A tattoo of a naked lady.''
      "Be my guest,'' he said, without opening his eyes.
      As the others crowded around, I traced the outline of a voluptuous woman. Her head, with its staring eyes and thick grinning lips, began under Roger's chin, long black hair spreading out over his arms. The breasts were his nipples which I encircled and enlarged. To the urging of my audience, I continued the torso down his chest.
      "Am I hurting?'' I asked.
      "No.'' Roger raised his head and looked. "Will it wash off?''
      "Easily,'' I said, rubbing my thumb on a streak of charcoal and showing it to him. "Your belly-button will be her cunt,'' I added.
      Underneath the round hole, filled with lint, I traced muscular thighs surrounding my friend's belly. Then, hearing a snicker behind me, I paused. Where the shins had to go was the beginning of Roger's pubic hair, the ankles and feet would be entangled in his genitals. Embarrassed, I fastened the top button of his shorts. Roger didn't stir, his eyes remained closed, his mouth curved in a sardonic grin. I completed the woman's knees and stopped there.
      Now, twenty years later, sitting in the darkness of a Venetian chapel, I imagined another scenario. What if Roger and I had been alone? He almost naked, I clothed, tracing the outlines of a woman on his chest. Would I have buttoned his shorts so prissily, truncating the figure or, to complete the picture, might I have plunged into the crinkly forest of his hair?
      Feletia met me at the door of our room in tears. The doctor had advised Roger to leave for home at once. "He wants to see you,'' she said.
      Sally answered my knock. "Don't stay long,'' she warned. The shades were half-drawn, a ripple of water was reflected on the wall. My friend was lying quietly under a single sheet, one arm across his chest. He smiled when he saw me and slightly turned his head. "Did you see La Tempesta in the Academy?'' he asked.
      "No, I thought I'd wait for you.''
      "Don't wait,'' he said. "Feletia and you must see it. I insist you go now. Take Sally.'' Roger closed his eyes. "The painting is beautiful, gentle. The man and woman are separated, as if afraid of a greater intimacy.'' He smiled. "A parable of the human condition.''
      I wondered if I should tell him about the crucifixion, but was unable to. Later I wished I had. "I will go to the Academy tomorrow,'' I said.
      Roger took my hand and lightly held it. I could feel the brittle bones beneath the skin. The slow pulsation of his blood. "We have known each other a long, long time, haven't we?'' He paused. "Don't worry about last night, old friend . . . It had its own magic--life at its tumultuous beginning.''
      A few minutes later I left.
      Many years later I saw in an exhibition a pen and ink drawing by Francesco Guardi. Heightened by black chalk and a brown wash, the drawing recorded one of the most spectacular festivals of eighteenth-century Venice. "The Festa della Sensa,'' the catalogue said, "celebrated annually the marriage of the City of Venice and the Adriatic in commemoration of the conquest of Dalmatia by Doge Pietro Oresolo.'' Off S. Nico di Lido, a procession of gondolas escorted the state barge back to the city. Pennants flew from the masthead.
      The drawing brought to mind our arrival in Venice by gondola that long ago afternoon. Roger on the stone pier, dressed in his Fortuny cape, arms outstretched. A genial condottiere! I imagined then, as if in a dream, a different funeral than the simple one he was given several months after his return.
      . . . It is nighttime and my friend rides in state in a fabulous gondola designed by Giovanni Battista Piranesi. Within an open ebony coffin, with handles of gold, Roger lies covered with a black cloak, its embossed collar closed against the Adriatic breeze. Angela and Penny sit by his side, charming in blue dresses and wide-brimmed hats. I stand with Sally and Feletia. We hold burning tapers. Smaller gondolas, carrying boon companions, follow silently behind. Each of us--caught by the painter's brush--appears distant from the others, wrapped in our private thoughts. The scene is placid, poetic, contemplative. In the distance, a storm approaches . . .