by Mandy Rosenberg
The fine crescent of the moon was gleaming on surprisingly still waters of the Grand Canal. It was her first time. Although she was a stranger to navigating the twisting and flowing roads of Venice, she was not one of charging a boat towards her determined destination. Or that is how she saw herself. Tonight, she sought a dance and she would not return to her hotel room without one. But as the shorter hand on the clock in her right hand ticked away, her ambition seemed as if it would have to be put to rest. That she would have to return to her hotel room, her hands cold.
Rowing closer towards the bridge, her head filled with memories she had made from the past week. Each day she started off with a cup of coffee in a little cafe outside, digging into Dante, occasionally peaking up to observe the people. The smiles on their faces as they walked steadily with their loved ones: those that spent each day of their lives in this beautiful city. Those that made her question as a simple passerbyer, whether they have ever become numb to her every moment of awe. This was her favorite part of the day; a part that she wished she could return to as the breeze chilled her shoulders and the canal darkened.
The man saw her in the canal alone. Her eyes glowing from the stars beaming down. He knew of her where she wanted to go, but as she got closer, he could see her pale, dismayed face. He was on a late night walk, saying his prayers to the spirits of his recently lost loved ones. Unlike her, he sought to be alone as he drew his heart to the attention of spirits which he believed rested underneath the bridge. Under the bridge was where they taught him to cast a line to the fish before the canal had become foggy. They taught him how to steer their boat when he was a boy and when they went, they left their home in Venice to him.
However, as he stared down at the bricks, he heard the quiet motor of her boat nearing the side-street. Continuing up towards the bridge with his head down, he folded his hands behind his back and picked up his pace. He could hear the motor getting louder. The prayers which started as wishful and kind, turned merciful.
Just as he reached the entrance of the bridge, he no longer heard the motor. He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked back behind him where she was standing.
“Buona sera, parli inglese?” she shouted from afar in her American accent.
“Ah, yes. I am from England.” He responded, his heart was racing.
“I see. do you live here?” Her look of distress was fading from her face.
“Yes…I was a visitor, but no longer.”
“Well I could too I wanted to too, couldn’t I? But what does that really mean?” She stepped closer to him into the light. She had dark brown hair, eyes, and a fresh tan. Quite young, a student out of college.
He stood completely still. She got a good look at him. Black hair, bushy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, tall and thin.
“I don’t, I just meant that I’m not a tourist.”
“Oh, well luckily I wasn’t looking for a tourist.”“What do you mean?” He let go of his hands behind his back, but his head broke a small sweat.
“Would you like to walk?” Her eyes pointed to the bridge.
“I’m not sure, I was hoping to walk alone this evening. Find a personal headspace.”
“Oh well, if that’s what you wish, then I’ll be headed back. It was nice to meet you briefly…” She turned and began to walk away. This is what he wanted, yes, to say good night to his loved ones before he returned to England in the morning to gather his things.
“Wait, I think I will take that walk with you.” he held out his arm.
The trip across the bridge was not long, but their words silenced the tick in her pocket. He refrained from telling her what had brought him to the side-street that night, but still answered all her questions. She wanted to know what it was like in winter, what his favorite food was and where to get it. He described to her what the water looked like when it had not before the world filled it with pollution. What it was like growing up an Italian family while living with his father in England. He was about her own life, but she had been too intrigued to remember.
“Why Venice?” He inquired, thinking of how the city had brought about his loved ones’ death. “Why not Athens? Or Rome? Heck even Paris or Madrid?”
“I don’t know…When I was little, I would see aerial shots of the canal and I would think…You can choose the right direction, or you can go under.” She stared out from the center of the bridge into the river, which almost looked black.
“Heh…they’re just the same y’know? As the roads you put your cars on. Except they can cast a fishing rod into theirs, but I think you do know that.”
“No, I don’t. You can drown, but you’ll never be mistaken for somebody…You’ll never be truly lost” She held out her hand and grinned. “But y’know the real reason, was to dance, and dancing is never as fun alone.”
He took her hand and gave her a quick twirl. She giggled and grabbed his other hand, beginning to hum a song. A sort of jazzy tune she had been saving. They stepped back and forth between each other’s legs, misstepping a few times, but never feeling the need to apologize. Years of work, she was finally gliding to a tune above the Grand Canal on the Rialto Bridge. Nothing could disrupt them, their solemnity was in sync.
“Hey? What is it like? Back there? I always wanted to go to ‘Merica. Passionate people.” He said with a smirk.
“I think you might know.”
