An Apartment in Venice (18 page)

After her class on Friday, Giulia visited Saint Francis again. She continued to wrestle with how and when she should reveal her past to Chuck. But convincing arguments for
not
telling him flooded her thoughts instead. First, Chuck didn’t know. Second, he didn’t need to know. And most important, her escort activities were long before they’d ever met. But when she looked up at the serene face of Francis, he seemed skeptical. The truth—he seemed to say—was she did not want to lose him. Maybe when they were old and grey, she’d tell him.
Where did that come from?

That evening, Chuck headed straight to the fridge, opened a bottle of beer, sank onto his huge recliner and took a long pull.

“What’s up?” Giulia said, coming to sit on the wide arm of the chair.

He pulled her onto his lap. “Have to replace another officer who has an emergency. I’ll be at the base tomorrow morning until Sunday night or possibly Monday morning.” He took another swallow and sighed. “It’s odd. B. G., I never minded. But damn, I’ve grown accustomed to lazy weekends with you.”

“I’m disappointed too. What’s bee gee?”

“Before Giulia.” He put his beer down and kissed her.

“You’re funny. Sweet, too.” And she snuggled closer.

“We ought to make the best use of our time while we have it. I have a sneaky hunch I might be called out sooner.” Before she could comment, he lifted her sweat shirt and began to bury his nose between her breasts.

The phone rang around nine p.m., rousing them from a blissful snooze after languid lovemaking. Chuck had to leave. His own team had been called up. He needed to brief himself
and
his men on their mission. He couldn’t tell her anything and she didn’t ask.

“Thank God you don’t have to go with them,” she said as they hugged at the door. She looked up. “Or… do you wish you were going?”

“A little part of me does, maybe always will. But no,” he shook his head. “I don’t want that mind-numbing responsibility anymore. It’s enough to send them off, hoping to God they’re ready.”

* * *

Saturday morning, Giulia felt bereft. The night alone in Chuck’s big bed had been a sample of how lonely she’d feel after she moved out. Was she crazy? She ought to be glowing with excitement, instead, she felt off kilter. This should be an excellent time to shop for all the items needed to make the new place hers, but the idea of shopping seemed too trivial.

She wandered aimlessly across the Rialto Bridge. But after she turned left toward Cannaregio, she knew where her feet were taking her. The narrow calles were filling with people doing their Saturday shopping and meeting friends at little tables outside the coffee bars. She maneuvered past them until she reached Fondamenta Nuova where she looked for Vaporetto Thirteen’s landing stage. Her regular pass didn’t allow her on number thirteen. She bought a ticket, forgetting to ask when it would depart but waited and stared across the vast expanse of the lagoon.

It was a lonely ride into the far northeastern reaches. The craft’s destination was Treporti. The town was on the lagoon side of the broad peninsula that reached out from the eastern mainland. The peninsula almost touched the northern tip of the Lido. Together, these two landmasses usually held back stormy waters of the Adriatic Sea.

The sky, heavy with grey clouds, colored the water almost black. Sky and water matched her state of mind. She glanced around, wondering if Botteri’s goons were on this boat, and idly hoped di Stefano’s team was, too.

A handsome man with thick, salt and pepper hair and a dark, shapely mustache tried to engage her in conversation. He resembled one of the five or six top politicians in the central government in Rome who changed places frequently. Each time she visited Italy, the same ones were doing their musical-chairs routine. What was his name? D’Alema. Yes, Massimo D’Alema, an intelligent speaker, but she dismissed this man with a distant smile.

Water almost covered small, barren islets. Had there ever been life on any of these? For a moment, she thought they might be cruising on the back side of Torcello Island but then noticed they were nowhere near the first beginnings of Venice. She was jerked out of her musings when the craft slammed into a huge bricola at Punta Vela, the dock for Sant’Erasmo. The pilot must have been distracted to make such a rough landing.

Huge chains wrapped the three stocky tree trunks that formed the bricola they’d just rammed. This sturdy structure was surely made to withstand more than a careless bump from a vaporetto. To hold the boat steady for people to get off and on, the
marino,
ship’s attendant, threw his rope around a smaller post, also part of the pier.

Of all the different wooden configurations in the lagoon used to buttress piers or guide pilots through the shallows, the triple cluster was her favorite. No doubt there were hundreds—maybe thousands—of bricolas throughout the Venetian Lagoon; most were much smaller than the giant one at Sant’Erasmo. To form a bricola of any size, three poles must be set deep into the mud beneath the water’s surface and placed in such a way that their feet are spread apart at the bottom with their shoulders leaning together above the water line. One or two steel bands bind them in what seems to be an eternal embrace.

She had watched a small bricola installed near the Arsenale once. The men who placed it had the advantage of a mechanical aid to pound the wooden beams into the sandy bottom. Centuries before, of course, men would have used their own muscle power. She pondered on the fierce determination those ancients must have had.

In the evenings, amber lamps mounted on small bricolas guide water craft across the dark waters like golden stepping stones. They had a beauty all their own. To Giulia, bricolas were as much symbols of Venice as the towers and domes.
So much beauty here. Why must I feel so heavy?

No one got off or on at Sant’Erasmo, the largest island in the lagoon. It was considered the vegetable garden of Venice. Some day, maybe she and Chuck would attend the Artichoke Festival she’d heard about. Then her throat thickened, and she found it hard to swallow. Chuck might have nothing to do with her when she told him. Dread moved through her like a poisonous venom.

The vaporetto backed away with its usual grinding of engines thrown into reverse and turned toward Treporti. It was a different world out here. Could she live in this desolate expanse of water and sky? Probably not. If Chuck were with her? Maybe. When had she begun to measure every thought against whether Chuck would be involved? Whether he’d want to do this or that with her? Strange how her ideas of not wanting a man in her life changed when she stumbled into him.

Two men in a small motorboat whizzed by. They wore camouflage suits and had a pile of reed in their boat. Were they going to a duck blind? Hunting now? In the spring? No. Must be off to build a blind, but why then camouflage? Maybe they liked to pretend to be military. She’d gone with her dad to a huge gun show in Eastern Oregon once. Many men—even their little kids—wore camouflage outfits. She thought of Hemingway, who went duck hunting in this lagoon. Men were strange creatures, eager for war or pretending to be warriors. Hemingway was one of those and wrote about them.

Again, she thought of Chuck. Conflict was
his
chosen career. Would he have chosen it if not for his need to escape a hopeless future? She’d never known anyone like him in her life. Someone she respected and enjoyed bantering with. Someone who seemed to adore her. Would he feel the same if he knew?

After stopping at Treporti, the boat turned back. She checked her pocket compass. It indicated they were heading southwest, back to Venice. Good, she thought, at least that’s working. Then the tears came. She couldn’t stop them. Already sitting in a corner next to a window, she huddled closer against the glass. Few people were on the return trip and none had ventured near her. Maybe they sensed a deranged woman. After the politico look-alike had left, no one else had acknowledged she was on board.

The marino came through again and he, too, passed her by. Her ticket must have been good for the return. She pulled it out and sure enough it said round trip. The ticket seller hadn’t asked what Giulia wanted. Obviously, he knew she didn’t belong out here. “Live and learn,” she thought. How would she live without Chuck? Yet, she must take that risk. Otherwise, her past would always shadow her and be between them. He was the most sensitive man she’d ever known. He’d feel that shadow. Maybe already did.

The tears had drained her. She slipped into a doze while the vaporetto chugged slowly back. When the sound of the engines changed from their steady thump to a resounding roar, she opened her eyes and saw they were about to dock at Fondamenta Nuova. She gazed behind her still not sure what to do. The brooding clouds that had hovered during the entire trip were now luminescent. Glowing. The afternoon sun pierced through the last of the clouds almost blinding her. She shaded her eyes and looked down. The water was no longer murky. Instead it reflected back the brilliant blue of the heavens. The truth of the heavens? Will Chuck still want me when he knows my truth?

* * *

Saturday night. Another night without Chuck. She hated it. She’d grown accustomed to his strength and heat curled around her. How did people endure the loneliness and fear when their loved ones were sent into war zones?
And here I am about to send him away when I don’t need to!

She turned on the light and picked up a book, hoping to stop the thoughts from running round and round like her gerbil, Rodolfo, did when she was ten. But soon she gave up and snapped off the light. She’d felt strong when she had signed up for the escort service. In control. Imagined herself as taking advantage of men instead of the other way around. Many women had been involved because they had nowhere else to turn, but she’d done it for a crazy, perverted idea of vengeance.

What a joke! Ricky and Jason weren’t aware she was striking back at them. And neither one had used her—not really. But she worked too much, studied too much and in the end, their love for her wasn’t enough to overcome the twitch in their cocks. Most hurtful, though, was Jason’s lies from the start.
Stop it! You’ve been over this same ground too many times.
She punched her pillow, flopped onto her stomach and felt better.

Then she remembered the greasy little man in the restaurant. Her defenses had been down when he’d grabbed her hand, and the floor had tilted beneath her feet. She’d barely recovered before Chuck appeared.

Is that it, girl? You’ve decided to tell Chuck out of fear of getting caught?

Oh God. Of course. And he had a right to know up front before their relationship went where they both wanted it to go. Why was she struggling? If this dilemma tortured a friend, she’d have seen the answer long ago. She knew what she must do and slid back under the duvet, breathed deeply a few times and drifted off.

* * *

Giulia’s eyes popped open. Her body went rigid with the strain of listening. Had she heard something? The numbers glowing on the bedside table read 3:10. She’d slept three hours. Someone was in the apartment and moving toward the bedroom. Slowly, stealthily. She held her breath. A large, dark shape filled the open doorway.

“Chuck?” she whispered.

“It’s me,” he said. His voice softer than usual, almost hoarse. “Sorry I woke you.”

She released the breath she’d been holding and said, “Don’t be sorry.” And held out both arms.

He sat on the side of the bed and scooped her against his chest. “You’re trembling. I scared you. Next time I’ll make more noise so you’ll know it’s me.”

Next time?
Would there be a next time?
And without warning, she burst into sobs. “What’s happening to me?”

He was quiet and continued to hold her. She could stay in his arms a hundred years. His shoes were already off and his clothes, too, by the time he’d reached the bedroom. He rolled onto the bed to embrace her. They lay without speaking. Eventually, she began to relax.

“Sorry I frightened you.” He gathered a strand of her hair and let a silky curl slide through his fingers. “ We need a plan, in case it hadn’t been me. Do you know how to use a gun?”

“No.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“No.”

He snorted. “We need to come up with an idea. We’ll talk later.”

She said nothing and pulled his mouth to hers.

Soon they fell into a deep sleep, but this time
his
body trembled, and he growled. He seemed to be telling someone to do something, but she couldn’t understand. Giulia crawled on top of him as she had once before, but he raised up, grabbed her and roared, “No!” His hands on her upper arms felt like vises.
I need to wake him up. Now!
She yelled his name over and over, but he rolled over onto her. For the first time, she felt afraid. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt her, but… she screamed, “Chuck! Wake up!”

At last he let go and fell onto his back panting, still agitated. From the ambient light coming through the blinds, she could see that his eyes were closed but his eyelids quivered. Then, she eased on top of him again, cradling his head in her hands. She feather kissed his eyelids and spoke in a low, soothing voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s over.”

When his eyes opened, he was instantly awake. “Whoa. That was a bad one. Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head and hoped bruises wouldn’t appear on her arms for him to see. They curled together. The rest of the night, he seemed to hang on tighter than usual. She didn’t mind. Not at all.

* * *

Giulia woke to an empty bed. Remembered his nightmare. Remembered he was supposed to be at the base all weekend. Had he gone back already? Then she heard a crash. She scooted out of bed, grabbed her robe and found him on his knees wiping the kitchen floor.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, reminding her of her brothers.

“I see. Is nothing the reason you’re scrubbing the floor?”

He looked up and there was that grin with the deep dimple.
Oh. That does it. I CANNOT chance losing him.

“Can I help?” she asked bending over.