Chapter Five #3
I look at the menu and realize the reason I wanted a drink is no longer relevant, so I stand up, saying, “No, thanks. I’m going to bed now. See you tomorrow.” I press my fist harder, and the old iron key pokes my palm. I open my hand to show it to him. “Here, you can take it back.”
“No, no.” He makes a gesture for me to keep the key. “You can have it and go there whenever you want. Just hand it back when you check out.”
The words check out fill the air, reminding us that my departure is imminent, that I’m a guest and he works here. Whatever flirty mood was there before disappears.
“By the way, can you make reservations for me at some of these restaurants?” I take a piece of paper from my pocket with the names of all the places I want to visit and hand it over to him.
Lorenzo quickly scans the list. “Sure. I’ll get you a table for two in as many as I can so you have dinner settled for all remaining days.”
I nod, grateful. “Thank you,” I say, and lift my hand for a wave. “See you.”
“ Buonanotte , Daisy.”
Whenever he says something in Italian, I get a jolt of pleasure in my bloodstream. It’s such a beautiful language, so soft and musical, especially in his voice. I want to learn it. I want Lorenzo to whisper sweet nothings in Italian in my ear…
I back away, in a hurry to get away from temptation.
But I do look back once and see him smile at me.
* * *
Our guided Sunday morning tour around San Marco with Lorenzo is inspiring in an unexpected way. I came to Venice hoping to bring back inspiration from the Italian cuisine, but the baggage I’ll take home will be much larger.
It will include historical knowledge and an insightful outlook on architecture.
The bulkier part, however, will comprise the unparalleled feeling of walking in a city that doesn’t glimmer with glass panels and flashy billboards, but that instead decays in the most wondrous way—restored just enough to keep its original beauty.
Restoring something old while preserving its original concept, legacy, and history is what I’m going to do when I return home. I’ll revive Dad’s La Veneziana, upgrading it with the ideas we didn’t have the opportunity to implement before.
Lorenzo tells us about the construction of Venice and how the entire city is sustained by impressive underwater structures built by the settlers who were intent on turning the unstable soil of the lagoon into a land where they could live and thrive.
We cross Ponte della Paglia, the large bridge next to Palazzo Ducale, and Lorenzo points at the small white limestone bridge suspended high above the water, connecting the Doge’s Palace to the prison across the canal.
“That’s Ponte dei Sospiri,” Lorenzo says. “The famous Bridge of Sighs.”
I recognize it from pictures of Venice I’ve seen before.
Tons of tourists stop at this spot every day, all the time, to take pictures.
We are lucky to arrive when a couple is leaving the handrail after taking a bunch of selfies.
We then squeeze into the available space to look at the classic white arch bridging the two buildings.
Many gondolas pass under it, coming from the Grand Canal.
Lorenzo looks at me. I’m squeezed between him and Jeremy, and he leans very close to be heard by Jeremy too.
“The bridge was built in 1600 and was used to transport prisoners from one building to the other.” I can smell his minty breath on my cheek, and even with the crowd around us and Jeremy on the other side, I can’t help but feel a pleasurable chill run through my body.
“Funnily enough,” he continues, “now it’s one of the most romantic spots in Venice.
It’s said that if you kiss someone under this bridge, you’ll be blessed with eternal love. ”
I observe the traffic of gondolas passing under the famous bridge and confirm that many couples are more than willing to put the legend to the test.
I should go along with the romantic Venetian tradition like a true believer, but I scoff instead.
Lorenzo’s snigger strokes my ear. “It should be a pleasant experience,” he says, looking at me. My eyes meet his, and the butterflies living in my stomach attack me. “But I would recommend a different gondola route if you want a truly romantic ride.”
I’ve been looking forward to riding in a gondola, but the prospect of sitting in one with Jeremy doesn’t excite me. Not when Lorenzo stands by my side, arm pressed against my shoulder as we contemplate the Bridge of Sighs.
I can’t help but sigh. I love experiencing Venice, but what am I actually doing here, sandwiched between Jeremy and Lorenzo? I can’t focus on catching feelings for my best friend when an irresistible Italian is breathing in my ear. Besides, at this point, Lorenzo isn’t a mere sexy stranger.
We’re not friends or lovers, just something in between, something that takes my breath away every time I think about it.
I couldn’t sleep last night. And when I finally did, I dreamed about him. A dream that, oh God …it’s better not to even mention. Meanwhile, Jeremy hasn’t crossed my mind once. Even when I look at him, I’m looking past him, overly aware of the other person my eyes constantly seek.
I wonder if this is how Ryan and Alice felt when the four of us were together.
I rub my warm face and exhale. I can’t keep doing this to Jeremy. No matter how much I wish the project would work, it won’t if I can’t get Lorenzo out of my mind.
He speaks, and the sound of his voice instantly turns my head in his direction. “In 1755, Giacomo Casanova was imprisoned in the Leads, the prison inside the Doge’s Palace.” Lorenzo eyes me intently. “As you can see, Venice does punish womanizers.”
I keep my gaze on his and almost smirk at his reference to what I said in Calle Varisco. Jeremy doesn’t notice anything, too busy admiring the landscape.
“The following year, Casanova executed an ingenious late-night escape with the help of a fellow prisoner. You know who Casanova was, right?”
“We watched the Heath Ledger movie,” Jeremy says.
“He was born in Venice in 1725,” Lorenzo says like the encyclopedia he is.
I must admit that his knowledge of all things Venice only adds to his overall sexiness.
“Casanova’s literary work, including his autobiography, is one of the most detailed sources about European social life in the eighteenth century.
What he is most famous for, however, is his numerous and complicated love affairs. ”
Lorenzo’s eyes are shamelessly stripping me now. If someone could be a better Casanova than Heath Ledger, it would be him.
“Back then, Venice was the capital of extravagance and indulgence, with its Carnevale , casinos, and courtesans inviting residents and visitors to explore the pleasures of the flesh.”
The way he speaks about these things… Goodness , it makes me want to be in an eighteenth-century carnival celebration with him.
“So, you’re telling us Venice is not the city of romance but of deviance?” I ask.
“Why can’t it be both?” Lorenzo smirks.
It’s liberating to know that in a time of strict social conduct, people came here to enjoy themselves. They put on masks to conceal their identities and do the things they craved to do without judgment.
I can see why a noble lady would want to hide her face to let go of her inhibitions and enjoy the things she felt she couldn’t.
I wonder if that would work for me. If getting rid of external judgment would also rid me of my harsh self-judgment.
I’m always struggling with my desires, and when I yield, I blame myself. It all ends in heartbreak, and I tell myself it’s my fault. And every time I get hurt, my beliefs are confirmed—that I should watch out and not let myself be seduced, that I should always be in control.
Maybe my time in Venice shouldn’t be about tying myself to someone for life, but experiencing the freedom, the pleasures, the libertinism I never accepted I could enjoy…
A few days living in the present.
My heart hammers, approving the idea. Then I go back to reality, back to my plans, my restaurant, and the hard work required to achieve my goals.
This was supposed to be a last-hurrah trip before life got serious, right? I guess I could let go…
Looking at Lorenzo and his seductive smile, I can easily convince myself of that.
“Should we move on?” he says, and I blink at him, awakening from my thoughts.
Many people are eager to take our spot, so we step away from the handrail and walk down the bridge.
“As we’re talking about the Carnival and old casinos, I think it’s appropriate we visit one.”
Jeremy and I have nothing better to do, so we agree and let Lorenzo take the lead.
On our way to whatever destination he has in mind, we pass by a mask shop, and Lorenzo tells us it’s one of the artisanal ateliers.
We enter and look at the beautiful Carnival masks handmade by a pair of sisters in their sixties who have worked in the traditional craft all their lives, following their parents before them.
While Lorenzo charms the older ladies with smiles and flattering comments in his musical Italian, Jeremy and I look around, amazed by the papier-maché art pieces.
I have seen many masks through shop windows, but it’s only now that I’m taking the time to really look at them, touch the glittery ornaments, the feathers, the textures and shapes of noses and eyes.
Lorenzo and the owners show us the different types—Bauta, Volto, Moretta, Plague Doctor, Arlecchino, Colombina—and explain their meanings.
Jeremy and I have fun giving suggestions to each other. He puts a mask on my face, I smile or laugh and then put one on his. It’s a sweet moment of friendship that my rational brain wishes could turn into something more.
“Definitely this one,” I tell him when he is wearing a half mask that covers only the upper part of his face and the top of his nose. It’s black and silver, sober enough to match him and conceal a bit of his identity without making him look stupid.