The Venice Hotel

Chapter 12 Gayle

G AYLE

Gayle and Mike have been waiting to be seated at the restaurant in Dorsoduro for close to ten minutes now, and Mike’s sighs are getting more and more dramatic. A couple walks in behind them, letting the cold night air in as the door opens and, without hesitation, they head straight for a vacant table. Gayle and Mike look at each other with mouths agape.

‘Did you see that?’ Mike hisses. ‘We were here first!’

‘There are still four free tables, hon. Maybe we should go on over and sit at one? This might be the kind of place where you don’t need to wait to be seated.’

The two young women and two young men who are run off their feet waiting on tables haven’t so much as looked their way the whole time they’ve been standing near the front door.

‘But the internet says you have to wait to be seated in countries like Europe,’ Mike insists.

Gayle isn’t so sure he’s right. That’s the second group of people who’ve walked in and sat down since they arrived. But she’s saving challenging Mike for bigger things this evening, so she pats her perm, which is weather-beaten today after all the wind, and says nothing.

‘What if we sat down and the table was reserved? That’d be a mighty embarrassing predicament, that,’ Mike says when another couple of minutes pass and they’re still waiting by the door.

Gayle wishes they’d stayed at the hotel and eaten dinner at Il Cuore, like they’d planned to. But that was before poor old Signore Bianchi had gone and had his heart attack yesterday. It isn’t cheap to dine at Il Cuore by any means, so knowing that it would be Rocco and the young ones cooking again tonight, they ventured out of San Marco, taking a leisurely ten-minute stroll to this restaurant by a small canal in the district of Dorsoduro that Mike saw had good reviews on Tripadvisor. It’s also a more budget-friendly restaurant, and now that they’re here being ignored, she can see why.

At last an unsmiling young waiter approaches them. Shockingly, he starts speaking to them in Italian!

Mike holds up his hands. ‘Whoa, son, I’m gonna have to stop you right there. Me and my wife, Gayle here, we’re from Little Rock in Arkansas. That’s in the United States of America,’ he says proudly. ‘Folk don’t speak Italian in Little Rock, only English. Wait, no, no, I tell a lie. There was this one Italian family over on Anderson Road there some years back. Wait a minute, no, now that I think about it, they were Colombian.’

The young man, who’s more of a boy than a man really, gestures to the empty tables. ‘Sit anywhere,’ he snaps before turning his back on them.

Mike scowls. ‘Rude! Should we look for somewhere else with decent service?’

Gayle’s lower back is aching; she’s desperate to sit down. ‘The food does look good here, hon,’ she says. ‘And it’s good value too, remember?’

Mike grunts and unclips his fanny pack. ‘All right then. But I’ve a mind to leave them a bad review.’

‘How about we wait and see what the meal’s like first?’

The meal is actually delicious, chilli mussels drowning in a rich tomato broth for Mike and jumbo prawns in a light, creamy garlic sauce for her. Between them is a bowl of crispy golden potatoes, roasted with lemon, and a small plate of steamed broccolini with salted butter. Of course it’s not quite as delicious as Signora Bianchi’s food, but then again, how could it be? Unfortunately, Gayle’s too nervous to enjoy the food so she pushes her plate across the table towards Mike.

There’s a small moment of alarm when his face turns bright red and he makes all kinds of gagging sounds. But he coughs up the offending piece of prawn shell into his napkin soon enough, and after a few gulps of water, he’s okay.

He hails a waiter to complain that the low lighting nearly cost him his life, but unfortunately the waiter doesn’t respond in a very sympathetic manner or offer any kind of refund.

When another equally harried waiter clears away their plates, and Gayle’s sure that Mike’s completely over the near-choking fiasco, she scrunches her paper napkin into a tight ball and sits up straighter. ‘Hon, Venice is a beautiful city, and I’m ever so thankful you brought me here. But the only place I want to be next Christmas is at home with our family. The whole family.’

In years gone by, all the children, the grandchildren, even some of the neighbours, had gathered at their home on Christmas afternoon, each bringing a plate to go with the traditional roast honey ham she always prepared. Every year they would joke about how Justin would turn up late and, sure enough, he always did. It was tradition for Susan to bake the most decadently rich Christmas cake, dense with fruit. And Elizabeth, sweet Lizzie, would never let Gayle do the cleaning up, instead rounding up the grandchildren to help. After dessert, Noah would take a seat at the piano, and the family would gather around and sing carols while drinking non-alcoholic mulled ‘wine’ that Justin made with pomegranate juice, blackberries and spices.

These are the days Gayle holds dearest to her heart. They did right by the Lord, she and Mike. They were plentiful in creating these four beautiful children to honour Him, and God had rewarded them with a bounty of grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren.

Which is why it had cut her so deeply when Noah moved away to California. The rest of her children are no more than a quick drive away and she can get her fill of them whenever she chooses to. Whether it’s dropping in to see Justin at the office for a quick coffee or joining Susan for a walk around the lake on Tuesdays with baby Elsie in the pram, or doing the weekly grocery shop with Lizzie pushing her own shopping cart next to her and then having a club sandwich at Mae’s Diner together afterwards, Gayle’s children are always there.

But when Noah left, he didn’t come home again. He didn’t call, he didn’t write. When Noah left, he really left.

‘Hon,’ she continues now, ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Noah.’ Her throat tightens around the words.

Mike blows hard through his nose. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

When she opens her mouth to reply, an unexpected sob comes out.

‘There, there.’ Mike’s tone instantly softens. He rests his hand over hers. He’s never been able to see her cry without worrying. ‘Don’t you go crying now, it’ll work itself out. Noah’ll come around. Kids always do.’

‘Noah’s not a kid any more. He’s pushing fifty and he’s not coming around. I miss him so much.’ She uses the napkin to wipe her nose, looking around to make sure nobody’s watching her cry like a fool in public.

‘I know you miss him. I do too. But it’s written clear as day in the Bible that he’s sinning.’

‘We’re all sinners in the eyes of the Lord.’

Mike guffaws. ‘Well, there’s sinning and there’s sinning .’

‘He’s our son. We can’t turn our backs on him.’

‘But we didn’t turn our backs on him,’ he argues. ‘ He turned away from us .’

She meets his eye. ‘You know he only left because of your reaction to his wedding announcement.’

‘I was only saying what’s right. We promised to honour God above all else. God’s word has to come first.’

The pull between being a good mother, like her religion demands of her, and being a submissive wife, like her religion also demands of her, is making Gayle’s head hurt. Her hands shake as she lays down the challenge she’s been rehearsing in her head all day. ‘Well, I’ve been doing a lot of praying on that. And reading the scripture over and over. Why, I must have read the Gospels no less than three times from start to finish since Noah left. And hon, nowhere, nowhere , can I find Jesus saying anything about it being a sin.’

He frowns at her. ‘But the Bible says—’

‘None of what the Bible says about that is in Jesus’ own words. And who’s our Lord and Saviour? It’s not Paul, and it’s not Timothy, and even Pastor Bob preached that one time to take Leviticus with a pinch of salt, don’t you remember?’

After a minute Mike says, ‘You’ve got me confused now with all your Bible talk. How about we go visit Pastor Bob when we get back home and see what he thinks of all this? He’s always had the best advice for us when we need it.’

Pastor Bob is pushing ninety years old now and living in an aged care facility. Mike has remained loyal to him over the years, but Gayle hasn’t forgotten that the pastor’s ‘best advice’ from decades ago is a big reason they’re in this mess with Noah. ‘Hon, we shouldn’t need Pastor Bob to tell us right from wrong.’ She dabs at her eyes. ‘Doesn’t it feel wrong that we wished all our children a Merry Christmas apart from one? And ain’t it wrong not knowing our own son’s whereabouts? For all we know, he could be in hospital, or worse.’

Mike shakes his head. ‘We were having a nice dinner here, hon. Why’d you have to go and ruin it with this talk of hospitals and sinning? To me it’s simple. Marriage is the union by which to honour God through procreation. And that marriage of Noah’s sure as heck ain’t a God-honouring one.’

‘You don’t need to agree with him, you just need to accept him.’

‘He’s asking us to accept too much.’

‘He’s our child , Mike. There shouldn’t be limits to what we can accept when it comes to our children.’

He sighs a big sigh and rolls his eyes. ‘What do you want from me? Go on and spit it out. What is it you actually want me to do?’

Gayle feels herself shrink in confidence, but she perseveres. ‘I want you to call him and apologise. Say you’re sorry for the way you reacted.’

His nostrils flare. ‘Now, hang on just a minute. Dogs would have to mow the lawns and cats would have to hang out the washing before I apologise to that boy.’

Gayle gulps down her nerves and ploughs on. ‘Hon, I’ve never asked you to do anything you didn’t want to do now, have I? For every one of our fifty-five years of marriage, I’ve respected your authority, and I’ve done it gladly.’ Her voice wobbles and she twists the napkin around her finger. ‘But this is our son . I can’t have another Christmas without my boy. We have to relent and accept Noah for who he is. We should’ve done it a long time ago.’

‘Don’t you see? That’s what they want! They want good God-fearing folk to relent so the bad ones can carry on in all manner of sin.’

‘Noah isn’t bad. You know that. Please, let’s call him and beg him to come home.’

‘Beg him? I ain’t doing any begging and that’s for certain.’

‘Fine, not begging, just asking.’

Mike’s silent for a long time. He strokes his beard. Finally he shakes his head. ‘I want to make you happy, hon, I really do. I hate seeing you this worked up. But I can’t do it, simple as that. I can’t go against my principles.’

Gayle’s shoulders sag. The hope she had for father and son to find their way back to each other bursts like a popped balloon. But she’d already decided, before even talking to Mike, that she’s not backing down. She’s not giving up on Noah this time. If Mike won’t reconcile with him, at least she can. If she can just open the door that leads to Noah even a fraction, Mike might be tempted to walk through it later and their family can become whole again. ‘Will you let me call him, then? Can I do that?’

Mike stares at his hands, sucking in his bottom lip so it looks as if he’s munching on his beard. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you. How about we enjoy the rest of the Italy trip in peace first, without Noah and his problems bothering us, and then you can call him when we get back home to Little Rock?’

‘How about I call him from our room tonight to ease the ache in my heart so I can actually enjoy Italy?’ She reaches across the table to rest her palm on his bristly cheek. ‘Please, hon, it would mean everything to me just to hear his voice and know he’s okay.’

‘What if he makes you talk to Chris? What will you do then?’

‘Then I’ll tell Chris how sorry I am for everything that happened and ask him to find it in his heart to forgive me.’

Mike points at her, his face redder than ever. ‘I can tell you right now, you won’t be apologising for a darned thing to the man who turned our son gay. You’ve got it all mixed up about who should be doing the apologising here.’

She’s pushed him too far. Silly, silly, silly. She backtracks quickly. ‘Okay, okay, no apologising to Chris, but please, hon, please let me call Noah.’

‘Excuse me, signore, will you and la signora be ordering a dessert?’ A young waitress in a black minidress leans her hand on the table.

‘No, we won’t, thank you all the same, sugar,’ Gayle answers before Mike can be tempted by the cakes in the display cabinet. ‘We need to be getting on back to our hotel. I’ve got an important phone call to make.’

‘Okay,’ Mike concedes when the waitress walks away. ‘You can call him. But I want nothing to do with it. This is all on you, you hear?’

She jumps out of her seat and throws her arms around his neck. ‘I’m so lucky to have you. Thank you, thank you!’

With renewed hope in her heart for a reconciliation with Noah, she’s overcome with gratitude on the walk back to San Marco. The narrow streets are lit up with strings of colourful Christmas lights and hanging decorations of bells and angels. Every street they turn into is prettier than the last. Even the streetlights here have character, all shaped like lanterns.

This is the first night that they’ve been out walking this late, and Gayle’s surprised by how quiet Venice is at only nine o’clock, considering how busy and crowded the piazzas are during the day. The shops are all shut, the cafes too. The lights are on in the upstairs apartments, but the shutters are closed. She loves Venice like this, when the only sound is of her and Mike’s footsteps on the cobbled road.

But when the street opens onto another piazza, she sees that they aren’t alone at all. A crowd is gathered at the far end of the square, looking up at flashing images projected onto the large brick wall of a church. The images increase in number. They’re all photos of cars, all kinds of cars, hundreds, thousands of them.

They stand together, she and Mike, with the silent crowd, mesmerised as the number of cars grows, taking up more and more space until almost the entire church wall is covered. It becomes apparent that the cars are forming the shape of a ship. Every second, dozens more cars are superimposed. Once the ship is fully formed, it soon disappears and words in giant text emerge in its place, shining in bright white light on the wall. UNA GRANDE NAVE = UN MILIONE DI MACCHINE. NO GRANDI NAVI! Some seconds later, the wall is plunged into darkness. A few seconds after that, the cars flash up again, first ten, then hundreds and so it goes.

The flashes are bringing on a headache, so Gayle looks away. Some of the crowd disperses, while some stays to watch the whole thing again.

Two young women standing next to them speak in Italian to each other. Mike steps towards them. ‘Evening. Do y’all know what this is about?’

One of the women helpfully replies in English, ‘It’s part of the Venice Rising exhibition.’

‘Is there a meaning behind it?’ Mike points at the cars on the wall.

‘It is showing how one big cruise ship docking in the canal is equal to the pollution of one million cars,’ the other woman says. ‘“No more big ships” is the message.’

‘I see, thank you.’ Mike leads Gayle away.

Arriving in Venice this week on the giant cruise ship was so exciting. Her heart leapt when the edges of the city first came into view from the top deck, as the greenery along the canal banks gave way to the ancient stone buildings packed so closely together, and then Mike pointed out the tall bell tower in the distance. As they approached San Marco, the vaporettos and speed boats grew in number around them and the white dome of the magnificent cathedral on the other side appeared on the water’s edge. The closer the ship drew to the port, the more the city came alive, with Christmas decorations hanging across the streetlamps, pop-up market stalls lining the esplanade and people everywhere . Such a festive feeling! Her spirits soared when the ship’s deep horn heralded their arrival.

At the time, she hadn’t given much thought to the small group of flag-waving protestors in the speed boat who tried to intercept the ship. But now she knows it wasn’t just a renegade threesome of disgruntled youth, like she’d assumed. The issue is big enough to warrant protest art that draws big crowds.

She doesn’t speak until they’re out of earshot of the women, then she says, ‘It’s because of us. The Venice Rising exhibition is a protest about people like us.’ The shame creeps up her neck and into her face.

‘How were we supposed to know about the pollution thing? Nobody told us. It’s not our fault.’ Mike’s face is red.

She squeezes his hand. ‘Maybe that’s the point of the exhibition. Now we know.’

He scoffs. ‘A light display in a backstreet alley won’t do a damn thing. It should be on the internet.’

‘Are we sure it isn’t?’

‘Well, I’ve never seen it and I’m on the internet all the time. Besides, I thought flying caused more pollution than boats. Isn’t that why the airlines bully us to pay extra for carbon offset? How exactly do they expect us to travel anywhere without polluting?’

She can’t come up with a response, so they walk in silence the rest of the way to the hotel.

Once they’re back in their suite, she reminds Mike that he promised to let her call Noah.

‘As long as you don’t apologise for anything,’ Mike says, ‘And whatever you do, don’t put me on the phone. I don’t want to speak to that boy until he’s ready to repent.’

‘Definitely, absolutely.’ She nods as she pulls her phone from her bag. ‘Just saying hello is all. Let me look for his number ... Here.’

‘Put him on speaker.’ Mike sits in the corner chair and unties the laces of his sneakers.

She frowns. ‘You just said you didn’t want to talk to him.’

‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear what he has to say for himself.’

Obeying, Gayle puts the phone on speaker. She holds her breath. An automated voice announces that the number doesn’t exist.

Noah really has left.