Chapter 20 Gayle
G AYLE
Gayle and Mike stand huddled together under a fold-up umbrella, waiting for the vaporetto to take them to Cannaregio. The air is blisteringly cold and the bottoms of their sweatpants and sneakers are fast getting soaked by the pounding rain that started up just as they left the hotel. Despite the weather, Gayle’s on a high. She’s helping a young woman gain her freedom and she’s buoyant with the idea of it. She feels like she’s in a movie, standing there in the rain with her love by her side, about to board a boat to deliver a secret letter to a stranger in a foreign land. And in a ghetto too! The whole thing makes her shiver with excitement.
Last night she was too shaken up by her encounter with Elena to tell Mike about it, but she told him everything as soon as he opened his eyes this morning. If she’d kept Elena’s story to herself, then it would have meant lying to Mike about where she was going when she went off to deliver the letter. Gayle never lies, unless, of course, it’s necessary to avoid hurting someone, like telling a friend her haircut suits her. She’s hopeful those little white ‘kindness fibs’ will be glossed over on Judgement Day. Surely she wouldn’t face purgatory (or worse) for telling Mike he has a good singing voice? Proper lies are different; proper lies are a sin. It says so, clear as day, in the Bible. And lying to one’s headship – well, that’s a whole extra layer of sin.
Just as standing under Mike’s umbrella shields her from the rain now, living under the umbrella of his headship shields her through life’s storms. Susan and Elizabeth have found wonderful God-fearing husbands to take over from Mike as their headships, and Justin now shelters his own family. Her head hurts when she thinks of Noah. How does a headship even work with him and Chris? Whose umbrella shelters who?
She shakes the thought from her head. Today is about Elena. She can go back to worrying about Noah and how she’ll find him after her mission for Elena is complete.
Right at this moment, even though she’s being shielded from life’s storms under Mike’s headship, his actual umbrella could be doing a better job. She’s getting wetter by the second.
Thankfully the vaporetto pulls into the dock and they climb on board. Mike has their tickets and a map ready on his phone for when they reach their stop. He’s so good at taking care of everything like that.
Inside, they spread out across a row, placing their backpacks between them. It’s a trick Mike taught her, to take up as much space as possible so they don’t end up getting squashed. She feels a little guilty about the people who are left standing, but not too guilty; they’re young, after all.
On the boat, Mike researches the Jewish Ghetto. Gayle thinks of Elena’s poor mother, living in a ghetto without a husband any more. She reaches across for Mike’s arm, thankful for his reassuring presence.
He shuffles closer and tells her about the gates at the entrance to the ghetto that they used back in the day to lock the Jews inside the neighbourhood every night.
‘It says here not many Jews live there any more,’ he tells her. ‘Priced out.’
‘Priced out of a ghetto?’
‘By the looks of it, yeah. It’s got some well-reviewed restaurants there though, not so much of a slum these days. Should we stay for lunch afterwards? Lotta souvenir shops in these photos, and I know how much you love your souvenir shopping. Oh, look, it says here Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice is set there . ’ His eyes sparkle and she can see he’s as excited as she is about this spontaneous adventure they’re having.
He puts away his phone after a while and sings the chorus of Elvis’s ‘In the Ghetto’. It’s loud enough for people to turn and look, which encourages Mike to sing a little louder still. She gives him an appreciative clap when he’s done. Nobody else on the boat is polite enough to do the same.
By the time they arrive at the San Marcuola stop, it’s no longer raining. They step off the vaporetto and have a drink from their water bottles before heading in the direction of Anna-Maria Zanetti’s apartment. The Jewish Ghetto is less crowded than San Marco, but it’s still bustling. The lanes are lined with rows of shops and cafes, and people wander about in rain jackets and plastic ponchos. Mike follows the map on his phone and they only get a little bit lost.
Anna-Maria’s apartment is on a narrow alley, crammed with buildings on both sides that are six or seven storeys high, taller than any of the apartment blocks in San Marco. The buildings certainly look like they belong in a ghetto, with paint peeling off the wooden doors and window shutters hanging off their hinges. In San Marco there are colourful potted plants dotting the balconies; here there are lines of washing.
There’s no buzzer on the wall of Anna-Maria’s building, but the huge wooden front door is open, so they walk inside to an empty foyer with a damp concrete floor. Gayle wrinkles her nose at the smell.
‘No lift,’ Mike says.
‘That can’t be right. Elena’s mother’s on the fourth floor.’ She looks around but Mike’s right.
Her heart sinks, the stairs are steep.
‘Would you rather wait down here, hon?’ Mike offers. ‘I can take the letter up.’
She considers it, but she owes it to Elena to give the letter to her mother herself. She’s puffing by the end of the first flight of stairs and they stop for a sip of water after the second flight and again after the third. When they’re finally outside Anna-Maria’s door, they’re both breathing hard, and she wonders if her face is as red and sweaty as Mike’s.
There’s no security door, just a brown wooden one. Mike knocks. Gayle’s heart is speeding both from the exercise and from what she’s about to do. This poor woman’s life will never be the same after she reads the letter.
Mike knocks again, quite a lot louder this time. Loud enough to make Gayle wince. The door creaks open and a petite woman stands before them, dressed head to toe in black, including her headscarf and stockinged feet. Gayle’s struck by how young Anna-Maria is, so awfully young to be left widowed. Her sense of adventure deserts her when she takes in the grief painted all over Anna-Maria’s face, the puffy bags under her eyes.
Mike extends his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Mike Dawson. This here’s my wife, Gayle. We’re very sorry for your loss.’
Anna-Maria doesn’t accept his handshake, keeping her arms tightly crossed.
‘We’re praying for your husband’s salvation, sugar,’ Gayle adds.
‘Your daughter Elena asked us to deliver a letter to you,’ Mike says.
Anna-Maria narrows her eyes at him and doesn’t respond.
Gayle produces the letter, but Anna-Maria doesn’t take it. ‘It’s from Elena,’ Gayle encourages her.
‘Cosa non va in Elena?’ Anna-Maria says sharply.
‘Sorry, ma’am, we don’t speak Italian,’ Mike replies.
But Anna-Maria keeps talking, so he shouts, ‘No Italian!’ like the woman is deaf. ‘Elena. Told. Us. To. Come.’
Gayle holds out the letter again. ‘Take it, sugar. It’s for you.’
Anna-Maria looks from one of them to the other and warily reaches out to take the letter. They watch on as she reads it, standing in the doorway.
Gayle’s chest is tight.
Anna-Maria’s face crumples, and just as Gayle is about to open her arms and gather the poor soul into a comforting hug, Anna-Maria does something unexpected. She shouts at them. The only words Gayle can make out among the barrage of sentences and flailing arms are ‘Criminali! Banditi!’
‘We ain’t criminals,’ Gayle reassures her. ‘Elena sent us.’
Anna-Maria yells even louder. For such a small woman, her voice carries far. It echoes off the walls.
The door to a neighbouring apartment opens and an elderly man in flannelette pyjamas walks out. He speaks to Anna-Maria and she points at them and holds up the letter.
Again, Gayle catches a few words, ‘Elena! ... Banca! ... Criminali!’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Mike appeals to the man. ‘We’re helping Elena.’
Mike’s right, the man doesn’t understand. He disappears into his apartment, then comes out again brandishing a broom. He lunges towards them, and they’re left with no choice but to gallop down the stairs, holding on to the steel railings as they run down each flight. He chases them until they’re all the way out of the building.
‘Vaffanculo!’ the old man growls and then slams the big entrance door shut in their faces.
Gayle and Mike stare at each other with open mouths, gasping for air. Gayle hasn’t moved this fast in forty years.
‘You okay there, hon?’ Mike pants. ‘He didn’t get you with the broom, did he?’
‘No.’ She takes big gulps of air, which make her cough. ‘He get you?’
‘Nope, too fast for him.’ He rests his hands on his thighs, and looks up at her, wheezing heavily. His face is redder than ever.
Despite the gravity of the situation, or perhaps because of it, Gayle starts laughing. And once she starts, she can’t seem to stop.