Chapter 44 Gayle
G AYLE
‘Hon, do you know where my sun visor’s at?’ Mike asks.
‘Have you looked in your backpack?’
‘Yup. It’s not there.’
Then Gayle remembers. ‘You took it off yesterday in Anna-Maria’s apartment. You must have left it there.’
Mike received the sun visor as a gift for taking part in a charity walk that raised funds for injured veterans. He always wears it with pride. The embossed words They Fought For Us, We Walk For Them are a reminder to all of Mike’s patriotism.
‘I sure did like that sun visor.’ He flops onto the bed.
Gayle hopes he doesn’t suggest going back to Cannaregio for it. What would she even say to Anna-Maria after Elena’s strange behaviour this morning?
Mike seems to read her mind. ‘Do you think Elena’s sorted things out with her husband, then?’
‘Maybe, for now.’
This morning at breakfast Elena was there, laughing and chatting away with her husband without a care in the world! They were holding hands across the table and couldn’t have seemed more in love.
Signora Bianchi placed a plate of food in front of Elena, and Gayle watched her cheerfully eating. It was obvious that Elena was deliberately avoiding eye contact with Gayle, not even acknowledging her and Mike with a simple look. Gayle had no way of letting her know they’d been to see her mother again.
‘Come on, hon,’ Mike says. ‘Let’s get you out of here and take your mind off that girl.’
They pack their backpacks with water bottles and plastic rain ponchos.
‘Got your headache tablets?’ he asks.
‘Packed them.’
Her head’s pounding. She’s glad for a quiet day staying in the local area today. She doesn’t feel up to boat and train rides.
Outside, they walk to a part of San Marco they haven’t seen yet. It looks just the same as the rest of the city. Every narrow street is lined with cafes, and shops selling masks and glass and clothes.
They happen across a store that specialises in letter openers. Mike’s overjoyed. He has a collection of letter openers back home, gathered from their travels, all proudly displayed in a glass cabinet in the living room. He’s been looking for a new one to add to his collection since they arrived in Venice.
Mike points to a letter opener he likes in the window and when the shopkeeper, a short man with a white moustache, walks out and tells them its price, Gayle inhales sharply.
‘That’s mighty expensive, hon,’ she whispers to Mike.
‘This is the cost of handblown Murano glass, signora,’ the man says in a thick accent. ‘It is a good price.’
She’s embarrassed that he heard her.
‘We bought six glass pendants the other day for half of this,’ Mike says.
‘Then I am sorry to tell you, signore, you bought replicas. Everything in my shop is made by Italian craftsmen with genuine Murano glass. The pendants you bought are from China.’
‘But we bought ’em right here in Venice,’ Mike argues.
‘Yes.’ The shopkeeper sighs heavily. ‘How can we compete with replica prices, I ask you? Venice sinks, and Venetians, we sink too.’ He launches into a story about his friend who made masks and was lucky to sell two a day because most tourists can’t tell the difference between a mask that takes hours to paint by hand and one that’s mass produced in minutes. The friend shut his business, unable to keep paying rent on his shop.
Gayle feels her cheeks redden with shame. Just yesterday, Mike bought eight masks for four euro each for his Tuesday canasta group.
Mike looks longingly at the letter opener. ‘So you can’t discount it at all, then?’
‘No, signore. I run an honest business and this is an honest price, I promise you.’
‘What should I do?’ Mike turns to her.
The letter opener has a handle made of red and orange glass baubles with delicate gold etching. Gayle doesn’t have Mike’s passion for letter openers, but even she knows this one’s a beauty. ‘I think you should take it.’
Mike’s a head taller when they walk out of that shop, so delighted is he with his new gift. Gayle’s heart grows in size seeing his joy.
They walk into a coffee shop next. ‘Have you heard?’ the barista asks them. ‘They have coloured the water of the Grand Canal!’
‘Who has?’ Mikes asks her.
‘Protestors,’ the young woman replies, her eyes sparkling. ‘Amazing!’
So of course, as soon as they have their takeaway coffees in their hands, they walk to the canal where they jostle with what must be every tourist in Venice for a spot on the Rialto Bridge. Below them the water of the Grand Canal, as far as the eyes can see, is blood red.
The large man standing next to Gayle digs his elbow into the side of her breast and the lady behind is squashed up so close that the railing of the bridge presses into Gayle’s stomach. She has a fleeting and horrifying thought that the bridge might collapse under the weight of all these people, sending them plunging into the canal. She expresses this fear in Mike’s ear and he laughs.
‘This bridge has been here since ancient times, hon. It’s withstood wars, it can handle us. Don’t you worry.’ He pats her hand.
She feels a little reassured but it’s still awful being this crammed in. It’s hard to take a deep breath.
According to the people gossiping around them in English, the coloured water is a stunt to symbolise the death of Venice. A group called Viva Venezia have already claimed responsibility for it, apparently timing their protest with the Venice Rising exhibition for maximum exposure. The vision of the murky red water is reminiscent of a shark feeding frenzy.
‘Won’t this kind of thing do more damage to the environment?’ Mike says to her.
A man standing next to them in a knitted beanie answers. ‘Don’t worry about some red food dye damaging the environment, signore. This will wash away by morning, but the oil and fuel and excrement from the ships will continue.’
‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ Mike’s face turns red.
‘Forgive me for trying to educate you.’ The man laughs a bitter laugh.
Gayle feels herself getting pushed harder against the railing as more and more people crowd onto the bridge. ‘Hon, I don’t feel good. Can we leave?’ she asks Mike.
‘Let’s go.’ Mike stops recording and puts away his phone. ‘People are rude here anyway. Not making tourists feel very welcome when we’re bringing in all the money,’ he says pointedly to the man in the beanie, who shakes his head at him and mumbles something in Italian.
It’s not easy to go against the flow of foot traffic but Mike’s good at pushing through. Even if it does earn them a few shouts and some rather rude hand gestures, Gayle’s grateful for his forcefulness.
Once they’re finally back on land in San Marco, she can breathe properly.
A short walk later, the familiar hotel lobby is a welcome sight. Lovely Marina is behind the desk to greet them, and she’s very sympathetic when Mike complains about the rude man on the bridge.
‘Imagine if she knew what her mother was up to,’ he stage-whispers as they head for the stairs.
Gayle looks over her shoulder, panicked that Marina heard him, but she doesn’t seem to have.
As Mike sits on the edge of the bed, peeling off his sneakers and woollen socks, Gayle makes him a hot chocolate, rehearsing what she’s about to say.
‘Hon.’ Her voice is wobbly as she hands him the steaming cup. ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Let me guess, you’re pregnant.’ He winks and she laughs a little too loudly. ‘What is it, hon?’ He flicks the dirt from between his toes onto the carpet and has a big slurp of hot chocolate.
‘I’ve been in contact with Noah.’
He holds the cup frozen in mid-air. ‘You have? What’d he say?’
‘Well.’ She sits down on the bed next to him and clasps her hands in her lap. ‘He’d really like to make up with everybody and see us again.’
‘See? I told you he’d come around. I knew you were worrying for nothing. When’s he coming to visit? I want to show him the new trailer.’
‘We didn’t get as far as organising a visit.’
‘He’s the only one who hasn’t seen the trailer yet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait till I tell him the price I got it for. Reckon he’d be impressed with that. Noah likes a bargain.’
She takes a calming breath. ‘Forgetting the trailer, just for now, what I need to tell you is that Noah wants to reconnect but he’s still very upset.’
‘ He’s upset? What about us? Look at what that boy’s put us through. How many tears have you cried over him? Upset, he says! Hmph, I’ll show him upset. Why, I—’
‘Mike, please!’ Her voice breaks. ‘Let me finish.’
He grunts. ‘Go on, then.’
‘He wants an apology.’
‘From who?’
‘From us, from you.’
‘Ha! He’s dreaming!’
Gayle wills herself not to cry. ‘We hurt him deeply with the things we said.’ She hopes the we sounds less accusatory than you . ‘We haven’t supported his marriage and—’
‘It’s not even a real marriage,’ Mike scoffs.
She swallows. ‘It’s a legal union in the eyes of the law.’
‘Only because our country’s been taken over by these left-wing fascists—’
‘Would you please let me finish!’ she snaps.
His jaw drops.
‘I’m sorry, hon.’ This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. She reaches for his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
He nods. ‘Listen, I know you get overemotional when it comes to that boy, but we can’t let him bully us.’
‘He’s not bullying us. He’s only sharing how hurt he is. Please, hon, can’t we just apologise? Then everything will be better.’
‘But it won’t be better. He’ll still be married to a man.’
‘It’ll mean he’s back in our lives. You’ve always said you’d do anything for us.’
‘And I have!’
‘I know you have, I know. And now I’m asking for you to do this for me too.’
He shakes his head. ‘I won’t bow down to threats from Noah. He’s always welcome in our home, he knows that. But I won’t be forced to apologise for my beliefs.’
She bites her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
‘Let’s stop talking about Noah, because it does nothing but bring us down.’ Mike pushes himself up off the bed. ‘In good time, he’ll realise he was wrong and he’ll come crawling back. You mark my words, that’s what’ll happen. Now, how about some of those lemon shortbread cookies we picked up at breakfast? That would go nicely with this hot chocolate here, I reckon.’
Gayle sits silently while Mike hunts around for the cookies.
You’re weak and pathetic and a terrible mother and you deserve for Noah to never speak to you again.