Chapter 23 A Father Out of Water #2
So here Aroldo was, standing under the portico, watching the clock.
Precisely at two, the opera man exited his building, glanced up to the cloudy sky, then started to stroll, his hands clasped behind his back.
He had a Super Mario quality about him: a pudgy body with short legs, a honker of a nose, big blue eyes, and a mustache and eyebrows that could use a trim.
Aroldo padded across the street and called out, “Mi scusi, posso parlarle?”
Take that, Duo.
“Si,” Super Mario said, pausing his waddle.
Aroldo had translated and printed out his request. As he reached for the folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he said, “I don’t suppose you speak English . . .”
“I speak a little English. What can I help with?” His voice was as rich and vibrative as his singing.
Aroldo gave him the sheet of paper—several paragraphs explaining his plight. He let Super Mario read for a while, then said, “It’s a strange request, but it would mean everything to me.”
Super Mario folded the sheet and handed it back. “It would be an honor.”
On their last day in Venice, Bianca and George sat in the back of a gondola navigating the Venetian waterways with a gondolier named Luca, who wore the classic red-and-white-striped shirt. There was no way they weren’t going to give it a go, despite the brutal sun and absurd price tag.
As far as Bianca was concerned, you couldn’t put a cost on how much fun they were having, how much fun George in particular was having.
They’d meandered to Piazza San Marco, stopping for an arancino along the way, and even toured the Doge’s Palace, and her father hadn’t shown any signs of rushing.
He’d moved slowly, soaking it all in. It seemed to her that he was trying hard, and trying was a whole lot like loving.
Here he was now, donning a new wide-brimmed hat and leather man bag, his eyes scanning the views, seemingly immersed. He put his arm around her, and she loved the feeling. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so relaxed.
“You know what you remind me of?” she said. “A wild stallion who’s finally been broken.”
He chuckled. “Oh yeah? Who’s wrangling me?”
“Italy, of course. Seriously, look at you. I haven’t seen you like this in a long time. Maybe you should move here.”
He straightened his hat. “Don’t push it.” He was handsome when he tried. Sophisticated, sharp. All they had to do was get rid of those shiny tennis shoes.
The gondolier ducked under magnificent brick bridges as he silently steered them through tight canals, maybe fifteen feet wide.
On either side, stunning buildings aging like golden-era movie stars and painted in lovely pastels rose up out of the water.
Lush vines cascaded down from balconies that offered glimpses through windows into the lives of everyday Venetians: a woman knitting as she watched television, a father speaking sternly to his son, a little girl twirling for her mother.
A green shutter swung open, and a man dipped his head out of the window, checking the weather. Bianca and George exchanged waves with him.
“Where to next?” Bianca asked, feeling incredibly light and enthused.
Her joy seemed to parallel her father’s.
Of all the things, it was this spontaneous trip that seemed to have jarred them both loose.
It wasn’t that they were running away. Maybe more that their unplanned movements were keeping them on their feet, forcing them to let go of control, to let life steer.
He removed his hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You tell me.”
“Really? You have no opinion?”
“You’ve done well so far.” He gestured toward the canal weaving through San Polo. “Look at this. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more beautiful place in my sixty-plus years.”
Bianca could have thrown her arms around him. It was a heck of a sensation to be proud of your father. “And you’re okay continuing on to another city?”
He set his hat back on and said snidely, “Oh, that’s right. I do have to get back to work. Wait . . . nope. I have nothing to do.”
Bianca had been considering options all day. “Did you know Shakespeare set Romeo and Juliet in Verona, which isn’t too far away? That could be fun. And we could go see Lake Garda. I never have. Would be nice to have a car, though.”
“Then let’s get a car.”
“Can you drive stick? I can’t.”
Her father’s chest expanded. “Naturally. I could teach you.”
“Um, yeah, okay.”
He patted her leg. “Maybe I do have a thing or two left to show you.”
“Maybe you do.”
The next day, they spent the morning strolling through Verona, of course visiting Casa di Giulietta.
Then they rented a car at the airport, headed north, and found an empty parking lot where George could teach Bianca to drive stick.
No surprise, she picked it up quickly, and more importantly, he had a blast teaching her.
It felt good to be needed. If only he could hold on to this optimism when he returned to the States. The only problem was that he’d go back to being all alone, back to a world where not a soul needed him.