Read Online Shylock's Daughter: A Novel of Love in Venice by Erica Jong - Free Book Online Page A

the fleeing countesses and celebrities.
    â€œJessica—to the beach!” says Carlos Armada. “Take the beach!”
    My crusty old Spanish Civil War veteran indicates an alley leading to the water and pulls me by the hand, out of sight of the fans.
    â€œYour shoes…take off those ridiculous shoes,” he says.
    I obey, stopping to hitch up my gown and unbuckle the ankle straps of my come-fuck-me sandals. Carlos again steadies me.
    â€œThe Battle of the Biennale will never be won in such shoes,” says Carlos. “Come!”
    He shoves my shoes, one by one, into the side pockets of his tux and grabs me by the hand, making me run in my stocking feet all the way to the beach. My stockings are soon in tatters from the abrasiveness of the cement, but I am exhilarated by the adventure. Holding my voluminous skirt with one hand and Carlos’s hand with the other, I run, laughing madly, to the beach. What a pleasure it is to be out of that stifling hall, out of that incipient riot, out of the tension of that last film.
    â€œCome, come,” says Carlos, as we reach the beach, “how about a swim?”
    â€œNot in this ,” I say, thinking of the three thousand pounds I paid for the Zandra Rhodes—and that was two years ago, when the pound was still relatively firm.
    â€œNo, no, never part a lady from her gown—except with her consent. But look here…” He indicates one of the white cabanas belonging to the Excelsior—and even produces the key. “How do you think I have survived this festival—except by bathing all these films away!”
    He opens the cabana and gestures for me to go first. “There’s a bathing suit in there for you if you wish.”
    The cabana is quite civilized. There’s a large wooden hanger for my gown, a mirror, a white Lastex bathing suit (his girlfriend’s, I guess), a hotel bathrobe, some towels. The old exhibitionist in me considers, then dismisses, the possibility of prancing about on the beach in that fabulous black Merry Widow—but no, it would be just my luck to meet a paparazzo— or a shark attracted to the glitter of my garters. (I have never quite gotten over the movie Jaws .)
    When I emerge, Carlos takes over the cabana and changes into his suit. He has a good body despite the natural softening produced by eight decades of gravity, eight decades of war, eight decades of poetry. But poetry proves to be a great preservative. Carlos has the vitality of those few chosen artists on whom the Muses smile; like Picasso, like Henry Miller, he has the joie de vivre of a young man. Art keeps one young, I think, because it keeps one perpetually a beginner, perpetually a child.
    Carlos runs to the water, bidding me follow—and dives precipitously into the waves.
    The sight of this hardy octogenarian plunging into the Adriatic (where Byron used to swim) quiets my fears both of pollution and of sharks—and I follow.
    The water is amazingly clean, and the moonlight makes the swim eerily beautiful. The moon is looking out for me, I think, and I remember to thank her for my life, for my curious gift. Spared again. Once more the White Goddess, my muse, is looking out for me. But what of Björn? And what of Grigory? Well, that I shall know soon enough. Meanwhile—swim, Jessica, swim.
    As I reach my arms out in the inky, moon-splashed water, I think again of Antonia, whom I taught to swim when she was only two, at a “waterbabies” class at the 92 nd Street “Y” in Manhattan. Whatever I am doing—swimming, watching a movie, dreaming, acting—I think of her, and my fingertips ache.
    Carlos walks out of the water looking for all the world like an ancient satyr. I follow. He is beaming at me.
    â€œYou know, Jessica,” he says, “even at eighty, you want to be alive!”
    â€œI believe it,” I say.
    He puts a wet hand on my shoulder and walks me to the cabana. For a moment