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Authors: Jane Langton
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suppose you think it's quite horrible."
"Your new work?" Homer looked at the new picture on the wall. It certainly was horrible. It was an insult to the old maps and the painting by Paolo Veneziano on the opposite wall. Mrs. Wellesley had cut a photograph of a French cathedral into pieces, and then she had pasted the pieces on a square of canvas in an exploding pattern, adding painted streaks of orange fire.
Sam jumped into the breach and rescued Homer. "Oh, yes, Dorothea, it's very good. What cathedral is that? It's not—?"
"Chartres? Of course it is. I cut it all to pieces. Kaboom!"
The Supreme Bore of the World went on and on, pointing to this feature and that, while Homer listened politely and made vague remarks of appreciation— Yes, I see, mmm, yes, how nice, yes, yes, very nice.
He was careful not to meet Sam's eye.
*17*
There was no longer much of a problem with high water. The moon had drifted away from its direct lineup with the sun, and therefore Venice enjoyed a respite. But everyone knew there was no way of stopping it from waxing to a dangerous state of perfect fullness in two weeks' time, and then of course the tides would rise again.
"Experts warn that acqua alta will be far worse next time," said the handsome weather reporter, staring gloomily at the camera in one of the television studios in Palazzo Labia.
The future rise and fall of acqua alta in the city of Venice did not matter to the speakers and participants in Sam Bell's great conference. They were all leaving, one by one and in clusters. The last to depart were a couple of art historians from Boston University. Sam conducted them to the water taxi that would carry them to the airport on the mainland.
"Oh, God, I don't want to go," said Art Historian Number One, abandoning the dignity of his status as president of five learned societies.
"It's such a gorgeous—well, you know," said Art Historian Number Two, normally a sober and phlegmatic man. "I mean, it's like a dream."
Sam couldn't blame them. Their last moments in the city were smack in the middle of the most famous postcard view in Venice, the Piazzetta with the Ducal Palace on one side, the Marciana on the other, and the tall columns of Saint Theodore and the lion of Saint Mark rising in the middle, while a flotilla of gondolas bobbed gently in the water below the Molo. Another flood of excited tourists meandered beside the garden, buying trinkets at the souvenir stands and taking pictures of each other against the noble spread of the lagoon.
Art Historian Number One bought a shiny pillow stamped with a view of San Marco, Art Historian Number Two a small plastic gondola. Then, regretfully, they stepped into the water taxi. Sam lifted down their baggage and paid the man at the wheel, hoping the enormous sum would look acceptable on the list of conference expenses.
It was over. The splendid Venetian conference in the Biblioteca Marciana dedicated to the manuscripts of Cardinal Bessarion and the printed books of Aldus Manutius was now part of history. Thank God, the conference proceedings would be edited by someone else. The books would remain on exhibition for another six weeks. Sam's work was done.
Slowly and a little painfully, he made his way back to the Marciana. In the entry he had to adjust his dazzled eyes to the darkness. He smiled at Signora Di Stefano, the dragon in her lair, and trudged up the two flights to his office.
"You look tired," said his secretary, looking at him with concern. "Well, no wonder." Signora Pino was an elderly woman, chosen long ago to ward off the jealousy of his late wife, whose ears and eyes had been ever alert for treachery. Now that Sam was a widower he could have hired the prettiest of pretty young girls to ornament his office, but he liked Signora Pino, and her job was secure.
"Yes," said Sam. "I think I'll take the rest of the day off."
"Of course. It's only right. I'll take care of things. Have a good rest. Sogni d'oro! Dreams of
"Your new work?" Homer looked at the new picture on the wall. It certainly was horrible. It was an insult to the old maps and the painting by Paolo Veneziano on the opposite wall. Mrs. Wellesley had cut a photograph of a French cathedral into pieces, and then she had pasted the pieces on a square of canvas in an exploding pattern, adding painted streaks of orange fire.
Sam jumped into the breach and rescued Homer. "Oh, yes, Dorothea, it's very good. What cathedral is that? It's not—?"
"Chartres? Of course it is. I cut it all to pieces. Kaboom!"
The Supreme Bore of the World went on and on, pointing to this feature and that, while Homer listened politely and made vague remarks of appreciation— Yes, I see, mmm, yes, how nice, yes, yes, very nice.
He was careful not to meet Sam's eye.
*17*
There was no longer much of a problem with high water. The moon had drifted away from its direct lineup with the sun, and therefore Venice enjoyed a respite. But everyone knew there was no way of stopping it from waxing to a dangerous state of perfect fullness in two weeks' time, and then of course the tides would rise again.
"Experts warn that acqua alta will be far worse next time," said the handsome weather reporter, staring gloomily at the camera in one of the television studios in Palazzo Labia.
The future rise and fall of acqua alta in the city of Venice did not matter to the speakers and participants in Sam Bell's great conference. They were all leaving, one by one and in clusters. The last to depart were a couple of art historians from Boston University. Sam conducted them to the water taxi that would carry them to the airport on the mainland.
"Oh, God, I don't want to go," said Art Historian Number One, abandoning the dignity of his status as president of five learned societies.
"It's such a gorgeous—well, you know," said Art Historian Number Two, normally a sober and phlegmatic man. "I mean, it's like a dream."
Sam couldn't blame them. Their last moments in the city were smack in the middle of the most famous postcard view in Venice, the Piazzetta with the Ducal Palace on one side, the Marciana on the other, and the tall columns of Saint Theodore and the lion of Saint Mark rising in the middle, while a flotilla of gondolas bobbed gently in the water below the Molo. Another flood of excited tourists meandered beside the garden, buying trinkets at the souvenir stands and taking pictures of each other against the noble spread of the lagoon.
Art Historian Number One bought a shiny pillow stamped with a view of San Marco, Art Historian Number Two a small plastic gondola. Then, regretfully, they stepped into the water taxi. Sam lifted down their baggage and paid the man at the wheel, hoping the enormous sum would look acceptable on the list of conference expenses.
It was over. The splendid Venetian conference in the Biblioteca Marciana dedicated to the manuscripts of Cardinal Bessarion and the printed books of Aldus Manutius was now part of history. Thank God, the conference proceedings would be edited by someone else. The books would remain on exhibition for another six weeks. Sam's work was done.
Slowly and a little painfully, he made his way back to the Marciana. In the entry he had to adjust his dazzled eyes to the darkness. He smiled at Signora Di Stefano, the dragon in her lair, and trudged up the two flights to his office.
"You look tired," said his secretary, looking at him with concern. "Well, no wonder." Signora Pino was an elderly woman, chosen long ago to ward off the jealousy of his late wife, whose ears and eyes had been ever alert for treachery. Now that Sam was a widower he could have hired the prettiest of pretty young girls to ornament his office, but he liked Signora Pino, and her job was secure.
"Yes," said Sam. "I think I'll take the rest of the day off."
"Of course. It's only right. I'll take care of things. Have a good rest. Sogni d'oro! Dreams of
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