answers proved as elusive as ever. He had loved his father, had wanted to please him the way Ciro had. And he had been able to, at least for a time. It didn’t last however. It couldn’t. What else could he have done save be himself? Why could his father never see that?
And here he was now trying to picture the supple curves of a woman he didn’t know, attempting to recall the pout of her lips rather than the hate in his heart when he had heard of how Ciro had died, like an animal. He was being swept along in a dark current, the freedom and control he had so eagerly sought as a young man proving once more to be just an illusion. Had his life ever been his own?
Think Paolo. Why was the moneylender inviting him to dine? He was a former Canever at the Arsenale now running petty errands for a man Bercu found loathsome. He was nothing. And yet, being nothing, he held the invitation in his hands, the note smelling sweetly of lemon and promise.
***
SURPRISINGLY PAOLO FOUND his way back through the winding streets of the Cannaregio with little difficulty, arriving some minutes early. Again he felt the heaviness of eyes upon him, dismissed it as nothing more than the discomfort of being in an unfamiliar place, and knew he was wrong.
He examined the narrow street more closely now. It was Venice, but not. Venice was a place where things were done in their own time. It was an old city that lived and breathed according to the natural rhythms of sea and season, the changing moods of nature. Yet this, the oldest sestieri , seemed to have been constructed with haste. He noticed again the cramped buildings, like books crammed on a shelf. Up and down, up and down they went; two stories, five stories, four stories, seven. There was no room to build out, so they built up. How high could one building go straight up ? At what point would it topple from the weight of too much ambition? Twenty stories, thirty, a hundred? From what he had seen in the Arsenale, he believed anything was possible.
“Signore? Signore Avesari?”
Paolo turned to find Chaya emerging from the shabby orange structure behind him.
“I’m sorry” she said. “I called to you, but you did not seem to hear me.”
Again Paolo was struck by her beauty. Even his imagination, woefully lacking he now realized, had failed to capture its splendor.
“I…was admiring your street.”
Chaya swept the length of the narrow avenue with her eyes. “There is little to admire I know,” she said with a rueful smile, “but it is our home.”
Paolo reddened. “Signorina,” he stammered, “I assure you, I meant noth…”
“Ah, Signore Avesari!” said Bercu, clapping his hands together as he emerged from his home. “So nice of you to accept my invitation.” Paolo welcomed the interruption. He would have to be more careful about what he said to Chaya. He would not want to be misinterpreted again. Bercu was smiling broadly. He seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
“I would invite you into my home,” Bercu said apologetically as he gestured back to the house, “but it is not in a state to receive guests I fear, so we will have to make due once more with the café.” He smiled with a nod toward his daughter. “I admit I am rather indulgent when it comes to Chaya’s other…interests, and so on occasion the housework suffers.” Chaya shot her father an annoyed glance. He ignored it, gesturing down the street to the café where they had eaten at their first meeting. “I hope you do not mind? You seemed to find the fare agreeable.” Another smile, not expecting an answer. Paolo wondered what Chaya’s other interests were. “Please, come.”
They walked in silence, Paolo, Bercu, and Chaya, Paolo wondering what they were thinking. Once again, he could make little sense of their fellowship. They found a small table swallowed by sun, and sat. Paolo set his forearms down on the table, feeling the warmth emanating from its surface. Heat from above, heat from below,
And here he was now trying to picture the supple curves of a woman he didn’t know, attempting to recall the pout of her lips rather than the hate in his heart when he had heard of how Ciro had died, like an animal. He was being swept along in a dark current, the freedom and control he had so eagerly sought as a young man proving once more to be just an illusion. Had his life ever been his own?
Think Paolo. Why was the moneylender inviting him to dine? He was a former Canever at the Arsenale now running petty errands for a man Bercu found loathsome. He was nothing. And yet, being nothing, he held the invitation in his hands, the note smelling sweetly of lemon and promise.
***
SURPRISINGLY PAOLO FOUND his way back through the winding streets of the Cannaregio with little difficulty, arriving some minutes early. Again he felt the heaviness of eyes upon him, dismissed it as nothing more than the discomfort of being in an unfamiliar place, and knew he was wrong.
He examined the narrow street more closely now. It was Venice, but not. Venice was a place where things were done in their own time. It was an old city that lived and breathed according to the natural rhythms of sea and season, the changing moods of nature. Yet this, the oldest sestieri , seemed to have been constructed with haste. He noticed again the cramped buildings, like books crammed on a shelf. Up and down, up and down they went; two stories, five stories, four stories, seven. There was no room to build out, so they built up. How high could one building go straight up ? At what point would it topple from the weight of too much ambition? Twenty stories, thirty, a hundred? From what he had seen in the Arsenale, he believed anything was possible.
“Signore? Signore Avesari?”
Paolo turned to find Chaya emerging from the shabby orange structure behind him.
“I’m sorry” she said. “I called to you, but you did not seem to hear me.”
Again Paolo was struck by her beauty. Even his imagination, woefully lacking he now realized, had failed to capture its splendor.
“I…was admiring your street.”
Chaya swept the length of the narrow avenue with her eyes. “There is little to admire I know,” she said with a rueful smile, “but it is our home.”
Paolo reddened. “Signorina,” he stammered, “I assure you, I meant noth…”
“Ah, Signore Avesari!” said Bercu, clapping his hands together as he emerged from his home. “So nice of you to accept my invitation.” Paolo welcomed the interruption. He would have to be more careful about what he said to Chaya. He would not want to be misinterpreted again. Bercu was smiling broadly. He seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
“I would invite you into my home,” Bercu said apologetically as he gestured back to the house, “but it is not in a state to receive guests I fear, so we will have to make due once more with the café.” He smiled with a nod toward his daughter. “I admit I am rather indulgent when it comes to Chaya’s other…interests, and so on occasion the housework suffers.” Chaya shot her father an annoyed glance. He ignored it, gesturing down the street to the café where they had eaten at their first meeting. “I hope you do not mind? You seemed to find the fare agreeable.” Another smile, not expecting an answer. Paolo wondered what Chaya’s other interests were. “Please, come.”
They walked in silence, Paolo, Bercu, and Chaya, Paolo wondering what they were thinking. Once again, he could make little sense of their fellowship. They found a small table swallowed by sun, and sat. Paolo set his forearms down on the table, feeling the warmth emanating from its surface. Heat from above, heat from below,
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