When my ex-girlfriend Prudence graduated from Barnard, she received two presents from her father: a trip to Italy and a $1,400 camera. I came to regret both. We started out in Venice, where my friend Stefano arranged a boat trip. We joined him, a group of old-age pensioners, and two men in their 40s (whom I didn't realize were brothers until one struck the other in the skull) on an excursion into the Venetian Lagoon. Like everything else in Venice--traipsing through labyrinthine, dark alleyways, toting groceries over bridges--rowing is a pain in the ass: Venetians do it standing up.
My oar kept slipping out of its oarlock and rivulets of sweat coursed down my face. Prudence asked if she could strip down to her bikini and sunbathe. Stefano reported that the consensus aboard the boat was that she could.
Beppe, who introduced himself as the commandante, stood in the stern and issued orders. Generally the word "commandant" summons unpleasant visions of World War II for me. And Beppe did prove to be a cantankerous martinet distressed by my faulty rowing technique. I hadn't been continuously yelled at since the age of seven and my nerves were fraying. "Beppe says your left shoulder's not moving forward enough on the upstroke, your torso should be parallel to the oarlock, your left foot is too far back, and your knuckles should be in the upright position," translated Stefano.
"Tell him this is the last time I'll be rowing Venetian style," I said, "so it doesn't really matter." "Beppe says it does," responded Stefano. Prudence laughed. To which I retorted, "You know, you could leave your floating tanning booth, babe, and take my place here as #3 galley slave."
That comment prompted the appearance of her camera, with its lens as long as Beppe's leg. There was a rapid explosion of Venetian dialect as Prudence began to snap pictures of me, cooing, "Il mio gondoliere." "They're upset, right?" I asked Stefano. "She's disrupting their routine." "Apparently not," he answered, "today they seem willing to suspend routine."
The click of that costly contraption was like a mouse gnawing through my shin. "Prudence," I hissed, "you're conducting a photo shoot in a bikini in front of men who haven't slept with their wives in decades." "Luciano in the prow speaks English," warned Stefano.
When we stopped for lunch on Murano, I was keenly aware of my musculo-skeletal system. Prudence had to help me remove my sea snails from their shells. "Can you really not do this?" she asked. "No," I told her, "I can no longer manipulate my fingers." Beppe said something to Stefano, who explained: "Upturned knuckles, otherwise pain." That was the only comment addressed to me during a three-hour meal. All others were addressed to Prudence. My companions' intense interest in Prudence's camera, Barnard, Westport, and her recent internship at CBS stunned me. Even I didn't care about these subjects.
"We're going to the Hungarian pavilion at the Biennale," announced Stefano. I had an inkling whose idea that was. "The Biennale admission fee is 18 euros," I said. "I don't think that'll go over too well with this group." "Actually, he said, "they know a guard."
By the time we'd consumed red and white wine, red wine with a splash of sparkling water, a tumbler of grappa and a bottle labelled Anima Nera (Black Spirit) had appeared on the table, we were pretty much shitfaced. I looked down at my swollen knuckles: "This has been fun, people, but I'm not sure we want to end things with the Hungarian pavilion." "We do, " asserted Prudence. "The Hungarian artist's theme this year is the male gaze."
"May I see you privately?" I asked her. She shook her head no. "Then will you at least turn towards me so that Luciano can't read my lips?" She adjusted herself in her chair. "Is my left shoulder forward enough?" she grinned. "Put down your Anima Nera and listen to me," I ordered. "This entire excursion has been about the male gaze. I'm surprised you put your shirt on for lunch." "Do you not want to visit the Hungarian pavilion?" she asked. "We could leave you here on Murano. There's regular boat service to the mainland."
"Well," I said, "I'd love to do that but I'd be abandoning my position in the boat." She turned to face Stefano, "Ask Beppe if my boyfriend's rowing expertise will be missed." "Hold on," I objected, "that's a somewhat loaded query." But Stefano had already popped the question. I do not speak the Venetian vernacular, but do know it lacks double consonants and the letter "l." Which seems fitting as it deserves neither. Venice is losing its population faster than any city in Europe and its local tongue may soon cease to exist. Which will be fine by me. Whatever Beppe said in response to Prudence's question, it was concise. And evidently very funny. For the table burst into laughter that rang in my ears for a good five minutes. It rings there still.
