Nine Summers Read online

  ‘Ah!’ He tilted his head, massaged his chin with his right hand, consulted the young man, then said, ‘Ah, va bene.’

  ‘Grazie, tanto grazie.’

  We shook hands. Then the old man, Lucio, introduced us to the marina’s facilities. In his shy, hesitant way, he made us feel welcome. We took one look at the shower and toilet — only a slight improvement on Fiumicino. He continued to supply us with basic information, such as where we’d find the local laundrette, grocer, greengrocer and baker. ‘But for most things,’ he added, ‘it’s best to go to a supermarket, like Standa, at the Lido. Things are much cheaper there.’

  Back on board, I heaved a sigh. I was in desperate need of a quiet day to get over the drama. Felix, on the other hand, had fully recovered. ‘Forget yesterday, we’ve arrived. We’re in Venice! Time to celebrate. Red or white?’

  We had been to Venice twice before. The first time was in the summer of 1953, when it was in its early post-war bloom and we were living in London. Although tourists ambled in the Piazza San Marco, there was no crush, and few guides waved placards.

  The following time was Christmas 1968 with our two teenage children. It was cold, the atmosphere melancholy, the sky low and grey. Mist enveloped people in ghost-like sheaths, footsteps echoed, odours of hot food filled the maze of narrow streets and canals. And after 10 in the evening all was hushed: most people had crawled into bed. Although native Venetians still lived in the centre, the mood was one of melancholy and sadness, which comes with decay and crumbling walls. Some evenings were so silent and the streets so empty, the outdoors acquired an atmosphere of a netherworld.

  One sleepless night during that visit, I stood at our hotel window, which overlooked an empty Grand Canal, and watched a silver moon rise over an illuminated Santa Maria della Salute. I saw the ripples and moonbeams dance on the water. I woke Felix with ‘…tell me I’m not dreaming.’

  But this time we were in ‘our third age’, and during this, our third summer on Galatea, we spent weeks in Venice, away from the hotels, living in our floating cocoon among ordinary Venetians.

  Many who had lived in the centre of Venice had now moved to Mestre or other parts of terra firma, since most business, other than tourism, had declined and rents had sky-rocketed.

  Sant’Elena has always been different from the centre of Venice. It is an island reclaimed from the sea on the eastern side of Venice, a short walk to Piazza San Marco or a few minutes’ ride in the vaporetto, which stops there on the way to and from the Lido. Most of the apartment blocks, intended for workers in the tourism industry, had been built in the 1920s and 1930s. It had the air of a quiet Italian residential area, devoid of cars and with only a few motor scooters. A gentle ambience, gentilezza, prevailed there.

  Sometimes the place was eerily quiet.

  Women hung out of windows to call children playing downstairs or to conduct long distance chats with neighbours. Occasionally I spied faces peeping through lace curtains, an accepted way of keeping abreast with the happenings below. Adding to the quiet atmosphere was a small park where old men chatted, women knitted and gossiped, and children rode bicycles and played. Cats curled up in the shade to snooze, or emerged gingerly from bushes; dogs sniffed at tree trunks, raised a leg and marked their territory.

  Tourists rarely came here. Waiters at the local restaurant looked surprised the first time we entered. Gradually, however, the locals nodded when they saw us walk past. The baker kept fresh bread for us. The woman at the greengrocer told us what was special on that day, the young woman at the laundrette folded our clothes to save us ironing, and the people at the local post office selected the most colourful stamps to send to Australia.

  As soon as I’d decided that I could face the world after my near collision with the Accademia bridge, we clutched our favourite walking guide book, J. G. Links’s Venice for Pleasure, and made our way to the centre, into the Piazza San Marco.

  Although it was late afternoon, the heat was stifling. Crowds in the Piazza were as thick as the pigeons that flocked there. Through the shrieks of children and shouts of guides gathering their flocks, the strains of a Strauss waltz from Florian’s orchestra on one side of the Piazza battled with a Liszt mazurka from Quadri’s on the other. Tourists shuffled, their mouths agape in wonder. Pigeons took off, spun and swirled, then landed, their heads bobbing and pecking like wooden toys. A pigeon settled on a girl’s shoulder, and she screamed with fear and delight. Cameras clicked and whirred. San Marco is a stage with perpetual theatre.

  ‘It’s too crowded. Let’s go to the nearest church, it’ll be cooler there.’

  In the shade of the Salizzada S. Moise, outside fashionable shops, groups of Africans sat on the pavement, surrounded by imitation Gucci, Versace and Chanel, eager for business.

  We made for S. Moise, who was not the only Jewish saint with a church in Venice. There were others — S. Jeremiah, S. Job, S. Zaccariah and S. Samuel. Venetians had learnt early that a multicultural society promoted commerce. One commentator noted, ‘Venetians were not biased to a fault!’

  S. Moise was closed. We continued out of the Campo, guided by our noses and the aroma that drifted along the narrow alleys towards what became our favourite pasticceria — Marchini, in the Calle del Spezier. It was packed.

  ‘You go in. I can’t cope when the place is packed and there’s a lot of choice.’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘One of everything. About 20 should do.’

  I stood outside and watched Felix point to cream puffs, Neapolitans, chocolate bigne, cream slices, fruit tartlets… Eventually, he emerged.

  ‘How many did you get?’

  ‘Six — two for now, two for dinner and two for supper. I’m sure we’ll be back tomorrow. Now we need a spot for cappuccinos.’

  The café in Campo di S. Stefano was packed. We approached a table where only two people sat.

  ‘May we join you?’

  ‘Si, si, s’accomodi! Are you English?’

  ‘No, Australian. And you?’

  ‘We’re from East Germany. I’m sorry, our English is from school, not so good.’

  ‘How nice, you’re the first East Germans we’ve met! I’m sure your English will be OK, but we speak German.’

  ‘You learnt?’

  ‘My wife learnt. I was born in Vienna but left many years ago, before the war.’

  ‘Oh, that’s long before we were born.’

  ‘Is this your first visit to Venice?’ I asked. ‘Yes, this is the first time we’ve been to the West.’

  They were keen to talk, and so were we. We were living in exciting times — the Fall of the Berlin Wall, Gorbachev’s Perestroika, the collapse of communism…

  We introduced ourselves. Erna was tall and slim, in her 30s, with cropped honey-coloured hair and vivacious emerald eyes. She toyed with her multicoloured Venetian glass necklace. Helmut was a big man, thick-set, with short dark hair and dark melancholy eyes. Both hugged thick white cups of cappuccino. We ordered due latte and panforte.

  ‘I’m an art teacher and for me it’s a life’s dream come true,’ Erna beamed.

  ‘How do you find visiting the West?’ This was not the most tactful of questions, as I realised too late. They looked at each other nervously. Helmut sipped his cappuccino, paused, then took a long breath.

  ‘You know, everything is new for us, it’s hard to put it simply. There are so many things we find wonderful, bewildering and also confusing. I think we haven’t seen enough to make an intelligent answer. We would like to have more time. Erna has dreamt all her life of seeing Italy, especially the art of Venice and Florence. I’m an engineer, I would also like to see things in my field but at the moment it’s not easy.’

  They were curious about us, about Australia, how were we able to live on a boat, to move from place to place, to spend as long or as short a time as we wanted in Venice. Did we need official permission?

  ‘It is all so incredible,’ they said. ‘Do you need a special permit?…
to exit? to stay? to return?’ These were questions that mark a person who has lived in a totalitarian regime.

  ‘No, we’re free to go anywhere as long as our passport and ship’s papers are in order,’ Felix said, then added, ‘Would you like to visit us on the boat?’

  ‘We would, of course, but we only have one more day in Venice, then we take the train to Florence.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and have dinner with us tonight? Felix has bought enough cakes.’ They looked at each other, then said, ‘We’ve never been on a boat where people can live. Yes, thank you, we would love to.’

  When Erna and Helmut stepped on board, they were stunned.

  ‘This is like a real home, you have everything!’

  ‘We’re very lucky.’ I felt embarrassed.

  We had drinks in the cockpit and chatted about Australia, about East Germany, about German unification. Everything Felix and I knew about East Germany had come from the media, so we were eager to hear from people who had grown up in that regime and known little else. They were hesitant and careful, and turned to each other before venturing an opinion. They avoided an answer by asking us questions. But the wine thawed their guarded manner. However, when I asked about the importance of belonging to the communist party, I had stepped over the mark. Felix said, ‘Time to turn on the barbecue.’ We stood on the deck around the fire and watched the flames flare, while bratwurst hissed and spat, and the smell of burning sausages drifted into the evening sky. By now dusk was giving way to a starlit night.

  ‘They’re sufficiently burnt, we can go down now.’

  Below, paraffin lamps bathed the saloon in a golden light, and the smell of smoke, barbecued sausages, potato salad, Italian provolone, gorgonzola, olives, German black bread, peaches, two bottles of Australian wine and Marchini cakes set the atmosphere. Felix filled our glasses. ‘Prost! Salute! Cheers!’

  ‘I can’t believe this! My favourite meal. Bratwurst and potato salad! How did you know?’ Erna beamed.

  By the time we’d eaten and drained our second bottle of red, Helmut was relaxed and voluble. ‘You know, you asked us a straight question: “How do we feel about the West?”… Materially there is no question you’re much, much, better off, but you have other problems. We now have freedoms we didn’t have before, like travelling, freedom of speech and so on. Of course we know that it’ll take years for us to be as well off as you. Big companies are now coming into East Germany, but the problem is they’re only concerned about profits at the expense of the workers. I know that a lot of our people will want to move to the West and that will create problems as well.’

  Felix opened a third bottle, and the more Helmut quaffed, the more talkative he became. There were many things he’d hated about East Germany — the police state, the lack of freedom of speech, of travel, the lies they were fed…but he feared the future. ‘We are not as obsessed with money and material things as the West, but maybe our impressions are wrong because we haven’t seen very much yet.’

  It was obvious that Erna was more enthralled with what she’d seen of the West. Helmut was more circumspect and thoughtful, with a scholarly air. She seemed more emotional, impulsive. They argued with each other, often disagreeing. We felt their confusion and bewilderment.

  It was well after midnight when Helmut rose, saying it was time to leave. We accompanied them some of the way towards San Marco, and arranged to meet in the morning at the same café in Campo di S. Stefano. The next day, after we’d had coffee and chatted for about an hour, we walked with them to the vaporetto. As we shook hands and parted, I couldn’t believe that we’d only known each other for 24 hours.

  ****

  One of our great joys in Venice was to wander aimlessly, in the early morning or evening, when it wasn’t crowded. Here was a carved door, a sculpture on an outside church wall, a small fountain, a statue, a courtyard with a stone table and creepers. We breathed in the aroma of an evening meal drifting from a window of a private home.

  ‘Let’s go to the Rialto market tomorrow,’ Felix said. I liked markets in theory, but I wasn’t happy in a tight crowd. Felix, however, enjoyed the theatre of marketplaces.

  For the vegetable, fruit, fish and meat market at the Rialto, we needed to start early. Soon after dawn, boats come up the Grand Canal with meat, fowl of every description, cheeses…

  ‘Don’t go crazy when we go to the markets,’ I said. ‘Me, crazy? Never!’ Felix was already looking forward to the banter and badinage.

  Piazza San Marco was almost empty when we crossed into the Mercerie and lost our way. A sweeper with merry eyes greeted us with ‘Che bella giornata! What a lovely day!’

  Felix asked him how to get to the Rialto. Flinging arms and gesticulating with veined, rough hands, the man instructed us in Italian, ‘Go past the first palazzo, turn left, then walk past the two palazzi on the right, cross the little bridge, you’ll see a small palazzo on your left, go sempre diritto, always straight, then not much further you’ll see the bridge.’

  It had taken us some time to realise that in Venice every big house is called a palazzo. It can be a crumbling heap, but it’s still called a palazzo. We followed his directions and walked into a live painting of a medieval market in full swing. The stalls were already up, shoppers were circling and inspecting, and vendors extolled their goods. Mesmerised by the blaze of colours, the potpourri of scents, sounds and commotion, we stood and gawked. The market was a canvas of fruit and vegetables in greens, yellows, reds, golds, purple…

  Felix was in his element. Following the lead of housewives and restaurateurs, he smelt and prodded, tasted and commented, ‘This feels too hard, too soft, not ripe…’ while I stood and watched an old man cut a melon, offer a piece to Felix with a flourish, then study his reaction. ‘Buono, eh?’

  ‘Uhm, buonissimo!’ Then he cut a peach…Felix rolled his eyes with the pleasure of it. The man’s face exploded into a network of delight.

  In butchers’ shops, trays of hares, pigeons, quails, boned and stuffed ducks and chickens, and crumbed zucchinis stuffed with mince meat were on display to tempt and confuse.

  ‘The de-boned stuffed ducks and chickens are fantastic,’ the butcher assured Felix.

  ‘Please, don’t buy meat. It’s taking me time to recover from Yugoslavia,’ I said.

  ‘OK. Let’s move on to the cheeses.’ Felix was ecstatic. I took deep breaths and waited outside.

  ‘You’ve bought enough provisions for a restaurant.’

  He ignored me, smiling to himself. ‘Now let’s go to the pescheria.’

  The fish market, an open colonnaded Gothic building, was packed and smelt of the sea and fresh fish. Vendors had spread out their array of seafood, with the name and origin of each item clearly displayed. Salmon from Norway, polpa di S. Pietro (John Dory) from Sicily, cagnoletto (toothless shark) from Caorle, Prolache crabs from the Laguna di Venezia…Near me an eel wriggled. A boy picked it up, surprising me into an undignified shriek.

  ‘Don’t ever take me into a fish market again!’

  ‘OK, OK, I know when I’m beaten. Let’s go and have coffee,’ said Felix.

  ****

  Felix was looking tired, my nightly rashes had returned with a vengeance, and we couldn’t sleep. Both my arms were bandaged to protect the split grafts Felix had done to repair flaps of skin that had sloughed off. But we were looking forward to a visit from our son and daughter-in-law. For the week David and Anne would be with us, we’d arranged a berth for Galatea in the old marina on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. The notion of breakfasting in the cockpit in full view of the Doge’s Palace, San Marco and Santa Maria della Salute was irresistible. In addition, the Regata Storica was to be held the day after their arrival. Felix looked excited when he returned from the hardware store.

  ‘They told me at Ratti’s that we can get tickets for the regatta at the Tourist Bureau off the Piazza. Let’s go there.’

  At the Tourist Bureau we waited and waited for an officious woman to notice us, but
when that seemed unlikely, Felix asked whether we could buy tickets for the regatta. Without looking up, she replied in a peremptory tone: ‘We have none!’

  When we mentioned this to Laura at the laundrette, she was not surprised. ‘Ah! signori,’ her lips were pursed and her arms raised as she explained, ‘you must understand, they try to keep the tickets until the end. They wait to get good prices from tours. You must try more often.’ We assured her that we’d take her advice and returned to the booking office the following day.

  ‘Let’s try our luck with that guy, he looks kinder,’ I suggested.

  ‘We’re from Australia and we came to see the regatta. Our son and his wife are also coming to Venice especially to see the regatta. Is it possible to get four tickets?’

  ‘Un momento.’ He went through a door to another room. We heard raised voices from the back. He returned crestfallen, ‘Sorry, booked out, maybe later.’

  After several attempts at cajoling, begging and charming as best we could, the young man greeted us with, ‘Allora, ben’ecco quattro biglietti.’

  ‘Success. Four front row seats.’

  We couldn’t contain our excitement when David and Anne arrived. ‘Good news! We have tickets for the regatta!’

  On their first morning, we breakfasted in the cockpit, in full view of S. Marco, the Doge’s Palace, Santa Maria della Salute, the Piazzetta with its two granite columns — one bearing the Lion of S. Marco, the other S. Teodoro, Venice’s patron saint — and all amid the commotion of craft on the Bacino. ‘How many people have been so privileged to breakfast on one’s boat in the marina at S. Giorgio with this view?’ I wondered.

  On the day of the regatta, we made our way to Ca’Rezzonico, one of the grand palazzi along the Grand Canal, and climbed over people and scaffolding to get to our front row seats.

  Crowds packed both sides of the canal. Venice was pulsating with frenzied expectation. After a long wait, immaculately polished argosies and golden barges appeared in the distance, with the proud lions of Venice fluttering on masts. People gasped, cheered and waved as a procession of Venetian pomp — decorated and beflagged ships and gondolas — drifted past. On deck, men and women in medieval silks and brocades, balloon sleeves, velvet hats and pointed shoes, swaggered and waved.