Venetian Snow
Lit Up-January’s Prompt: Things we left behind
There’s no better place to think than in Venice when it snows. My alter ego is the foggy silence of a Venetian winter, dark alleyways and water; maybe that’s because I grew up in a city, by a foggy bay, where the day begins and ends in a dense white shroud. The only dark alley I encountered that day was myself. It was the last time I would see the lagoon, so I was saying goodbye, enveloped in an ambiance I could never forget. I would forget his eyes, but I’ve never forgotten the heavy mist, the long black covered gondolas sitting in the stillness of the cold canals, and the footprints I left behind in the delicate snowfall. A premature nostalgia and my mother’s camelhair coat kept me warm. This spell marked the next big decision in my life.
Some of the most significant moments in my life have been silent ones. When I talk a jumble of self-conscious, misplaced words sputter from my lips; the bridge between emotion and expression is broken. He’ll get my letter and understand why I left without saying goodbye.
As I made my way through the labyrinthine streets I felt a stiffening sensation in my spine and knew that something was behind me. I didn’t look back, but I felt a presence following me like a shadow. I asked myself, was this a coincidence - two people moving in the same direction at the same time, or was this phantom following me? I’ve walked alone in cities before, and have learned to trust my instincts. I picked up my pace hoping to lose whatever was following me.
I stumbled into the Campo Santa Margherita. The shops glowed in low-fi, and the lamplights sparkled like stars in the mist. I spotted a familiar bar, a temporary refuge from the cold and the haunting figure that was following me. Three old sour faces looked at me when I walked. I let out a sigh of relief when the warmth of the place hit me. The stinging in my face disappeared, and the feeling in my fingertips came back. All the numb angst inside me melted. If I could have made my entrance less dramatic I would have.
I had been here before, with him; we had shared un café and un po’ di vino. He held my hand over the table, claiming me; he touched my knee under the table, suggesting something more intimate. I saw the table where we sat together and chose another. I didn’t want to mix up memories and taint the good times we shared with my somber mood.
We had moments together that still play out like a slide show in my mind. When he got off work he used to wait for me to finish my lezioni, and then we’d hop on the water taxi, and explore different quarters of the city together. During the carnevale he bought me a mask; we drank mulled wine and walked arm and arm through the city, and then enacted some sort of inebriated dance in Piazza San Marco with some other studenti universitari. When we took the train Vicenza to visit his parents I was naïve not to see that he was taking a serious step in a new relationship. I could have said no, but I didn’t; I went along for the ride. His mother wasn’t thrilled that un’americana had so much influence over her son, but she welcomed me into the family anyways.
I threw my bag and coat on the chair and pulled out a newspaper and books I wasn’t going to read, then I ordered a cappuccino at the bar.
“Zucchero,” said the barman.
“A teaspoon, please.”
He grinned. Happy wrinkles bunched at the corner of his eyes, and his aquiline Venetian nose protruded from his long handsome face. It looked like it had been years since a smile broke his grim expression. He dropped the teaspoon in the sugar and said, “If you stir it with your finger it will be sweeter.”
I stared out the window and watched the world go by. Birds were pecking at the bare ground in the courtyard near the trees, seemingly unperturbed by the snow. I saw a woman dart past, dressed in white, holding her purse close to her, clutching her phone to her ear, and a mother with her bundled up child trudge across the square. The few people that passed were in a hurry to get home, out of the wind and cold. I opened the newspaper and started to read the headlines. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a long dark figure standing at the other side of the square. When anxiety and regret are the primary emotions that influence rational thinking it’s time to leave, but there was nowhere to go. Outside there was something lurking and I didn’t have the nerve to face it alone.
“Mamma mia, fa un freddo cane.”
It was the woman in white. The three men looked up at her with their long faces, the same way they looked at me, unimpressed.
“Ernesto, tell me, how am I going to get to Padua to visit my sister in this weather?” I couldn’t believe it; this woman was a life saver.
The barman looked up and shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “I’m going to the station.” I held up my umbrella, and pointed to my small suitcase, hoping she’ll take up my meager offer of accompanying her to the train station under my umbrella.
She swung around unaware of hitting one of the old gentlemen on the top of his bald head with the end of her scarf. “Excuse me, did you say you’re going to the station? Fantastic! I couldn’t bear walking alone in this cold.”
The woman in white talked to her sister over the phone and then ordered two cognacs.
“To keep us warm,” she said. “Salute e buon viaggio.” We clinked glasses. The barman nodded at the both of us.
I hesitated to ask, but I needed to know, “Did you see a man in a long dark coat standing out in the square?”
“A man? I didn’t see anyone,” she said. “Are you ready? Andiamo.”
We went out into the Venetian snow. It was midday, and the city was half asleep under a blanket of darkness. Venice was putting on her best show, a grand finale, the last goodbye; she knew how to leave an impression.
