“Have you been here all night?” she said, laughing a little.
I shook my head. “I get up early.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“I want you to get to know me better.”
Her face softened. “At this hour?”
“I thought we’d better start. I don’t know how much you want to know.”
She said nothing, her eyes still reading my face, pleased.
“I like risotto. Any kind of fish.”
She laughed. “Do you think I’m going to cook for you?”
“Okay. We’ll go out.”
“A rich American.”
“I live in Dorsoduro. My room has a view of the Redentore.”
“I’m not going to your room. In your mother’s house.”
“Then I’ll find something else.”
“I’m not going anywhere, except to work.”
“That’s why I’m here. We can talk on the way.”
“To come here like this, at this hour. You must be crazy.”
“Must be. What time do you get off for lunch?”
“You’re so sure of this?”
“Yes.”
She looked away. “Here comes the boat.”
I reached up and moved her chin with my hand. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Only a few people got on with us, but the boat was already packed with commuters coming from the Lido, reading newspapers or just staring out the windows. We stood away from the rain but wedged near the gangplank gate, pressed against each other.
“Just like the bus,” I said, but of course it wasn’t, dipping with the shallow waves, even a morning commute turned into an excursion. The water gave everything in Venice this playful quality. Ambulances were boats, so not quite ambulances. Fire boats and delivery barges and taxis-all the same, yet different, bobbing on the water, somehow looking half made-up. “We should have a gondola, like the old days.”
“No, they frighten me. So unsteady. I can’t swim.”
“In Venice?”
“Nobody swims in Venice. Where, in the canals?” She made a face. “It’s not so unusual. Even gondoliers.” A city people, rooted to pavement. “Anyway, I never learned. So I don’t go in boats. Only these,” she said, waving her hand toward the crowd.
“I’ll take you out. I’m good with boats-that’s something else to know. You’d be safe.”
“Oh, you have a gondola?”
“Actually, I do. One came with the house. But no gondolier, so it’s up on supports. There’s a boat, though. We could take that. With life jackets. Go and have a picnic.”
“In this weather.”
“Well, when it’s nicer.”
“And you’ll be here when it’s nicer.” She turned to me. “You don’t have to do this.”
“What?”
“Act like this. Take me on boats. Take me anywhere. Picnics. Like the films. So romantic. It’s not like that anymore.”
“No?”
“Not for me.”
“What do you want me to talk about, then?”
“What you’re thinking. Not this-what?”
“Flirting?”
“Playacting. It’s not serious.”
“No. It’s supposed to be part of the fun.”
She looked away, then stepped back to let some passengers get near the rail. We were pulling into Salute. She moved farther away, not wanting to talk with anyone close by, pretending to look at the church. Even in the drizzle, the baroque curves were bright white, like swirls of meringue. When the boat swung out again, she turned to find me looking at her.
“Now what? More picnics?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“What I’m really thinking?”
She nodded.
“What it would be like. You, taking your clothes off. What you would be like.”
For a moment she said nothing, her look embarrassed, no longer direct.
“I’m sorry. You said no more playacting. It’s what I was thinking-what it would be like.”
She nodded slightly. “All right,” she said, and turned to the rail.
Which meant what? Anything. But her back was to me, like a finger to the lips, and I said nothing. We rode that way, both facing the palazzos. After we tied up at Accademia, I took her arm and we crossed the gangplank. In the open square in front of the old convent, we stood bareheaded, surrounded by umbrellas.
“What time do you get off for lunch?”
“One. Go and look at the pictures.”
“All morning.”
She smiled. “Some people take days. And now it’s the best time-no one’s there. You can stand in front of The House of Levi as long as you want.”
“A Jewish picture?”
“No, the Last Supper. But Veronese put in a drunk and dwarfs and the pope said it was-what? profane? — so he changed the title.”
“Italian accommodation.”
“Hypocrisy. Well, we had good teachers.” She looked up at me, serious. “It won’t be like that with us, will it? No pretending. Just what it is.”
I nodded. “So you’ve decided.”
“When I saw you this morning.”
I leaned forward. “Don’t go to work.”
“No, one o’clock,” she said, then reached up and put her hand on my chest. “Get a room.”
I felt a twitch, like a spurt of blood.
“My house is-”
“No. Somewhere no one knows us. Not here. Near the station. One of those places. You can afford that,” she said with a small smile. “You’re a rich American.”
I bent over to kiss her, but she stopped me, pushing against my chest, her eyes playful. “Later,” she said. “You can think what it will be like.”
We became lovers that afternoon in one of those hotels off the Lista di Spagna that put up students with backpacks and salesmen from Padua. The vaporetto ride had seemed endless, dripping umbrellas and anxious looks, not talking, the few blocks on foot worse, umbrellas forcing everyone to walk single-file in the narrow calles. In the room, past the sour desk clerk, we were suddenly shy, like the students who usually stayed there, and then she slipped off her jacket with the sliding movement I’d imagined, and hung it in the armoire and turned to me, and I understood that I was to unbutton her blouse, and I began fingering it, feeling the warmth underneath, until finally she put her hand over mine, guiding it to each button so that we did it together.
It had been so long since I’d had sex, at least with anyone I’d wanted, that it felt curiously like a first time- tentative and then urgent, wanting to get it right but too hurried to find a rhythm. We hung up all her clothes, an efficiency that became a tease, then a kind of ritual, and when we were naked I started running my hand over her slowly, wanting to touch every part of her, but when I reached down she was already wet and after that we fell on
