It is the middle of the afternoon. One can tell this by the way the city loiters, like it is a tourist within itself, with itself. The children are let out of school, work stops and the city, the entire city takes a deep breath of its own perfume and exhales it deeply, with gusto.
     The small and hidden courtyards are full of old and even the young -- there are still young people here, young children even. It seems more and more, could this be a sign of hope for this city? The wide piazzas are full of tourists enjoying the sights and sounds of Venice Resting.
     The gondoliers and taxi drivers seldom get a break, but this is one time where they do, and they revel in it -- those who are prone to revel. They fill their stomachs with bread and olive oil, pesto and cheese, drinking diluted wine, like they serve to children at mass or the sparkling sodas from the cafes.
     Others sleep, covering their faces with their hats and napping in their moored boats, their hands lifting periodically to wave away the gnats. Or the nagging of their wives that plague them in their rest, even here...
     Others continue to work...
     Paolo is one of these...
     There he is, at the end of the mooring, standing in his vessel with that proud way of his. He is not dressed like the others, not in the tourist-traditional gear, but in a plain dark cotton shirt and pants. No jacket, no hat. His wavy dark hair moves with the breeze as he balances on the water.
     And in front of him, a smaller copy of himself, dressed in clothes for school -- he will have to return in an hour or so -- he is positioned like a tiny gondolier. Though, he is not so tiny. Like his father he will be tall and strong and lean, but now he is coltish, with wavy dark hair and dark, dark eyes. Like the heart of the ocean in the darkest hour of evening.
     He is so serious. That face, that face...
     He works the pole, concentrating, moving the vessel back and forth, feeling the pole in the water. And his father. My god. The man is actually smiling! "Buon, buon! Buon lavoro... avete gia buon equilibrio. Presto... noi elimin voi out piccolo canale... voi pot prend me mio sera giro, hmm?"

     The woman who walks is lovely, lovely in the sunlight, clad in pale golden silk blouse and long black skirt, black patent leather heels on her feet. Her hair is oiled and perfumed with the scent of almonds, but there is - as usual - no cosmetic upon her skin. Her nails are manicured, but unpolished; eyelashes thick, but unstained. Elegant silver clasps around her wrist - a watch, for when she has places to be, with tiny diamonds winking at the gondoliers from that dainty wrist.
     And the diamonds do wink, for her wrist moves, hand clasping the smaller hand of a girl. Contrasts and likenesses...
     The girl is small, though she does not qualify as tiny, either. The face is heart-shaped, the hair that of her mother's, the dark curls and ringlets thick and glossy and oiled just the same as Cosimina's, pulled back and pinned into place with pale pink and silver aluminum barrettes at the sides. The mouth, too, it is her mother's mouth, the fullness of the lower lip, added to by the slight heaviness of childhood that provides such expressiveness as has been by now unlearned and only hinted at by the older...
     But the eyes? The eyes are her father's eyes, all darkness and seriousness, paired with a sweetness. Genevra too is in her school uniform, holding onto her mother's hand as Cosimina leads the way unerringly towards the canal, towards the gondola. They pause a moment; the mother's decision, unspoken, and two pairs of dark eyes look over at the father and the son. It is a pity that she cannot allow herself to smile, cannot allow her heart to melt; but no. There are children present, and that leavens her, leaves her softened - but never too much.
     They move forward again, and Cosimina's voice is clear and carrying. "Buon giorno, gondoliers. I see that you have a busy time ahead of you. I hope that we are not interrupting."

     "Cosimina, Cosimina," the others nearby hail the woman, the beauty of the city, good witch / bad witch, who is to say, and on this kind of afternoon, who cares? "Ah, bella Genevra," one calls to her, one of the old men, waving. "How is school today?"
     On the boat, Damiano and Paolo look up in unison, but the vessel does not waver, barely makes a ripple on the water so balanced they have it. He straightens, looks to his son, a hand to his shoulder. "We will practice more later," he says.
     "Yes, papa," Damiano says it simply, takes the compliments in stride and returns the pole to the Gondolier Himself. With a simple motion, well-seasoned, Paolo pulls the gondola back to the pier, flush but a breath away. He holds the vessel in place and his other hand out to his son. Balancing himself easily, Damiano steps out. Not hops out like most boys of nine might do but steps out like a king-in-training.
     "No, no... not interrupting," Paolo says, disembarking, too. This is unexpected. You have caught him off-guard, again. But the children are here, and he does not make a scene. His hands land on his boy's shoulders, "These are two women I have been wanting you to meet," he says warmly. "Venuto, leone piccolo," little lion he calls him. Lions, the guardians of Venice.
     "There is my little wave," he says to Genevra, coming to meet you both with the boy. He winks to her, then looks to you. Finally, to his son. "Damiano, this is your sister Genevra," not half-sister, but sister. "Genevra, this is your brother Damiano."
     Damiano does not look shocked. His Piccolo Paolo face turns upward to you Cosimina but without anger or hatred or anything other than polite address, and then he is directed to his sister. There is a moment, just a brief pause, and then he steps forward, with his hand extended. "It is good to meet you," he says quietly, his father's soft voice. When his father isn't in a jealous rage.

     Cosimina does not ignore the greetings, though she does not slow her pace; the only thing which slows her pace is deference for her daughter's shorter stride. Her hand lifts, her head does not turn save minutely, a small, secretive, gracious smile offered for the calls along with a wave. Her earrings dangle, her skirt sways, revealing shapely calves for a moment, hair and skirt blown back by the breeze.
     Genevra is a little shyer, though she smiles, slowly and then more widely, offering her answer with a dip of her chin that is almost a curtsey. "Is good," she murmurs, clinging to her mother's hand as if younger than her seven, almost eight years. She looks back to the two on the boat, then moves forward and smoothes her uniform skirt down as if wary of looking poorly put together.
     "I am glad that we are not interrupting," Cosimina remarks simply. In front of the children, always there is armed truce. More peace than you will otherwise have found in her presence, no doubt. "I had intended to speak to you about this," the meeting, "but I was in the area with Genevra, and so," she shrugs. So. Here we are. She looks down to Damiano, turning her face away from the father to regard the son - those eyes, so serious! And so young. But this is for the children, not for herself. She smiles faintly at the son, and waits, giving Genevra's shoulder a light press - both forward and intending to comfort at the same time.
     Genevra's shyness is something that is not entirely shyness. It is a consideration, a watching that has not yet become detachment, not yet become distance. She glances briefly up - to mother, to father - then back to her brother. "Hello," she offers cautiously, hand coming up. "I am sorry that I did not know that we would have been coming here. I would have brought something from the bakery."

     The shaking of hands makes a smile blossom on Paolo's features. His olive-tanned skin, that dark complexion, seems to go ruddy with sunlight from the inside, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He looks to you as the children acquaint themselves. For a moment that smile remains, until he remembers. That is right, she does not love me. It begins to temper back into his usual, nonplussed expression.
     Damiano is slightly more reserved, but he too smiles at the mention of the bakery. "There is one very close. Have you been to Il Leone Dorato?" The Golden Lion. "They have good cremas." He looks between the two of you, asking permission without permission.
     "In a moment," Paolo says, "...there is one other person standing here, hmm? Damiano, this is Cosimina. She is the Mistress of the Fate of this City," he speaks, bending as he says it. "She is also my wife." He says it like he means it. Fine. Maybe he means it! "She is a great woman, and I hope you will be able to know this for yourself." Paolo straightens, his hand moving away from his son's shoulders.
     Damiano turns to see the Woman of Women. The name he has heard with the face to put with it. He offers his hand to her, too. Just like with his sister -- to whom he steals a look, finding the pieces of Cosimina in her. He is a quick study. "I am very pleased to meet you. I am sorry I do not have a gift..." He even blushes a little.
     "Yes, well... these things happen," his father soothes from behind him. And he wiggles his fingers as Genevra. Anxious to lift her up. He looks to his son, his wife. He even checks to see if she is showing yet. Anxious to see her filled again.

     Cosimina's smile is turned onto the children and not onto the father, but it is fierce and unreserved. Children are the Future - here it means something, not the palliative given in other cities, other countries. Here, it is literal. It is Truth. Whether or not she loves you, she loves the children - and that she may show, and does.
     "Yes," Genevra answers, one foot dredging behind the other, hand dropping to be clasped by her other, together in front of her. "I help there, three afternoons a week. I sweep and last week, Signora Molinetta let me decorate a cake." She reddens suddenly, as if suspecting she's said too much, dropping her gaze down with a self-conscious smile that makes ringlets and curls droop. Then she too is looking to her mother, at her father's introduction.
     "I am very pleased to meet you, Damiano," Cosimina murmurs. Her expression smoothes from that fierce pride to something gentler, calmer - less legible, like chalk lines washed away by rain. "I promise you, I do not expect gifts from every man to whom I am introduced." Only those above the age of puberty, and not related to Paolo?
     She takes the offered hand in a careful hold, face turned down to the boy as if in a terrible benediction - benign, but aloof, but more given to the son than to the father, the pleasure behind the introduction. "I have looked forward to meeting you. You may call me Cosimina if you wish."
     Genevra lifts her attention to her mother, a certain curiosity in her face; mama, what are you doing? But Cosimina releases Damiano's hand, looking to the children. "There is still yet most of an hour before school resumes. I have some pennies; would you two like to go to the bakery together and bring back lunch for the four of us?" She does not seek permission in this. It is a natural thing to do, is it not? But she is not showing, or not so that her skirts reveal. There is something to the way she stands, though - protective, careful of her back, careful of her waist, hips just slightly forward as if braced against a weight. "I am sure that your father is hungry. He works hard. And you two, you must be hungry as well - you are young, you are always hungry. Here, take this."
     Some notes are taken from her skirt, offered out to Damiano. "Genevra, none of those icings, they are too rich - I will be ill if I have them. Your father and I will wait for you." What is she up to...

     Damiano takes the euros with a bow of his head. He will keep the order in the field trip, to be sure. The dollars are safely stowed in his pocket. "Yes...Cosimina," he says, "Panini would be good," he turns to Genevra. "The rosemary focaccia bread. I am getting hungry..." He holds out his hand to lead his sister, though he is only one or two years older than she. Already, the protection taken upon himself so easily...
     He is his father's son...
     "Not all sweet things," Paolo calls out behind him, "... or I'll faint in the sunlight." He watches them leave together, he waves. His hands rest on his hips briefly and then fold against his chest as he watches that vision move down the pier. "They are beautiful," he says. He looks to you, with his watering eyes. Nothing rolls down his cheeks, but the moisture is present, held within the cups of his dark eyes. He nods to you. "He could have been yours as easily." Paolo turns, to give his emotion to the Grand Canal. "So... how are you feeling...?"

     Genevra accepts the lead easily. She has not her mother's stubbornness, her mother's temper, not yet. The sweetness which time will erode, Cosimina called it - perhaps that is so. "Plenty of tomato?" It is a question, hopefully asked, not demanded as she is led away.
     Cosimina smiles despite herself, watching her daughter go hand in hand with her brother. "On anything else I would argue, Paolo, but that is truth, and who will argue with truth? I am glad that they are taking to one another. It is one less weight." She does not look at you, keeping her attention on the children as they diminish, but her smile turns off just as quickly as if it had been a light. "Perhaps. But he was not and is not mine. I cannot take that credit. But he is a very handsome boy, and I like him."
     How often does the Mistress of Fate admit to liking someone? It is a gift, handsomely given, but will you recognise it? Perhaps not; she shrugs carelessly an instant later. "I am tired. Always, I am tired - it is an effort to get out of bed. I know that this will pass soon, in a week, perhaps two, but it will return, and I know that also. They fight within me, and it is a strain; I must give them more of my energy, to keep them healthy, to keep them from fighting with each other for my belly. I have told them that they are not to fight so when they are outside of me." A pause, two, three heartbeats. "And you? You should not be so sentimentally foolish, Paolo. You know I have birthed before. Why should this matter now?"

     "Thank you," he says it softly, his head lifting to scan the skies as if he is looking for the shelter of clouds, the promise... or the foreboding of rain. But there is not a cloud in the sky today. "He is a good boy, sometimes he ... like me we ... are watery creatures, subject to deep emotions. Yes, Cosimina," he pivots to look at you, "...I have emotions." As if you were going to rib him at that.
     He inclines his head. "I am ... not sentimental. A man is not sentimental when a woman, his wife, is carrying his child, or children. Can I not ... am I not allowed to feel for that? To have my joy even? My pride? Perhaps it is nothing to you, but it is Something to me." He collects himself, turning his back on the Grand Canal and faces you. "I am sorry," he says, "... I do not mean to raise my voice to you. I am... glad you found us today. I am glad they have met. And that he may see you with his own eyes. It is important for me that he knows the truth of things. That he knows I am honest with him. And it will be easier for him and for Genevra, so close in age, to know one another now and throughout their lives. Family is everything. You are in his family, though you did not have the pain of giving birth to him. I hope that he may learn from you, so that when it is his time to stir the waters he will have an ally in the greatest Fate Witch of the thousand islands," which comprise the city of Venice.
     Paolo's expression steels a bit. He has said too much, shown too much. "I would like to speak with you... before they return... I have made some inquiries into a new home. I have found a place in the same sestieri, so she will not have to change schools. I do not want her to be disrupted too much. It is enough she will have to get used to sharing." He chuckles a little at that. "It is a large place, it needs... work, every building in Venice needs work, but the family is moving to Mestre and are anxious to sell it, even for... a more modest price. It will need a new roof. They admit it and have lowered their price to me. I have... put a deposit on it, but I want to show it to you. You must approve it."
     He pauses, clearing his throat. "It has a large master bedroom. Which will be good. I will not always be under your feet, but it will be more comfortable. And it has a good view, turns a good face to the city," its facade is in good shape, he means. "Plenty of windows for air..." Paolo starts to go on but then stops himself, making a wave. "Anyway... I ... hope you find it sufficient. If you wish to see it without me, I will write down the address and phone them. They will know you are to give the last word. However you wish it. I am your husband. In matters of the house, you are who must be pleased."

     For some reason - perhaps the nearness of the children, perhaps her discussions and admissions with Albizzina - it is difficult for Cosimina, right now. But she must do as she must, and so she closes her eyes so that she does not need to see you as she acts as she must, one hand going to her belly. "Feel as you must, Paolo, but let there be no pretense between us," she says indifferently. "I am, I will admit, happy to be with child. I was surprised, but I will not blame the children for my surprise; they will know that they are welcomed into the world, that they are wanted, needed, by their parents. It is a part of our purpose, is it not?"
     The dark eyes open, glancing to you with hooded intent. "I am relieved that they know one another now. It solves many problems - more problems than you might think. She does not speak of it, but I know that she has been having difficulties in her classes - someone close to her own age will be a blessing, I think." Wagging tongues do damage that children cannot defend against. Cosimina knows this of old, for all that she must appear ruthless...
     She looks away again, looking to the waters that are so like you - deep, changeable, frustratingly Present when they are not wanted (and present when they are wanted as well). She has so little control over you and they; all she can do is attempt to redirect them - and you - where she wishes.
     "Write down the address. I will go when I may. How many bedrooms has it? I will look, inquire into workers, to get the work done as quickly as possible, if I agree to it; there is no purpose in our paying for two places at once, Paolo." She is being more agreeable than usual. What is she up to...

     It must be the hormones...
     Seeing the children together, it has mollified him. It makes him bend. It makes him fluid. It makes him show his emotion, show himself. He hates that it is so visible, a part of him hates it. But it is as it is, he cannot help it. Nor take it back. He is certain you shall mention it at every subsequent dinner.
     Remember, Paolo, the afternoon you nearly cried?
     "I do not have a pen and paper with me. I will send it to you. They are holding it. It is the Palazzo Grimani Blanco," the Grimanis owned so many palazzi. "It has been split into two residences. There is a large kitchen, six bedrooms, a family room. It is multi-level," as all split residences in Venice are, all residences for that matter, "...but the master suite is on the lower level, with doors opening onto a small garden behind the house. The other bedrooms are upstairs. This will be good for the parents when the children are home..." We can still make love without having pattering feet filling the hallway to see what's happening.
     Dark eyes fix on you then, and it is clear that he wants you. A hand lifts, rubbing the back of his neck. He squints in the sunlight, looks past you to see the children coming. "Our lunch is on the way," he notes.
     "So... it is big... the twins can share a room. Genevra will have hers. That still gives you space to... well, should our family continue to grow." Before the children come too close, he moves up to you. "I must see you tonight," he whispers. "Please do not argue." He wants to kiss you. It is making him crazy! His hands go to your hips gently. One hand moving to brush against your belly. "You are so beautiful, tempting like the ocean," he breathes. "You could pull me in and drown me easier than you realize..."

     "Very well, but send it to me soon. If it is not adequate, if I do not like it, I will not have your money wasted, and the longer time is allowed to slip by, the more likely they are to have spent it." Her voice sharpens, as you no doubt knew that it would. "With two more on the way, we cannot afford to be profligate. Tell me how much the remaining is that they are asking, as well - I may be able to gain extra concessions."
     With or without a tweaking of threads...
     She nods slowly, judiciously as you describe the palazzo. It sounds alright, but ... "I will have to see for myself. However, it sounds promising, Paolo. Perhaps Genevra will be able to have friends come over." She looks as if she wishes to add something, but she does not, instead pressing her lips together as if stung, a scowl momentarily on her face. "I will see," Cosimina mutters, almost resentfully.
     She turns, looking to see the children returning, then nods. "So I see." You approach, and there is that turning of her head, of her hip as she stares at you. "Haven't you done enough?" Cosimina demands uncompromisingly, her hand catching at yours over her belly, not pushing away but intercepting. "Moons, oceans - why did I marry a man who is only thinking of one thing? If I say no, you will come anyway, and howl under my window all night for me to let you in. And then I will get no sleep and be unable to get out of bed tomorrow. Are you so selfish, you fool? Very well; you may come tonight, but I do not promise that you will see the inside of my bed."

     "I am selfish. I would be more selfish, but you would never allow it." His hands draw away like the tides draw away. "Cruel women, who are so beautiful. You pull us in, you send us away. Always when you want. And you call me selfish? What about you? You keep everything for yourself. Your heart, most of all. Or am I the only man you hate?"
     He has to stop himself. His face darkens, his eyes darken. Even though he smiles. "I will bring the address to you, and dinner," he decides. He does not give you a chance to argue him on that. "You will have your information. I will have my time with Genevra. And maybe her mother will not begrudge her husband his own desire." Does he not get this... service from Rosalie? Or is the Italian blood that hot? "Is that too much to ask?"
     "Ah," he calls out as the children approach, "...that looks like a good lunch. I am impressed. Did you bring back change?" he says to Damiano, turning and opening his arms to both of his children. "I did not get my hugs... bring them to me," he says to them both.

     "You are too selfish as it is," Cosimina says frostily, moving an inch away - a fraction, a fragment. "I do not need to encourage you to further depths. And of course I am selfish. Do you think that I give my heart to just any man? Ha!" She barks it, then composes her expression. "You are not worth hating, Paolo. Do you think that I place a value of hatred on you? Please. Do not give yourself such ridiculous thoughts."
     She looks away, eyes veiled by lashes, dark and smoldering beneath that cold exterior. "I cannot stop you from bringing dinner, though I was unaware that you felt my cooking so unpalatable. You will have your time with your daughter. She loves you with an open heart, unmasked." To the rest, she says nothing - the children are too close in range now, perhaps, or she just has nothing to say.
     But her expression softens, turned away from you so that you cannot see the softening, and by the time she is fully facing the children, her expression is composed, even amicable, with a small smile offered. "I will take the food and begin, you two should tend to your papa. He needs his hugs from his children." Cosimina declares it, moving to take the parcels. "I hope that you thought to get cloths. I would not wish you two to return to school covered in bits and pieces. Did you enjoy yourselves, selecting our luncheon?"

     Damiano, thought not an overly smiling child, seems to be of cheery temperament. No longer holding hands, for their hands are laden with nicely folded bags, they seem to have had a good trip. "Yes..." he nearly says 'mama'. He has to stop himself. "Cosimina... I did not know we attended the same school..." He looks to his father. You've been keeping secrets! Just like the sea. He offers the bags to Cosimina, bowing to her again as he does so, and then he turns to his papa.

     Arms are out to swallow them both. He is strong enough, that when he straightens he pulls them both up with him so easily. A kiss for each. "Am I not the luckiest gondolier, as well as the best gondolier," he grins, "... in all of Venice? If Amsterdam had gondoliers, I would beat them too." He sets them both down, putting his hand to each of head, one by one. A gentle, tangible I Love You.
     "I am hungry, too. What did you bring us? Not too many sweets, I hope," he looks to Genevra, and winks. "Oh yes... that is right. You do attend the same school. Now you have an extra playmate in the courtyard." He looks to Genevra, "Damiano is the best small ship builder in the city.. And Genevra," he looks to Damiano, "... is exceptionally good at games."
     And he is good at this...
     Damn him...

     There is a small and spreading smile, genuine, offered to Damiano and then to Genevra. "Good." Cosimina collects packages, a hand going to Genevra's carefully maintained curls for a moment, then releasing. "Go to your father, cara," she murmurs to the girl.
     Genevra needs no real urging, her own cheeks aflush, eyes sparkling. She is a social little creature, never happiest but when she is able to be amicable with others. That school of late has made her so quiet has not gone unnoticed by her mother. "Papa, of course you are best," she chimes in, then glances sidelong to Damiano. "...Can Damiano come and visit sometimes? I would like that. If," the dark eyes, so like her father's and brother's, lift to first you and then to her mama, "if you both say yes, of course. And only if Damiano would like..."
     There is that shyness, that sweetness. So very unlike her mama...
     "Focaccia - I smell rosemary and garlic," Cosimina remarks. "And - let us see. Bottled drinks, good, your papa will need much to drink. He has a long day yet ahead of him before dinner tonight." That veiled, hooded glance is sent your way. "And some sweets, yes, but not the iced ones. Good. I am pleased that you remembered. It is important to remember what people tell you."

     Paolo crouches to be more eye-level with both of them. A hand of theirs in each of his, he looks between them both. "I will be happy to bring him myself, at least until he is able to navigate the canals on his own, which might not be far off," a look to his son, "...the way he was doing today. What do you think, Dami? Would you like this?"
     Damiano, so serious... perhaps he needs such an outlet...
     Damiano nods, "I would like that, papa." He looks to Genevra. "It is good to have a sister closer to my own age." Something he does not have. "I get tired of changing diapers."
     Paolo nods, giving his boy a pat. "I know. But you know... one day, you will not mind so much. Well, maybe always the diapers," and he wrinkles his nose to both of them. "What do you think, Cosimina?" He turns his head and looks to you. "I think it would be a good thing. And they both would like to get to know one another better."

     "Noone enjoys diapers," Cosimina informs Damiano, with a hint of laugh. "Least of all me. However, it is something which ... goes with the territory, I am afraid. You will always be welcome in any home which I have, Damiano. If Genevra will behave herself, you may visit her as you see fit." There is a nod. She has said it; it is done. So be it.
     Genevra smiles sweetly, then colours faintly. "Yes, mama. I will remember." She turns to Damiano, looking hopeful again. "Would you like to come ... not today, I have my lessons after, but tomorrow, perhaps? If mama and papa do not mind. I know everyone is very busy."
     "Not that busy," Cosimina says dryly. "You get more like me every day, Genevra. But tomorrow is fine, if it is fine with your father, as it seems to be. I may need to go out in the afternoon for a bit; if so, then I will have someone come in for you, in case of emergency."

     "Tomorrow will be fine." Damiano and his father share a look. "He works so hard every day. It will be good for you to play." It's okay, you know, not to be so serious all the time. I wish I had played more. Perhaps I would not be so prone to anger now. "I will talk to your mother," Paolo tacks on.
     There will be no arguments...
     You can see that when he looks to you. "It is fine with me. I will take him home after dinner, tomorrow." Not counting dinner tonight. "All of this talk of food," he bemoans warmly, looking to the two and holding his gut with great theatrics. "Are you hungry? Do you want to eat in the gondola or on the benches?"

     Genevra laughs, clearly happy with this, the flush in her cheeks healthy and pleased. "Gondola! Damiano, help me in?" She casts a melting look at her older brother. She will be a heartbreaker someday...
     Cosimina holds onto the packages, cradling them to her chest with both arms and moving forward now. "Geni could use a playmate. She has friends, but so many of them are adults. I do not want her growing old before her time," she says placidly. "Tonight she has her singing lessons, or you could come tonight. But tomorrow will come soon, yes? Time passes more quickly when you get old, like me and your papa."
     Dark eyes turn to your own, eyebrows slanting upwards in demure question. What? Did I speak? "The Queen has spoken, so unless you two little kings have an argument, the gondola it is to be. Get in, and I shall hand the packages in. I think I shall remain on the pier; perhaps the three of you should eat together."

     "How about this, so mama does not get lonely, I will eat on the pier with her, but you two... take to the boat!" Paolo waves Damiano to go ahead. "I'll pass the food to them," he murmurs to you. That way there is no chance you'd slip and fall in the water.
     Damiano takes his sister's hand. "One day soon, I will begin navigating the canals in my own gondola. On Saturdays, papa and I go to the shipbuilders. I am learning how they are crafted. It is why I can make the little ones." He steps off the pier, putting one foot on the boat. He steadies it for her. "It will not rock," he says, "...go ahead..." A hand in hers, he helps her in. And the gondola does not rock like it does for the tourists.
     Paolo smiles, "Not even a ripple. I am impressed. My children are so bright, so talented. How did I get to be so lucky? Was it all my praying to the moon?" he wonders to hem, smiling, then peering at them, as if waiting for them to tell him how silly it is for a grown man to pray to the moon!
     Pivoting, Paolo faces you, his hands coming out. "What a good day this has become," he admits. "Thank you."

     "Thank you, Dam'ano." Genevra climbs into the gondola, sitting upon the seat with a pleased, princessly air to her. No wonder Giuseppe is charmed by her, even if it is the mother he seeks to woo. The dimples are there, ready to smile, needing only a little coaxing to be revealed. "The moon, papa? Why did you not pray to the sun?"
     Cosimina meanwhile hands the food over with a nod to Paolo; it is as much of a thanks as you will get. Then she moves to the bench with two of the packets of food and drink, sinking down onto it with a small sigh that is unfeigned, eyes closing. Momentarily, her own exhaustion shows.
     "They are bright and talented because they have been muchly blessed," she remarks, eyes still closed, unaware of your hands being out to her. "You need not thank me. I had my own reasons for bringing her, as I am sure that you know. But it is good that you are pleased, and it is good for them to see that you are pleased."

     Who could have imagined this scene? It is so familial. It is something that pleases him. Touches him. And it is so evident. Those he most cares for in all the world, minus one (he does love the toddler too), are all in one place. Here, by the water, with the best view of Venice, with food and good humor.
     Apart from the birth of his children, each of them, he cannot pinpoint a happier moment. Not even the knowledge of its...mirage nature, ephemeral and unlasting, can strip it from him tonight.
     Here, in front of all these people, Paolo smiles...

Posted by rowan at January 21, 2005 05:04 PM