The sun is beating down on the city today. It is so bright, it is scaring the pigeons. It is chasing the tourists indoors to their hotel spas, crowding the gelatto stands, taking up every speck of shade in this city. Museums are filled to summer capacities. Pockets are full, at least. It is the premium season, when a gondolier may refuse a ride for anything less than 100 euros. To hear him sing will cost you another 20 on top of that. And they pay it.
     Summer has come early to Venice. The rain has gone for now, the canals run low, showing their secrets. But still... no sign of the Doge's Gold. Not even draining the canals dry would give up that golden ghost...
     There are a line of gondoliers taking a siesta on the steps of the Palazzo Correr-Contarini, their backs against the marble columns, their hats pulled down over their faces. Thin, fat, young, old but all decidedly lazy, they sleep. All but one.
     The Guardian of Venice never rests...
     He has hugged his children already today. He has already laid his hands upon his wife's full belly. He has already been scolded and nagged by her, tormented and scorned by her. And it is not yet one o'clock in the afternoon. Already, a full day.
     He comes ashore with another load of passengers, his gondola with double the capacity of others. And he charges a quarter of the price. As long as the passengers are courteous. "My pleasure, please enjoy Cannaregio," he says to them in his perfectly acceptable English. They are American and enthralled by him. They thank him as all four pile off -- a husband, a wife, and two young girls. "Good bye, Katy and Sarah," he says to them especially. They will remember that for many years.
     Paolo moors his gondola, waving off another couple. "Excuse... I must take a break... the taxi station," he nods toward it, "...will give you a better price." A glance given to the sun, the Guardian wipes his brow and frowns at all his sleeping brethren. "Se veniamo a mancare, lo mancheremo, i miei amici. Accadra mentre stiamo dormendo..."

     "What will happen?" Cesare says, dressed nattily in woven linen slacks with the tiniest of pinstripes, and a tan shirt that billows slightly as his arms. He looks left and right, walking to the edge where the tourists are departing. He watches them as they walk away. Brows arch, and Cesare's forced to push his lengthening brown hair back from his face.

     Paolo looks over to the voice to see a familiar face that has not been seen for some time now. He nods a greeting. It is as close to smiling as he gets. "What will happen when we fail?" He looks at you a moment more, then says succinctly: "We will sink..." His hands tug the rope, the gondola secured and he steps out of it. "I am beginning to think I am the only one who cares anymore..."
     A ray of sunshine. As always...
     "I heard you were back," Paolo opens it with that. "It is good to see an Italian return to Italy among so many Americans, Germans and British. You are living here again?" A young girl, one of the daughters of the sleeping gondoliers, brings over a limonata. "Ah, grazie, Aemilia. Another for our friend, Cesare?"

     "Grazie," Cesare says to the child preemptively. He smiles and shakes his head negatively to the gondolier, "I still live here. What makes you think otherwise? Here, come for a while," he asks. "It's good to see you," the young man offers. "And a few still care," Cesare explains, having to consider his own position on this. "A few do," he nods.

     "It is good to see you also... I thought Albizzina mentioned you being in France," he says as he takes a sip of the limonata, the child returning both men with another, giving it this time to Cesare with a smile as she bounds off like sunlight against the many sparkling facades of this city. "I do not know why anyone would want to be there. Landlocked," and is that a smile? It can be thought as one, the quirk of his mouth.
     Paolo considers you a moment, then takes a swallow of the limonata as he walks with you. There are plenty of places to rest, despite the many bodies of sleeping gondoliers looking like the washed up remains of beached whales. "That is good to know. I hate to think of you conceding the Doge's Gold in forfeit."

     Forfeit? Cesare laughs a little, drinking from his cup. "I have been visiting France, it's true. Sometimes here, sometimes there," he says as explanation. "But I am well into the game," Cesare smirks, "...even if you do not see me, Paolo. Don't forget." Another drink, and Cesare gives a full smile.
     Once a set of gondoliers is passed, Cesare finds an open spot and extends his hand to it. "Though, I will say that I am here now on something that troubles me." All the way from France. "And so I come to you to discuss it."

     "I did not believe it. Albizzina was lamenting finding it without having decent rivals. That it would not be worth as much. I am sure she will be happy to know you are still in the hunt for it." It has become a game among the three of you. Who knows if either of them are even still looking for it. Or, in fact, if they ever were.
     Paolo takes a seat, thankful for the shade that the portico provides and a portion of the column. "Troubling you?" he asks. He looks to you as he takes another swallow of the limonata before setting it aside and leaning back in a partial recline. "Of course... you may speak with me about whatever is on your mind. We are friends. If I may help, I will help..."

     "I am trying to understand something," Cesare says, exhaling as he takes a seat next to his friend. "I am late, but...I want to understand what has happened with Rosalie," his brown eyes looking over. "I have heard the stories, I know what I have been told, Paolo, but..." he looks with raised brows as if to say 'you believe this'?
     "It is not what I understood of her, Paolo," he confesses. "If you tell me it is True, then..." he may have no choice to believe what he hears of her.

     His eyes are naturally black. When her name is mentioned, they become Stygian. Paolo looks from you to the waters and the city. "You want to understand it. I want to understand it, too. I thought she loved me. But ... she loved a man with more money, a better family. He is blonde." Paolo frowns. "And so is our youngest child. Apparently, from what she has told to me.. and from what they have found in my clothing and that of Dami's," his son's. "... she was in love with this man. He was able to afford to buy her things, give her things, his attention. Perhaps mostly that." He concedes that point.
     "I still do not know what caused her to turn her emotions from me. I do not want to believe that they were always lies, Cesare, but... it is starting to look that way. It is true that she has had an affair. It is true that she bore a child to him and made me think it was my own. And it is true that she worked her magics against me."
     Paolo looks to you again, his face drawn and his eyes Stygian still. "Those things are true. We do not yet know her motivations. She is to stand trial by the fate witches. The gondoliers want her banished. I think it would be best for everyone concerned if she were." He clears his throat. "I did beat her lover to within an inch of his blond, rich life. I found them... fucking on the kitchen table. I eat on that table, amice... how can I let it stand?"

     "She is the mother of your child," Cesare looks ahead to the canal. "She has served many years in her home, her City. Is she someone we can afford to lose?" he starts a moment, hearing himself say 'we.' "And...many have used magics against other in the City for ages. Yes, she may be be unfaithful and has shamed you but...to banish her? She has committed no crime against the City. She has committed a sin before God against you, yes?"
     "I have not come, amice, to tell you your business. But your business, si, is about to affect the City. It is a politic now, instead of a personal grievance between a man and his wife, yes?"

     "She attacked the Guardian of Venice, this makes it a crime against the city," the Guardian reminds. "And it was malicious, with intent. To make me tired so I would not notice her philandering, to make me not notice things about the child that were ... there to be seen, she blinded me, weakened me and kept money and food from our tables so I would work more and she would have more time with him."
     He says it so quietly. But you know how the smooth waters of Venice lie. Pernicious serenity belying currents and torrents that eddie and swirl and drown. The jaw sets in that Paolo stubbornness.
     "She sacrificed the well being of the city for her own selfish wants and needs. Perhaps she felt she was entitled, I do not know. I would not let her work outside the home. She sold her wares but out of the house. When a man came and promised her freedom and pleasure, this is, apparently, how she responded. I don't know. I did not want my business out for everyone to see and to judge and to ridicule. But there it is. She put it out there. Because he made her feel like a woman and not simply a mother. I guess."
     There is another exhale, and yes another frown. "We will lose a woman with a great capacity to heal. This is true. At a time when we can hardly afford to lose anyone with magical ability. More and more power is gone from this city with every tide. I hear you. But... what then for her punishment? What fits the crime? How can we trust her to heal and not injure?"

     Easy, the soldier thinks. You threaten to kill her. But Cesare doesn't say that. Instead, he runs his fingers at either side of his open mouth. A twist, and he picks up his drink, taking a swallow as he chooses his words. The energy from him is quite taut, almost annoyed. But Cesare only sighs softly.
     "You are right, Guardian. I should not have said anything. I am sure the sisters will mete out the appropriate judgement," Cesare says simply. "Maybe she will injure someone maliciously," and he cannot help himself, Michele cannot, "...because she has shown herself to be such."
     The drink is summarily finished. He's not even sure why he came. "I apologize Paolo. This is none of my business."
     "I am...not even in the guild," Cesare snorts. Certainly a mistake. "And I have been one to stay on the periphery. That is where I shall remain." Silly idea, this.

     "No, no... your counsel is needed," Paolo sighs, reaching over and putting his hand to the shoulder of his friend for a gentle shake. "Cooler heads should prevail. I am in no position to judge her, yes? I have not been faithful. Granted," he smirks, "... I did not try to drown her, but... who knew I was so ethical?"
     "Please, amice," Paolo looks to you seriously, "... never be afraid to speak your mind. Mutes make poor advisors." He smiles at that. "We should not be hasty. You remind us of this..." Yes, what if it does not begin and end with Rosalie? Certainly he has considered such. In his moments between drunken fits and jealous rages, when quietude settled around him and he hoped he was not a great fool these past ten years.
     "You are not in the guild. Neither is Albizzina," Paolo reminds you. "And yet your voices should be heard, and are. You are not in the guild of gondoliers because you are not a gondolier. You are also not a fate witch. Unless you are hiding something from me." The enigmatic mouth twists as he finishes his drink. "Nathaniel... who may have already, may sometime today, or will have slept with my own wife," always you have to speak in Past Present and Future when it comes to Nathaniel, "...is not either... not in Venice. But if he speaks...well, okay, if he speaks we may not listen. He makes no sense. But if you speak, amice, your voice will be heard."

     Apparently the sarcasm was missed, but Cesare will not speak of it. He thought he might be chided for his tone. Yet he is patted. "I am not so sure my voice should be heard. I have not used it before," Cesare murmurs. That was smart. But some other part must speak now. "And I am no counsel, Paolo, never have been. I am but someone who has lived here and watched you all. I am but friends with you and Albizzina, and am so by your choice, Guardian. I know my place." Such words. "I will only offer that this be not such the politic it has become. There is pride," Cesare says and knows, for such now drives him, "...and there is necessity. What is the necessity and what is its weight against the wrong that has been done? She has made an error - as faithfulness goes - and crossed a line to practice a magic upon you. It is unfair, it is not the way of a lover. But mistakes those are. Are they mistakes to banish a woman from her home? If the fate witches deny her, then," Cesare waves a hand, "...so be it. That is a consequence among her peers. But should the gondoliers have revenge? Is that what you wish from Rosalie? Revenge, or simple satisfaction? A rebuke from her sisters and a divorce from you. Do those not suffice?"
     And it's the most Cesare has spoken in years. Spoken passionately. Words of fairness. Insertion of himself into a situation that is completely out of his orbit; simple knowledge of something outside of that flat and the doge's gold.
     Cesare looks ahead, biting his bottom lip now, strange habit, that. Commentary on the complexities of relationships and finding a way for a leader to save face. Isn't that what this is about?
     "Rosalie," Cesare says softly, '...is a good person and a good...healer. I just wish you to remember this." And now, he looks as if he should depart. He twists gracefully, hand plucking the cup up again in the motion for the trash can.
     "I just ask for the mercy and kindness," Cesare says softly, "...that I know exists in our City." It exists in him, still. "That is all."

     There is pride? In abundance. It needles him even now. The jaw sets and he glowers, his eyes swirling in their darkness, foreboding dangerous seas. Hurt and anger, jealousy, rage, pride. "She has damaged me. Should she not suffer a penalty? More than a slap on the wrist? You say mistake... is that what you think? That she did not mean to do these things? She did not mean to make a fool out of me, to cuckold me, to strip my pockets bare to raise a child not even mine. Was that a mistake? I want to understand how someone could make mistakes like that. Making a mistake is forgetting to pick up the laundry when your husband has a big presentation and needs his suit. A mistake is not calling ahead to the Leoni di Santi to make reservations and then expecting to eat before midnight..."
     But he hears you. He waves his hand, understanding pride versus necessity. He is quiet as you rise to toss your cup. He exhales, his face placid, his eyes not placid, his jaw set as if it is wired shut. While your words do nothing to mollify him or comfort him, he hears the argument. "I do not know how a divorce shall satisfy me. She is out of my life, she was never in it apparently. But you are saying... as a solution... to let her remain? To simply... reap what she has sown." There is merit in that. He even frowns at it, so you know he's considering it.
     "I do not know what is fair," he admits quietly. "I do not want to see her face. I do not want her to be in my city. I do not want her seen with her lover with their child, a constant reminder of betrayal. But... I hear you that... it is ... my issue. And not the issue of Venice."
     Finally, Paolo looks to you. He nods. "I have heard you... and I will... impress upon the council the wisdom of mercy and kindness, though none was shown to me or mine. If Venice wishes to swallow her whole," a black eyebrow lifts, "...that will be between her and Venice..." But she will no longer have his protection.

     Cesare nods curtly once. He has spoken and has been heard. "None was shown to you, but you may show her. That is why," the younger man suddenly shows his glow, "...you are the Guardian and she is not."
     But it counsel of the knight that lingers. Cesare stands and tosses his cup towards a trash can. Physics says that the cup should arc and fall to the ground before the can is reached. But he doesn't have to bother with such. The cup makes it, harmlessly disappearing within.

     "I hate it when you are right, amice," Paolo murmurs. "Right now, I do not want to be the better man. I want to hit something." And water laps against the shore of the fondamenta, seemingly without provocation. You know that to be untrue. Tourists will think it was a turtle.
     "But... Guardian first. Man, second. Husband...third or fourth," he snorts. "Cosimina is pregnant. Again," next topic, though related. "Twins this time. We are living in a good apartment. Would you like to come for dinner? I know Damiano would like to see you." His son, already so much like him. "He asks about you..."

     "I think I have done enough damage to your family today, amice," Cesare smiles. The tension in him gives him pause. it is so easy now to simply snap at someone, to say so many things that one should keep to himself. But the idea that Damiano asks about him tugs at him. So few friends he has made in a hundred years here. "I am glad you are in a good apartment. Damiano..." Cesare smiles, looking to his feet, "...should have friends his own age." And who are in a better state.
     It must be a delight to have children, Cesare thinks to himself. Once, he should have wished himself a father. Instead? Well, another path was in front of him. And now, an even more different one. Cesare shrugs and seems to blush. "Please give him my regards and that I miss him. I will try to see him next time, when I have more time. But," he thinks, "...in the meantime..."
     Cesare turns his back to the tourists to face you. "Give him this for me, will you?" Cesare's hands land on top of each other, fingers opposing. He whispers softly and parts them vertically, causing a small, articulated puppet to appear. A teenager, if a puppet can be described so, whose arms and legs may go in many directions.
     The puppet is offered to you. "Tell Damiano it is from me - I am thinking of him. If he wishes to ask the puppet a question, it may answer him," Cesare smiles.

     And the upset of the questions, all of the emotion behind it, is set aside. Paolo grins at you as he accepts the gift. "He will love it. I will tell him it is from you. He will be sorry to have missed you," Paolo rises now too, "...but I will tell him you will see him soon."
     His hand comes out and pats you on the arm. "Thank you... he will be delighted. He is still young enough to love such things, to love games. It will not be long..." A father's lament. But he smiles all the same. When he speaks of his children, Paolo always smiles. "It was good to see you. Next time, you come for lunch... we will talk about the gold." The smile slants. As if you'll tell him anything.

     "Ah, the gold," Cesare nods, as if he'd say anything. Beneath his smile is a twinge of melancholy. The ability to create out of thin air and animate, a real power indeed and beyond anything he's shown in a century, is in contrast with the ability to create a family.
     "I will...see you later, Paolo. Grazie," he nods, turning about to walk down the canal and to disappear into the random crowd again.

Posted by rowan at May 15, 2005 09:12 PM