Late afternoon and the tourists are by and large snoozing the snooze of the overfed and unaccustomed to so much walking, ai, why couldn't they lay this city out more conveniently, Marty, where's the subway? It has been a very busy and profitable day already, for some. Others yet lean over balconies with hungry eyes and thin-lipped smiles, watching the passing of the Americanos, the Inglesa, and all of the rest. Dollars, lire, gold shekels for all they care - money in their pockets...
     Cosimina has many things on her mind, and those many things cannot be allowed to turn her attention too far away from the survival of family. She has been working - though she has already had to begin to limit herself, sending others in her stead to appointments, much to her own disgust. She is not yet waddling. But she is beginning to thicken at the waist...
     Here she is, in disguising silks, pale silver over darker grey for a slimming effect, her black ringlets oiled as immaculately as ever, her dark eyes regarding her surroundings with the same cool disfavor as always as she saunters along the edge of the waterway, a basket over one wrist, a cloth over the basket. The children are not with her today. God knows where they are. But what is it that she does here? Surely she is not here for you, Paolo. Everyone knows that Cosimina is heartless, and if she loves anyone, it is not Paolo...

     It is the fat time of year. Fat tourists with their fatter pockets fattening the linings of his own wallet. In the winter, he will bemoan the idleness, the silence that comes when the coins have halted. In the winter, he will tend to the waters as a sentinel, always out late. For it is in the winter that the floods come, that the Adriatic must be appeased, that the Guardian must truly toil.
     In the spring and summer, it is all about providing for his family. The rates are higher, he does not have to make as many runs, though there are always runs to take. No matter how high the price, the tourists still pay. They pay more now for a song. A smile? A smile, who can afford a gondolier's smile in the summer?
     But now it is lunch, it is "siesta". Tourists nap, the shops are closed, and the gondoliers are clustered in the shade of arches, their abandoned black swan vessels bobbing up and down with the wake caused by the water taxis. Paolo is among them, dressed in white today, all in white. He looks bleached sitting there on the sun-bleached stones of the piazza.
     He is not waiting for you, why would he be waiting for you, the woman who does not love him? But it is the time of day when you bring him lunch, your food, your hands, the smell of your skin and your oiled hair. Such a time of day, sometimes he has asked to meet you at the house, to send the children out to play...
     Still he has things that weigh on his mind, the preoccupation of the fate of the faithless wife. Moreso, his own anger, his own feelings of vengeance, and his own responsibilities.

     "Paolo." She greets you by name, without caress or preamble, twitching away the white cloth and laying it over her shoulder like a diaper, like a nursing cloth - like a precursor of things to come. Within there is the flask, there is the bread and there is the tomato, the cheese - there is even prostitute. She does not love you, so she must just want you to keep your strength up, to keep bringing home your money, for the children, for her silks. Though she has never taken food out of the children's mouths to clothe herself in luxury - there could always be a first time, couldn't there?
     The scent of almonds always follows her, always. It is her scent as much as anything ever could be, the moon-pale of her skin, the night-blackness of her hair capturing men in her wake as the moon and night have done for centuries. She is enigma, she is mystery; she is Fate. But at the moment, she is most pragmatically bringing you some food. Does it rob her of mystery, gondolier?
     But all that Cosimina has said is your name, and all that she does now is come to a halt to one side, closer to the shadows than where you stand, in sunlight and against white stones, in white as you are. She waits a moment, then remarks, "Your son and daughter are carrying items from the old house to the new one now. I have told them to be careful, but they can take smaller things, and they can be responsible for some of the packing. Signora Rosellini will check in on them while I am gone."

     He rises as you come, his hand coming out for the basket. Now, how many men may truly say they are fed by the Moon? "Good. I am sure they are making it an adventure." He pauses and bows his head slightly, still standing, offering his hand to you to help you sit nearby. There is a bench placed in his pocket of shade. "Cosimina," Paolo answers in greeting.
     Other spouses kiss one another, show obvious affections. But you and he? The affection he gives is given so you will not think him silly. You will of course take it as lack of affection completely.
     "I may tow an extra vessel home. He can pilot things to the new home...it will be faster. You are well... and grazie," Paolo continues, sitting on the bench beside you, unwrapping his lunch. "And you...how are you feeling, my wife?" He sniffs at the cheese to tell what kind, and begins assembling his meat and bread and cheese.
     He is a wonder in white. More than he has a right to be. His dark curls and darker eyes, his dark olive complexion are made deeper by it. It seems to brighten his mood. He does not seem so dour.

     She nods coolly, accepting your arm and allowing herself to be handed down to the bench, showing no reaction to this. Affection? She does not love you, after all. As she constantly must remind herself to play at. "I am well enough. They are quieter within me, now." Cosimina folds her hands in her lap - and sitting, the thickness of her waist shows more, now, the cloth having nowhere to hang but against the swelling flesh. "They do not fight for the moment as they have been. This is good. It gives me more energy to deal with other things as I must."
     A hand comes up to flick her hair back into position, the dark, languid eyes regarding you with such a lack of passion that you might think ice flowed in her veins - if you had not had her under you, if you had not had bottles smash against the wall inches from your head. "You look well," Cosimina says lightly. "You do not look as a man who is troubled might look. But very well - bring a vessel home with you. I will not be in until very late tonight; I will have Genevra make dinner. Damiano can help her if she needs it, and they may go to the bakery to select some sweets for their hard work with packing and cooking."
     There is fresh mozzarella, still sitting in a skim of milk, and there are olives as well - salt and bland-sweetness, to contrast one another. A hearty if picnic lunch.

     A compliment?
     His full mouth remains closed, but the chewing did pause for a brief second, his dark eyes lifting to you. "Grazie," he says after swallowing, wiping his mouth on the napkin you brought. "It helps to keep me cool, it reflects the sun." He makes a face like a boy in secondary school might after having talked about the scientific significance of flatulence in frogs to the girl upon whom he has a crush.
     Great. Air conditioning. That is what you talk about, you oaf?
     Paolo shrugs a little. "There is no reason to be troubled now, si? The waters are calm, we are moving into a bigger space, we have money in our coffers, food on the table, and children in our home and in the belly. From where I sit, I would say I am a man for whom troubles should not be dwelled upon."
     Why, he is almost upbeat!
     "You always dazzle the tourists and natives alike. Another new silk outfit?" It is not accusatory, per se, but he imagines you'll take it as such. Paolo nods as he continues to eat, speaking when he may. "A late night... I suppose with all of the tourists, your evenings are full of readings... I will... be home early. We will keep a plate of food for you." It is a reading, isn't it? An eyebrow cocks upward.
     And not some....tryst...

     "I can see how white might do that," Cosimina concedes, though with a slight roll of her eyes as if bored indeed with this talk. "But so long as you will not faint in the sun, so much the better. There is lemonade in the flask - you do not need too much wine, it will make you lazy in the heat. I did add mint to the lemonade," she adds, as if having done you a great favour, "and not too much sugar, though some. You will grow fat, left to your own devices."
     She moves one hand restlessly against her stomach, then settles again. "We are moving, yes; but there is much to be done. The repairs are finished and there is nothing preventing us from moving into the new place as soon as everything is in order. I have set Damiano and Genevra to work, some hard work is good for them, especially as it is for all of our benefits. The money will not last forever, Paolo, and the waters will not remain calm forever either. It is not wise to leave off thinking entirely."
     And then she scowls, taking your words entirely as an accusation. "I am pregnant with not one but two, fool," Cosimina snaps, hands bracing against the edges of the bench. "My old silks from when I was pregnant with Genevra will not fit. Would you have me clad in bedsheets and nothing but? Be practical and use your thick head for something, for once. As for where I go, that is my business." Her expression smoothes out. "It will bring more money into the coffers."

     "Why must you take everything as an accusation? Why can I not simply say 'You look nice', without you thinking it is some...trick or condemnation?" The food is set aside for the moment, the lemonade taken and tasted. "I just meant that you looked nice," he protests.
     "I will try not to faint, it would be bad for business. And for my health. I command the waters. It does not mean I want to swim in them." Paolo makes a cross against his check. Jesus, save me from such a fate. "It sounds like you have things well in order. I will move more things tonight after I eat...while you tend to your business." Whatever it is.
     He is...
     Paolo looks to your belly, then to your face. And he smiles. He can't help it. You put your hand on your belly, and he covers it. "You have never been more beautiful," he whispers. "We will be careful, hmm? We will save our money. I have been very frugal and it has been a very profitable tourist season so far." His hand lightly skims against the silk and your stomach.
     "Can you stay for a while?" You know that sound. "Perhaps we can go to the house and relax a little while. How are your feet, your legs?"

     It is not right, that you tempt her as you do. Cosimina scowls, tilting her head down as if refusing to look at you. "You did not say that I looked nice. You asked if it was new - another new silk outfit. If you cannot be precise, Paolo, really, you cannot imagine that I will know." Her chin comes back up, and she fixes you with an imperious gaze. "I have never been more beautiful - then you thought me ugly all this time before? Hmf."
     But she does not chase your hand away, even though she knows that she should. Not yet, at least; "If we go to the house, Paolo, the children will be there. My feet are swollen and hideous; my legs not as hideous but not as well as I would like. I have had to cut back on my work."
     And this is said dispassionately, too dispassionately, for she is looking away again. "Teresa is taking over some of my work, what I cannot handle. I will before the month is out have to portion out more to the others. Venice cannot be allowed to suffer simply because I am without time. Why do you not go to the house, Paolo? The children would be glad to see their father. And I am busy."

     "Yes, you do too much. Remember, there are two in there. And only one of you." It is a caution, genuine and warm. "You are busy. Too busy for your husband? Ah, I should not ask," he looks away, taking his dark eyes off of you and looks out to the water. "I should not be selfish."
     Where's that coming from?
     Paolo takes a long drink and then returns to his sandwich. "I spoke with Cesare... he is doing well. He has returned to Venice." He looks to you again. "He and I spoke of this matter with Rosalie. I think... I have been selfish there, too. Thinking only of my hurt and jealousy. I should not be prideful. Not so prideful."
     Paolo leans over. He kisses you upon the cheek. "Your feet, your back must ache. Are you sure I cannot help? I have made more money in this half a day than I made all of yesterday. I would be happy to go home... to see the children... then to rub your back..."

     All this sentiment. It makes her look at you as if you have grown a second head. Who are you, and what have you done with Paolo? But she allows you to continue speaking. "I hope that Cesare is well. Though he never remains long, his assistance here would be greatly useful." Venice, always Venice. It comes before you, before children, before admonitions, before everything - doesn't it?
     Cosimina closes her eyes, settling a little more firmly on the bench and with a small, echoing sigh, she shakes her head. "I do not have time, Paolo. For Rosalie - I ... will speak of that when we have no other ears about that might hear. Suffice to say that I will not be one passing judgment. I have spoken and given my feelings on the matter - that her poison must be undone, that she ought to be put to work undoing her own poison. That the matter must be looked into - that we must prevent it happening again. Whatever lies she has spread, she has lost you and Damiano. Now maybe she will know what she has lost."
     Was that almost a compliment? Surely not. The dark eyes open, focusing on you with beetling brows. "You should go home and help Genevra and Damiano. If I can get enough done this afternoon, I will be home earlier. But they are packing things, and the sooner you go there, the sooner they can begin moving things across to the new house."

     He sighs, not liking the answer but he accepts it. His hand withdraws from your belly and from the growing presence of his children. "I will go and help them after I finish eating." He returns to his sandwich, giving it his full attention for a time. "It is good that he has returned," Paolo nods. "We need our strength now, and he is a part of it. We are less without him."
     His pitch eyebrows draw together. This was Cesare's argument, wasn't it? About not banishing Rosalie. Hmm. He is smarter than I recall.
     "What is that look for?" he wonders with a pursing of his full mouth. "Always you are looking at me like I am the crazy one..."

     "I do not like her. If it were up to me, she would be dead, for dishonoring you and for the torments she laid upon you and upon Damiano." Cosimina rises by degrees, very slowly, with a faint wince as she uses the muscles in her lower back. "I do not believe that she is truly redeemable; she will have to be watched, always, and that will involve taking attention from other things. But our numbers are few, Paolo. How many herb witches have we got, to do even the simplest of magics? There will have to be checks upon her. Quite likely her daughter will have to be apprenticed to someone of power enough that Rosalie will not stray. It is not the old days, for us to have magic enough to throw one stray witch away for her faithlessness."
     She attains full ground, on her feet with both hands on the small of her back. There is no sound of pain given for you to hear. "You are a crazy one," Cosimina retorts. "But your children adore you nonetheless. Lazy oaf. Go finish your lunch, and bring the basket - and the flask! - back to the house. Genevra can wash it out for you and show you whatever treasures she and Damiano have unearthed in their hunting and fetching - she was going through her old schoolbooks when I left." By now, no doubt the children have found other things entirely. "Just don't be lazy. I have seen how you grow fat and sleepy whenever given the least respite - just like a male lion," she scoffs, "expecting the women to do it all for you."

     He makes a sound, a breath, a snort, an audible smirk as he starts packing up the remains. "I am not allowed a husband's right to gain sympathy weight? No, no always I must be in top form, eh? To fight off the rivals. At least not all my rivals are as strapping as I," he must be teasing, the smirk deepens.
     Paolo is rising even as you do, hands out to balance you. Such doting from a man who supposedly does not love you. "I will see you at home. I will go now. You will be my last passenger. Where may I take you, my wife?"

     "Hmf." Cosimina's eyes narrow at you mistrustfully - you, who are her opposite, the tide that she may tug at but then pushes her back. "I am well aware of how pleased you are to see me growing fat. You need not think that I will be similarly pleased should you do likewise, no. You must remain hard and hard-working." She sniffs, turning her head away.
     It is hard for her, especially now, to remain obdurate, to remain harsh to you. Even as every day she pens a new missive to you, the ink no doubt still wet on the last where it has been slid into its envelope, the envelope placed in the large box with all of the others...
     "You will take me to the small piazza where the three lions are," Cosimina tells you without looking at you. An area where several wealthy families live, and where a number of very exclusive boutiques still linger. "I will make my own way back when I have finished."

Posted by rowan at June 17, 2005 12:24 PM