“MAMMA! Mine!” Mia shouted back at the photographers, and then nodded her head, as if that solved that.
The paparazzi, all men, kept screaming, though, and the boats were starting to get closer.
Scarlett shot me a nervous glance and pulled Mia closer. Then, to make the situation even more tense, a towering cruise ship, its form dwarfing us, began its descent across the sea, stalling our progress. The water seemed to swell underneath us, making us bob and sway in the canal like a cork.
Scarlett sighed, holding Mia and Matteo closer. “Look over there, Mia,” she said, attempting to distract her by pointing to all the places along the Grand Canal. “People live in those palazzi. The front doors lead out to the sea. See how it splashes against the steps?”
Dozens and dozens of assorted watercrafts were docked in the water close to the many palazzi along the canal. Some had docks. Others were separated by simple poles. We passed a restaurant that had numerous steps built in a semi-circle leading to its terrace with tables.
As we floated underneath one of the four bridges spanning the Grand Canal, we were passed by a gondola, its gondolier making smooth strokes with his long oar, his striped shirt and straw boater, along with a navy wool reefer jacket, like something from a painting.
Seeing this, Rosaria gave a bit of a show from her vaporetto, singing an aria loud enough that it echoed.
Scarlett sighed at some of the buildings. The history lover in her was enraptured by the proof that history lives on through concrete and stone.
She felt Venice was romantic, with its intrigue and mystery. A romantic scene was playing in her head, with opera and ballgowns and masks and candlelight—a scene taken out of one of her romance novels.
The romantic in me lived only because she set him free. My heart was into it when the time called for it, for her, but in general, life was in black or white for me, and I was indifferent to many and loved only a few.
Scarlett never asked for romance, nor expected it, but she enjoyed it from time to time. Perhaps it spoke to her own Italian roots.
This place, it didn’t speak to mine.
Acqua alta(high water) made me a bit nervous. I loved water—it seemed to speak to me in a language few understood—but when there was a risk of my family being flooded out, it made me hesitate. I knew the power of water, what it could do, and I was only one man.
The flooding used to happen every four years or so, but it had become more regular as time passed.
The overflow of tourists with the same romantic visions as my wife made me hesitate too. It was hard to move through the crowds, a constant rush and push that made even the locals testy.
My eyes snapped up when one of the paparazzi called Mia’s name, making a comment about her being the next Grazia Angeli. My grandmother was a world-famous movie star, but she was never as famous as she was in Italy.
I stood in front of my family, fixing my suit jacket. The calls started in on me.
What a beautiful family!
Where is your father, Brando?
Your wife is beautiful!
Look here, Scarlett!
Smile for me, beautiful!
A picture together!
Will you ever dance again?
One picture together!
Where is Luca Fausti?
“Brando.” Scarlett put a hand to my back. My name came out half-soothing, half-warning.
She could tell the situation had started to make me anxious. They weren’t being rude, but the taunting seemed to be getting more riled up, some of them attempting to shout over one another. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one of them didn’t take a plunge into the water.
One of Scarlett’s factoids came back to me.
She’d once told me that Audrey Hepburn had fallen into the water while filming a movie and got an eye infection that flared up all her life.
