One Great Lie, page 16
The guard forces a blue paper poncho into her hands. It’s the pale, sickly shade of the crinkly gowns at the doctor’s office. When she puts her head through the hole, the drape goes all the way down to her shins, covering her knees, too. She’s humiliated. A curl of shame rises up, but she steps inside the church anyway. The poncho rustles as she moves, and the whole time that she’s there, wearing it, she feels bad. That poncho isn’t protecting her; it’s protecting everyone (and God, too, she guesses) from her. That long blue poncho tells everyone she’s immodest. That something about her body is wrong enough that it shouldn’t be seen.
She doesn’t stay in the church for long. And it’s stupid, but when she’s back outside, she doesn’t take that poncho off until she’s out of sight of that guard. She doesn’t want him to yell at her again. She wants him to think she’s good, and that she follows the rules. But the second he’s far enough away, she rips it off her head and rolls it into a ball and shoves it into her handbag.
Right here on the grounds of San Zaccaria, Charlotte wonders if Isabella, and Sister Antonia, and the other girls too, felt this same bad feeling, this gross shame prickling up their backs. It reminds her that maybe she shouldn’t get all romantic about things that happened in the past. She shouldn’t make it into something it wasn’t, just because it seems like a great story. You could forget that history was something that happened to real people.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gaspara Stampa, poet.
Considered to be the greatest female poet of the Renaissance, most of the 311 poems she wrote were dedicated to Count Collaltino di Collalto, a man she loved but who left her. She poured out her sorrow in her work, using her pain to inspire her, and this eventually led to her survival and triumph. Her cause of death at age thirty-one in Venice is listed as “a sickness of the sea.”
(1523–1554)
“Shaye, you coming?”
“I, just—” Shaye lifts a finger, then keeps typing. She’s been working on a story of her own, separate from their assignments, one that’s getting longer and longer. Charlotte sees the title, Don’t Be Going, when Shaye has her laptop open. Every now and then, Charlotte sneaks a look when Shaye gets up to go to the bathroom or to talk on the phone. It seems really personal. The way you laid on me was like a memory. Stuff like that. A couple of times, when Shaye’s been away, she says she’s been out at the tower, writing. The tower! God, Charlotte can’t understand how she’d want to go out to that place alone. Shaye doesn’t talk about the story much, but she bragged that she showed Luca, and how he kept going on and on about it. And, sometimes… sometimes she slams her laptop shut when Charlotte comes near. It’s not the story she’s hiding, though. Charlotte saw emails. Emails she was reading, emails she was writing. To who? Someone at home, someone she met here? No idea.
“You don’t want to miss out!”
“One sec, Jesus.”
“Okay! Do what you want! See you down there, then.”
* * *
Charlotte’s been excited for this night since they arrived. They all have. Whenever Dante’s talked about it too, it’s only made her want to experience it more. Even Maria described it as magic. Festa del Redentore. The Redeemer Festival—a celebration of the end of the plague in 1576, when the doge of the time promised God a church if he’d end the suffering. When the church was built on the island of Giudecca in the Venetian Lagoon, a new tradition started—a once-a-year pilgrimage across a temporary bridge from Venice to the church doors, the only time the two islands are connected. Now, it’s a weekend event that’s a huge party for the city. Dante said there’d be so many people, he doubted he’d even be able to find her tonight, when all the boats gathered to watch the fireworks, or even tomorrow, when everyone made the pilgrimage across the bridge. But he’d be out on the water too, with his friends, on Raffaele’s boat.
Ever since that night at Cantina Do Mori a week and a half or so ago, Charlotte has felt a super-awareness between her and Luca. Sometimes when he says something really funny or meaningful, he looks at her for her reaction. And sometimes when he hands a plate across a table, she swears he brushes his hand across hers on purpose. She catalogs these things in her head, but they’re so subtle, it’s hard to tell if she’s just making up some big story.
There was that time, though, where she was sure she wasn’t making it up. The day after she wore the poncho at San Zaccaria, she went to the La Calamita library to work on an assignment, since it was so blisteringly hot out. He was there, writing at his desk with the view of the water.
She didn’t want to bother him and turned to leave. But he said, Hey, come over here, and when she did, he handed her a page filled with his loopy script, and she got to read something no one else had ever seen. Think about that. She was the first. It was only a few paragraphs, a dreamlike scene on a stairwell. He actually had a grammar mistake or two in there, like anyone else would.
It was so amazing, and she couldn’t help thinking how far she’d come from back at home, when she’d read his book in bed and imagined him at a fancy literary party or something. Now here she was, with the real him, a him she knows, and he was showing her his new work. Something that would go in a book and maybe win awards and who knows what else. It was hard to follow, actually, but she told him how magnificent it was, and he seemed pleased. He stood very close to her.
You like what you see? he said, lifting his eyebrow in a flirty double meaning. It was a joke but maybe not a joke. And instead of feeling that great energy… she felt uncomfortable. He was standing so close that when he grinned, she saw that he had something in his teeth. And this is hard to explain, but the way he looked right then—sort of awkwardly bent down toward her—she could see the dweeby guy he was when he was younger, the one who girls never looked twice at. He seemed… needy? Sad? She made a joke back to him and got out of there.
That night, Charlotte called Carly. She didn’t call Yas, because Yas would be judgmental. Charlotte was kind of rude, because she didn’t even ask about Carly’s new job at Elliott Bay; she just launched in, like you do when a crisis is simmering. She told Carly she was confused about what was going on between her and Luca Bruni, but she wasn’t really confused. Carly wasn’t confused either. And she was way more judgmental than Charlotte thought she’d be. Be careful, Carly said. I don’t like this.
It doesn’t mean anything! He’s only flirting. Shit! She never should have told anyone, not even Carly. She just needed someone to talk to. You make it sound like he’s doing something to me, like I’m a victim or something, when I’m not. I don’t even mind it.
He’s old, and famous, and he’s, like, your teacher, Carly said. You’re… you. From Roosevelt High, who wants to be a writer someday. It’s wrong.
God! Carly doesn’t get it. Luca Bruni doesn’t see her as Charlotte from Roosevelt High who wants to be a writer someday! He sees her as herself, someone he maybe desires, and it’s kind of thrilling that he’s attracted to her. Come on, Carly pretty much loved that inscription he wrote to her! Charlotte doesn’t know what she even wanted from Carly, maybe just for her to say everything was okay. She decides to keep her mouth shut from here on out. And she’ll be careful to keep it—the thing between her and Luca—where it is. She’ll manage it, same as she used to manage Adam and his insecurities.
Right now, though—it’s an exciting night. The uncomfortable moment in the library when he had stuff in his teeth has faded away, and when she sees Luca already down at the dock, handing stuff to Aldo in the big open skiff they’re taking to the festival, she’s just happy. Leo’s trotting toward them from the villa, and Katerina appears with a sweater tied around her shoulders, and Luca is laughing and boisterous, wearing a stylish white hat with a blue brim. In the golden late-afternoon light, he looks like the magic famous writer, the romantic talent she wants him to be. He looks handsome and charismatic, with his long limbs and mop of hair and crooked nose, and she can’t wait to get in that boat. If he shines his light on her tonight—good.
* * *
Aldo has attached several poles to the front and back of the boat, and now, before they leave, they string white lights back and forth between them and hang paper lanterns of all colors and shapes between the lights. Two tables are set up in the center of the boat, covered in white tablecloths. When they all finally get in and motor toward the Bacino di San Marco, the basin of water in front of Saint Mark’s, Charlotte can see boats of all kinds and sizes streaming in too. Small motorboats, sailboats, and sleek wooden cruisers, decorated with garlands and flowers and flags and lights, all putter into place beside them. There are little white lights strung along the shore as well, and people are already gathering there. Instead of the usual few tables outside the restaurants, lots have been smashed close together. The water is sloshy and jubilant from so many boats, and there’s waving and shouting from one to the next as neighbors and friends spot each other. And it’s clear, you know, that this is a celebration that really belongs to the people of Venice, not to outsiders.
Aldo guides the boat, gesturing his hand forcefully to other captains to hurry them along. He jets in and out among them until he maneuvers right up to the newly set-up bridge, which links the island of Venice to the island of Giudecca and leads to the doorway of the Redentore church, with its beautiful white face and huge white dome and spires.
“For hundreds of years, it was a bridge of wooden barges, but now, pontoons,” Bethany Sparrow says loudly over the sound of the motor. Gas fumes sputter upward, merging with the smell of the sea.
“Enough with the history. Let’s find a spot and open the wine!” Luca says jovially.
Aldo veers the boat in an arc. He speeds away, heading to the spot where most of the boats are gathering and angling for the best view of the fireworks, tying up to one another in a huge flotilla. Aldo slows, and the motor putters as he glides up to a speedboat already in the middle of a lively party. Aldo throws a rope, and the man misses.
“Coglione!” Aldo says.
“Testicle,” Hailey translates, and they all laugh as Aldo tries it again. The man ties them up, and soon enough, another boat is heading toward them to do the same.
“Vacci piano!” Aldo yells.
“Slow down,” Hailey translates again, and they laugh again. Now the driver is throwing a rope to Aldo, amidst shouts of Attento! and Fermare, fermare!
“Wait, stop, stop,” Eliot translates, and Hailey punches him.
“Hey, only I get to do it!”
It’s all chaos, but happy chaos. Luca is hunting around in the storage areas of the boat, and Shaye keeps switching seats for a better view, and Katerina and Charlotte are helping take the food out, unwrapping plate upon plate of meats and cheeses and breads and figs and tomatoes and olives and fried sardines and melon and, and, and. Luca sets glass candles on the tables and then lights them, because the sun is beginning to set. Eliot folds a slice of prosciutto into his mouth, and Ashley says, “Stop! Wait for everyone else.” Luca is pouring drinks—a splash from one bottle and a splash from another, passing around the sparkling orange mix. Leo stands to reach for his glass and bumps Luca’s hand, spilling orange on Luca’s white shorts.
“Che due palle!” Luca spits.
“What two balls!” Hailey translates, but no one laughs. They all hold their breath, because she should have kept her mouth shut. Leo can never do anything right in Luca’s eyes. He seems to hate the guy. Hate. If the rest of them accidentally do anything to embarrass or insult Luca, he’ll get pissed, but if Leo’s knee is going up and down when Luca’s talking, or if he has an opinion, or, honestly, blinks wrong, Luca’s on his case. Leo just takes it—makes his face very neutral, though Charlotte has sometimes seen his eye get a nervous tic. He’s gotten quiet, hangs out around their edges, mostly with Katerina, who’s also been more subdued lately, who knows why.
Now Luca blots the liquid with a napkin, but then he laughs, and so they all do too, in relief. Nothing will spoil this night. The hot day is cooling, and the sunset is the same shade of the orange drink in their glasses. Food gets passed around, and as they eat, there’s jovial shouting and the lilt of Italian accents all around them, and then comes the sound of people playing mandolins. Luca tells the story of the time his cousin tried to teach him guitar, and Ashley tells a story about when her mother’s guzheng, an enormous Chinese zither, got stuck in her Mini Cooper, and Eliot tells a story about bringing one of those huge party sandwiches from Subway home in his convertible, and how he had to ride with one leg over it, which leads to a bunch of suggestive jokes, plus more stories. That orange drink is strong, and Charlotte tries to sip, but it’s delicious, too. Everything softens quickly, and she feels so happy and lucky as the boats rock and slosh. Luca opens some wine, and bottles seem to be emptying fast, and the entire city is a glittering party on the water, until it’s finally ten o’clock.
Luca sits next to Charlotte. Their arms aren’t quite touching, but it’s as if they are. The space is so small, she can feel the heat from his skin. All night, he’s caught her eyes and stared a moment too long, and she hasn’t exactly minded. They’re all here, and he’s choosing her, and the night is just fun and high spirits. And it’s not like she’s been innocent, either, whatever that means. She’s tugged on his sleeve, or touched his arm when he’s said something funny. It’s like—it’s hard to explain. It’s happening in a different universe than her life with Adam, or Owen Burke, boyfriends from, you know, high school. And it’s a separate world from her relationship with Dante, too. Luca Bruni is so much older than she is, and he’s experienced so much more, but that’s part of what makes this flirty whatever so large and important, because his approval, his wanting her, is bigger than all the approval she’s ever wanted from anyone, combined. Her dad, never home. Her mom, never happy. Any guy who never paid attention to her is now only a meaningless boy in comparison. Any girl who was ever cruel is small and unimportant, because when he looks at her like that, it’s like a huge See? Fuck you.
The party has gotten louder all around them, but finally, the crowd lets out a collective gasp as the fireworks begin. Charlotte has seen tons of fireworks, great ones, over Lake Union on the Fourth of July, but they were not these. This is sky art, set against the huge dome of that church. Explosions of red and green and pink, then all colors at once, and then a row of colored sprays, looking like fountains along the bank. And since it all reflects in the water, in that boat, they are surrounded by fireworks, shimmers and glimmers and glints, up and around and down, and Maria was absolutely right, because magic is the only word. Luca leans toward her.
“Your eyes are shining,” he says in her ear.
No matter what happens after this, and a lot will happen after this, very bad and unforgettable things, it’s a moment she won’t forget. Stories are always more than one thing, and so are the people in them. There was the plague, and then there was a bridge between two islands. Suffering, and fireworks.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Semidea Poggi, poet.
From an aristocratic family, as a young nun, she was involved in several scandals. She was so good at charming men into visiting the convent that she was accused of using “love magic.” Equally shocking, she not only sang but also played the trumpet and the trombone. Later, she wrote nonreligious poetry. Her convent appears to have been complicit in helping to get both her and her work outside its walls.
(1551 or so–1637)
When the last shimmers of sparks blow out, leaving a dark sky, they gather the dishes and crumple up the napkins and throw away the plastic cups. All the boats untie and drive away in different directions, their bow lights exploding outward in another kind of firework.
“Go to Lido,” Luca Bruno tells Aldo, who groans.
“It’s late,” Aldo says. “Too late.”
“They have to see it.”
“I’m too old for that,” Bethany Sparrow says, even though she’s not much older than they are.
“Lido,” Luca commands.
Lido is a nearby beach, where the party continues. Luca hands a few blankets to Leo, and Luca himself has wine bottles tucked under his arms. Aldo drops anchor near shore, and they all plop overboard into the shallow water and run to the sandbar, which is quickly covering with people.
“I have to pee so bad!” Shaye says.
“Same,” Charlotte says.
“We’ll be here!” Luca sets the bottles onto the blankets on the sand.
Bethany Sparrow comes with them, leading the way, though they couldn’t miss the long line into the cement structure of the restroom. Shaye has her arms folded as they wait. Is she mad? She seems mad. She’s barely speaking to Charlotte. On the way back, Shaye walks ahead. Charlotte tries to catch up. “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asks.
“You’re such a child,” Shaye snaps.
“What?” Charlotte snaps back.
“Do you think he really likes you?”
“God, Shaye, what is your problem?” Really, it’s so irritating, the way Shaye always acts like the ultimate authority on Luca, like she’s the only one who really knows him, who’s honest enough to confront him, the only one who cares about the actual him, good and bad. Like she’s put a fence of ownership around him, even if she sometimes thinks he’s an asshole. But maybe they’ve just reached that point when too much drinking goes from fun to fighting. Yasmin’s boyfriend, Nate, would get like that if they went to a party, though he was the only one who drank a lot when they went anywhere. Ashley and Hailey and Leo are still having a great time, though, and they get up to join some other people from one of the boats that they were tied to in the flotilla.
“If you’re not back here in a half hour, you have to find your own way home,” Luca calls, and they wave to him over their shoulders. “Old man Aldo has to go to bed.”
