He laughed, shifting his hip, making the gondola see-saw on the water. “Ah, but I like to ‘rock the boat.’ Isn’t that what you Americans say?”
I frowned. “How did you know I was American?”
“I didn’t.” His grin stretched ear-to-ear. “But I do now.”
I couldn’t help smiling at him. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“I’m not a nice man.” His eyebrows knitted and he scowled in my direction. “In fact, I’m a very bad, bad man.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Then that bright smile was back again. “But don’t American women like ‘bad boys?’”
“Where did you hear that?”
“American television of course.”
I snorted. “Of course.”
“So it’s not true?”
“Oh it’s true.” I nodded sagely. “All American woman like bad boys. And men in uniforms. And men with big bank accounts. And great big…”
I let my sentence trail off, looking sideways at him.
“Well one out of four isn’t bad, eh?” He shrugged, using his long pole- no metaphor there, I thought wryly-to steer us through the waterways of Venice.
“Are you going to make me guess which one?” I teased. I knew I was flirting with him, encouraging him, in fact. What was wrong with me today?
“No, I would never make you guess.” He met my eyes, his look quite serious. I felt my cheeks flush and was glad for the chill in the air. The rain had finally stopped, and although the water was choppy, it reflected a bit of hazy sun trying to make its way through the clouds.
“So what are you doing here in Italia, Americano?” He changed the subject as smoothly as he navigated his boat through the water.
“I’m in an exchange program. Studying Italian.”
“Of course.” He nodded, as if he’d guessed. He probably had-there were plenty of foreign exchange students in Italy, although most were undergraduates, still in their college partying days, spending long hours drinking wine in the cafes during the day when they weren’t in class and dancing at clubs into the wee hours of the night. I was a graduate student, far more serious about my studies and the time I spent in Italy, since I had to finish my thesis in just one year.
“Do you need a study partner?” he asked, flirting again.
I didn’t rebuff him. “Are you offering your services?”
“In any way I can assist you.” He swept his hat off his head and bowed low. His balance up there on the edge of the gondola took my breath away.
“Do you think I need practice?” I protested.
“Your Italian is good,” he admitted. “But practice makes perfect, eh? Isn’t that what Americans say?”
“Oh look, yet another masked man.” I pointed toward the shore where someone was dressed up in costume. They were everywhere I turned this week, men, women and children all made up in masks and feathers, satin and lace. “I feel like I’m in an episode of The Lone Ranger. ”
The Italian blinked at me. “The Lone…what?”
“I thought you watched American TV.” I smiled. “It’s an old television show.”
“How can you come to Italy and not attend Carnavale?” He looked genuinely puzzled by my lack of interest.
“It’s just a big Mardi Gras, right?” I shrugged. “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
“There is nothing like Carnavale!” the Italian man protested.
“Yes there is. We celebrate it in New Orleans just like you do here. Parades and costumes. Well, we’re a little more crude about it I guess. Women flash their breasts for some beads and baubles. Typical Americans, eh?”
“I like this custom.” He grinned.
“I’m not religious,” I admitted. “So I don’t give up anything for Lent or do much on Fat Tuesday.”
“Not Catholic?”
I shook my head.
“My mother is crossing herself and saying a prayer for you right now.” He winked. “So what do you Americans do on this ‘Fat Tuesday?’”
“Well, in America, mostly people go to work and eat Paczkis.”
“Paczkis. Aren’t those Polish donuts?”
“Indeed they are,” I agreed. “About five hundred calories a piece.”
He smirked. “Sounds delightful.”
“Now you start to understand why I’m in Italy instead of the states.”
“But you’re not at Carnavale!”
I glanced up at him, shading my eyes, the sun finally making a full appearance. “Neither are you.”
“Ah, true, but a man has to earn his bread.”
I looked around the empty canal. There were a few boats docked and some people on the streets, but most of them were at the Piazza. “You do a lot of gondola rides during Carnavale?”
“Yes, it’s our busiest week in the winter, although I thought about taking today off and attending the festivities. The last day of Carnavale is always the grandest.” He smiled down at me. “But now I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Do you own your own boat?” I asked, trying to change the subject, nowhere near as smooth as he was. Going to post a letter usually took me ten minutes via the waterways, tops, but taking a gondola was slowing down the whole process considerably.
“I do,” he said. “My boat, my business. I like to be in control.”
My breath went away at his words, my mouth dry. I looked away from him, not able to meet his gaze, grabbing the blanket he’d left and pulling it over my knees.
“I think the whole Carnavale thing is overrated. It’s all for tourists.” I made another attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s been costumes everywhere I go for the past two weeks. Too much noise, too many crowds.”
“Ah, but bella, the food alone is worth the crowds on the streets!” His eyes rolled back and he rubbed his belly, smacking his lips as if he could taste some delicacy on his tongue. Italians were always so overly demonstrative-that was one stereotype that had proved to be true.
“Is it good?” I found myself thinking of the bread, cheese and fruit I had left for dinner back at my flat.
“Good?” His eyes snapped open and he threw his arms wide, nearly losing his pole. “Mio Dio! It’s to die for! Isn’t that what you Americans say when it’s too good for words?”
I smiled. “Yes, that’s what we Americans say.”
“You should come to dinner with me at least.” He concentrated now on steering the long boat down another narrow canal-we were almost to the post office.
I quickly made excuses. “Oh, I really don’t feel like going out, not with all the people…”
“Not out.” He slowed the boat using his long pole. “To my home. Come see how we really do Shrove Tuesday in Venice. You’ll leave so full I’ll have to carry you home.”
“Is that your evil plan, bad boy?” I teased as the gondola came to a stop. He used a rope around a post to pull the boat in closer to the shore.
He laughed. “Yes, that’s my evil plan. Are you a willing victim?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I reminded him.
“Nico Bianchi.” He held out his hand and I shook it, feeling the warm press of his palm against mine.
“Dani,” I replied. “Danielle Stuart.”
He nodded, satisfied. “See, now we are not strangers.”
“Let me think about it.” I accepted his help onto shore, glancing up at him. He looked so hopeful-but I knew I shouldn’t. Cara Lucia had invited me to her family’s Carnavale celebration but I had begged off, planning to just snuggle up with Jezebel and read the whole day away. “I need to post this before they shut their doors.”
It was nearly noon, and I barely made it in before they closed for the holiday. The postal workers were all in costume, chatting about Carnavale. They were headed down to the Piazza as soon as they were done and seemed annoyed to have to deal with my little package, but I was glad I’d made it.
I glanced out the window and saw the gondolier chatting with another man, a little bit older, not in costume. He was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, a strange sight during Carnavale, when masks and make-up were the norm.
The men laughed together and then hugged-something unheard of on the streets of America, but very common in Italy-but when the man in the suit kissed the gondolier on the lips, I nearly dropped my bag in surprise.