The jade green water lapped at the side of the gondola. Overhead, ominous silver clouds were gathering together in a joint ambush on the floating city. The air was thick and hung heavily on the shoulders of the tourists who were sandwiched together upon tacky Renaissance cushions; it caught in the backs of their throats and their nostrils. It was as if the romantic atmosphere of the city was so intense, so marketed, that it had become a physical sickly-sweet syrup, anxious to flood the senses of any outsider, any traveller. Yet by doing so it was close to suffocating them.

Cotton lacy fans wafted. The resulting drafts barely shifted the city’s mucus from their chests. Uneasy mutterings about the weather were exchanged in several languages as the clouds continued to roll forwards. Their guide continued to row, oblivious to his group’s tension. He chattered on, pointing out various landmarks and bridges. Sometimes he shouted out to other gondoliers; greetings to those dressed in similar red stripes, and playful competitive jibes at those in adversary black. His group didn’t mind his wandering attention; half of them were not listening to him anyway. But he had to keep with his script, he had to smile and joke, he had to not mind the appreciative stares of the teenage girls; if he could tolerate all of that then he would be rewarded generously. He knew how to spot those with fat wallets or the inexperienced travellers.

He was not much better than the rose venders who prowled San Marco Piazza. The only exception being that he was more charming; he could persuade tourists to clamber aboard his polished vessel, he did not force his goods on anyone — unlike those scavengers. Plus, he had a gondola and every tourist loves a gondola.

One such tourist was Marty. She and her friend had elegantly stepped into the furnished — and staged — boat. It had rocked with a gentle lull, back and forth on every slight ripple of the canal surrounding them. She was there to appreciate the city, its landmarks, its architecture — her friend, however, was admiring a different piece of architecture. Yet the muggy haze that currently clung steadfastly to them was making her irritable and frustrated; as it was now, late and past tea-time, the streets offered nothing other emptiness and quiet restaurants. There were no accordions being played in their gondola; the languid notes only played when their masters were working, and their masters had gone home for the night. But, still, Marty force herself to appreciate the ride: she imagined dignitaries of history, with striking features and fine silk garments, strolling through the city on a sunny, warm morning. She imagined seeing them with delicate shots of espresso in their fingers, knocking back the dark liquid and opening heavy leather-bound books. She could see a trio of fine ladies, hair coiled perfectly, bejewelled gowns cloaking their frames, giggling over the handsome men that passed by. Their conversation would revolve around suitors and fashion and dining. She mused over whether the tolling bell would be a pleasant companion, back then, as opposed to the grumbling, angry bellows that erupted from it now. The spring of her imagination was enough to sustain her throughout the empty descriptions of her guide.

Finally, the gondola ground to a stop. The water rocked and jumped up, wetting the arms of the unsuspecting tourists sat closest to the water’s edge. Remarks about the stagnant smell were whispered by the German couple. They wiped their arms with handkerchiefs, then stood.

One by one, each tourist staggered onto the cobbled pavement. As they passed their guide they slapped brightly coloured notes into his outstretched hand. He flashed each of them a generous and dazzling smile. When they had all dispersed up the small alley, which filtered out onto the main street, he turned and counted the notes in his hand.

Forty; eighty; one-twenty!

He pocketed forty and the remaining notes he rolled together and tied with an elastic band. He chuckled under his breath. Tourists were always so easy to rip off. They never question a man in a striped shirt with an ore. Because, after all, who would dare taint this exotic city of love with common, blackened lies?

 

End. Word Count: 709. 

 

//Photo copyright to Heather Lukins//