Life and Death in Venice is the story of New Yorker Robert "Bobby" Valenti who moves to Venice to start over after divorcing his wife and the death of his mother. In the magical city he navigates the streets and yearns to get to know the place on an intimate level while wanting to forget a past that he is trying to escape. He joins a writers' group where he makes friends and hopes to enhance his goal of writing a novel. Bobby starts seeing Mireille, a beautiful French girl who is a group member, but she has many personal dramas that cause their relationship to be on and off again. After he meets Elena in a bar, he takes her home and learns that she is a prostitute who has an abusive pimp, so he reluctantly pays her. He continues seeing Elena even after Mireille comes back from a long trip to Paris, creating an unusual love triangle. As he attempts to write his book and hopes to find some peace and happiness in Venice, many obstacles are standing in his way.
Life and Death in Venice is the story of New Yorker Robert "Bobby" Valenti who moves to Venice to start over after divorcing his wife and the death of his mother. In the magical city he navigates the streets and yearns to get to know the place on an intimate level while wanting to forget a past that he is trying to escape. He joins a writers' group where he makes friends and hopes to enhance his goal of writing a novel. Bobby starts seeing Mireille, a beautiful French girl who is a group member, but she has many personal dramas that cause their relationship to be on and off again. After he meets Elena in a bar, he takes her home and learns that she is a prostitute who has an abusive pimp, so he reluctantly pays her. He continues seeing Elena even after Mireille comes back from a long trip to Paris, creating an unusual love triangle. As he attempts to write his book and hopes to find some peace and happiness in Venice, many obstacles are standing in his way.
I am a writer. I love writing, and that is why I hate it. Now, I am living in Venice, Italy. I hate Venice, and that is why I love it. There is something for a writer here that is palpable as the murky waters of the canals. At night there is a shroud around every lamppost and a specter on every bridge over the canals as life passes by in the gondolas below. Working to alert the Grim Reaper, they wait patiently to collect those whose time will eventually come.
I walk to the Rialto Bridge every morning despite the crowds assembling there in good weather and wander through the vast open market, but I never buy anything because it is too overwhelming to deal with the hordes of tourist zombies taking selfies as they buy neck ties, fruit, veggies, souvenirs, and smelly fish. The absurdity of it all would be soul crushing if it were not so wickedly intriguing.
Today, I buy an apple from an old vendor named Tinno who talks about his life.
“It is all over for me now. My wife died last year. This stand and these fruits and vegetables are all I have left.”
“What about your kids?”
“They have left me now. My boy lives in your country.”
“Where does he live?”
“Las Vegas. He performs in shows for the tourists.”
“It gets very hot there,” I say as I wipe my sweaty neck with my handkerchief. “A lot like here right now.”
Tinno, his face leather-dark from standing in the sun every day, moves under the shade of the crooked canopy over his stand. “I try to stay out of the sun as much as I can, but I’m lucky I have Italian skin.”
“You should wear sunscreen,” I say. “I put it on everyday before I go out.”
“Ahh,” he says with a wave of his old, gnarled hand, “Don’t need it. I told you I have Italian skin.”
I rub the apple on my shirt and shove it into a pocket in my cargo shorts. “I’ll save this for later. Arrivederci, my friend.”
“Goodbye,” Tinno says in a hoarse whisper.
At this point I go down the old alleyways, over bridges, and down narrow lanes where one can barely pass another person walking in the opposite direction without moving to one side. There is one street – Calle Varisco – that is the narrowest of them all, where I must squeeze by someone and exchange sweat.
I have walked all over this city, and yet I still do not know it. I can get around without a map or my phone, but this is not my city, at least not yet.
When I walk through Piazza San Marco, I casually glance at the basilica and carry on, much as I used to do with the Empire State Building back home. I did not take it for granted because I knew it so well, just as I do with things here now. The basilica – like the skyscraper – will be there again tomorrow. I will always have time to admire it when I choose to do so.
I stare out over the waters of San Marco Basin glittering in the sunlight, the tied-up gondolas bouncing in the waves. Others are filled with tourists baking in the heat, and the gondoliers in blue or red striped shirts are pushing them out for another tour of the canals. These men are the best tour guides because they know the city and cheerfully prove themselves to be cordial despite the heat and the tourists’ annoying questions and requests.
This city is known to be one for romance – as can be visually confirmed by some gondolas with red heart seats – but, like Paris, it is a mausoleum for those not in love or someone like me who has lost their lover. Why did I come here then? Because Beth and I had planned to come here, and I was determined to conquer the angst I was feeling and write a novel just as I promised myself to do 20 years ago. I do not even know what my novel will be about.
When I ruminated about the idea before Beth and I broke up, I thought it would be a grand story about castles and kings, but then I read something about Hemingway saying that you should write about what you know, so then I thought I would write about growing up near JFK in the Queens section of New York City, but now that I am here, I wonder about the wisdom of doing this. James Joyce wrote all about Dublin while he was not in Dublin, so I guess it can be done.
To get me connected to my Venetian muse, I even joined a writers’ group comprised of some people who are expatriates like myself; however, there is the Serge, the leader of the group, who is Venetian, Pietro – a Florentine who loves Venice almost as much as himself – and then there is Mireille, a beautiful young French woman whose prose is ugly, but because of her glowing face, no one tells her the truth.
I have thought about attempting some helpful criticism, but does it really matter in the bigger picture? Perhaps it does, but I am too tired to be brave and speak the truth. I always told the truth and, because I did, I threw away my relationship, and now I am here alone. Trust me, honesty is not the best policy, at least in love.
As I navigate the streets and lanes and cross bridges over canals, I am wearing my standard Venice attire – Mets cap, sunglasses, plain polo shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers. I try to keep in mind that there are people who live and work here who are not tourists. They cook in the restaurants, clean rooms in hotels, maintain the streets, and present their goods in lovely shops. I sometimes feel sorry for them having to compete for pedestrian space, especially in the Rialto Bridge-San Marco zone, where the visitors seem to overwhelm even the most kind hearted natives.
I do my part as a former tourist – I once came here 20 years ago and always wanted to return – who is now living here respectfully. I appreciate the good nature of the people who suffer the tourist trade with a genial smile, a gleam in their eyes, and patience that is indeed a virtue. Probably, deep down, besides their good nature, the Venetians know the deal – despite their annoying tendencies, tourists are the lifeblood of this island city that is wondrous because of all it has to offer – architecture, history, art, music, great wine, and the legendary cuisine.
*
I start walking home as the sun starts to crash against the buildings and slide into a place beyond the lagoon waters for the night. I cross the Rialto Bridge again, still packed with tourists taking selfies and group photos and blocking the steps for people like me who want to just go home. I walk away from the bridge, still smelling fish from the stalls where hopeful seagulls line up to get some discarded scraps every day.
I go down a long lane in the sestiere of San Polo – one of the city’s six districts. It is the city’s smallest and more elevated neighborhood that never floods. I stop in my local supermercato to grab a few things. The owner Marco is an older gruff fellow with a gray mustache who is always reading a newspaper when I come into the store. We rarely exchange words, but he grunts “Buonasera” as I leave with my groceries.
After unlocking the front door of my building, I must navigate the 62 steep steps up to my third floor flat. I bought the place after seeing nice pictures of the rooms online; however, there was no mention of the steps; it did highlight “on the third floor with a nice view of San Marco’s Campanile or bell tower.” All good things come with some costs, sometimes exhausting ones.
My flat has one bedroom and a living space of combined kitchen and living room. There is a fireplace that is covered with a metal door that does not open. The windows do face southeast with the promised view of the bell tower, and sometimes a nice breeze can drift through them in the evening. I had an air conditioning unit installed because my first week in the heat was unbearable. It cost a staggering amount, but it was worth it.
I shut the windows, turn on the AC, and put my things away. I run the cold water for a minute or so and then stick my head under the faucet for a drink just like I used to do back home in my mother’s kitchen. She would always slap my ass and say, “Bobby, use a glass!” I miss that type of love from someone who cared about me.
Feeling sweaty and gross, I decide to take a shower. I go into the bathroom, peel off my clothes that are sticking to my body, and take off my gold wedding ring – I only take it off when I shower because it once slid off my soapy finger and almost went down the drain. Yes, I still wear the damn thing because, even though we are divorced, I feel married to Beth in my soul. Perhaps I am trying to trick myself, but it gives me some satisfaction to wear it for some strange reason.
After drying off and putting on a Mets T-shirt and shorts, I sit down at my dining table where I eat my meals and do my work – alas, always alone – and open my laptop and click on the story I have been working on for the group. Since I cannot get the novel going, I figure that writing a story that can become a novel is something; at least this is one way to go.
It is a story about my boxing days back in New York City and the fight I had with Adamu, a hulking half Italian, half Ethiopian boxer. I am trying to capture it the way that it happened, but there seems to be no way to tell it successfully because so much is going in the story that my readers will be overwhelmed. I must find a way to simplify it because fiction does not need to include everything that happened in real life, at least that is what the sagacious Serge tells me.
Since I am getting nowhere, I check my email. My brother Vinny has sent me a message. We have not spoken since Mom died – that is almost seven months ago now – and he never emails or even sends me a text. His last text was sent when I left for Italy a few months ago, and he wrote the words “Bon voyage.” That was all, and that fact portrays my brother perfectly, using French when I was leaving for Italy.
He is coming to town for business and wants to get together. I am shocked that he wants to have any contact. I am four years younger than he is, and when we were growing up, I followed him everywhere. I worshipped him because he was a great athlete, handsome, and super intelligent. One day when he was 16, I followed him to the bleachers by the paved city ballfield where he met this blonde girl. They were going behind the bleachers and holding hands. When he saw me, he screamed, “Get lost, Bobby.” That was the beginning of the end for us.
I respond to his email. “Sounds great. Looking forward to it.” Short and not so sweet, but at least I did respond. I wonder how his wife Melissa and his kids are doing. Sara (now 17) and Vince (now 15) both used to call me “Uncle Bob,” and I loved them, but even they were taken away from me. As the cliché goes, “That’s the story of my life.”
After dinner – leftovers from a place over in San Marco – I sit and watch Italian TV. I have picked up enough of the language to understand the news, and I watch soccer which I believe is a universal language. That is the wonderful thing about sports. The truth is I do not care so much about TV anymore. Since I have come here, I realize that there are many things I can do without that I used to think were indispensable back home.
While the Internet is a must, I do not have all the apps on my phone and TV anymore. I have kept Netflix, but the rest are gone. To keep up with things back home and in the world, I have CNN and USA Today apps on my phone, which are especially helpful to keep tabs on news and sports.
I drink another can of Moretti and knock back a shot of Smirnoff Red. I can never get drunk enough here. I change channels and Die Hard is on. It is funny seeing Bruce Willis as John McLane kicking ass and speaking Italian. Although I try hard to stay awake, I fall asleep sometime before Hans Gruber gets tossed off the building by McLane. I will have to try to watch it again tomorrow.
If at first this book hints at 'wanna-be writers' crying in their beers, it takes unexpected darker, and far more complicated turns that leaves the reader questioning what comes next until the end.
The allure of Venice as an ancient center of trade, tourism, and as a thriving and vibrant center of culture connected by a bridge to the main land of modernity is shrouded in this book by the main character's escaping problems of the past rather than as one of exploration and discovery. The clandestine references, aspirations for 'becoming a writer, not a writer yet' surrounded by the company of fellow writers who seek "a safe place not to be judged" all prove more flawed than beneficial as they scrutinize one another's work as they deal with personal struggles.
The desire for establishing a new sense of hope for the future is continuously challenged by falling into problems of the past that the book refers to as the Grim Reaper, and an inability to see the potential in any situation that has lasting potential is troublesome with traumatic consequences. The themes of loneliness, social bonds, and contrasts between modern and ancient worlds draw parallels between New York and Venice where a geographic change did not absolve the grief from divorce the main character sought to escape. The emotional fragility of envy, pity, regret, and longing are a toxic combination that leads to much self-sabotage that the author portrays in such a powerful way that the reader feels grief through the protagonist, Bobby. The book has a fast pace pace and moves seamlessly between light-hearted scenes, raw and disturbing passages to festive ones and incorporates humor and vivid scene-setting in the second half.
The age differences in relationships suggest a longing for missed opportunities of the past that recurs throughout the novel. The emphasis on mourning places a secondary concern to relieving the suffering for most of the characters. There is an interesting conundrum referenced between those 'looking for a way out' and those who have 'finally made it'.
A dark, disturbing, and emotionally charged novel that continues to show glimmers of hope through imagery, positive encounters, and connections in which something could materialize, but is often compromised so much that there is pervading doubt. The ending works well (which I won't discuss) leaving much room for the reader to contemplate, reflect on, and imagine regarding the future.