Entranced in Venice
I was fifty. I was in Venice with my husband. Well, why not? He had some work in Milan. Truth to tell he had no intention of gallivanting around Europe, Venice or no Venice. Would it help him sell chemicals, which he manufactured, improved, perfected – at least he swore they were perfect? No it would not!
It was I who was dying to go there. I sold all my broken gold jewellery to buy two round trip tickets on Eurail. Confession, some were not broken at all. Thank God for the skyrocketing prices of gold! To hell with the economy! No no not that. May the economy do well. But Venice is Venice … worth any material sacrifice.
Easy to sell gold. Difficult to persuade a blinkered male to go to Venice with nothing to sell or purchase. Feminine wiles plus solid cash did the trick.
There we were on the threshold of Venice where bookings for lodgings were being made. Unfortunately, a whole lot of Indians were there, clamouring to stay near the station. Hubby one of them. Cheap, with Indian food, available nearby. Mecca for them.
I clamoured louder for lodgings near the Grand Canal on a narrow, curvaceous alley. Blame Shakespeare.
Found an ally in the young Venetian behind the counter. As I declared I’d stay alone near the Grand Canal to a pasty-faced hubby, the Venetian pushed the form in my hand. I quickly paid in lira, foresight ahem!
So … we were on the third floor of a hotel in the narrowest, most twisted alley of Venice.
Ma said, God is an indulgent master and feeds pudding even to its asses. Sure enough. All of a sudden there was a train strike in Italy for three days. The cunning of Venice. So there we were, jailed in Venice on Italian food!
By God’s grace people eat dinner early in Europe. Dear hubby was soon laid low by a full stomach. Food was food even if not Indian.
Seeing him knocked out, I ordered Champagne. The waiter brought two flutes. How was he to know hubby didn’t drink. No sir, not even Champagne!
I picked up a full flute and floated to the balcony. There I stood bedazzled on the third floor, with the narrow Venetian alleys of Shakespeare fame underneath. They rang with sonorous tunes of young reckless musicians serenading alluring belles, laying siege to their hearts…
The truth of the matter is that even before I began to dine, this imagined serenade had begun to play in my heart.
As soon as hubby retired to bed, I picked three orange roses from the floral arrangement in the room and, with flute in hand, came to the balcony.
Every nerve in my body tingled with the expectation of a serenading guitarist flinging a red rose towards me at the same time as the rose I tossed down kissed his cheek…
Oh dear, the flute was empty … I picked up the other one and stole back to the balcony…
And you’ll never believe it but, the street below resonated with a soulful song sung to the tune of four guitars.
My mind and body were caught in the tentacles of lust. I turned into sheer personified desire.
Would he look up now? As our gazes collide, I will throw a rose aimed at him and another if …
But he would not stutter. I was positive.
I lobbed the rose but before it could touch him, a red rose swung up to kiss my heaving breast.
I had barely touched it when a kiss flew up to shatter my remaining balance. I slid the last rose down to him as if it was the universe itself.
They did not move on, but stayed there singing Belleza … Belleza…
My senses, my soul, my guts, my body, all rose on the high tide of passion, to dissolve in ecstasy, in bliss, the whole universe turning into a sensual orgasm.
The song was crescendoing to its climax.
I picked the last remaining orange rose and stretched my arm up, up to the dream-filled sky. I could not move. Stayed taut but pulsating, like a statue carved out of pure passion.
He curtseyed. Bending down … down to the supine earth with a red rose in hand – and remained still. A lovelorn male under a spell, a sculpture of keen desire.
We remained as we were. The universe swirled by but with bated breath.