Frail Barrier by Edward Sklepowich Read Free Book Online Page A

our storms,’ Perla said.
    â€˜My dear, storms can come anywhere and any time. If I – or you – try to avoid one, we will only find another.’
    â€˜True, my dear. But don’t forget “O Sole Mio,”’ Perla said with a slight tremor in her voice. ‘“L’aria serena, dopo la tempesta!”’
    She half spoke, half sang the words of the old Neapolitan song that gondoliers had appropriated as their own. Her face looked strained.
    â€˜Brava! You show your husband’s expertise,’ Urbino complimented her. ‘By the way, Romolo,’ Urbino said, ‘how is Claudio doing with his voice lessons?’
    â€˜Very well. He’s a young man of many talents. In fact, he—’
    â€˜But we must hurry,’ Perla broke in. ‘The boat is coming.’
    The diretto was about to pass beneath the wooden bridge.
    â€˜See you soon, Urbino,’ Perla said as she took Romolo’s arm.
    Urbino fought his way to the railing at the opposite side of the bridge and waved at the couple before Romolo boarded the boat. After blowing her husband a kiss, Perla went down the Calle Gambara in the direction of the Beato apartment near the Zattere.
    One dim light illuminated the interior of Da Valdo. Most of the tables had chairs turned upside down on their surface, exposing loosely intertwined wooden slats beneath the seats. The table legs cast a twisted net of shadows around the walls.
    Da Valdo, popular with tourists and locals, was in a corner of the Campo Sant’Angelo on the route to the Rialto from the Accademia Bridge and the Piazza San Marco. Its outdoor tables provided a clear view of the tilted bell tower of the Church of San Stefano.
    Inside, steins and green and purple plastic grapes hung from the wooden beams of the low ceiling. Behind the bar were an Italian flag and photographs of footballers and of Valdo, the owner, with friends and clients. One wall held a calendar and posters. Another had a collection of photographs. They were of the acqua alta of 1966 and the collapse of the Campanile in San Marco in 1902. Other photographs, of carnival and the Regata Storica, were much more recent.
    The café was empty at this hour except for the solitary figure of Albina Gonella. She was slowly removing upturned chairs from the tables, having finished cleaning the floor. She paused to catch her breath. She held two legs of a chair as if she were waiting for strength to return to take it down.
    â€˜Let me help you, Albina,’ Urbino said, coming up to the woman.
    She started but brightened when she saw who it was.
    â€˜Signor Urbino! What a surprise! Thank you.’ She stepped away from the table. ‘I am a little tired tonight.’
    Albina was a small woman in her late fifties with lively eyes and graying hair that she usually preferred to keep beneath a bright green knit cap, even on hot nights like this one. She was usually charged with energy out of proportion to her physical size, but tonight her face looked worn. She wore a yellow shirt dress, much too small for her. The hem was stained with bleach marks.
    â€˜Maybe we should try to find another job for you, Albina. Only one place where you would have regular hours.’
    The woman stood up straighter and went over to another table. She took down a chair and placed it on the floor.
    â€˜Don’t worry about me. I’m fine here and at Florian’s. My heart is stronger than the doctor says. If I feel a little tired tonight, it’s not because of work. It’s because of Giulietta.’
    The two sisters, both unmarried, lived together in Dorsoduro.
    â€˜I hope she isn’t ill.’
    Urbino took down another chair and put it in an upright position.
    â€˜As strong as a gondolier. But that doesn’t mean that she helped me for one second with the boxes she made me carry up to the apartment today. Her fingernails, she says. All long and painted. She’d chop me into