Overboard
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When there was almost another death in Venice.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When there was almost another death in Venice.
After leaving the landing stage at Guglie, Brian and Abi found each other’s hand and set off on the short journey along the fondamenta to their little apartmento in Cannaregio. They had taken one of the small vaporetto out to the Lido that day, their first visit to the place in all the years they had been coming to Venice. They had stood outside the Hotel des Bains, the vast Belle Époque grand hotel that was the inspiration for Mann’s Death in Venice. All shuttered for the winter, the building had looked cold and forlorn, as if it knew its best days had gone. They had also stood on the deserted beach, which seemed to stretch for miles in a straight line on either side of them, the waters of the laguna hardly visible under the rolling billows of December fog. It was a melancholic scene. In fact, melancholy pervaded the whole island.
That feeling of melancholy seemed to have followed them back to Cannaregio. It was there in the sullen, late afternoon sky above them. And it was there in their thoughts. Although neither of them had said anything about it to each other, they both knew that the experiment had failed, that their dream had died. They had wanted to live out the rest of their lives on Venice, but five months’ experience as residents had told them that La Serenissima was not the friendly, welcoming home they expected it to be.
Perhaps the biggest problem was the innate rudeness of the real residents, the Venetians. An incident on the vaporetto coming back from the Lido had been the latest example of it. It was too cold to sit in the open air up on the deck, so they had taken seats at the back of the cabin below deck. As soon as the boat began its approach to Guglie, many of the passengers left their seats and crammed into the narrow aisle. They followed suit, with Brian going first. But just as he stepped into the aisle, another passenger, a dishevelled middle-aged man, attempted to push in front of him. Having been shoved and jostled too many times in the shops and on the streets, as well as on the vaporetto, Brian had snapped.
“Wait your fucking turn!” he had shouted at the man.
The man may not have understood English, but he certainly grasped the meaning of Brian’s words – and the threat behind them – because he promptly scooted back into his seat. With Abi close behind him, Brian moved further up the aisle. Then they followed the passengers in front, trooping up to the deck and leaving the boat without further incident.
“I’m so glad you didn’t turn round when we were getting off the boat,” Abi said suddenly.
Brian looked puzzled. “Why’s that, hen?” he asked.
“Because that guy you shouted at was making signs behind your back. Like a big bairn. Like this.”
Then she mimicked the man’s actions, placing her free hand, palm upwards, in front of her mouth and sticking her tongue out and back in several times in rapid succession. Brian recognised the gesture immediately. It was meant to signify that the person it was directed at talked shite.
“I was praying that you wouldn’t turn round and see him,” Abi laughed. “I think you would have chucked him overboard.”
Brian stopped walking and looked back along the fondamenta, but the culprit was long gone by then, of course.
“You’re right, hen,” he said into the distance, “I would have thrown him overboard.”
When they resumed walking, he added, “I think we need to talk about getting back to Scotland.”
Abi didn’t say anything. Instead, she smiled up at him, grasped his hand tighter and snuggled closer to him. They had fallen out of love with Venice, but not with each other.
That feeling of melancholy seemed to have followed them back to Cannaregio. It was there in the sullen, late afternoon sky above them. And it was there in their thoughts. Although neither of them had said anything about it to each other, they both knew that the experiment had failed, that their dream had died. They had wanted to live out the rest of their lives on Venice, but five months’ experience as residents had told them that La Serenissima was not the friendly, welcoming home they expected it to be.
Perhaps the biggest problem was the innate rudeness of the real residents, the Venetians. An incident on the vaporetto coming back from the Lido had been the latest example of it. It was too cold to sit in the open air up on the deck, so they had taken seats at the back of the cabin below deck. As soon as the boat began its approach to Guglie, many of the passengers left their seats and crammed into the narrow aisle. They followed suit, with Brian going first. But just as he stepped into the aisle, another passenger, a dishevelled middle-aged man, attempted to push in front of him. Having been shoved and jostled too many times in the shops and on the streets, as well as on the vaporetto, Brian had snapped.
“Wait your fucking turn!” he had shouted at the man.
The man may not have understood English, but he certainly grasped the meaning of Brian’s words – and the threat behind them – because he promptly scooted back into his seat. With Abi close behind him, Brian moved further up the aisle. Then they followed the passengers in front, trooping up to the deck and leaving the boat without further incident.
“I’m so glad you didn’t turn round when we were getting off the boat,” Abi said suddenly.
Brian looked puzzled. “Why’s that, hen?” he asked.
“Because that guy you shouted at was making signs behind your back. Like a big bairn. Like this.”
Then she mimicked the man’s actions, placing her free hand, palm upwards, in front of her mouth and sticking her tongue out and back in several times in rapid succession. Brian recognised the gesture immediately. It was meant to signify that the person it was directed at talked shite.
“I was praying that you wouldn’t turn round and see him,” Abi laughed. “I think you would have chucked him overboard.”
Brian stopped walking and looked back along the fondamenta, but the culprit was long gone by then, of course.
“You’re right, hen,” he said into the distance, “I would have thrown him overboard.”
When they resumed walking, he added, “I think we need to talk about getting back to Scotland.”
Abi didn’t say anything. Instead, she smiled up at him, grasped his hand tighter and snuggled closer to him. They had fallen out of love with Venice, but not with each other.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.