The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story Read Online Free PDF

expectancy.
    Casa Basilio was surrounded by canals on three sides: the wide canal the gondolier had named Rio de la Sensa fronting it; the narrow, stinking canal between it and its neighboring palazzo; and a wider one at the rear. I shuddered from looking at the sheer straight drop from the third floor, unrelieved by balconies or dormers but for those of the sala and Samuel’s room. After the first day, I tried not to look down at the water, nor to let my thoughts wander there. The canals were too reminiscent of the Hudson River at home, the constant lapping churn of current that only reminded me of how stagnant was my own life, how I had not been satisfied, no matter how I tried. And in that downward sweep too was the memory of what I’d almost done, of what did not, even now, seem distant enough to easily dismiss.
    Instead, I strained to see beyond the walls of disintegrating buildings, hoping to see something of the Venice I’d read about. It was called the city of dreams, and I longed to see all of it. But more than that, I wanted the possibility of what I could become within it. Across the back canal was a church that blocked my sight line—brick and arched mullioned windows, a domed campanile—and I stared at its wall as if sheer will could show me the view inside. I searched for movement beyond its high windows, wondering, fashioning, losing myself in the promise of its mysteries. If I were to take a few hours and explore it, could it make me into something else entirely?
    Somewhere beyond these walls was St. Mark’s. The Piazza. The Grand Canal and the Arsenal and . . . and . . . everything. A world that I hoped would change mine. My eagerness to step into it was almost nauseating.
    But without Samuel Farber, I could have none of it. Not yet , I told myself. Soon . When Mr. Farber was better, when I had delivered him to his parents and he was standing at the altar with his new bride. Then . . . then I would have what I wanted, the only thing left to me. I turned away from the rooms with the view of the church, its temptation too troubling. All I had to do was be patient.
    Although it was hard to be patient in a place so uncomfortable. No amount of coal in my brazier or in the plaster stove in his room seemed to make a dent against the chilly, dank decay of the Basilio, and my discomfort only grew when it became obvious that Giulia meant to do everything she could to work against me. I found her—not once, but many times—in the hall, either leaving his room or on her way there. I could hardly leave him alone without her trying to sneak in. “He was calling, mamzelle. How could I ignore him?” The way she looked at me, daring me to contradict her, to call her a liar, and even more than that, an insinuation that I was incompetent, or naïve. I felt like a fool beneath that look, helpless and immature.
    But I told myself it was why I felt watched. It had to be her, hiding, waiting to sneak in to see him, though she seemed brazenly unconcerned about concealing her visits.
    I’d been there seven days when I decided I had given him as much time as I could afford. Not just because of Giulia’s constant interference, but because I could not stand this house. I searched out Zuan, who was in the courtyard, knee-deep in a damp mist that floated ghostlike among the stones. Beside him stood the boy I’d seen before. He dodged behind Zuan’s legs shyly when I approached.
    Zuan said something to him in Venetian, but the boy did not budge. Zuan laughed and said to me in French, “My nephew, Giovanni.”
    I frowned. “Giulia’s son?”
    Zuan shook his head, but before he could answer, the kitchen door opened, and a man I’d never seen before came striding out, followed by a woman. They were each holding a burlap bag, and tucked beneath the man’s arm was a wheel of cheese.
    “Giovanni!” the man called, and the boy went running to him.
    “My brother Tomas and his wife, Caterina,” Zuan said, without the