The Dogs of Venice

It was a trip Paul and Darren had planned together, Venice at Christmas, an idea cooked up while dining at Alice, a dark and moody Italian joint in New York's Greenwich Village. Alice is Italian for anchovy, one of Italy's most popular fish, something they'd learned on a previous vacation to Rome. They spent the better part of the year planning and dreaming, saving and studying, until three weeks prior, while they were admiring Bergdorf's avant-garde Christmas windows, of all things, Darren announced their marriage was over."This isn't working," he'd said. Convinced his husband was talking about the window display, Paul covered one eye, then turned his head sideways to see if that helped."I think it's the Pegasus . . . es." Pegasi? "There are too many of them." The winged creatures frolicked and kicked and were covered in mirrors like disco balls. "In Greek mythology, they sprang from the blood of Medusa when Perseus cut off her head, but I have a hard time believing that many horses could stampede out of one woman's neck." But Darren wasn't talking about the windows. By the time the departure date for their trip rolled around, he had already acquired moving boxes from the U-Haul on West 23rd.Stunned, Paul forced himself onto the plane anyway, thinking what Darren needed was time alone; surely after a day or two he would come to his senses and maybe even make it to Italy in time for Christmas."Next to an empty seat. Do you always have such good luck?" asked a male flight attendant with an easy smile just after the plane's doors had closed and everyone had taken their seats. Up until that moment, Paul had his eyes trained on the aisle, thinking Darren might reconsider."Actually, I was supposed to take this trip to Venice with someone. But . . ." Paul couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Not that he needed to; heartbreak was written across his face.The flight attendant twisted his mouth to one side but later brought him a free bottle of wine and leaned in to whisper, "My gondolances," causing Paul to stifle a groan. The in-flight magazine had an article about New York at Christmas, and he tore out the page with a photomontage of the city's store-window displays and used it to spit out his gum. The woman across the aisle glared at him, and Paul glared back until she returned her attention to her book.Paul arrived in Italy via Paris, JFK to Charles de Gaulle to Marco Polo, before a water taxi ferried him briskly across the Laguna Veneta, a bay in the Adriatic Sea. Even with the extensive directions the rental company had provided, the loft Darren had booked was almost impossible to find, hidden behind an arched cutout in a crumbling wall that opened to a private cobblestone walk. Paul was so lost in the fistful of printouts he clutched tightly in one hand, studying digital photos altered with red arrows ("idiotproof," Darren had described the directions when they were first emailed), he almost wandered right into a canal when the walkway came to an unannounced end. Dusk had given way to darkness, and the canals were almost black and hard to see. It reminded him of when they last had to buy a new TV. The salesman was pushing a QLED, as it had the blackest blacks with multiple dimming zones. "Sometimes black can be too black," Paul had said at the time, and he said it again to himself now. He took a few steps back from the edge until he came to a door adorned with a coppery knocker, an ornate lion's head, and used it to rap three times.After a minute of quiet pierced only by water lapping against the walkway, he heard footsteps and a stodgy woman whipped open the door. "Due people," she said when she saw only Paul standing there. In her wrap skirt with a tea towel stuck in the hem, breasts sitting right on her waist, she looked not unlike Mama Celeste from the frozen pizza commercials of his youth."Do people what?" asked Paul, confused, looking over his shoulder to see if he had the wrong door; this was already a mistake. Darren was the one who had brushed up on his Italian using an app while Paul had studied maps and made lists of things for them to do."Due. Due," she said, annoyed, before holding up two fingers."T-two," Paul stammered, finally understanding, and was embarrassed again anew. "Change of plans. I'm afraid you're stuck with just me." And then he added, "Uno," as he held up one index finger, hoping that he wasn't confusing Italian with remedial Spanish.Mama Celeste looked at him with great skepticism, like he might have just drowned his companion in a canal; in the moment, he would consider it. "Morto?""Dead? Good heavens, no. We broke up. Divorce." Paul fumbled for his phone and the language translation app he had at the ready, as the word left a distaste in his mouth. It was the first time he'd said it aloud. "Divorzio." It sounded only slightly less grim in Italian.The woman's pursed expression relaxed. Her face sagged with pity, the corners of her mouth heading south like her breasts. "Morto is better." Paul didn't argue as she ushered him inside, showed him the loft, and gave him a key. It was spacious and worn (but shy of dilapidated), filled with dusty books in Italian and English. On the table was a panettone and a bottle of wine with a card. The kitchen had the fanciest espresso machine he'd ever seen, and there was an oversized chair that he could lose himself in while he enjoyed his morning coffee. In short, it was exactly as Paul had dreamed. As soon as the woman left, he ripped open the card hoping it was from Darren, but alas the cake and the wine were a gift from the rental company.Paul awoke the next morning with no message from Darren. Given that it was year’s end, even his office was leaving Paul be; he was able to clear his inbox in a matter of minutes. It was when he snapped his laptop closed that he first saw the dog from the loft’s picture window, which overlooked one of the city’s quieter canals. The animal trotted along the narrow walkway on the far side of the water with an enviable nonchalance, its brindled scruff a perfect match for the cobblestone, a white stripe running down its nose looking extra bright in the morning sun. Unleashed and alone, the dog moved with assurance and purpose, ignoring an old man with a cane carrying a bakery box headed in the opposite direction. It scampered up and over a small footbridge, as if this were part of a daily commute, before disappearing out of sight. He then struggled with the apartment’s complicated espresso machine, which hissed and spit steam and grounds. He took a few sips of an undrinkable sludge. At home, Darren had always made the coffee, as he was the earlier riser; Paul was already failing to perform simple tasks on his own. Feeling sorry for himself, he leaned in the window, waiting for the dog to return. It didn’t, but something about the dog left an indelible impression.Later, when he gathered the courage to venture into the city, he noticed several more of these street dogs; with no cars in Venice, they seemed to enjoy the run of it. None were leashed and only one he encountered was muzzled. There were very few rules regarding dogs, it seemed. Animals apparently weren't allowed in markets, but even that seemed negotiable to the Italians; while buying a bottle of Soave and a selection of local cheeses, Paul had witnessed a corgi patiently waiting for its owner by the checkout and no one appeared to mind. Outside another shop in the Campo Santa Margherita, a small pooch demanded the complete attention of a security guard, who was more than happy to oblige. These dogs seemed to rule the roost. But there was something about his dog's shabby confidence, the one that had passed his apartment, that stirred an awakening in Paul. It was so comfortable in its own skin and possessed such command; he could easily picture the dog waiting nightly in an alley behind a sleepy bistro for the chef to reveal from under a cloche a leftover bone from the kitchen's special osso buco. Before the dog was a distant memory, Paul thought, That's who I want to be.He prized the tranquil mornings most, when he would sit in the loft’s window, although the espresso machine continued to be challenging. This morning it offered only drips and dribbles, a cruel taunt, since he was in desperate need of caffeine. “We are not compatible,” he said out loud, but it was unclear if he was speaking to the machine or his ex. A quick search online said the grounds may be too fine. Undeterred, he licked the inside of the cappuccino cup, getting every drop he could, then washed it down with a slice of the panettone, which was dry like last night’s wine. Instinctively he knew this was cheating. Anyone can be alone behind closed doors; the goal was to be comfortable by himself in a caffè under the gaze of watchful eyes. Still, he reasoned, these mornings were a start and gave him something to build on, and he was forgiving of himself. He was brittle still, and forlorn, delighted only in spite of himself by the gauzy December light that made him feel like he’d stepped into a Renaissance artist’s paint box, and the occasional gondolier in traditional Venetian stripes rowing by. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t ventured outside. He’d spent a whole day touring Venice on foot, getting blissfully lost and finding his way again, looking down at the beautiful blue-green waters that filled an endless maze of canals and then up for signs pointing to familiar landmarks like the Piazza San Marco or the Ponte di Rialto-sometimes the only clues to guide him home. And Christmas was a magical time, especially in Piazza San Marco, which he’d heard dubbed “Europe’s living room.” And it was decked out appropriately! Thousands of lights dripped from the porticoes and the Christmas tree square in the center was glorious. This year’s tree was traditional, but he overheard someone remark that every year the tree was different, and sometimes surprisingly modern. An app on his phone informed him he’d averaged nineteen thousand steps that first day (to his barking feet it felt like more). Besides, it was clear what he was doing. He was waiting for the dog to return.At lunchtime, and with no sign of his four-legged friend, Paul picked at leftover ravioli from his meal the night before. He'd stumbled on a treasure, Osteria alle Testiere, and had felt confident as he sat down for his meal. But after three bites he'd succumbed to relentless self-consciousness and asked for the rest of his food to go. Later, he put aside a prawn and a bit of ravioli and placed them on a saucer, which he then set outside on the edge of the walkway close to a wall. If nothing else, he hoped it would lure the dog back this way. He returned to his window to let the bait do its work, and while he waited, wrote a few thoughts on the trip in his journal. Already he'd experienced magnificent things-art and history and ancient architecture, cathedrals and basilicas. New York had these things, too (although they were slightly less ancient), but he hardly noticed them anymore, consumed as he was by life's daily drudgery. Sights became obstacles drawing crowds that were difficult to navigate around. Here, he had become an expert at lingering near tour groups without joining them, eavesdropping on facts that piqued his interest before detaching and scuttling away. It was how he felt about society as a whole, always on the outside of it and never quite part of the group, one of the reasons why he'd always valued his marriage; he found comfort in partnership, even when that union was, apparently, a sham. But he loved learning things, so he listened; an enduring interest in the world made him feel slightly less like a loner. There were four hundred seventeen bridges in Venice, but seventy-two of them were private. There were three hundred fifty or so gondolas, but more than four hundred gondolieri, so some of them had to share. Venice was sinking at the rate of one, maybe two, millimeters a year, which didn't sound like much, but the city was already built on a precarious foundation. Each guide would offer such facts before raising a closed umbrella or bright-colored cap to signal their group. The tour would then follow the guide as they offered more numbers and figures and stats, and Paul would continue alone.It wasn't like anything these tours could offer would distract him from some telling numbers of his own; Paul made a list in his journal. While he was four thousand miles from home, his one husband was moving out. When he returned to their third-floor Gramercy Park apartment, scores of things would be gone. Hundreds of arguments, dozens of holidays, fifteen birthdays, two thousand seven hundred fifty-five "good night"s. Paul, it seemed, was sinking much faster than Venice-he, too, was on shifting ground. Until he recognized in a street dog the confidence he lacked in himself, and the dog became his central fascination. He'd come to Venice not to observe, but to grow-he'd written as much on the plane over Newfoundland. He figured the dog could be a teacher, as Paul had much to learn. Alas, it was apparently uninterested in prawns.He thought of the dog all afternoon at the Guggenheim, where Peggy, niece of Solomon, was buried next to her fourteen Lhasa apsos in the hope that they would join her in the afterlife. Paul rented an audio tour to quell his nerves-it was okay not to have someone to talk to when listening to a headset. Peggy was, the tour said, unparalleled as a collector and curator; highlights included Picassos and Dalís and Pollocks. But Paul was drawn outdoors, where a simple plaque marked the resting place of her beloved Lhasa apsos: Cappucino, Pegeen, Peacock, Toro, Foglia, Madam Butterfly, Baby, Emily, White Angel, Sir Herbert, Sable, Gypsy, Hong Kong, and Cellida. He wondered if he should give his dog a name, the one he’d seen and hoped to see again, but a name suggested a kind of ownership, and Paul knew what his fascination meant: It was the dog, in fact, who owned him. Paul decided to think of the animal simply as the Dog.