A Thousand Days in Venice by Marlena de Blasi

Author:Marlena de Blasi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2002-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

10

I Knew a Woman, I Knew a Man

But there can’t be a party every day. One morning I lay facedown on the fancy ocher-draped bed under the lace baldacchino, weeping. What is the matter with me? Fernando says it’s low blood pressure. He thinks my seeing a doctor is self-indulgent, but I search the directory anyway. I learn that professional listings are not culled under specific headings. One must know the name of the doctor in order to find his or her number. I’m lost. I stop by the tourist office, and the folks there assure me that the only English-speaking doctor in Venice is an allergist. They tell me he’s simpatico. I take their word for it and set off for his office in San Maurizio. Small, weary, chain-smoking, he interviews me from the velvety charcoal depths of a Napoleonic-era chaise longue that is positioned far across the cavernous room from my straight-backed wooden chair.

He asks, “Do you have a normal sex life?” I am perplexed. Is he suggesting I have an allergy to sex?

“I think it’s normal. For me, that is,” I tell him.

After a pause to converse with his housekeeper over the composition of his lunch, he stands nearby, fingers pressed to my pulse, and says, “E-e-et is only that you are scarry, cara mia.” I hope he means, “It is only that you are scared, my dear.” I ask his fee, and he looks shocked that I would sully this tête-à-tête by speaking of money. Months later, there arrives his bill for 350,000 lire, about 175 dollars, a very special fee reserved for rich American ladies.

As I walk through the city, I begin to notice American travelers. They seem better looking than all the others, the nasaly timbre of their voices almost Pavlovian for me. As though all of them are dear friends, none of whom quite recognize me there in my Venetian surroundings, I am eager to speak to them. I sit in a café or stand on line at a gallery entrance, sleuthing for some way to engage them. Some one of them almost always gets around to asking how long I’ve been in Venice, or where I am going next, naturally thinking I am a traveler, too. When I tell them that I live here, that I will soon be married to an Italian, the swapping of compatriotic sympathies shifts. A wealthy friend once told me that as soon as a person discovers how much she’s worth, that person’s attitude toward her changes, categorizing her first as “portfolio” and second as “woman.” When I tell my story, I am shuffled from the category of an American into that of an exotic and certainly I am no longer one of them. I’ve gone to the other side. I am good for supper recommendations, the name of a farmacista who’ll hand out antibiotics without a prescription, or maybe an extra room for a guest in my house.

I consider joining the ranks of the British Women’s Club of Venice.

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