The Watchmaker, Reema Cverty [books to read this summer .txt] 📗

The Watchmaker.
About thirty years ago, as a student of anthropology, I visited Italy for the first time. We were a team of eight, headed by a senior student, Jack Devon. Fifteen days they gave us for touring seven cities. It was not a pleasure trip however; we were to bring back enough data to form a full project on a city of our choice and submit it to the college to show that we were worth getting a scholarship. To make a fair decision, we drew chits to select a city and I drew Venice.
Venice was on the travel schedule as the last city. By this time, everyone was completely exhausted from all the running around, travelling, walking, asking, photographing, writing and committing to memory. We headed to Mestre, the port city connecting to Venice and put up in a hotel there. According to Jack’s plan, all our major luggage would be kept in Mestre, while we would carry just the bare minimum up to Venice. We took a bus in the afternoon over the two and a half mile long causeway that connected Venice to the Italian mainland, the Freedom Bridge. The railroad adjacent to the causeway provided a strange sight- the trains leading into Venice appeared to be moving straight into the sea, travelling on water. The blue waters of the Adriatic provided unparalleled serenity to our minds and seemed to tell a hundred mysterious stories, such as we had never before heard.
Once in Venice, we got to see a strange sight. We had expected taxis and buses but got a series of gondolas instead, all black with steel bench work and steep sterns, where a gondolier had to stand to see his way around the narrow canals. We hopped into one that delivered us to the doorstep of our hotel; very near to the bridge they call the Bridge of Sighs. Evening had set in and as it was winter, there was a mist over the waters of the Grand Canal and we could see people hurrying home. In an hour or so, the people disappeared, leaving the city as cold and cheerless as a grave, yet impressing a new visitor by its silence, only occasionally broken by the sound of salt tides washing up the sides of its buildings.
That night, over plates of fettuccini, bruschetta and pizza, I told my friends that I wanted to do some sightseeing in Venice myself. Jack was extremely displeased with the idea of letting me move around the city alone. The Esposito twins, offered to help me by setting up a travel schedule around Venice so I could gather as much as possible within the limited time. The following morning, as we checked out of the hotel to hit the streets of Venice, Jack told me, “Fiona, we are taking a train back to Mestre. Be at the railway station well on time- the last railway train for the day leaves at half past seven in the evening. Don’t miss the train, or we will have to move without you.”
I roamed around Venice the whole day, the sun shining on the waters of the canal made it glitter like a stream of diamonds and the streets seemed to be paved with molten gold. I had lunch at the Rialto Bridge and sauntered around St. Marks Square, noting down everything worthwhile. The church of Santa Maria Della Salude was the last building I entered. The paintings of Tintoretto and Titian held me in awe for a long time and I completely lost track of time. It was about quarter to seven when I glanced at my watch and made a dash for the station. The golden city had now changed its colour and mood with the change in the time of the day. It now seemed to be a city in mourning, with dark canals, gray buildings and palaces and a stark absence of people. I went to the steps of the Grand Canal to wait for a gondola to take me to the station. The waters of the canal that looked ornate like a thousand sparkling diamonds strewn over the landscape, now looked black and sinister- like the blood of the devil himself, an acid river that could burn a thousand souls in hell. By now, mist had fallen heavily over the water and the colossal watch tower behind me was about to strike seven. To add to my woes, the sky aimed sharp drops of rain at me, forcing me to put my camera and watch in my bag. At length, the mist that had metamorphosed into a thick fog put an abrupt end to my visibility of the canal.
Time was racing by and it was extremely important that I reach the station on time- I wished to show jack that I did not need a babysitter; reaching on time would be like a slap on his over bossy face. “Fair haired lady,” a voice called, “For whom do you wait?” I turned back to see a priest, sitting on the steps of the church. “I am waiting for a gondola to take me to the railway station,” I answered him. The place where the priest sat was in the darkness and I could not see his face well. “But there aren’t going to be anymore tonight,” he replied. I was worried by the answer. I asked him why. “For the sea is gets wilder. Look up at the clock tower. It is time.”
I did not understand at all. I was not interested in asking him either. It was more important to reach the station . Nevertheless, I looked up at the clock tower. It was seven in the evening. I turned back to the priest who was by now strangely nervous. He kept wiping the sweat off his forehead, which was quite unlikely, as it was winter. He was constantly counting the beads in his rosary. He reminded me of those priests in the horror movies, who are attacked by invincible spirits. However, I was glad to have him there, for it made me feel accompanied. The silence around was slowly getting to me. I resumed my waiting. Just then, a gondola moved into view and a young man alighted. But before the gondolier could be paid, he looked at me with big scared eyes, uttered a cry of fear and rowed away as fast as he could, chanting the name of the Lord a thousand times. Both of us were perplexed at the reaction and trying to make out what just happened, when the same happened with the priest too. He screamed and held up the cross and started sprinkling holy water all around him and slowly backed into the church , pushing shut the heavy doors of the gothic ancient structure, as fast as his frail frame could permit him.
I was shocked. It suddenly seemed that the whole of Venice was going mad. So I turned my thoughts towards getting to the train on time. “Excuse me,” I asked the stranger, “Can you tell me how I can reach the station on time? I have to be there by half past seven.” The stranger flashed me an amicable smile and answered in an accent so funny, that his English sounded like something hammered out of Italian, “I am going there too. We run!” He didn’t even find it necessary to take my permission and grabbing hold of my hand as if he never intended to let go, started running through the streets of venice, with me tailing close behind him. I was having a hard time keeping up and he never even stopped for breath. He took me through narrow streets flanked by high buildings on both sides, sometimes past dead ends with blackened walls and barred windows. It was strange how he could find his way out through this confusing city, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that – my mind kept turning to abductors, secret covens and clinical psychopaths and many a times I wondered if I was being tagged along by one, into his lair where he could murder me or may be eat me alive and preserve my skin. Yet this man was my only hope for there was no saying how many others I would meet if I didn’t get to the station on time, so I readily tagged along, through the bewildering maze of venetian lanes.
Soon enough we were at the station. Now I willingly tailed along, pleased that I wasn’t running with a serial killer. However, the bright smile on his face disappeared when he returned from the enquiry. “We missed it,” he said, “now we have to go by bus.” By this time I had given in to fate and did not wince or protest when he grabbed my hand again and we ran to the bus stop. But fate wasn’t going to treat me well this time either. We had missed the last bus too. I was despondent about my ever reaching the mainland on time. The big clock at the bus stop showed it was well beyond eight. My train to Rome was at three in the morning. I just had to get back to my hotel in the mainland on time. Sitting on the pavement with my face hid in my hands, I wept and regretted not listening to Jack. If I missed the train to Rome, I would never be able to take the flight back to my country which was exactly at eight in the morning the following day. I noticed that my friend was sitting next to me, feeling my pain. “Don’t cry. We can always walk.” These words just exasperated me. “Walk? For two and a half miles , you expect me to walk with you? I don’t even know your name! Stop joking and making fun of my problems!” My words alarmed him. In a serious tone, he replied, “You never asked me my name. Yet you already ran 2 kilometers with me.” I don’t know what happened but I burst out laughing when I heard these words. On his advice, I made a phone call from a public phone at Piazzale Roma to my hotel in Mestre and left a message for Jack at the reception, giving him details of my return. We started to walk. Alonso kept on talking about everything in Italy- the people, politics, the art and architecture; all this he spoke incessantly and what pleased me the most- with rhetoric speechmaking. I enjoyed the way we palavered to cover the length of the bridge that lay before us and we seemed to get along well.
The rain was beating on our faces and the wind seemed to whip up the cold, making the weather uncomfortably horrible. The street lights had started flickering. It may be my imagination, but I thought that the lights seemed to flicker in order, flickering towards the direction of the mainland and back, just like the neon lights which lit up the entrances of the huge casinos in Vegas. Not a single soul was in view and the way the light started playing with us on the bridge lent a strange effect to the road ahead. The situation was aggravated with the onset of lightning; the shape of each bolt was like claws of the demon. Sometimes I felt like there was someone following the two of us and I kept turning back every now and then, only to find that it was the cold air that brushed against my back. Soon enough, the wind turned into a light storm and the sea waves rose to considerable heights