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A Thousand Days in Venice (Anglais) Broché – 3 juin 2003


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CHAPTER 1
Signora, the Telephone Is for You

The small room is filled with German tourists, a few English, and a table or two of locals. It’s November 6, 1993, and I arrived in Venice that morning, two friends in tow. We speak quietly together, sipping Amarone. Time passes and the room empties, but I notice that one table, the one farthest away from us, remains occupied. I feel the gentle, noninvasive stare of one of the four men who sit there. I turn my shoulders in, toward my wine, never really looking at the man. Soon the gentlemen go off, and we three are alone in the place. A few minutes pass before a waiter comes by to say there is a telephone call for me. We have yet to announce our arrival to friends, and even if someone knew we were in Venice, they couldn’t possibly know we were lunching at Vino Vino. I tell the waiter he’s mistaken. “No, signora. Il telefono è per Lei,” he insists. “Pronto,” I say into the old, orange wall telephone that smells of smoke and men’s cologne.

“Pronto. Is it possible for you to meet me tomorrow at the same time? It’s very important for me,” says a deep, deliberate, Italian voice I’d never heard before. In the short silence that follows it somehow clicks that he is one of the men who’d left the restaurant just moments before. Though I’ve understood fairly well what he has said, I can’t respond in Italian. I mumble some linguistic fusion like, “No, grazie. I don’t even know who you are,” thinking that I really like his voice.

The next day we decide to return to Vino Vino because of its convenience to our hotel. I don’t think about the man with the beautiful voice. But he’s there, and this time he’s without his colleagues and looking more than a little like Peter Sellers. We smile. I go off to sit with my friends, and he, seeming not quite to know how to approach us, turns and goes out the door. A few beats pass before the same waiter, now feeling a part of something quite grand, comes to me, eyes direct: “Signora, il telefono è per Lei.” There ensues a repeat of yesterday’s scene. I go to the phone, and the beautiful voice speaks in very studied English, perhaps thinking it was his language I hadn’t understood the day before: “Is it possible for you to meet me tomorrow, alone?”

“I don’t think so,” I fumble, “I think I’m going to Naples.”
“Oh,” is all the beautiful voice can say.
“I’m sorry,” I say and hang up the phone.

We don’t go to Naples the next day or the day after, but we do go to the same place for lunch, and Peter Sellers is always there. We never speak a word face to face. He always telephones. And I always tell him I can’t meet him. On the fifth day—a Friday—our last full day in Venice, my friends and I spend the morning at Florian mapping the rest of our journey, drinking Prosecco and cups of bitter, thick chocolate lit with Grand Marnier. We decide not to have lunch but to save our appetites for a farewell dinner at Harry’s Bar. Walking back to the hotel, we pass by Vino Vino, and there is Peter Sellers, his nose pressed against the window. A lost child. We stop in the calle a moment, and my friend Silvia says, “Go inside and talk to him. He has the dearest face. We’ll meet you at the hotel.”

I sit down next to the sweet face with the beautiful voice, and we drink some wine. We talk very little, something about the rain, I think, and why I didn’t come to lunch that day. He tells me he is the manager of a nearby branch of Banca Commerciale Italiana, that it’s late, and he has the only set of keys to reopen the safe for the after-noon’s business. I notice the sweet face with the beautiful voice has wonderful hands. His hands tremble as he gathers his things to leave. We agree to meet at six-thirty that evening, right there, in the same place. “Proprio qui, Right here,” he repeats again and again.

I walk to the hotel with a peculiar feeling and spend the afternoon lolling about my little room, only half celebrating my tradition of reading Thomas Mann in bed. Even after all these years of coming to Venice, every afternoon is a ritual. Close by on the night table I place some luscious little pastry or a few cookies or, if lunch was too light, maybe one, crusty panino which Lino at the bottega across the bridge from my Pensione Accademia has split and stuffed with prosciutto, then wrapped in butcher’s paper. I tuck the down quilt under my arms and open my book. But today I read and don’t read the same page for an hour. And the second part of the ritual falls away altogether, the part where I wander out to see images Mann saw, touch stones he touched. Today all I can think about is him.

The persevering rain becomes a tempest that night, but I am resolved to meet the stranger. Lagoon waters splash up and spill over onto the river in great foaming pools and the Piazza is a lake of black water. The winds seem the breath of furies. I make my way to the warm safety of the bar at the Hotel Monaco but no farther. Less than a few hundred yards from Vino Vino, I’m so close but I can get no closer. I go to the desk and ask for a telephone directory, but the wine bar is not listed. I try calling assistenza but operator number 143 finds nothing. The rendezvous is a wreckage, and I haven’t a way to contact Peter Sellers. It was just not meant to be. I head back to the hotel bar, where a waiter called Paolo stuffs my soaked boots with newspaper and places them near a radiator with the same ceremony someone else might use to stow the crown jewels. I’ve known Paolo since my first trip to Venice four years earlier. Stocking-footed, fidgeting, drinking tea, I sit on the damp layers of my skirt, which sends up the wooly perfume of wet lambs, and watch fierce, crackling lights rip the clouds. I think back to my very first time in Venice. Lord, how I fought that journey! I’d been in Rome for a few days, and I’d wanted to stay. But there I was, hunkered down in a second-class train, heading north. “ARE YOU GOING TOVENICE?” asks a small voice in tentative Italian, trespassing on my Roman half-dream.

I open my eyes and look out the window to see we have pulled into Tiburtina. Two young, pink-faced German women are hoisting their great packs up into the overhead space, thrusting their ample selves down onto the seat opposite me. “Yes,” I finally answer, in English, to a space somewhere between them. “For the first time,” I say.

They are serious, shy, dutifully reading the Lorenzetti guide to Venice and drinking mineral water in the hot, airless train car as it lunges and bumps over the flat Roman countryside and up into the Umbrian hills. I close my eyes again, trying to find my place in the fable of life in the Via Giulia where I’d taken roof-top rooms in the ochered-rose palazzo that sits across from the Hungarian Art Academy. I’d decided I would go each

Friday to eat a bowlful of tripe at Da Felice in the Testaccio. I would shop every morning in Campo dei Fiori. I’d open a twenty-seat taverna in the Ghetto, one big table where the shop keeps and artisans would come to eat the good food I’d cook for them. I’d take a Corsican prince as my lover. His skin would smell of neroli blossoms, and he’d be poor as I would be, and we’d walk along the Tiber, going softly into our dotage. As I begin putting together the exquisite pieces of the prince’s face, the trespasser’s small voice asks, “Why are you going to Venice? Do you have friends there?”

“No. No friends,” I tell her. “I guess I’m going because I’ve never been there, because I think I should,” I say, more to myself than to her. I have hopelessly lost the prince’s face for the moment, and so I parry: “And why are you going to Venice?”

“For romance,” says the inquisitive one very simply.
My plainer truth is that I am going to Venice because I’m being sent there, to gather notes for a series of articles. Twenty-five hundred words on the bacari, traditional Venetian wine bars; twenty-five hundred more on the question of the city’s gradual sinking into the lagoon; and an upscale dining review. I would rather have stayed in Rome. I want to go back to my narrow green wooden bed in the strange little room tucked up in the fourth-floor eaves of the Hotel Adriano. I want to sleep there, to be awakened by powdery sunlight sifting in through the chinks in the shutters. I like the way my heart beats in Rome, how I can walk faster and see better. I like that I feel at home wandering through her ancient ecstasy of secrets and lies. I like that she’s taught me I am only a scintilla, a barely perceptible and transient gleam.

And I like that at lunch, with fried artichokes on my breath, I think of sup-per. And at supper I remember peaches that wait in a bowl of cool water near my bed. I’ve nearly retrieved the pieces of the prince’s face as the train lurches over the Ponte della Libertà. I open my eyes to see the lagoon.

Back then I could never have imagined how sweetly this
ravishing old Princess was to gather me up into her tribe, how she would dazzle and dance the way only she can, exploding a morning with gold-shot light, soaking an evening in the bluish mists of a trance. I smile at Paolo, a tribal smile, a soundless eloquence. He stays near, keeping my teapot full. It’s after eleven-thirty before the storm rests. I pull on boots all hardened into the shape of the newsprint stuffing. Damp hat over still-damp hair, still-damp coat, I gather myself for the walk back to the hotel. Something prickles, shivers forward in my consciousness. I try to remember if I’d told the stranger where we were staying. What’...

Revue de presse

“An irresistible grown-up love story.”
USA Today


“AN APPEALING TALE OF A TRUE ROMANCE AND A SECOND CHANCE . . . A Thousand Days in Venice is a little cioppino of a book, a tasty stew with equal parts travel and food and romance, spiced up with goodly amounts of fantasy-come-true.”
The Seattle Post Intelligencer


“Move over, Bridges of Madison County. Here comes real romance— with recipes, yet. . . . A beautifully written memoir. . . . The ‘happily ever after’ is riveting and the recipes are mouthwatering just to read.”
The Philadelphia Inquirer



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Couverture | Copyright | Table des matières | Extrait | Quatrième de couverture
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Amazon.com: 197 commentaires
80 internautes sur 87 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
More than a fairy tale; maybe it's also a parable 2 juin 2004
Par Patricia Tryon - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
Details, the essence of domesticity, shine in this story. There are the travelogue-esque descriptions of Venice: Napoleon's observation about Piazza San Marco and viewing works of art sequestered in ancient churches. There's a discussion of making house, once in the Midwest in a little house I would love to see and again in the grotty chaos of a bachelor's digs. And throughout are delicious descriptions of food and drink and the ways and places to enjoy them.
Like youth, this book may be somewhat wasted on the young. The small ruminations, the reflections on how we find a place and make a place in life may seem over-wrought. Until the onset of my own middle-age, I felt the same way about such memoirs. Now, I greet writings like this with a mixture of recognition and enthusiasm: recognition of the silly ways we fumble along and enthusiasm for another's discovery that it is not too late to savour what is delicious about life. In that, I find a parable of encouragement.
29 internautes sur 30 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Such a charming book! 30 mai 2002
Par Peter J. Sander - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
I have spent the last two nights in Venice... not really, but I feel as though I have, lying in bed amidst fluffy pillows, with a glass of red wine and my hot-off-the-presses copy of A Thousand Nights in Venice. What delightful book it is, Marlena takes us all on a romantic journey into the unknown. What happens when you meet the love of your life in, um, for lack of a better term -- middle age? How do you pick up and move across the world to an unknown place and cast your lot with a charming stranger? So many of us have had this fantasy while traveling, Marlena had the courage to act on the opportunity when it appeared. She has a lovely way with words, her descriptions of people, places, and best of all -- food, will sweep readers into an exotic world. Enjoy!
93 internautes sur 107 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A dissenting opinion 9 août 2002
Par Amy Battis - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
I hate to be a dissenting opinion, but the other side of the coin ought to be revealed. I was puzzled with this story because it seemed to me that the author up and moved to Venice to marry a man she knew (barely) peripherally. It wasn't like they'd had a long distance romance for years...and then decided to marry. They met, visited each other a couple times. Then once she's living with him, she is frustrated with the adjustment and his foreign (to her) ways and continues to call him "the stranger" even after they are married! It seemed too whimsical and I couldn't really feel bad for her frustrations given that she went into this pretty blindly. What did interest me was her in depth knowledge of Venice itself, which I'm sure she could've delved deeper into and provided us with more tidbits the average tourist wouldn't uncover. I also appreciated her detail of the Italian culture (ie: wedding plans, renovating the house, the moving process). I won't say I wouldn't recommend the book because I do feel there's an audience for it, I just won't be giving my copy out freely and endorsing it as the read of the summer.
17 internautes sur 17 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A Beautiful City, A Very Human Story 30 mai 2003
Par "suemdc" - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
I've read the on-line debate about this book with pleasure. I understand the conflict, but I come down on the side that says this book is a great read.
I readily agree with those who say the descriptions can be too long and too colorful, and, especially those who say that they could not imagine moving to Venice to marry a "stranger." But, when I finished this book I felt I had spent the last few evenings with a highly entertaining, charming, and impulsive friend. That we had spent the visit talking about life, love, food, and Venice. And, that I wished she could have stayed longer. Not that I wanted to live like her, or agreed with all her decisions, but that listening to her talk was simply fascinating.
I loved the description of small things about Venice, her admission that all in love is not perfect, and her determined, wily temperment.
Take this book to the beach. Use it to spice up a dull week. Read about this woman's flight of fancy. Don't judge her life choices based on practicality or her word choices based on Hemingway. Just relax and enjoy.
18 internautes sur 19 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A Sumptuous Book 5 août 2002
Par Shannon Essa - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
I have read many books set in Venice, but this is by far the best of any, whether fiction or non-fiction. The author really captures Venice and the Venetian people perfectly, sparing no-one, not even her husband, when she points out their quirks and idiosyncracies. The story is touching, funny, and true, and as soon as I finished I started reading it again. I will never forget about the Southern American dinner the author cooks for a big party of Venetians or the tango she does with the tax-man, I felt like I was there eating fudge pudding with a bunch of old Venetian guys. I feel I know Marlena and Fernando and having lived in Venice for a while myself, I could totally relate to the ups and downs of Marlena's life there with her Venetian.
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