“It’s snowing.” She closes the door on the butterfly and focuses on the view outside. “It looks like feathers.”
“It isn’t just snowing. The waters have risen over the sidewalk. Look.”
She follows his hand, over the wrist and the knuckles, to the bridge — upon touching the structure, the snow disappears. The water has risen, swept in by a strong morning tide; steps that lead to a sleek speedboat across the canaletto are also underwater; a man wrapped in a slicker peers into an alley.
“Turner, can you believe this?”
“Uh-uh.” He closes the umbrella and snuggles up beneath hers.
“How do you describe this? No words can express such peace — no traffic lights, no horns.”
“That’s because we haven’t run into a scooter. Roma is beautiful too, no?” A Vespa almost ran her over on the way to the Coliseum, where they stood in silence, the chanting and roars of ancient peoples faint, yet audible, just like he had whispered to her in Egypt.
The Basilica di San Marco rises through a curtain of snow and two feet of water: the menace of the acqua alta. High waters. They walk on wooden trestles arranged around the square, passerelle to Venetians. Tourists walk in single file and take pictures. Venetians hold on to their collars and pass everyone else.
