Hotel Venice and the Bohemian Blue
by C. F. Pierce
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Sofia finishes the piece, and I applaud enthusiastically. She inches closer toward me, holding the violin in one hand and the bow in another. “Did you just want the concert or did you want the full performance?” she asks with a quizzical look.
I sit up. Not sure what she means, but I want to find out. “Full performance, absolutely.”
Still standing holding her violin and bow, she says, “I should tell you it’ll cost you extra.” she says.
“How much?”
She leans over and whispers in my ear. I reach for my wallet and hand her the bills.
Without missing a beat, she pulls her dress over her head and stands before me naked. I scan her pale and thin body in the dim light. Too thin? Too pale? And what’s that funny scent? Before I can decide, she plants her mouth on mine, kissing me hard and pulling up my T-shirt and then reaching for my belt buckle, moving her mouth down my chest and then lower, to where my trousers once were.
She is less engaged in this part of the performance, almost robotic. If I had to guess, her mind is elsewhere, on a stage with her violin between her chin and shoulder in a long strapless ball gown before a dark audience of admirers who were taught as toddlers to refrain from applauding between movements.
* * *
Expressivo
The bedroom of the suite looks out on a narrow alley with parked cars. Sofia rises from the bed still unclothed. She advances on the white carpet to her backpack and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one, standing by the side of the bed. I study the tattoo on her abdomen, a sleeping child with wings.
“So what are you doing here anyway?” she asks. “Are you on vacation?”
“No. I am writing a novel.” Her eyes open wide. The room is lit by a floor lamp with a beige linen shade. I’m still in bed under the white sheet.
“You’re a writer?”
“I’m a doctor, if you want to know the truth. I’m actually a heart surgeon. I think of it as my day job. I’d really like to be a writer.” I sit up.
“You want to be remembered for something more than saving lives?” She says this with that accent I struggle to nail down.
“Something like that.” I stand up to get dressed.
“What’s wrong with saving lives?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, buttoning my jeans. “Although it can be hard when families of patients don’t get the desired result.”
She takes a puff from her cigarette and exhales, filling the room with smoke. I hand her a glass to use as an ashtray. If the people at my hospital saw this image... But I put the thought out of my mind.
From the alley below, I hear a car door opening followed by the rumble of ignition and hum of movement as the vehicle rolls off the premises.
From the clock radio, Bill Evans’ jazzy piano version of “Autumn Leaves” accompanied by tenor sax fills the room.
“I understand the need to create something that lives on after the artist,” Sofia says. “I have known composers who wanted to write great modern symphonies that would be played by future generations.”
“I suspect you haven’t always played on the beach.”
“May I use your shower?” she replies.
“Of course. Go ahead.”
She advances a few short steps then turns around. “Could you write me a prescription for fentanyl? I have terrible back pain ever since my accident.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I say nothing.
“Sofia Ivanovich,” she volunteers.
“Can I ask you a question, Sofia Ivanovich? Is the full performance really necessary? Don’t get me wrong. It was great. But do you really have to do it?”
“Yes, it’s absolutely necessary.” She moves to the bathroom taking her backpack with her. I hear running water.
I sit behind the small desk and turn on my computer. The screen lights up. I search “Sofia Ivanovich violinist”.
Articles pop up, mainly in Italian. Finally one in English: Violinist in Florence Cleared of Manslaughter.
Sofia Ivanovich, violinist with the Orchestra of Italy was cleared on manslaughter charges by a judge in Florence. She had been charged with gross negligence after her 2-year old daughter drowned in a bathtub. It was alleged that she had been rehearsing for a concert and left her toddler unattended. Because of procedural errors, the judge refused to find her guilty.
Ms. Ivanovich immigrated to Italy from the Ukraine and had achieved local success. Since her arrest, she has not performed publicly.
I notice her open bag on the floor outside the bathroom door. On top of a pile of clothes, I spot a round metal box. I listen for the sound of running water from the shower. I unsnap the case and recognize the familiar white powder. The sound of water stops. I replace the lid immediately before returning to the sofa.
Standing with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her, she seizes the bag before closing the door. A few minutes later, she reappears in a long T-shirt and sandals.
“I had better go, Ian will be waiting.”
“Wait, I’ll write that prescription,” I say with resignation, pulling a pad from my suitcase, still processing her tragedy.
“Be careful,” I say, handing her the slip. “This medication is very powerful.”
“If you could choose between being a rich doctor who saves lives or a poor writer whose novel is discovered and becomes a classic after he dies, what would you choose?”
“Probably the latter,” I say.
“The real deal,” she says nodding with a sad smile. “Heaven help you.” She opens the door and walks out.
* * *
Agitato
The final hours of a restless night. I lie awake in predawn darkness and process the evening events. I sit up and discover more messages from HR and Alison. I need coffee, a strong cup.
I toss on denim shorts and a black T-shirt with white lettering I bought at a concert in London many years ago. It says, “The Cure.”
Downstairs, I push open a heavy white wooden door and step out onto an uncrowded Ocean Front Walk. The sea is a bluish shade of gray. No sun on this quiet morning. I spot a solitary cyclist in a helmet and white jersey speeding along the curvy bike path. I feel a chill and realize we are in the final days of September.
A handful of people are assembled by the locked doors of the Boardwalk Cafe. A tent, a torn-up pizza carton, a brown leather shoe with no laces, a plastic laundry basket and a small wooden stool grace the facade.
A barefoot woman wrapped in a beige blanket with black triangles and green lines leans on a metal shopping cart. Purring quietly in the top compartment is a calico cat. Next to her is an unshaven man in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and nylon pants fastened well below the waist, revealing no undergarment.
I approach and hear someone yelling, “She’s not breathing.”
I recognize Ian. He is shaking a body on a sleeping bag, a pale and unconscious woman. This is not happening, I say to myself. Her eyes are half open and rolling back up to her head.
“Give me some space,” I say. “Come on. I need to get through here.”
“Who are you?” I overhear but ignore it.
Ian, still attired as a mime, moves back.
I quickly crouch down, pressing my bare knees on the asphalt beside her upper torso. Only her head is visible. The rest of her body is covered by the nylon sleeping bag. I look for the zipper of the nylon and pull it down with urgency. Her long white garment from last night covers most of her body.
With both hands interlocked, I press down on the center of her chest while continuing to shout “call 911.” I lift my hands and press down again. “Naloxone,” I shout. “Does anyone have Naloxone?”
“What the hell is he talking about?” I overhear.
“He’s talking about what you take when you’ve done too much and ain’t breathing,” I overhear.
100 compressions a minute, I say to myself. You know the drill.
I tilt her head gently and lift up her chin. With my middle and index finger, I pinch her bloody nose. I seal my mouth over hers and I feel her cold and pale lips. I blow steadily and firmly into her mouth for one second.
“Has anyone called 9-1-1?” I ask. She’s not responding. She might need a defibrillator, I’m thinking.
“They are on their way,” someone says.
The repeated blare of a siren rattles me, but I don’t look up. My eyes are locked on Sofia. A firm hand touches my shoulder. I turn and see a man and woman in blue shirts. On the sleeve by their shoulders is a patch with a blue cross.
“I just tried thirty compressions and EAR,” I tell them.
“Thanks for your help. We’ll take it from here.”
They place a bag valve mask on her face and lift her on a gurney and push her into the back of a white van with a thick stripe and the words “Emergency Ambulance” painted in red.
Ian shouts, “where are you taking her?” His eyes are opened wide, a look of madness and rage.
“Are you her next of kin?”
“Yes,” says Ian.
“Venice Hospital.”
“Will she be all right?” No answer. He glares at me and repeats the question.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
The cell phone in my pocket rings. I instinctively grab the device, accept the call and say “yes” with impatience.
“Is this Dr. Stevenson?”
I take a deep breath and move away from the crowd to the other side of the pavement where peddlers of creative wares will soon be setting up stalls.
“You’re a hard man to reach, doctor. This is Mary from the City of Cactus Clinic. We want to know if you will be coming back to work. If so, when can we expect you?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I am definitely planning on returning to work.”
“When, doctor?” she says, raising her voice, doing nothing to conceal her irritation. “You have patients who need to see you. We’ve had to cancel appointments. When can we expect you back?”
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out.
I look at the wide stretch of grass, palm trees separating the boardwalk from the beach.
I gaze at the brick wall of my hotel and see the open window of my room before scanning the tarps and tents lining the pavement by shop windows.
My eyes settle on the empty beer bottles and stained lining of Sofia’s sleeping bag, her violin case an arm length’s away on the concrete. From the corner of my eye, I spot two muscular men in dark uniforms approaching, holstered weapons on their waist.
I turn toward the sea. A solitary gull stands motionless on wet sand. I look over the crest of foamy waves in search of the horizon but can’t see it. It’s not visible, still covered by a thick layer of morning fog.
* * *
Tranquillo
Under late afternoon sun, I sip whiskey on the patio of a boardwalk saloon and process the day’s events: officers thanking me for my help after clearing the area where the ambulance arrived; Sofia saying, “I want to see you again” when I stand by her hospital bedside; the City of Cactus Clinic rep reading me the riot act after learning I am not returning to work; Alison echoing her sentiments.
I finish my drink, set down the empty shot glass and rise from my stool. At the next table, a man in a blue baseball cap with an LA insignia shouts over booming music at his bald companion. “Did you know they are always understaffed at the Venice House?” I overhear before walking out.
I stagger back to the hotel. In the lobby, advancing to the reception desk, I pass a tall woman in a white summer dress with a straw hat. She is intently studying the new acquisition on the wall, confused expression on her face.
I look the clerk in the eye.
“Checking out?” he asks.
“At some point,” I say. “Does this hotel have long-term lodgers? What is the monthly rate for something like that?”
“That depends. How long are you planning on staying?”
“Indefinitely.”
Copyright © 2024 by C. F. Pierce
