I meet her on the vaporetto.

“First time in Venice?” she asks.

“Yes. I’m scouting out locations for a new film,” I reply, but then immediately regret revealing too much information. I stand near the rail, glancing at the warehouses on the waterfront as our water bus speeds toward its docking at St. Mark’s Square. I turn back to her. “What about you?”

“I’ve been here several times before,” she says. “But I keep returning.”

“I detect a British accent.”

“London.” She covers her mouth and coughs, and then says, “Born and raised there. And you? American, no doubt.”

“New York. Born and raised there.”

This makes her laugh. For the first time, I take a good look at her. Fortyish, I assume, perhaps a few years younger than me. Tall, slim, with a very pleasant face and brownish hair held tight in a youthful ponytail. Casual slacks and blouse, slightly more elegant than my own blue jeans and T-shirt emblazoned with ‘Italy’ on a tricolor flag. No wedding ring noticeable, which makes me subconsciously cover mine. Then, realizing I’m staring, I turn away, glancing at the other passengers on the morning boat ride.

“What sort of film? Documentary?”

Instead of answering her, I hold out my hand. “I’m Peter.”

“Suzanne,” she replies. “Are you going to the Duomo?”

“The palace, actually. Doge’s Palace.”

“Magnificent place. I’m sure it will be the perfect setting for your documentary.”

“What are you doing in Venice? Or is that too personal to ask?”

“No, it’s fine.” She opens her purse, searches through it for several seconds and eventually pulls out a small container of lip balm. She spreads it on her lips—pink, slender lips. I force myself to look away. She is very attractive.

She puts the small tube back in her bag and faces me. “I’m actually here to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

Before she has a chance to explain, the vaporetto’s motor switches gear. The boat has reached the dock, and it’s time to disembark.

“It was nice meeting you Peter.” Instead of shaking my hand, a short coughing spell brings her hand to her mouth.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” I offer, hopeful.

“Maybe,” she says with an inviting smile. 

And then she’s gone, disappearing in the throngs of tourists. I follow the crowd, over a bridge spanning one of the city’s multitude of canals and down the other side. Past the hawkers selling shirts and scarves, Venetian party masks and other overpriced souvenirs. Past the line of impatient visitors waiting to ride the elevator to the top of the St. Mark’s Campanile bell tower. Past the piles of wooden planks that serve as walkways when the plaza is flooded. And finally, to iconic St. Mark’s Square.

Venice. I had been here as a teenager and now I’m back. I am here to make a dream come true but there’s no guarantee I’ll be successful in what I plan to do.

*-*-*

“So, how was Doge’s Palace?”

I look up from my table, and there she is, two rows over. Suzanne. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”

“Why don’t you join me?”

Her invitation surprises me. I nod at the waiter as he graciously picks up my wineglass and carries it to my new place at Suzanne’s table.

“Doge’s Palace was remarkable,” I say as I sit down. “Beautiful artwork, lavish décor. Gilded ceilings and ornate architecture. But what fascinated me the most was the tour I took through the secret passages.”

“What secret passages?”

I sip my wine. Pinot Grigio, so good. There is a twinkle in Suzanne’s eyes and I quickly return my gaze to the wineglass. “I toured the palace’s archives with a small group. Its torture chambers and prison cells. Places tourists rarely see, the guide said. And we saw Casanova’s cell.”

“Casanova? Really?”

“The famous lover, no less. He was a scam artist and an adventurer, and he was held prisoner there. Until he managed to escape.”

“I’ve been to Doge’s Palace many times and knew nothing about that. There’s always something new to discover in Venice. So, tell me. Is that where you’re going to film your documentary? In Casanova’s prison cell?”

“No, not exactly.” How much should I say? I’ll never see her again after our chance meal together in a small trattoria up the street from St. Mark’s Square. But still, I hesitate.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” she says, reaching out and touching my hand, which I quickly pull away.

“It’s not a documentary. In fact, I don’t know if my film will ever be made.”

“What kind of film is it?”

“It’s a thriller. Actually, much more than a thriller.”

“Go on.”

So, I forge ahead with my explanation, one that I had voiced many times to family and friends. An explanation that often resulted in ridicule and rejection. But then, this is my dream, so why should I be ashamed of sharing my vision?

“It’s a time-traveling adventure thriller. A film that takes place in Venice, and it stars some of Italy’s most well-known historic figures.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

“Casanova. Marco Polo. Michelangelo. Mussolini is the villain. They all play roles in my film.”

She laughs, and this causes her to start coughing. She drinks her water and then, realizing I’m serious, she apologizes. “Excuse me, but I don’t have the faintest clue about—what did you say it was called? A time-traveling thriller?”

“It’s a unique concept, I admit. I just hope someone will appreciate my originality.”

“Why in Italy, of all places?”

“I came as a teenager with my parents. I fell in love with the cities we visited. Florence, Rome. And of course, Venice. My favorite city of all. As I began working on the script for my film, I knew that much of the action would take place in Venice. The canals, the fog, the palaces. Perfect settings for the movie.”

“Time-traveling film. Imagine that,” she says.

The waiter appears at our table to take our orders. Tagliatelle ai funghi porcini for her, Gnocchi con scampi e zucchine for me.

“Can I order you a glass of wine?” I offer.

“No, I can’t drink.”

“Can’t? Too early in the day?”

“Something like that,” she says. “Tell me more about your film. Which studio is producing it?”

I look away for a moment. Why would she be interested in knowing that I am trying to produce this film on my own after being turned down by every studio and film agent I had approached? I’m way out of my league, I know, but I refuse to let my dream escape me. I reply simply, “It’s an independent production.”

“Did you study filmmaking?”

“I took some courses in college, and I’ve always wanted to study screenwriting, but life took me in different directions. I have plenty of work yet to do on my script, and I still need to find investors to fund the project. But enough about me. What about you? You said something about coming here to say goodbye…”

“Oh, yes, I did mention that. But, can we not talk about that now? Let’s just enjoy our meal, shall we? The weather is brilliant, unseasonably warm, and here we are in Venice. A magical city.”

“To Venice!” I say, raising my wineglass in a toast.

“To Venice!” she replies.

*-*-*

Burano island is totally unlike anything I ever imagined about Venice. Instead of masses of crowds standing in line to enter the Duomo or pushing to position themselves for the best selfie angle, Burano is nearly deserted, a quaint laid-back fishing village across the lagoon from the city.

“Don’t you just love it?”

I smile at Suzanne as we stroll along the narrow canal, past one pastel-colored house after another. It’s early morning and the few souvenir shops are still closed. We cross over a wooden bridge and continue up the picturesque walkway on the other side.

“I hope you’re not upset I convinced you to come here,” she says, linking her arm in mine. The gesture surprises me and instinctively I pull back.

“Burano wasn’t on my itinerary. Actually, I had never heard of it before. In my research for the trip, I read about Murano, where they make glass. But not Burano.”

“Too many tourists in Murano. And anyway, you can buy Murano glassware here, if you’re so interested. Peter, I’m getting winded. Let’s sit down at this café. We can get espresso and essi. S-shaped biscuits—simple, but quite lovely.”

While the waitress prepares our coffee, we gaze out at the water, at the small fishing boat puttering in the distance, far from shore. A breeze picks up and Suzanne draws her sweater tight. And then she coughs repeatedly. She retrieves a plastic water bottle from her bag and takes a long drink.

“Are you okay?”

“My apologies. I can’t get rid of this cough. Tell me more about your film. You mentioned Casanova?”

“Do you really want to hear about it?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Well, let me set the scene. Casanova is imprisoned in Doges Palace by the dreaded Council of Ten, the rulers of Venice. They have sentenced him for his immoral behavior as a seducer of women. His cell is dark and dreary. Rats abound. Casanova escapes through a hole in the ceiling and crawls his way to the cell of another prisoner. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“I find it fascinating!”

“Well, the two men dig through the floor and drop down into the main hall below. The hall is so crowded with noblemen and noblewomen that no one notices their sudden appearance. And it is there that Marco Polo is waiting for them.”

“Marco Polo?”

“I told you it’s a time-traveling action film.”

“Marco Polo, yes, I see! Where does Michelangelo fit into the plot?”

“He’s waiting in the boat in which Marco Polo will transport Casanova to China.”

Suzanne can’t help herself and breaks out laughing. Her laughter causes her to cough, and she reaches for her water.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’ve been ill,” she tells me, but she doesn’t elaborate. Her coughing eventually subsides. “So, tell me, Peter, is your film intended to be comical?”

“No, it’s an action movie! Historical figures come to life. Casanova and Marco Polo are like Marvel superheroes!”

“You have to admit there are elements of humor in what you’re describing. It’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But it’s not slapstick comedy, if that’s what you’re implying. Anyone who’s read the script believes it has a lot of merit. My wife says it’s really good. Oh, I’m married, by the way.”

“I knew that, Peter,” she says, nodding toward the wedding ring I had subconsciously hidden from view. “Your wife doesn’t mind your coming to Venice on your own to plan the film?”

“She knows it’s been my lifelong dream to make this film, and she’s been very supportive. She actually insisted I come to Venice, saying my script will be that much better if I visited the places where the action takes place. I had time off from work, so it was now or never. I couldn’t miss this opportunity to finally be here on the ground, in Venice.”

“Bravo for you,” Suzanne says, sipping her espresso.

“Now, you must tell me something about yourself. You said you’ve been here before, in Venice?”

“I’ve traveled extensively in Italy.”

“Yes?” I say, urging her to go on.

“My husband was a travel writer. He wrote for travel magazines, Lonely Planet and such. He reviewed hotels and restaurants. We went to the most exotic places, the most luxurious resorts. Michelin-starred restaurants. Traveling with him on the job, we lived like royals. We did it in style, first class, going everywhere, literally, but we kept returning to Italy. And to Venice. There’s something special about Venice, something unique. The canals, of course, The islands, the food, the culture. St. Mark’s Square when it’s flooded.”

Suzanne pauses, as if her thoughts are wandering along the waterways of Venice across the lagoon as we speak, but then she turns to me.

“Well, that was what we did, and what drew me here again now.”

“You don’t travel with your husband anymore?”

“He passed three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

“It’s alright. I’m here on my own this time.”

“Are you writing about Venice?”

“No, I’m not a writer. I’m a social worker who has always been passionate about travel. I’m returning to the places I visited with my husband. Remembering.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I finish my espresso and put down the empty cup on its saucer. I call the waitress to pay the bill.

“Don’t let what I said get you down, Peter.”

“What?”

“Your film, that it sounds a bit comical. You’ll make it one day. I know it. Your dream will come true.”

*-*-*

We stand outside the entrance of her hotel. I have never cheated on my wife before, and I doubt I’m capable of doing it now. But that isn’t the only thing holding me back. Suzanne is stunning, but I’m not really attracted to her. Maybe I’m attracted to the idea of touring Venice with a beautiful stranger, someone who knows much more about the city than me and who can guide me over its bridges and to its islands. Maybe the notion of not being alone when I had planned to be alone is what attracts me.

Before I have a chance to say anything, Suzanne starts another of her now-familiar coughing spells. For a moment she seems to lose her balance, as if she is going to fall, and I reach out to steady her. Finally, Suzanne catches her breath, thanking me with her eyes.

“Listen, Peter, I haven’t been totally forthcoming with you. Do you have time to come in for a minute, just to the lobby? I have something to tell you.”

We sit in silence, waiting for the bartender. She orders a Diet Coke, and I opt for Pinot Grigio. At last, we receive our drinks, but Suzanne ignores hers and looks at me. There is a sadness in her eyes, something I didn’t detect earlier. I wait patiently for her to begin.

“Peter, I said that I had been ill, that I couldn’t get relief from my coughing. That is not the full explanation for my condition. The truth is, I am still ill. Very ill, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that!”

“It’s serious; all the doctors concur. I'll spare you the bloody details, but let me say that my disease is terminal. I decided that as long as I’m capable, I will continue traveling. I couldn’t help myself. I had to return to Venice. To the hotel where my husband and I stayed, to some of the restaurants where we dined. Did I mention to you that he proposed over an evening snack of Campari and cicchetti? That was the first time we came here together, before we were married. And now I’ve come back. Alone.”

“To say goodbye,” I say, the words escaping my mouth as I recall what she had told me when we first met.

“To say goodbye,” she repeats. “I don’t know if you take memories into the next world, but if so, I want to remember Venice. I’m not sure I believe in God, or in Heaven. Perhaps I’ll meet my husband again, maybe not. But I hope I’ll remember Venice.”

“You’ll remember Venice.” I reach out and place my hand on her arm. It’s the first time I have initiated a physical gesture, but of course it is not suggestive in any way.

“Yes,” she says, raising her Coke. “To Venice!”

“To Venice!” I say, as we clink our glasses.

*-*-*

The last time I see her is on the vaporetto. She is standing at the rail, facing the dock as the waterbus pulls away from the city, away from me. She raises her hand to signal goodbye, but then, when the boat is quite far away, she brings her hand to her mouth. Unfortunately, seeing her cough will be my last memory of her.

I have two more days left in Venice. There are more places to visit, more palaces to visit. I have yet to travel the full length of the Grand Canal and I’ve yet to decide whether to ride a gondola—something I can’t imagine doing without my wife at my side. I wonder if Venice is a suitable setting for my film. It isn’t a city of adventure; it’s more a city of refined culture. Of historic beauty.

I don’t know if my dream of making a film will ever come true. Casanova escaping with Marco Polo from the Doges Palace. Michelangelo traveling with the two of them to China. Yes, Suzanne was right. My time-traveling thriller is a comedy in many ways, but what’s wrong with that?

Suzanne’s vaporetto is far from shore, getting smaller and smaller until it fades from view. I turn around and join the crowds streaming toward St. Mark’s Square. I walk past the souvenir stands and the tourists aiming for the perfect selfie in front of the Bridge of Sighs. Next time, I’ll come here with my wife.

A smile forms on my lips as I think about my brief acquaintance with Suzanne, about our talks and our visit to Burano. To remember our time together, to say goodbye, I raise my hand, as if making her a toast.

“To Venice!” I say aloud as I take my place in the line leading into the Duomo.