âI canât afford the airfare.â
âWhen will you have an opportunity like this again?â
âI canât even afford a fucking taxi to the airport!â I never thought Iâd allow myself to fail in such a spectacular manner. At 34, I was below rock bottom. Iâd hit silt. Unless a fairy godmother suddenly arrived in a flutter of translucent wings, I had no way to pay rent. I didnât even know where my next meal was coming from.
âEl, I have miles.â
âMiles?â Was that a man? Would Miles help me?
âAirplane miles. Iâll cash them in. You know I donât like traveling alone.â
I glanced around at my surroundings. The small bedroom belonged to a distant cousinâthree times removed, by marriage not blood. The watered-down family connection hadnât cut me any slack. Coldhearted Joyce loved cats more than humans. I knew she would put me out on the street as easily as any other deadbeat tenant if I couldnât pay her rent money.
âI donât have any cash,â I said, drawing a pattern with the quarters on my dresser. Iâd changed my last few bills into coins to make the money last longer. âI mean, I can hardly affordâ¦â The tears came then, even though Iâm known for never crying. âI canât afford New York anymore,â I said, âand I canât afford to go back home.â Not that there was anyone waiting for me. âMy next apartment is a cardboard box under the bridge.â
âI know whatâs going on with you, honey,â Sasha said. âDonât worry.â
âIf you take me to Venice, I wonât be able to pay for anything. Food. Gas. Tickets. Toilet paper.â
âUncle Stefan will take care of everything. He always does.â
âUncle Stefan?â
âHeâs the one with the place in Venice. Not really an uncleâan old family friend. Heâs invited me to bring a guest to come stay. You wonât have to pay for a thing. I know you need to get out of the city. Letâs get.â
âWhat will I do with my stuff?â
Iâd been pondering this question for the past few days. I knew I was going to have to move out of Joyceâs place on the first. And unless I got lucky with a generous one-night stand who might let me crash on his sofa and bring along my few pitiful belongings, Iâd run out of options. Forget Blanche DuBois and her âkindness of strangers.â I needed the kindness of anyone.
âBox up your gear, and bring it to my place. You should have moved in with me when you first lost your job. We room well together.â
Sasha and I had met in the college dorm. But I hadnât wanted her to know how close to the edge Iâd gotten myself. I hadnât even been honest with myself.
âIâm booking the flight right now,â she said. âIâll be over in an hour to help you move.â
And that was my goodbye to the U.S. and my hello to Italy. Right when I needed saving.
* * *
Business class was sublime. Sasha and I floated on champagne all the way to Brussels, with my oldest friend describing the place where weâd be staying. âThe villa has been in his family for generations,â she explained. âOne of those grand palazzos on a canal.â
âWhat does he do?â
She smiled.
âWhy are you smiling like that?â
âHe doesnât really do anything. He doesnât have to.â She sipped her champagne thoughtfully. âOr rather, he does whatever he wants to. With money like that, he can do as pleases.â I didnât hear another word about Uncle Stefan, even during our layover or the final part of the journey to VCE in Venice. I conjured an image in my head: sixties, like her parents. Heavyset. I gave him a baldpate and a bit of gout.
Then I let the champagne take over and I fell asleep.
* * *
When we arrived in Venice, I felt as if Iâd woken from a magical dream only to discover that the dream was real. Iâve had good dreams beforeâbut never one that lasted when I opened my eyes. Sasha appeared as fresh as if sheâd just emerged from a douche commercial. Even on no sleep, or after a drinking binge, she always has neatly coiffed Princess Grace blond hair and angel-perfect skin.
I, on the other hand, looked exactly like someone who had slept in my clothesâwhich I had. Sasha didnât say anything about my rumpled turtleneck and messy ringlets. But she pulled a sumptuous indigo velvet shawl from her woven leather messenger bag and wrapped the length around me, pinning the cloth effortlessly with a rhinestone broach. In seconds, Iâd captured a little of her style. Sasha is so high-end, she rubs off on the people around her. Without a word, she twisted my black hair into a makeshift bun and used a silver barrette to hold the curls in place.